Readers,
this story is nothing more that masturbatory nourishment. There is little in the way of plot and it certainly has no literary merit. It is a fancy that came to me out of the blue. Be warned that the content is graphic and an element of nonconsensual sex pervades the story.
The eight oh five thundered into Musgrove underground station swirling up a cloud of detritus, old newspapers, candy wrappers and cigarette butts that had been strewn on the tracks. Those standing perilously close to the edge of the platform were prepared to put up with the noise and the unpleasantness because the 8:05 was always crowded and commuters were often left stranded on platform as passengers fought to disembark against a sea of other passengers scrambling to get on the train; it was like a strong wind pushing against a rushing tide.
Molly DuPont hated the morning rush. There would be no chance of getting a seat; even the old and frail were ignored by those who clung to their cheap plastic seats as if they were treasures. The guard would let the carriages fill to overflowing, the passengers pressed against each other like cows in a cattle wagon; the commuters grateful that they even got on the train and didn't have to wait for the next which would be just as crowded until the rush hour passed.
The doors opened and Molly was propelled forward by those behind her, pushing, shoving; clamouring to get on the train. She caught a heel in the doorway but managed to keep her shoe on as she was propelled forward against a man in a business suit trying to read his morning paper. He glared at her and then went back to his paper which he had to hold inches from his nose because the car was so packed.
Molly was pushed into the middle of the carriage; the people tightly compacted around her. She gripped her handbag tightly against her body and searched for a handrail as the train began move forward. Her red polished fingers scrambled for one of the pivoted grab handles that hung from the ceiling but someone beat her to it. She squeezed her fingers into the handle anyway to steady herself as the train jerked forward and began to gather momentum. Not that it mattered really, she couldn't fall over because there were too many other passengers jammed around her for her to move. It was then that she noticed that by chance she was surrounded by a sea of men: shift workers, professionals, labourers, students. There wasn't a woman within fifty feet of her but she didn't care; there was often a gender imbalance on the subway this time of day.
Molly sighed and silently prayed that when the train stopped at the next five stations on this route the crowd would slowly diminish as the city workers, college kids and tourists disembarked into the city to go about their day.
Molly worked as a secretary at Dewey Cheatem, a medium sized law firm whose office was inconveniently located on the other side of the city but she liked her job. She liked the formality of the office, the officiousness of the lawyers and law clerks, the punctuality and routine and overt politeness. She liked that the gentlemen wore suits and ties, the female lawyers wore skirted power suits, the secretaries were also required to wear skirt suits. Women did not wear pant-suits at Dewey Cheatem. It was an old established firm with archaic traditions.
Molly was twenty three years old, pretty but a little chubby. Not fat! She would be fired for being fat, but not for being pleasantly rounded. She had good legs which she considered her best feature and wore her skirts a little shorter than the convention to show them off. Her breasts were plump and her figure was buxom, she had a big bottom, wide hips and a cinched waist; very much the hour glass.
Molly spent quite a portion of her wages on her work clothes. She had five skirt-suits for work, three pairs of black pumps to go with the suits and five satin blouses of varying colours. Her undergarments were quite racy under that bland exterior: full-cut satin panties with lace trim to cover her ample bottom, matching brassieres, sheer flesh-toned control-top pantyhose and in winter a satin and lace camisole. Her makeup was perfect, she liked smoky eyes and red lipstick. If she was a lawyer she couldn't get away with it but the office staff were allowed a few little liberties. Her flaming red hair was perfectly coiffed.
The train settled into its usual rhythm and the passengers tried their best to ignore that fact they were continually rubbing and bumping up against each other. Those that could pressed newspapers, magazines or paperbacks against their noses so that they didn't have to talk to anyone. Those that couldn't averted their eyes, reading the overhead adverting hoardings or staring at their feet. Molly was a foot watcher; she stared down at the dirty floor and counted down the minutes until the train got to her station.
Then there were the smells to deal with. Professional women like her wearing perfume, business professionals wearing aftershave, some of the labourers wore the same clothes for a few days in a row and exuded body odour, some reeked of greasy fast food smells and the very inconsiderate smelled of garlic or spices.
The train ride was twenty minutes of torture to be endured twice a day but it was worth it. The only thing that could possibly make things worse was a breakdown.
The train stopped suddenly and the lights went out. Curses and expletives were quietly hissed by some. After the cacophony of the steel wheels on the tracks and squeaking and groaning of the carriage the silence was deafening. Molly began to count down from one hundred and placed bets with herself that when she hit the numbers for today's date the train would start again. It was a game she had learned to play with herself on a few occasions in the past but she never got down to zero. Her numbers were 05-31-85, today's date, and she was soon passed 85 but was confident she would win with 31 and was dismayed when she didn't but surely it wouldn't get to five.
"Shithouse mouse!" she hissed quietly when she hit zero.
Molly seldom swore but the train had never stopped for that long before. She also noticed something else. When the train had stopped briefly in the past, usually for some unannounced delay ahead of them, the power stayed on but this time there was no power at all in the carriage and even more unsettling, there were no lights in the underground tunnel. Molly guessed rightly that there was a total blackout.
Some of the passengers began to murmur amongst themselves trying to guess the cause of the delay but Molly just breathed shallowly and waited patiently.
Then she felt it on her leg. A spider? A cockroach? Something flittering and scampering lightly on her thigh. She shuddered and tried to brush it away but it was gone. She breathed out and sighed but then she felt it again.
This time when she tried to brush the intruder off her thigh she realised that it was someone's fingertips. The carriage was pitch black so she had no idea who it was. It wasn't deliberate was it? Someone in the crowded carriage had accidentally brushed his or her hand on her leg that's all.
She felt it again and this time when she tried to brush the fingers off her thigh they refused to move. The fingers stayed there caressing her leg. She thought that she could hear the soft rustling of her pantyhose as the fingers stroked her nyloned thigh.
"Stop it!" she hissed into the dark.
He didn't.
Molly put her fingers around the hand gripping her thigh but she couldn't budge it. It was a man alright she could feel the hairs on the back of his hand.
"Stop it!" she whispered again.
She heard a faint chuckle and the hand began to slide up her leg.
Molly began to wriggle as she tried to dislodge the hand that was crawling under her skirt despite her attempts to stop it.
"Stop moving! Keep still! It's bad enough we're crammed here in the dark without you jerking around," someone hissed angrily.
What was she to say? 'Sorry, I have a strange hand under my skirt'. That sounded pathetic even to her.
