Last Train Home

Last Train Home

© William D'Ark 2022

Set in D.C. during the 1980s. Fictionalized around an out-of-the-blue experience.

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It is shit working in that office. Always on the wrong side of the boss, never hearing 'thanks, great job' when all the paperwork has gotten signed, sealed, delivered to meet whatever today's deadline demanded. Doesn't seem matter if it's on time, there are only two outcomes. Surly older guys like me trying to make it to retirement. Or young fucks competing for that next promotion. Fuck them. They are younger than they should be to have such responsibility, green at the gills, thinking they have the right to out-talk, out-do, and own somebody else's ass whenever the boss is looking on.

The Metro is slow this time of night. Twenty minute commute will become an hour. Fuck that and fuck this shitty claustrophobic train station. It's damp, humid in the tunnels from today's all-day rain. Scent of sweat and engine oil on the air. This time of night the Metro feels gritty and seems to draw in the dregs. Especially when it's raining. But it's past 10 now and as the old train squeals to a halt I see there are only two cars to choose from. The first has two couples seated towards the back and a girl standing, holding onto the pole. The other has a bunch of guys shouting at each other though they stand or sit just two feet apart. Easy choice. The first car, sit down, relax if you can.

I put my briefcase on the floor next to my seat and lose myself in the front page of The Sun. My journey is ten stops long. A half hour wasted. I'll make it a slow read.

I like this tabloid. It's British but the stories can be fun. Something to do with Brit humor and choice of language. There is always a twist from other tabs the street vendors sell. Today's title reads 'Telly Cougar's Confession.' 'I slept with 1000 men...but I used to be one myself!'

Oh my god, I think to myself. Hope they used condoms. Why can't they keep it simple? Traditional? Like the old days. Pretty girls full of themselves. Handsome guys ready to give them the world, ready to own their lovely round asses pulled into view by too-short dresses. Bend over girl let me have it again. Yeah... with the boss looking on this time. Those young fuckers looking on. The boss grinning. If she belonged to me that would show them something new to think about. Something to chew over. He's not a loser... he's got that pretty girl doesn't he... he must be fucking her good if she's stayed with him this long. Oh and she wants us to watch... wants us to be next. There she goes again sorting thru that bottom file drawer. C 'mere baby give us a kiss. It's okay innit..?

Hmm, Brit humor...

Train jolts to a stop.

Line of thought lost. Take another breath. Smile into empty air remembering The Sun's word play. Eyes wander to the route map. Six more stops. I'm ready to toss the paper aside for the next poor bastard who's got nowhere to go, no one to hold, no one to show off and be proud of.

Like I used to do before Sandra went away.

Paper open in my hands, I move to fold it and set it on the empty seat beside me.

'Wait,' a soft voice says.

Someone speaking to me? I look up. The standing-up pole girl has moved to my side of the car. In the space of two blinks my peripheral vision has done its job. She wears a brown Burberry raincoat, carries a matching leather handbag, handles strung over one arm. Stylish chocolate pumps down below. Librarian glasses cross her nose. Hair pulled back to highlight fire engine lipstick on pulpy lips. A hint of makeup at the eyes. Blush highlighting cheeks. Well heeled, I conclude. Immaculate. Gorgeous. I clear my throat. She stares down at me.

'Don't throw it away Sir,' she says. 'I was enjoying that lead story.'

'Oh?' I reply. 'Here you can have it. I am done with it anyway.'

'Oh, thank you but no. I can't hold it and stand like this,' she says. 'I was just enjoying you flipping the pages. Thought I could look over your shoulder?' I love the Page 3 girls. But you didn't get that far did you?'

She gives me a nova-bright smile and her eyes crinkle at the corners.

'Ah,' is all I can say. A loss for words. Train jolts to a stop again. Five more to go.

'Of course. My pleasure,' I tell her. I overreact a bit I am sure, extending my arms full length so she can see. Opening the cover page...

Page 3. There she is. Nearly every inch of bare skin revealed to us.

In the 1970s The Sun began a daring new tradition among tabloids by routinely publishing images of topless female glamour models a day at a time. They become known as Page 3 Girls and they took on a life of their own in the media. It was Rupert Murdoch's idea to revive his flagging publication. Brilliant. Sold millions of copy and was imitated by red-top tabloids across Europe. Somehow The Sun held the reins. Their girls were unrivaled.

