End of the Line

Student's forbidden fantasies indulged on a train

In my mind I see this as set in Japan. It also might be where you live, if your trains run like clockwork and are clean and safe. This is about a train commuter and progresses slowly at first.

A special thanks to RF-Fast for helping to proofread and ensuring the story is in good shape.

End of the Line

Part 1

I'm running again and I know I'm late. Dodging through disgruntled pedestrians and calling out apologies as I shove a few aside. The reason for my haste is I'm going to miss the last train home again. The last time I did that, I was yelled at by my parents for days and finding a hotel room I could afford was hard and a little scary. A number of drunk men offered to pay for a room for the pair of us.

I'm Emi. I'm 20 and attending university in the city studying business. But on Mondays and Thursdays, I work until 9:45 in a coffee shop. Giving me only 15 minutes to get my train. I live way out in the country, in fact in the town at the end of the line. It's 1 hour and 16 minutes exactly to get to my home station.

Hang on, I've got a tricky corner to get around. Oops, I nearly knocked over a little old man with two canes, but he doesn't even notice me. And I'm inside the nearly deserted station and reach into my purse for my pass to swipe at the turnstiles.

I see a guard at the gate and yell out my train number. He glanced at the board, then gestured to me to hurry and opened the gate to let me run through. He saw me nearly every day and knew I had a pass, but I yelled out my thanks, anyway.

At the top of the stairs, I saw the train and rushed down the stairs, taking 2 at a time. As I neared the bottom, I knew I was going too fast. But I managed to hook my arm around a post. Which felt like I'd yanked my arm from the socket, but it was enough to slow me down and swung me towards the still open doors of the train.

But the doors are beeping that they are about to close. I'm 10 feet away when they start to move and with all my strength, I hurl myself forward and make it. Although the door closed on my toes, then opened a little before closing again without my foot in the way, a moment later.

I'm on my knees panting and gasping for breath and the pain hits. I look down to see I've scraped my left knee badly. I pulled myself to my feet and looked around. This late at night, the train only had about a dozen people on it. Everyone was looking at me and I felt both foolish and a little proud that I'd made it, even in such an undignified manner. I looked at the emptier end of the carriage and saw an elderly woman and a mature businessman in a suit with a trilby hat next to him.

He stood and offered me his handkerchief, taking it, I thanked him. Sitting opposite to where he'd been sitting and dabbing at my knee. The handkerchief was a rich thick cotton with OJ embroidered in navy thread in the corner. He knelt in front of me and took the handkerchief back and looked at the wound closely.

It was only then that I realised I was wearing one of my shorter skirts and it almost felt like he was trying to look up it. But I realised I was being foolish. He was just a nice older man. Then the elderly lady took something from her huge purse and handed two sachets to the man. Explaining she carried them as her grandchildren were always falling and cutting themselves.

They were antiseptic wipes, and he tore one open and wiped the wound clean. I winced and clenched my teeth as it stung worse than the fall, but it was better than getting infected. He repeated the move with the other wipe, then pressed the handkerchief back onto the wound. Got me to hold it and put the wipes and their sachets into the bin.

While the journey was a little over an hour long, we never went more than 10 minutes between stops. And as usual at each stop, nobody got on at this time of the night. So, by the time I was half way home, there was only me, and the older man who gave me his handkerchief, and another couple at the other end of the carriage. Most people seemed to congregate at the back of the carriages, as the exits at each station were closer to the back than the front.

My leg had stopped bleeding, and I offered the handkerchief to the man, but he refused. So, I tucked it away, promising I'd clean and iron it and hope to return it another day. I wasn't sure, but I thought I'd often seen him on the train. Usually, I stick my headphones in and zone out, listening to music or an audio book.

Then it was just the two of us with only a few stops left. He asked how my leg was and bent forward to look but gave a pained wince as he leant forward. Saying he had a bad back. Then asked if I could stand so he could inspect it.

I stood and bent the knee to show him, but he smiled like a benevolent grandfather, which he might be. And patted the space between his knees and told me to put my foot there. The pain of bending my leg and worrying about it bleeding again overrode my caution, and I did what he said.

