Handjob on the Commuter Train

Sitting on the couch, I played with my pussy until my fingers went numb.

My leggings were pulled down to my ankles, the TV was on the home and garden channel and I got off three times, orgasming through ragged breaths. Several times I took a break and changed channels, then lazily started rubbing my clit again. When I got thirsty, I hobbled over to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water, never bothering to pull my leggings up. It got dark outside and I forgot to turn on my porch lights. Hobbling again to the front door, I flipped the switch and went back to masturbating.

My Hydrangeas kept dying.

Try to picture little cute me earlier in my front yard, wearing my pink crocks and flowery leggings. Dirty blonde hair tied up under a hat, trowel in hand, pouting over shrubs. Lips puckered seductively, bent over kneeling in the dirt, harsh sunlight revealing that these leggings were recalled for being too thin. And of course, all the men in the neighborhood stared at my 30-year old ass. Pigs. It was my afternoon hobby to entertain them, so of course I didn't wear underwear.

After weeks of trying to keep the horrible things alive, the hydrangeas just kept wilting. Just to spite me. Holes formed in the leaves despite all my care and effort. The homely woman next door, Mrs. Weaver, kept staring at them in disapproval. She was out of shape and in her fifties, and just had that look of a nagging busybody.

But I didn't really care about the Hydrangeas. They bored me to tears. It's just that I didn't want to fail at home, because I was failing at work. And those bastard plants were making me very moody and bored.

So naturally I went inside and played with my pussy until bed time.

...

Now picture me at work in my business casual pants and jacket, taking a boring training course, reminiscing about being bored at home. All the men staring at me. Pigs. My thigh gap caught their eyes when I stood up, my crotch line when I spread my legs, my nice supple tits apparently substituted for my eyes. Sure, I may have advertised my inner slut a little with an undersized shirt, but it's still rude to stare.

The balding instructor kept droning on, "Effective communication of contract information is very important information ..." He was an idiot. He kept going on and I almost fell asleep.

What I really wanted to do was to yell out, "Hey moron, everything's information, stop using that word!"

More specifically, I wanted him to slowly die, just like my Hydrangeas. Him on stage, burn holes randomly forming in his appendages while he droned on, deluded in thinking he had any part of my attention.

I was so fucking bored there. That's how I was failing at work, stuck in contracting training for the next four months against my will. You know, the entire gardening season. That's also how I ended up going to the bathroom frequently and masturbating at work too. After the first week, I didn't even bother washing my hands, hoping men could smell my pussy on it. I didn't want to be there, so I invented a sport trying to get off in the bathroom as many times as I could every day.

Some women need oxygen to get off, some are normal, and some have it the opposite way. I was one of those who needed to hold her breath to orgasm. I had to be careful in the bathroom not to make too much noise because gasping for air sounded embarrassingly exactly like what it was. But after the first month, I didn't even try to hide what I was doing when other women walked in.

...

Work was slightly more boring than home, and home was definitely less boring than my daily commute. Taking the train to the city frustrated me more than anything else. At first it was a great convenience. Drive to the train station, hop on the train, read a book, walk to work and never have to worry about being stuck in traffic, or needing to find parking in the busy city.

But now the train was a trap. Within weeks I experienced how confining it was. My life was literally being driven by trains, on their own schedule and perversely they never ran on time. Something always happened. If they were timely, traffic clogged up on the way to the station and you'd miss your train anyway. If there were available seats, someone nasty was sitting next to the open one. Either they were nasty looking, or looking at you nastily, undressing you with their pervert eyes. Pigs!

And even if everything was going great that day, something would come at you sideways to remind you of trains, like dealing with the moron from HR who kept fucking up monthly ticket orders.

...

After work, I'd slip into comfortable leggings and try to achieve Zen through gardening. That was difficult on the account of my dying plants so again I tried to show some booty to the neighborhood men for sport. Today, Mrs. Weaver was out with her husband, staring disapprovingly at my wilting garden. She was pointing at the Hydrangeas and telling him all the things I was doing wrong, and he couldn't even stare at my ass too intently because he was building their planter box.