This girl...this issue... Yeah, I would take her home to meet my mother. Maybe put a sweater on her first. Maybe not on second thought. Who would want to cover up beauty like that? Hide that away? Omg...the image deserves to be in a frame on display. And I almost threw the paper away. Tsk

'Oh'...the standing-pole girl says. 'She's so so gorgeous. Such a perfect figure. I love seeing women share themselves like that. So bold. Confident. I just want to reach out and touch her.' She emphasizes the word touch.

I feel my face getting warm.

I look up expecting to nod and agree with everything this woman has said. NOT expecting that this perfectly dressed stranger would have opened the brown Burberry raincoat to reveal her own beautiful breasts -- nearly as bare but without a doubt just as touchable as the Page 3 Girl she is admiring.

Beneath the raincoat is a perfectly sheer patterned dress. Tan...or some other fancy name for tan. Paisley shapes widely scattered across the fabric with small jewels woven between what must have been Indian gauze. The material hardly covers an otherwise naked feminine form underneath. Beautiful breasts, heavy and round with upturned dark areolas and bristling ruddy nipples. The torso curves down to become, you know, hips. And the fleshy heart-shaped hips present perfectly groomed labia smiling sideways at me. Those bald curves invite fingers; I am certain they would be baby soft to caress. In this daring moment, her teasing like this, I wonder if they are slippery... The thought creates more familiar body heat, that rush of denied desire rising up from where I am sitting. I swallow. Take a deep breath.

'Lovely,' I say. 'Quite lovely. Such a gift to share with me, thank you. You are a Page 3 girl yourself.' I want to smile but my face seems rigid, the skin tight. I notice moisture at the edges of my eyes.

'Thank you for saying so Sir,' she says. There may be a slight reddening of those high, powdered cheeks but I am not sure. 'Most people aren't so polite when they see me like this,' she says. 'Do you like the dress?'

Train jolts to a stop. Do I have three more to go? Two? What stop is this?

'Do people see you like this often?' I am genuinely curious to know.

The train remains motionless and she does a pirouette for me. Coat open wide, there are no secrets any more. Heavy breasts sway as she turns, legs slightly splay on the landing.

I am still thinking about that slippery thing...

And then I see the black leather collar around her neck. Small stainless steel spikes decorate its circular length. The neck has reddened around the edges. I get it completely. Instantly. I am both jealous and understanding of the evident backstory.

My cock starts to harden.

People are coming and going from the two-car train. A dozen strangers stare at this tantalizing girl who has put herself on display -- just for me, I had thought, but maybe not. She turns again, wags her hips, smiles that star bright smile while looking straight into my eyes. The breasts flutter again.

No one says a word.

'Okay. This is my stop,' she says. Speaking quickly, quietly, she explains to me alone.

'Master gave me an assignment today. Find a naked-dress. Wear it the rest of the day. Ride Metro to and fro. Take off the coat each time you leave the train. Let them all see, he said to me. He's such a perfect Sir. Do you think he will like it?' she asks.

'What?' I reply.

'The dress,' she says again. 'I want to please him. I have to please him.'

She pulls the raincoat away from her shoulders and drapes it over the handbag arm. She steps past the open doors. Standing like living art she invites everyone there to see it all again. The perfect curves of her backside pull at our eyes. The chocolate brown pumps click on glazed tiles just as the doors swish closed.

A dozen late night urbanites turn to watch her through the train's window glass. A dozen more on the platform strain their necks. She steps to the escalator and turns. The corrugated silver stairs carry her statuesque form slowly up and away. Perhaps to meet her Sir. Perhaps on some other errand. Nearly naked into the warm damp night she disappears.

I clear my throat. Fold The Sun beneath my arm. Must keep this issue, I decide. Telly Cougar's Confession. Now I have a confession of my own to ponder.

Nearly 11 pm. One stop to go. Maybe I'll take tomorrow off.

I feel a smile cross my face. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. My cock is still hard.

I wonder how long it's been since I spoke with Sandra.