Only as I stood on one foot and holding on to the straps above my head. As we started to slow down for the 3rd station from the end of the line. The bright light of the station shone in through the window. I grabbed the overhead straps tighter to steady myself.

A description of myself is appropriate here. I'm petite for the most part. I'm only 150cm tall [just under 5 feet], and my older brother used to call me toothpick. Until I was 17, I was tiny with no curves at all. When my boobs grew in, he no longer had that option as they ballooned up to a C cup. Which, when you're only a 78cm chest [31 inches] chest, makes them look overly large. And I oscillated between hating them, being too apparently large and loving the attention.

My straight black hair hangs a couple of inches below my shoulders, and I tend to use flower hair grips to hold the hair away from my face. Which makes me look younger, and I got teased for it at work, but I do it for a reason. If I look younger and play innocent at work, I discovered I could get twice the tips compared to the other girls. I know it was wrong, but I needed those tips, and I hoped the others never caught on.

I was wearing a light jacket over a plain white blouse. Then a skirt that ended closer to my bottom than my knees. Because until my boobs finally grew, I used short skirts to try to get any boy's attention. I finished this off with pink high-top sneakers, or at least a good knock-off. White ankle socks completed the ensemble.

But at this moment, I'm in front of a stranger, with my foot on the bench between his knees. I'm short and the bench seemed high. So, my knee was probably level with my belly button. Then it struck me what it would look like if anyone saw me. I was leaning forward, hanging on to the overhead straps for balance. But it would look like I was thrusting my boob at him.

Then another thought hit me. With my knee this high, there was every chance he could see up my skirt and see my panties. I froze, unsure of what to do. It looked like he was just studying my knee, and if I put my foot back down quickly. It would be like I was accusing him of being a pervert. All that might just be in my mind, as he was just a kindly older man wanting to help me out.

The train stopped at the station, and I swayed on the straps, but my foot remained between his knees. Suddenly, my mind was filled with a series of memories, one after the other.

As a girl, I had nightmares about being naked at school. I think everyone has those dreams. And it terrified me. When I got older and was just coming to terms with the idea of sex, despite not being ready to do anything. I remembered lying in bed touching myself, excited over the prospect of what it would feel like when a boy did that to me. But scared at the same time. I imagined one boy I liked had snuck into my room and it was his fingers touching me under my panties.

I was close to cumming when Dad knocked on the door and told me 'Good night.' Ashamed, I snatched my hand out of my panties and mumbled a sleepy reply. Then rolled over and tried to get to sleep. Naturally, as I'd gone to sleep unsatisfied, I had naughty dreams. Including the one where I was naked at school. Only this time, instead of running naked down the corridors, trying to cover up, I walked calmly past the other students, letting the girls, boys and teacher all take in my naked body.

I felt so empowered, and I was so excited. Then I saw the headmaster at his office door, and he gestured to me to come into his office. I walked defiantly past him and as he closed the door behind me, I felt his hand graze my bottom. I woke up from the dream with a sticky mess in my panties and my finger coated in my girl-goo.

Even now, the memory of the dream is etched into my mind. I told my best friend about it, and she called me a secret slut. But teased me about having dreams about the headmaster. From time to time, she'd tease me about flashing people and even threatened to remove my bikini top at the pool and run off with it. I would blush, but the idea turned me on for some reason.

When I turned 18 and took my first lover, I was infatuated with him and wanted to do anything to please him. He was a few years older, and I remember after vigorous sex, we cuddled, and he asked what fantasies I had. He told a few of his, which were predictable, but I struggled to think of any myself. So, I told him about my friend stealing my bikini top and leaving me topless in the pool.

After that, when we were out and about, he'd lean into me and whisper in my ear some variation of my forced exposing fantasy. One time we were talking past an ornate metal fence. When he told me to imagine what would happen if the cuff of my sleeve got caught in the fence. And no matter what we did, we couldn't get it free. Then said he had an idea and unbuttoned my blouse and slipped it off me. So, I was standing on the street in my bra, or perhaps I wasn't wearing a bra that day. I stood there as motorists and other pedestrians went past gawking, while he knelt to free my blouse.

