[A QUICK PREAMBLE: This is a work of fiction and high fantasy, and is to be taken as such. If in the reading of this, you find yourself tempted to repeat the acts depicted herein, PLEASE read the Author's Note at the end of this tale, thank you.]
***
It was entirely by chance that I sat where I sat, on the eight-carriage train that day. I'm very glad I did sit there, though.
I had put no conscious thought into choosing my seat, I never do. I'd arrived at the station a minute before the train pulled in. I stepped through the nearest carriage door once the train had stopped. The carriage was about half full, so I grabbed an open seat on the eastern side of the carriage, to avoid the glare of the afternoon sun -- and that was about as much of a conscious decision about choosing a seat as I had made.
I was in a good mood that day. I'd just caught up with an old girlfriend over a long lunch, which had brought lots of laughs and memories, with great food and a very nice glass of wine to boot. I was feeling mellow and, if I may say so of myself, somewhat aglow; I had worn one of my favourite dresses, a flowing red summery number that billowed nicely about my hips but clung tightly to my curves and breasts, cut low at the neck and showing my assets off quite nicely. I had been feeling fine all day, a welcome break from the usual, all of which combined to leave me in a happy state that had not abated in the time it took me to sit down on the train.
And so, when a guy already sitting in a seat nearby, just across the aisle, caught my eye and said "hey", with a friendly smile and a welcome lack of sleaze or leer, I was happy enough to return-fire with a "hey" of my own.
"You look like you've had a good day," he observed.
I looked at him again. His tone was easy, conversational. He was smiling, unassuming and open. There was maybe something of a twinkle in his eye, mildly mischievous but nothing off-putting -- quite the opposite. I've always been partial to the cheeky guys, it's definitely a weakness of mine.
"I have had a good day, actually," I smiled. "I had a really nice lunch, which was also a bit of a job interview."
"Oh yeah?" he returned. He was a similar age to me. He was dressed fairly casual: t-shirt, jeans and work boots. He was tanned, his hands were clean but looked rough -- he looked fit, as though he did a lot of physical work day-to-day, feeding and building the obvious strength in his shoulders, arms and abdomen, a jacket laying across his lap. "What sort of work do you do?"
"I'll take whatever work's on offer at this point," I didn't mind confessing. "It's been a few months since my last job. My friend Karen, she's growing her interior design consultancy, so she's looking for some extra help front-of-house: admin, invoicing, client liaison, that sort of thing."
"Sounds like good work," he nodded. "Interior design, too -- that industry is really taking off these days. Should keep you in work for a while," he reckoned.
"Hoping so!" I beamed.
Our conversation was something of a treat, I was surprised to find. I'm a social animal, and I don't always enjoy my solo train trips from the city back to my outer-suburban home. It was a welcome change from the usual stoic silence I endure, or the blank-minded scrolling through social media on my phone, or the occasional unwelcome entreaties from would-be suitors who didn't seem to realise that non-committal, one-word answers were code for 'I'm not in the mood for being woo'd, please leave me be'.
But this guy, just across the aisle: he seemed nice, he was emitting positive vibes, I was in a good mood... and he was kind of cute. "So what do you do?" I asked of him, to keep the conversation rolling.
"I'm a diesel fitter," he told me. "I work at the local metro garages -- keeping the garbage trucks, diggers and works vehicles on the road."
"Good honest work, then?" I asked of him -- slightly cheeky and needling, hinting at the reputation our local metro workers had earned for taking it very easy on the job.
He laughed at that, free and heartily. "I pull my own weight," he was happy to inform me, with a huge grin. I saw his hand move beneath the jacket in his lap when he said it, but I didn't twig -- I paid it no thought, thinking he'd just gone for an unthinking crotch-scratch, as guys are wont to do. "I'm a crew leader, I work the morning shifts -- five-thirty to two o'clock. We've got huge workloads, and if we fall behind, the city falls behind. So I always make sure the boys put in sixty minutes to the hour," he assured me.
"That's good to hear," I smiled.
"My name's Toby, anyways," he supplied.
"Emma," I returned.
Our conversation carried on for another ten or fifteen minutes; we spoke easily and laughed often, not afraid to give each other a little stick as we covered topics at random. The carriage was emptying fairly quickly, it was early in the afternoon and well before the peak times, where the crush of bodies would fill all of the seats, spill into the aisles and barely abated all the way to my station at the end of the line.
But on our early-afternoon service, there were now maybe half a dozen other passengers still in the carriage with us, spread out evenly -- paying us scant attention, ear buds or books or newspapers keeping them well-occupied. Toby and I had been chatting as though we had the train entirely to ourselves, and I was really enjoying his company. He seemed to be telegraphing some low-key interest, and I had returned serve on that front, somewhat coyly. I had been wondering -- and hoping -- for a few minutes now that he might actually ask me out, when he went and asked something else:
"Hey Emma," he began, after a short pause in conversation. "Can you keep a secret?"
I blinked, processing the unexpected query. "Uh, sure," I invited.
"Well..." he said.
And he shifted his jacket away from his lap, revealing that he had his jeans unzipped and his cock exposed. His fingers grasped his shaft lightly.
And he was hard. Big, and hard.
I boggled slightly, before covering my mouth and breaking into laughter, embarrassed and surprised. I had looked away, in shock at the turn of events...
But I soon looked back, to take in the sight again, and then look him in the eye. "Toby," I scolded -- not too loudly though, not wanting to call attention on us. "What ARE you doing?"
Toby just shrugged. His endearingly mischievous grin had ratcheted up quite a few notches: unapologetic, but still somehow not with any real trace of leering or sleaziness, instead managing to come across entirely cheeky, engaging... beguiling, even. "Just a bit of fun," he volunteered.
"It's the middle of the day -- broad daylight!" I admonished.