Fuck her. If I felt like injecting salt into their stems with my insulin syringes, that was my business. So I crouched down and showed them both my young shapely ass while I worked the soil. When I nearly finished weeding, I glanced back and saw the husband staring at me after all. Somehow I felt even more mischievous than usual, so I locked eyes with him and smiled. She was raking leaves nearby, looking away. Naturally, I got on my knees and gave him a more gratuitous show with my legs crossed, hoping she'd catch her husband staring at my heart-shaped ass.

I was doing it just to piss her off because she gave me such a bad vibe. My ass was swinging in circles left to right as I pulled weeds, going up and down at times, almost twerking in slow motion. Uncrossing my legs for comfort, I busied myself with actual weeding for a few minutes. Few times I turned back fast and caught him staring, but she was still busy with raking. The last time I caught him, I kept looking and stared him down while smiling. Within a few seconds he turned red and looked away fast.

That night in bed I played with my pussy thinking about her husband staring at my ass while she obliviously criticized my gardening, crooning at me while my fingers circled my clit. Fuck her. They were both out of shape, around the same old age, and I had a hot young body. I hoped she was jealous of me.

...

Work was getting more and more boring by the week. After the second month, it got warm and I started wearing skirts to work. It helped they made for easier access but it took more and more effort for me to get off. It got to a point where I was I spending so much time masturbating in the bathroom that the instructor publicly inquired if I was okay. I mouthed off to him in front of everyone, and he never brought it up again. The skirts kept getting shorter.

Every other week I'd need extra help to get pushed off the edge, so I'd slip out of my shoes and pull my pantyhose off. Just to break the monotony, I was fantasizing about angering the instructor so hard to where he snapped and choked me, conflicted in trying to snuff the life out of me and unintentionally pressing his angry surprise hardon against my crotch. Pig! I tied the pantyhose around my neck and, tugging on them, played with my pussy so hard I tore them up.

Hey, a girl has occasional fucked-up needs.

Just to fuck with him, I flashed him a smile and my bare panties when I got back to training.

...

On my way back home, trains were fuller than usual. It was like walking through a pervert soup, bodies standing in the isles, no room to get out of the way, crotches rubbing against crotches or asses as people passed by. Nearly all the seats were occupied. When I saw the first available one, I went for it unapologetically.

The business suit in the aisle seat was preoccupied with reading something on his phone and didn't make room for me to sit by the window, so I just hovered right over him and crawled my way to the seat, my legs sliding forcefully against his knees the entire time, my shapely ass in his face. I sat next to him on the bench seat and sighed impatiently, as if he did something wrong.

Naturally, he was embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, I didn't notice you waiting for the seat," he apologized.

I glared at him and responded coldly, "I wasn't waiting."

He didn't want to be confronted so he just looked away and pretended to be lost in his phone again, but I knew this for what it really was. It was a social conflict, a stare-down, and he blinked like a weakling. I won. Pig!

Maybe it was that small social victory that went into my head but him shrinking away made me wet. For rest of the ride I kept staring at him but he didn't so much as peek my way. I spread my legs wantonly making the front of my skirt stretch taut, like some sort of a primal invitation. The fabric made this small sound that you couldn't miss and I incrementally showed more leg, but he kept looking at his phone. Pretending to adjust my purse on my left, I slid my ass toward him, making our legs touch.

He cleared his throat and reshuffled, moving out of the way, but the bench seat was only so big and he was mostly out of room and could go nowhere. Finally, I spread my legs obscenely wide and touched his knee with mine, and his face instantly flushed red. He pretended to clear his throat again, and even though we were nowhere near a station he got up and pretended to get off the train. Like I said, he was a pussy.

Don't know why I was becoming so confrontational but it was making me less bored. There's not much else you can do on a train but entertain yourself, so it was a sport. Just as he left the train car, I spontaneously laughed and caught attention of the guy across the aisle. Think he saw the whole exchange and was giving me a disapproving look. While he stared, I reached under my shirt and adjusted my bra, fully cupping my breast and then made a strap smack juicily against my skin.

