Disclaimer: The author does not condone nor encourage forced sex. This story is purely fictional and is a segue into the darker part of the human psyche where forced sex fantasises dwell. The author also does not condone non-consensual or physically forced sex, but acknowledges that men and women do have these fantasises. I certainly do; and I sometimes act them out in real life in my female persona when dressed as Michele. In fact as a transvestite I identify more with the female characters in my stories than I do the male. That said, being bisexual, I am turned on by both the male and female characters; and of course my nylon fetish is self-evident.
Part One
Michele Bouvier sat in the carriage of the subway train pretending that she was engrossed in her notebook computer. She was in fact very aware that she and the man sitting a little further down the carriage were alone in the rattling subway car. The man had been staring at her throughout the journey and she was very nervous.
Michele didn't normally use the subway and never used it late at night. This morning her car had failed to start and her husband couldn't get it going for her. He was in a hurry because he had to get to an important meeting so Michele had agreed to take the subway to work. She had planned to leave work early and get home while it was still light.
Michele Bouvier was a mid-level executive at a publishing firm. Working in sales, she liked to take care of her appearance. She was forty-four and loosing the battle of the bulge. Although not exactly fat she was large framed and carried a few too many pounds; they had piled up on her breasts, which she didn't mind so much, and on her ass and thighs which she hated.
She was always well dressed, usually in a business suit, blouse, hose and heels; well coiffured, she had recently had crimson highlights subtly streaked through her brunette bob, and she always wore lots of makeup.
She knew that the younger women on the staff sniggered at her behind her back; they took advantage of the recently introduced relaxed dress code and wore slacks, skirts, dresses, low-heels or flats and hardly ever wore hosiery and very little makeup. Michele was smart enough to realise that if she dressed that way she would look frumpy. She kept to her sophisticated look and knew that some of the men liked the way she dressed, but more importantly, her dress style helped to hide her flaws.
She was wearing a grey pinstriped business suit, skirt and jacket combination. She wore a dark green satin blouse, black high-heeled sandals and expensive taupe control-top pantyhose. She was sophisticatedly accessorised with gold jewellery, earings and watch, red-painted fingernails and toenails and plenty of makeup.
At about four-thirty in the afternoon she was called to an impromptu sales meeting and in the heat of the drawn out discussions she forgot all about not bringing her car to work. By the time she boarded her train it was after nine pm.
At first Michele didn't think too much about having to ride the train; she was busy transposing her hand written notes into her notebook computer; working on the report she would have to table tomorrow. In a way this was better than driving; at least she could work!
Then she noticed that the carriage had emptied and she was in the carriage alone with the intense-looking man wearing a Hoodie who seemed to be staring intently at her; but whenever she looked up he averted his face.
He stared covertly at the matronly women dressed in the business suit; her perfume drifted across to him and he felt his cock become erect in his pants. This woman was just to his taste: sophisticated, nice suit, satin blouse, sheer hosiery and high-heeled sandals that showed off her painted toenails through the gauzy nylon of her sandal-toe pantyhose. She was attractive, a little heavy but he didn't mind that, and she wore lots of makeup. Rep lips, pink and blue eyeshadow, rouge; black eyeliner and mascara accentuated her pretty hazel eyes.
He wanted her and his luck was in; it looked like she was getting off at the station where he laid his trap.
One stop away from her station Michele closed down her notebook and dropped it into her black leather shoulder bag. She flipped open her cell and debated whether she should call home and ask her son or daughter to pick her up from the station. They shared an old clunker that she normally wouldn't be seen dead in, but tonight it might be better to be picked up in a clunker than to wait for a cab. She flipped the phone closed; she was being paranoid!
She stood up and held onto the post next to the door aware that the man was ogling her. Somewhere deep inside her psyche she kind of liked the idea that a young man could find her attractive but her conscious mind was relieved when the train finally stopped and the door opened.
Michele stepped off the train and strode purposely down the almost deserted platform, her high-heels, clicking and clacking on the bitumen floor the sound echoing off the tiled walls. Then out of the corner of her eye she saw a shape coming up from behind her. She flinched and was about to cry out when the man in the Hoodie jogged past her and disappeared around the corner towards the escalators.
She breathed a sigh of relief; he was just another subway rider in a hurry to get home.
The man in the Hoodie unlocked the door to the workshop set into the tiled wall near the escalators. He knew that the maintenance crew had long gone home but he also knew that the subway cops would check the door when they made their regular rounds so the clock was ticking. He slid inside the brightly lit, but dusty workshop and closed the door leaving it open just crack so could see the approaches to the escalator. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a nylon stocking and pulled it over his head. He adjusted it so that the little hole he had cut in the stocking fitted around his lips. He liked to use his mouth on his victims.
Michele turned the corner and smiled; there was the bank of escalators clattering away and she could hear the sounds of other passengers and vendors in the concourse stalls at the top of the escalators. The smells of hamburgers, hotdogs and pretzels wafted down to the platform and Michele's stomach rumbled.
She was berating herself for even thinking about a eating a hotdog as she walk purposely toward the up escalator when a hand reached out of nowhere and dragged her through a door that had suddenly opened. By the time she realised what was going on she was pushed hard up against a filthy workbench. The edge of the workbench dug painfully into her ample buttocks, and the man held a knife under her neck; his face was distorted by the stocking mask he wore over his head. The only part of his face she could make out was his full lips where the stocking had been cut.
"Shut the fuck up! One sound and I'll bury this knife in your throat! Do you understand?" the man hissed, his face close enough that she could smell his breath.
Michele nodded and a single tear ran down her face leaving a black trail of mascara. The man took Michele's bag off her shoulder and put it on the bench.
"We'll look in there later; time for some fun first," he said, more to himself than Michele.
He spun the woman around so that her big butt rested against his crotch and moved the point of the knife to the side of her neck
"Don't fight; don't scream, don't make a sound!" he hissed.