Usually, he came up with these stories while we were on our way to his place. As he knew how hot and bothered, I'd be by the time we got there, and he'd reap the reward.

The beeping of the train door about to close brought me back from the past and as the train started to pull out of the station. I realised I must have been standing with my leg up and letting the man see my panties for a full minute.

Then, as I thought about it, a warm flush passed through me to settle into my crotch. That was a shock and enough for me to move away and sit down. But I was sure I was blushing. I'd had only a few lovers, but all had left me unsatisfied. The sex was OK, but kind of boring. But I suppose my lovers and myself were inexperienced.

The next station arrived, and he stood and said that he hoped my knee was OK. The ride to the end of the line and my destination was the longest wait, and I sat confused by my reaction. I was probably overreacting and thinking about some girls in my class that claimed they had issues on the train coming to university. They claimed they had guys try to grope them. But I'd never had a problem and teased them that it was men from the south that were perverts, compared to the nice men from the north.

When I got home, I put a plaster on my knee and went to bed and woke up to vague memories of dreams with a sexual content. Not that unusual, as my last boyfriend was nearly a year ago. The next couple of days I wore trousers to hide the scuffed knee.

On Thursday, I had the handkerchief washed, ironed and even starched in preparation to return it to him, but he wasn't there. However, on Monday he was, and I presented the handkerchief to him and thanked him. He asked if I was ok, and I pointed to my plastered knee, then sat opposite him.

Part 2

I felt embarrassed about what had happened the previous week. Why had I been so silly as to stand with my knee up like that? My parents would be appalled that I'd done it. And why had I stood there for so long? What did he think? Was I really the secret slut my friend used to call me?

While he was a stranger, I'd been raised to be respectful to my elders and always seek their approval. I didn't want him to think badly of me. Did he think of me as a foolish, naïve little girl, unaware that putting my foot on the seat between his legs would probably show my underwear? Or someone who did it, knowing full well what he might see.

With my petite size, I hated to be thought of as still a little girl, but neither did I want to be thought of as a slut. The idea sent a strange shiver down my back. Glancing from the corner of my eye at him. I saw him studying his crossword in the newspaper. Without meaning to, I conflated his image with that of my old headmaster.

I felt myself flushing at that thought as I remembered that dream, I'd had, and the subsequent fantasy I had evolved it into. In the dream, I'd walked naked into his office, and his hand brushed my bottom as he closed the door. After I told my friend that dream, and she teased me, I never told her the next part.

I stood nude in the middle of his office as he walked around me. He was a large man, easily 30cm [a foot] taller than me and close to twice my weight. He said he had a lost and found box from gym classes and would find me something to wear. After opening a cupboard, revealing a large box of clothing, he reached inside and held up a tape measure.

Saying he needed to check my size before going through the clothing. I could have just told him, but I stood there silently as he stood behind me and placed the tape just below my breasts. Noting the measurement, then moving the tape over my breasts. The cool plastic pressing on my nipples just caused them to harden more.

He seemed to struggle with it as the tape kept slipping off one breast or another. Which just seemed to make him rub the tape over my nipples and areola more. His fingertips kept touching me as he adjusted the tape. Then he moved around in front of me, using the excuse of the tape to rub the back of his fingers over my breasts.

And the whole time I stood there passively, letting him pretend he was still doing legitimate things. He measured my waist and hips, then said he needed my inside leg. I shivered as he gestured to a pair of plastic chairs against one wall, telling me to stand with a foot on each one, so I don't overbalance.

Standing on the chairs, intensely aware of the gap between my legs. His eyes were at my breast height, and I could swear he licked his lips as if he was going to suck on them. And I so wanted him to do it. But he knelt and held one end of the tape to my ankle, then looked up at me. I shivered but gave a tiny nod of agreement.

His other hand slid slowly up my legs, pressing the tape, but we both knew the tape was just the excuse. My breath caught in my throat as I felt the tape end brush over my labia. Then I shuddered as his thumb pressed on the tape against the edge of my pussy. I closed my eyes and after a few moments, he moved his thumb back and forth.