"What?" I said to him. He looked away and I smiled to no one.

...

When I got home and refreshed, the day was just beautiful out so I went out to tend to the garden. Damned Hydrangeas got worse, more pockmarks all over the leaves. I didn't care. I was enjoying myself outside, and the Weavers were out again. She was pointing at my garden, so I made sure to have my shirt ride up next time I stretched or bent over for anything, showing off my flat stomach.

While I was crouched down, I got really horny, and the trowel was in my hand, so without thinking I touched my pussy with the trowel handle. Out in broad daylight! I didn't think anyone noticed, unless they were purposely staring at my butt, which is on them, not me. After a few seconds, I went back to work with it, and over the next ten minutes pulled as many weeds as I could from my patch. I was still horny, so I touched myself with the handle some more, rubbing it in.

This time I turned around and locked eyes with Mrs. Weaver's husband. He was supposed to be working on their planter box, but instead he stared at me with an open mouth. He immediately looked away pretending to have been spacing out in the distance. He saw me touch myself with the handle, I was sure of it. Hearing his wife whine about something made me really horny because she was talking to him, but he was not paying attention to her. His eyes were on me. Not her. I smiled until a sudden shriek made him look away.

I wished she would have caught him watching me, but instead she was just yelling him for normal things.

Dropping the trowel carelessly in the dirt, I walked back in the house and stared at him through the front window, playing with my pussy through my leggings. It was dark inside and the window was screened off, but you could still see a silhouette if you squinted. He shot a glance my way a few times. When I was sure he was looking, I ran a hand up my shirt and played with my breasts for him. Maybe he didn't see anything through the distorted glass, but I so wanted to get him in trouble with his ugly wife.

...

Next day, my car broke down as I drove to the train station and I thanked god for the reprieve from work. I called out and took an Uber home after getting it towed to a shop. It was such a great day to be playing hooky, so I got naked and took a nap in my bed, covering myself with a crispy sheet. It felt so good and relaxing.

Around noon a noise woke me up. It sounded like rain hitting my house siding, but it wasn't supposed to rain today. I peeked through the closed window and immediately got angry.

"Son of a bitch!" I heard myself scream.

That cunt, Mrs. Weaver, was killing my hydrangeas.

It was middle of the day, my car was missing and she thought I was at work. The blistering sun was out and she was purposely spraying them with her water hose. That's how the pockmarks showed up - you're supposed to water the roots on a hot day, not the leaves. Within minutes, the sun would boil tiny water droplets and they'd burn holes through them. That's what I kept seeing all summer long, but I didn't make the connection until today. I was beyond furious at her!

Rather than confront her, I thought of how I was going to get even. Burn her flowers? Take something precious away from her? Undo her work? Sow discord between her and her husband?

Either way, I'd have to step up my game.

...

The curly-haired instructor asked me to stay after class, and I rolled my eyes at him without a compunction while the room cleared. I packed some things and stood up, leaning against my table with him in front of me.

"Jen, I wanted to talk to you about missing vast parts of instruction, " he started babbling.

What a pig. I rolled my eyes at him again and dared him to be more specific. He kept droning on and I couldn't care less. Right in front of him, I adjusted my bra through my neckline, making a strap smack loudly. It was my device to distract men. He turned a faint shade of red but kept going without skipping a beat, "This isn't about... "

Visibly bored, I leaned back against my desk some more, spreading my legs somewhat. My hands were behind me, supporting me, my tits poking out like they meant to pop a button, and they nearly did. He nervously adjusted his glasses. "It's just that you're missing a lot of information..."

Thinking back to how I was going to deal with that Weaver bitch, I figured continuing being a tease would work well. My right foot felt antsy so I started fidgeting with it in front of him, playfully twisting the heel in circles. My twisting leg was motioning an invitation. Like he was hypnotized, he looked down at it and I nearly chuckled at his wandering attention. Daring him to look between my spread legs, I slowly sat down all the way on the desk and flashed my panties at him.

He kept going, "... in good conscience approve your completion of the training with so much missing information."

