The Girl From The Train

By myself on the crowded platform, I was trying to hold the human mass behind me, prevent it from making me fall on the tracks. I had never seen anybody actually fall on them, but every time I got home, just a bit late, and found myself among the hundreds trying to catch the tube at rush hour, I wondered why so few people died from what seemed to me like an unavoidable stampede. Rush hour on the tube has every characteristic of something I would be bad at: lots of people, lots of noise, bodies shoving each other aside to keep on their way, heat, and the need to rush.

Because not only do you have to be strong enough not to be pushed aside by some middle-aged white collar trying to get out, just as you struggle to stay near the doors and get in as soon as you can, to avoid being crushed by the unforgiving closing doors, but you also have to be fast and clever, choose the perfect spot to jump as soon as possible on a seat, avoiding the ones near the doors, lest you end up travelling seated for an hour looking at the legs of in and outcomers, or worse, standing in everybody's way and terribly close to your fellow travellers, hoping that someone will soon stand and leave, letting you rest your legs. I sucked at all of these things, and most of the times, ended up in either of these two very uncomfortable positions, having to choose between a forty-year old accountant's crotch on my face on my ass, neither of which was anything but disgusting to me.

As the train arrived in the station, I braced at the ready. I just had to keep far enough behind the line not to end up as train ground meat -- if that is a thing -- but close enough from the train to stand firm by the doors when they'd open. My hopes were high, and I already pictured myself cosily seated between two quiet old ladies or near a nice couple, relaxed as I could take out my book from my backpack and read for sixty minutes. As with every time I tried that strategy, I felt ready.

For a second, I could see my reflexion in the train's glass doors: my blue eyes, the soft curls of black hair falling around my thin pale face, my red, pouting mouth the only trace of colour in a slightly sickly face, the deep blue shirt tucked into my cotton pants. I was focused.

As with every time I tried that strategy, I failed miserably. As soon as the doors opened, the stream of passengers walking out formed a wall between me and the door, which for some reason didn't exist on the other side of the latter. I could only miserably watch as people queuing there moved in casually, taking all the available seats with ease.

As the last passenger, a lady wearing a bright red coat, moved out, all the comfortable places were taken. I was carried into the train more than entered it: those queuing behind me shoved me inside just by moving in and, without quite realising how, I found myself seated on a jump seat, facing what clearly was a very sweaty crotch.

I was disgusted, repulsed, and annoyed: not only do I hate the bodily proximity of other people, but this feeling is even greater at the end of a day, when everyone starts smelling of sweat and fatigue. Above my head, the man just looked away, probably not even realising how grossed I was. Maybe annoyed himself by such a forced proximity. I closed my eyes and tried thinking about something else. Thankfully after a few stops my forced neighbour was gone, and I was already feeling relieved: after this specific station, the train generally emptied itself little by little, and by the time I got home, I actually had enough personal space to breathe freely. But not this time.

The space previously occupied by the man's black pants stayed empty but for a few seconds. Before I even could relax, it came to be filled with a pair of thick blue jeans, making me pause. The jeans were pale blue, used, as if worn too often, and carelessly patched on several spots with mismatching thread.

They were clearly too large for the hips carrying them, but not in a fashionable, baggy kind of way: they just were too big, and their wearer had slid a piece of white string, almost as thick as a small rope, tied in a sailor's knot, in lieu of a belt. From one of the belt rings hung a couple of thick metal chains, which disappeared into a pocket. At the bottom of the jeans, I could spot a pair of used leather boots, which must have been brown in a very distant past.

I was both surprised and intrigued: I am used, because of my awkwardness in the train, to seeing many different kinds of pants. From the straight deep blue trousers of businessmen, always perfectly straight, never washed at home, to the sloppy chino of office workers, including various kinds and sizes of skirts, baggies, tailors, and uniforms, I have seen it all. I could write a whole sociology of this city relying solely on bottom clothing, where they come in, when they come out.

But I have never seen anyone dressed like this, especially on this line which cuts right in the middle of the rich parts of town, where tech companies and big corps built huge glass towers in the 90s as displays of power and modernity.

I didn't immediately dare to glance up, barely catching sight of a fine hand which slid quickly into the jeans' pocket before disappearing into what appeared to be an overly-large black hoodie's. The mysterious rugged jeans' owner had surprisingly delicate hands, from what I could gather, and had I not been so shy and socially awkward in public space, I would at that stage have raised my gaze to look at the newcomer.