The tape fell away. We both knew that was only an excuse and he smiled at me as his thumb pressed between my slit and felt how wet I was.

He stood and brought his free hand up to one breast, cupping it gently, then kissed the other breast. I was loving the feeling but was over all too quick as his hands reached behind me, gripping my bum and squeezing it. Before picking me up and depositing me on my back over his desk...

The beeping of the train doors about to close dragged me back from the fantasy. I knew I was blushing and squeezing my thighs together for the stimulation. It took a few moments to realise I'd zoned out for at least 10 minutes. I glanced over at the man to see he was no longer looking at his paper.

His eyes seemed to rest on the plaster on my injured knee. From his suit, he gave off the impression of a businessman, but was he a doctor? Was he worried about infection or just how long it would take to heal? I shifted in my seat to look, shifting my feet slightly. Then I looked up to see he was still looking, but now I realised he wasn't looking at the plaster.

He was looking at my legs. A tiny buzz of a thrill went through me at that. Was he remembering what my thighs looked like? God, I wished I knew if he had seen my panties or not. Either way, I felt myself getting wet. If I was a far bolder person, I'd love to ask him how much he saw.

Doing something out of character, I shifted a foot a little further, whilst watching his eyes closely. They opened a fraction wider as my knees moved a tiny bit further apart. Not more than 3 or 4 inches apart. But my short shirt revealed a little more of my inner thigh. Especially as he was directly opposite me.

His eyes broke away and up to my face. He knew that I'd caught him looking, but instead of embarrassment or denial. He just smiled at me, and I felt butterflies in my stomach. He knew I'd done that deliberately. I couldn't help but blush and look away, while fighting the urge to snap my legs shut. If I did that, it was a complete admission I was trying to tease him.

Why had I done that? Just because I was horny, or I was that desperate for male attention, I'd tease an old man? OK, teasing might be an exaggeration, and he wasn't that old. But it wasn't something I'd done before.

I kept my eyes away from him until the train stopped at his stop. He stood, cleared his throat and gave a slight smile and bow. I bobbed my head automatically, and he left the train. Leaving me alone to struggle with my thoughts.

Why had I done that? Was it the cumulative rejection of the standards set by my parents, my town, and my society? Society said that people my age should go through higher education. Despite there only being so many jobs that make use of the qualifications. And as a result, the young people in my town call it the graveyard. It's primarily a commuter town with few jobs, and almost all the kids fled at 18, with few ever returning. Hence the graveyard name with an ever ageing society.

Because my parents insist, I live at home to save them money, it's robbed me of the chance to date. Unless I wanted to date 17-year-olds while I was 20. Add in that my parents would not allow a boyfriend to come to the house, let alone stay overnight. It was bullshit.

I blew out a lungful of exasperated air. I was overthinking it! Yes, I was wearing a short skirt, but I'd been wearing short skirts for years. Sometimes even shorter than this one. So, I was used to boys and men looking at my legs. It wasn't like I'd thrown my ankles behind my neck and yanked my skirt up. I smirked at the absurdity of that thought.

But as I imagined it and felt sad that I had some wild ideas, but I was too much of a good girl to live out my fantasies. The closest I'd come was by accident last week. And I wouldn't have even thought about him looking at my legs if I'd not been daydreaming about my old headmaster.

Not that I ever fancied him, he was just an older authority figure. Being naughty around him made it far naughtier that way.

Over the next few days and through the weekend, I kept circling back to my lack of a love life, or even any real excitement sexually. I looked at my friend's social media and their boyfriends. Feeling blue and lonely. Getting some attention, even from an older guy, would be something.

In fact, if I were to tease, an older guy would be better. And all I was thinking about was teasing. Something to fluff up my ego a little by being appreciated. Someone closer to my age would assume it was an invitation to do more than watch. Someone his age would realise it wasn't, and make do with just watching, right?

Not that I'd ever do it. I never did. Too much of the good daughter to do anything risky.