After a day of meetings in town, I find the commuter train that will take me to the lot where I've parked my car. It's late rush hour in fall, which mean it's already getting dark. I miss the late sunshine, but the warm temperatures of the Indian summer weather we've been having are a pretty good tradeoff. On the platform, I put my tote down and fold my sweater into it. I'm wearing a knit pencil skirt and a silk knit tee shirt. My legs are bare, and the outlines of my bra can be seen beneath the weave of the shirt, but I'm hardly indecent. I'm beginning to think that should change. Hmm. Let's see if we can rustle up some trouble.
I stroll up the platform to the front car. Most of the stations along this route have exits toward the rear cars, so I expect the front car to be comparatively empty. I'm wrong; it's packed. Ah, I see why: the bar car is situated here. All the men in suits are clutching plastic cups of ice and booze. And yeah, it's nearly all men. The bar cars are slated to be abolished in a few months; the old boys club looks like they want a last hurrah. I step in, pleased by the wordless acknowledgement my entrance receives. My nipples stiffen slightly. I look down the aisle for an empty seat, and find only one: a middle seat in a three-seat bench, with an older stocky man in a grey suit with a tablet on the aisle, and a lanky fellow in pinstripes with a half-full drink at the window. I nod at them, "May I?"
Neither of them looks delighted at having to accommodate a third, but they have the good manners to nod back and say "Please do." I put my bag on the floor at my feet and settle in.
I want to make some mischief here, but it takes me a few minutes to formulate a plan. After the conductor has come by to collect tickets, I begin squirming in my seat as if in discomfort. I make a few small "ow!" noises, and am rewarded with inquiring looks from my seatmates. Finally I exhale in feigned frustration and reach under the back of my top to my bra hook. "Oh my god, I can't stand this!" I mutter. I unclasp the hook and loosen the d-cups away from my breasts. I sigh in relief. Pinstripe's eyes widen. Next, I reach up my sleeve to pull the bra strap through, so I can slide my arm out. Then the same on the other arm. I pull my bra out of the bottom of my top and stuff it into my bag. My tits flop a bit with all this exertion, my nipples tent the front of my shirt.
"Are you all right?" Grey Suit asks.
I unload my vent: "Ohhh, you men just have NO idea. Those things are so uncomfortable – they use the stiffest plastic to make the stays, and they're digging into my skin," Then I gasp in embarrassment. "Oh, gosh, I'm SO sorry! I shouldn't be taking my clothes off in public! Geez!" My hands cover my giggling face.
Both men, now fully interested in the trouble my breasts are having, reassure me that they took no offense. Hah! Of course not! My line cast, it's now time to start reeling them in. Grey Suit does my work for me by asking innocently, "Er, what are 'stays'?"
"They're little bits of plastic that support the sides of bras with bigger cups," I offer, but I see his face still clouded by incomprehension. "Here: let me show you!" I pull the lacy garment back out of my bag and drape it across my lap. "See? These little pointy rib-like things, just outside the cups." Each man has half of the band in his lap, and both make oh-now-I-get-it noises as they finger the delicate material. "That's the price you pay with bigger breasts, I guess, " I pout. Both men blink, looking from the cups to my tits. I pretend not to notice. "I swear, I think they've broken my skin!" I complain. I reach around under my arms to rub the area of my sides where they've 'cut.'
As if the idea just came to me, I ask Grey Suit if he'll look to see if I'm right about my injury. Before he can disagree, I lift the side hem of my top to expose the skin next to my breast. My shirt still covers the breast itself, and I cup my other hand around it, as if to make sure nothing more is exposed. My nipple pokes through the fabric between my fingers, and I squeeze it for Pinstripe's benefit while pretending to pay my attention to Grey Suit. He peers at my bare skin. "I don't see anything," he says, sounding doubtful.
I pout some more, "It's SO sore" and pull the top back down, rubbing my imaginary wound.
Pinstripe, who has finished his drink, boozily suggests, "I should check the other side!" and bless his cheek, abruptly pulls up the other side of my top. In my surprise, I don't block his tug, and all of a sudden, my whole tit is exposed. I cover my areola with my hand as soon as I can, but the whole rest of my pale globe is bare. Pinstripe examines the 'injury.' "Oh yeah, wow, that looks painful." He says, unable to suppress his grin.
"It does hurt," I lie. His index finger traces the skin there, sending a shiver through me. I allow myself a subtle caress of the boob I'm groping. "Mmm, that's nice," I whisper. Both men exhale audibly.
Glancing at his drink cup, now empty of all but a few ice cubes, Pinstripe has another idea. "Would you like me to rub ice on it?"
