Surely she wasn't the only one. Everyone did it, harbored wicked thoughts. Of course they did—it was all hidden beneath their business suits and workday clothes. She couldn't be the only one.
Of that she was certain.
But maybe, maybe she was the only one who'd crossed the line. Who'd moved from wicked thought to action.
The 5:45 p.m. train from Linley Station was always packed, standing room only. Commuters crammed like human sardines in the metal carriages. She didn't have to take the 5:45, she finished work at 5 p.m. on the dot. Even at a leisurely stroll she had no difficulty making the 5.15 train. On the 5:15 p.m. from Linley Station it was easy find a seat, in any carriage—even one to herself.
She took the 5.45 because she liked it.
The others, the travel weary passengers rocking on sore feet, constantly on the look-out for the elusive seat would no doubt think her sick.
At first she kept her wicked thoughts to herself, innocently pressing up against the other passengers and playing out her fantasy in her head. The first time she crossed the line it was an accident. She was reaching out for the pole to steady herself and accidentally touched him, accidentally brushed the front of his trousers. She was so startled that she froze, her hand stuck right on the front of his crotch. Red faced she'd apologized, sputtering out the words. He'd apologized too oddly, even though he'd done nothing more than stand there. While she'd stood there appearing shame faced and suitably mortified. Apologizing while underneath her solid sensible business skirt she was wet—her clit throbbing.
The next trip on the 5:45 p.m. train she did it on purpose—just one quick touch to the front of the nearest business man's crotch. So quick she barely felt his cock, just the smooth pleated fabric of his suit pants. But it was enough. Enough to make her wet, desperate enough that she rucked up her skirt and frigged herself to orgasm the moment she closed her front door.
She waited a week until the next touch. Observing the other passengers and making a plan. The next time she felt the man's cock. It hung to the right, loose—he wore boxers. Her fingers found the helmet first and then ran swiftly along the length. He stiffened—not his cock unfortunately—and looked around eyes wide with shock. But he didn't pick her out. She was too neat, her façade too smooth to have ever done such a thing. He frowned at the giggling group of teenage girls she stood near. Just for effect she glared at them too, while underneath thanking them for providing her cover.
Over time her plan evolved, more often than not she was able to feel the cock stiffen. Men were such tactile creatures, even startled by a strange touch their cocks responded.
Her dream was to actually make one of the business men come. To take a stranger's cock in her hand on the crowded train and jerk him off until his cum splattered down his dark suit pants. She wasn't sure she could do it, ever make it happen, but with each first brush of her chosen target's crotch she wondered if this was the time. The time she would feel that cum.
It was a busy Friday train ride. The prospect of the coming holiday weekend had the train full of relaxed and happy commuters. She'd settled herself near a group of noisy young guys and chosen her mark. His back was to her; he was tall and had a nicely rounded ass. Her fingers reached out, ready to make the first brush with a side attack when a hand cuffed her wrist and yanked it back.
"You don't want to do that," a husky voice whispered in her ear.
Adrenalin surged through her and panic set in. In a textbook fight-flight response she struggled to get away but he he'd wrapped an arm around her waist and she was trapped.
"Settle. I'm not going to hurt you. You're not in trouble. You just need to pick another one. Not that one. He's too young."
"What?" She'd finally found her voice. It sounded as scared as she felt. With the hand that wasn't holding her tight he reached over and tapped her target's shoulder. He turned around and she bit back a gasp. He was in a school uniform. Not a suit.
He was a very tall, very young boy.
A roll of nausea hit her as she noticed the peach fuzz on his spotty chin.
"What?" The youth asked with typical teenage disdain.
"Sorry, thought you were someone else," said the man who held her back.
After the boy had snorted and looked away she twisted her shoulders so that she could look back at the man who'd saved her. He was tall, taller than the school boy, with dark closely shorn hair and a stubble rough square jaw.
"Umm...thanks," she said, unable to think of anything else to say.
He laughed and she felt the rumble of it against her side which was still pressed up against his body.