Think he was saying that I need to spend more time paying attention.

Who did he think he was, explaining contracting minutia day after day after day, as if I was an idiot? I immediately disengaged from even pretending to pay attention, got up and gathered rest of my things, clearly intending to walk away. Three steps away, I stopped and looked over my shoulder and smiled at him.

"Guess I'll just have to suck your cock to pass," I said.

It was so easy to unhorse men. He turned an entire shade of red, which meant he was both horrible at confrontations. Within a few seconds, his face turned ashen as his blood drained, and for once he shut up. I walked out, swinging my hips like a wanton whore, and headed for the train.

...

By the time I got home, I formed a vague strategy. Mrs. Weaver was out shopping or something, since her car was missing. I put on a pretty pair of leggings and a belly shirt and tied my hair in a bun, then went outside to parade myself in front of all the neighborhood perverts. Her husband was outside, working on the planter box again. I put on my ditsiest face and walked on over, hailing him as I got nearer.

"Hi Mike, how are you?" I made sure to put a short playful vibrato on the "you."

"Great, Jen, how about yourself?"

"Wonderful - I wanted to tell you that I just looove that planter box you're building!"

That wasn't just bullshitting, he was pretty handy with wood. The planter box had nice proportions, nice sturdy lines and didn't look mass produced. All the same, the compliment went right to his head. He revealed his pride, "Thanks, it's nothing, just some scrap cedar I had laying around." He pointed at a couple of cracked boards to point the imperfections only he saw.

"Is making those really hard?" I asked him, feigning interest.

"Oh, no, not at all. I mean, if you got the right tools, it don't take much really. You can probably get away with just a hand saw and a square." He chuckled and continued with a little inside joke about it. I pretended to understand and touched his arm with an undeserving familiarity. "Oh, that is sooo funny," I flirted. He extended his nervous fake laugh by a few more seconds and I shifted my hips slowly so he'd see the motion. Pretending to be absent-minded, I took my hand off his and put it up over my chest, squishing my breast.

"I'd really love to learn how to do that," I intoned, "Did you get, like, blueprints online or from a book or something? Is that what they're called, blueprints?"

"Oh no, this is just something I put together," he replied shyly.

"Really?!" I pressed the hand against my breast more firmly, feigning surprise. It spread my tits apart for him to see. "Oh gosh," I continued playing a masterful ditz, "But that sounds so complicated - I mean where do you start?" I took my hand off and of course, I didn't wear a bra. His eyes wandered for a blink.

He started explaining his methodology and I nodded sagely pretending to pay attention, looking at his beer belly. He wasn't ugly, just homely and unkempt and ... well, chubby. He worked with his hands and that's the extent of his self-care. About the only positive thing I could say he had going for him is that he was tall. He smelled like sawdust.

"Well would you mind looking over my flower box sometime?" I asked.

"Be happy to right now," he smiled and took off his gloves, then started following me like a puppy as I chirped and flirted about him being so nice to me, and telling him that gosh, finally a real man can solve my problems! I made sure to swing my hips more than needed to for such a slow walk.

I walked over to my front entrance window, underneath which I had some flowers growing and then bent down to pick up my long-abandoned trowel, leaving my ass straight up in the air for him to imagine grabbing. I started explaining my imaginary plans for the front and what I hoped to accomplish. To his credit, he paid attention and listened. I wasn't making any sense because I was in no hurry to get this conversation over with. More than anything else, I was waiting for his wife to come home.

As he was explaining and pointing at something, he got in front of me and started examining something around that side of my house. While he looked away, I took the opportunity to pinch both of my nipples hard. He didn't miss that detail when he turned around. He stumbled halfway through a sentence and I nodded with a careful "mhmh hmm," smiling right into his eyes. Just then I heard her car pull up, and the scene was set. He waved to her and kept explaining something while I looked intently concentrated. My pussy was starting to get wet thinking about putting him on the spot.

She called over asking him to help unload groceries, and he yelled back, "be there in a minute!" She frowned and started slow walking bags into their house, and that's when I started asking a ton of questions and dialing up my ditz.