Foreigner

Bodies squeezed through the train doors as they opened to the central metro station. The day's workers, tired and spent, hurried to claim seats for their journey home. From experience most would go only a stop or two. I was always there until the end of the line.

I found a group of two seats vacant, and sat down in the one nearest the window. Usually that meant I would not be disturbed for most of my journey home. Maybe I would have someone next to me for a stop or two. And often it would be another girl, which I didn't mind so. But this time a man sat down next to me, and spread his legs until they were rubbing up against mine next to him. It had, of course, happened before. But usually then the men would ask for permission to sit next to me, and sit politely in a way to give me the space I needed. This man, perhaps because was a foreigner - and not used to the new customs.

I was definitely annoyed. His entire physical existence dominated mine. He was much taller than me. In fact even when sitting he must have been a head and a half taller than I was, and I started to feel a little trapped between him and the wall. His smell forced itself upon me. Even then I couldn't tell you if it was a bad smell, it was just exhaustingly present. Like when you visit someone else's house and the whole of it smells different to what you are used to. Foreign.

For the first 10 minutes I had leaned away from him, to escape the smell and his domineering over me which annoyed me. I had hoped he would get off at one of the first two stops. Most people did. But he stayed on. Usually in cases like that I would be able to find another available seat, so I wouldn't have to sit next to anyone. But now I was feeling utterly trapped by him here. I didn't want to ask him to move. It would be too awkward, too impolite. But I was annoyed still, that he didn't consider it. After he didn't get off I stopped leaning. It would be no use to sit like that for another almost half an hour. I was a hypocrite for thinking him inconsiderate, because I immediately started snooping on what he was doing on his phone.

He was just scrolling through pictures of girls. All of them, girls. Did he know them? I wasn't sure. Some of them were captioned. Turkish perhaps. Were these family members? Lovers? Suddenly I wondered if he had sat next to me because I was a girl. No. No of course not. I was being stupid. Conceited even. But now that the thought had entered my mind I simply couldn't get it out.

He was scrolling through pictures of girls. Beautiful girls. All of them younger. Probably wasn't his family, unless he kept an exclusively young and female album of family members. No these were someone else. Crushes? Potential dates? Maybe he couldn't speak our language, and so needed to connect exclusively with women from his country. There was a pity in that. I could at least communicate my lust with people around me. Perhaps he could not.

And now what annoyed me about him no longer did. I was intrigued. And having thought about lust, I was to my shame, turned on. There was something about him being a stranger - a foreigner, that I did like. A tall, dark, stranger. Unmistakably foreign, even in his smell and customs. Oh dad would be furious.

If he tried to flirt with me on the way home. Would I let him? Would I giggle at his mispronunciations, and tell him it was alright. Would I help him, in phrasing his request, to see me again. To fuck me. Now it was all I could think about. Would I let him place his hand on my thigh and massage it. His dark hand on my white pink thighs, reddened slightly by the cool air outside. Squeezing and exploring. Until he found his way down to my cunt. Maybe I would. Maybe I would let this stranger, this foreigner, play with my pussy right here on the train. Making me whimper and gasp as I felt his fingers slip into me and I drew in the smell of his foreignness.

Maybe I would. Maybe I would.

Suddenly he got up, and reality came back. He was getting off. Just, at the station, not with me. I felt foolish for thinking about it. But even when I came home. My pussy was still wet. For the man who sat next to me on the train. For the foreigner.