"I didn't want him to ruin your hobby."
He'd loosened his hold so she pulled away and turned to face him. In the crowded train there wasn't room for appropriate personal space so she found herself pressed up against his chest.
"Hobby?"
He bent down to whisper close to her ear. "I've watched you, for weeks now. I've seen what you do. Your little hobby of feeling up strangers on the train. That is your hobby...isn't it Dirty Train Girl?"
She jerked in shock and bumped his chin with her head—he laughed.
"What? No. I don't...you don't know what you're talking about." The shame of being caught had her skin burning. "No. Certainly not..."
He laughed again and caught the hand she was waving around as she continued to deny his accusations. He brought the hand up and snaked it underneath his suit jacket, resting her palm flat on his chest. Beneath his impeccable white business shirt she felt his chest rumble with laughter.
"Stop it. Stop laughing at me."
"All right," he said, "I'll stop laughing if you admit it. Admit that you feel up men on the train." His voice was low, but still she looked around, worried that he'd been overheard. When she was happy that the other commuters, travel weary and looking forward to the weekend remained oblivious she looked back at him. Really looked at him for the first time—at ice blue eyes set into a strong square incredible male face. Roman nose, slightly crooked as if it had once been broken and soft full lips that spoke of Mediterranean heritage. He was gorgeous.
It seemed somehow worse to be caught in her dirty secret by a truly attractive man.
Those clear blue eyes locked onto hers and waited. The intensity she read in that stare made her certain he wasn't going to just let it go. She sighed, closed her eyes briefly to center herself and said, "I admit it."
"Admit what?" His tone was as teasing as the triumphant smirk he wore. "Admit that you're a dirty little girl who likes to touch up men on the train?"
His words set a clench of lust low in her stomach.
"I want to hear the words Dirty Train Girl." He teased in a childish sing song voice.
Fortified by the lust now singing through her body she leaned into him, pressing herself stomach to breasts up against him and said, "I'm a very dirty girl who likes to feel cocks get hard under my hand on the train."
She rolled her hips into him and was rewarded by the distinct feeling of his stiffening cock. Quick, too quick to think—let alone for her to do anything about it—he twisted her around and gripped her tight. Moving her back—back until they were in the corner of the carriage. The crowd closed in around them, blocking all escape they became an impenetrable wall of bodies.
She felt her skirt flip up, cool air hit her thighs. Why had she, today of all days, decided to wear her flirty A-Line skirt?
"Hold this," he said as he handed her his briefcase.
She took it in both hands and held it low down on her stomach. Using it as a shield to hide what he was doing with his hands. His fingers came from behind, through her legs, his wrist wedged between the thighs she tried to keep pressed together. Under the elastic of her panties he probed, chuckling when he found her so desperately wet. Two long fingers probed her pussy and another; talented, so talented digit slicked up to find her clit. His fingers were good, so good but they weren't the thing that broke her. What sent her tumbling, reeling into orgasm was the surprise of the thumb he pressed against her asshole.
The orgasm he forced upon her took minutes. Minutes ignored by the other passengers who swayed with the rock of the train, totally oblivious to the fact that she was shattering in ecstasy.
He held her up after she buckled. Not for as long as she needed because moments after she came he pulled away, stood in front of her and grinned. He brought one of the fingers wet with her juices up to his lips. To any one else it would just seem like a man rubbing his lip, but she knew. He slicked the tip across his bottom lip until it was glossy and then snaked out his tongue to lick it clean. "Mmmm, it's my stop, Dirty Train Girl."
Weak kneed and speechless she held out his briefcase. He took it and then pressed a card into her hand. The train shuddered to a stop, she heard the muffled static of the train driver's announcement, the metallic grind of the doors opening and then he was gone.
She looked down at the crisp white card she held in her hand. It said Roberto DeAngelo—he was a mechanical engineer employed at a firm just two streets from her own office. She was absently flipping the card in her hand replaying it all in her head when she saw the writing. On the back of the card it said, 'Dirty Train Girl -- email me.'
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