But it was out of the question. At least, not as long as they looked in my general direction. Which changed quickly: a few instants later, they were turning toward the doors, and I couldn't avoid noticing that whosoever they were, they had been particularly gifted in terms of hips, and butt. Trying to resist a certain arousal, I dared look up. She -- because they were a she -- was just a bit taller than me, and a bit thicker, but not by much. Beyond the large jeans and black hoodie, she also wore large headphones, and her entire attitude showed how much she wished to be left alone.

She was strikingly beautiful, in a very peculiar, almost distant kind of way: every inch of her face, from her broad forehead to her slightly pursed lips and her very pretty round nose was at the same time sensual, and distant, as if she looked at the world with just a little bit of despise, from above.

She had very dark almond-shaped eyes, which gazed into the distance, indifferent to what she saw. Her black hair was finely braided with lighter hair, running along her scalp and bundled together in a loose ponytail which almost crowned her. Beauty and self-assurance, along with just enough scariness, radiated from her and, as I noticed at the end of my very quick glance at her, everybody in the train was looking away from her, as if not to disturb her, or by fear that she would get angry at them. Even dressed shabbily as she was, she transpired power, as only do people who know they are truly indispensable. I looked back very quickly, from fear that she may catch me watching her. Which, of course, she did.

I only saw her hips, turn in my direction, feeling embarrassed to be caught staring at a stranger in public space. A few very long instants later, her hand emerge from her hoodie's pocket, as she waved her finger to order me to look up. Indeed, although she had moved very gently, the gesture was clearly not a request, but a command, which I obeyed. She was looking straight at, or through, me, her face displaying a subtle mix of annoyance, surprise, despise, and something deeper, almost predator-like:

"- Is something bothering you?," she asked, and while her voice was clearly annoyed, her accent felt like someone was pouring warm water, very gently, on my back. - Not at all, miss, I'm very sorry for bothering you," I had begun answering when she cut me mid-sentence

"- Your mom never taught you not to stare, boy?," she asked, now half-amused. As I mumbled an apology she cut me again:

"- What, were you looking for your big catchphrase? Is this how you try to 'pick up' girls?".

I blushed, not knowing what to answer: of course I never would approach anyone, woman or man, in such a way, but she did not know that, and had, after all, caught me staring. As I felt I wanted to bury myself in the ground from shame, she laughed:

"- Relax," she said, "I'm joking. You should see the look on your face!". She grinned: "Looks like I found myself a shy boy, didn't I?".

She didn't actually expect an answer, and I was still struggling to find one when the train stopped:

"- That's my stop. You shouldn't come with me. You're too pure for that. But you may". So I did.

She seemed to have chosen to live in one of the most run-down parts of down, despite being herself incredibly wealthy for her age. She took me through the streets of the neighbourhood, casually nodding to the dealers and hookers who had taken their vigil for the evening. She was striding, more than walking, and I was both intimidated and a attracted by how confident and comfortable she was with people I was personally terrified of.

Being behind her, and trying to keep up to her pace I could look her in greater detail, her slightly bulking stature, the broadness of her shoulder and her legs, which I imagined under her jeans. Eventually, we reached a gated courtyard and, after exchanging a few words with the towering security guard sitting behind a counter, we got in. It was one of these islands of edgy wealth in a neighbourhood not yet fully gentrified. After crossing the courtyard, passing through a door, and her unlocking a metal gate kept locked by a chain and padlock, we were "Home," she proclaimed, "I hope you like it. I got some beer in the fridge, help yourself, definitely open me one, I'm going to change".

It was a huge loft which must have been a warehouse at a certain point of the past. It was mostly lit by fairy lights, and every surface was either cold metal, cold cement, or pieces of fabric turned into makeshift rugs and curtains. The kitchen itself was bigger than my own apartment, and at the back, behind curtains, I could see a huge bedroom where she was changing clothes. After picking up two bottles of beer and while sipping one, I sat on a couch, waiting, not sure at all of what exactly I was doing there.

When she emerged from her bedroom she was not wearing boots and hoodie anymore, instead donning a very large black tshirt under which one could clearly see her impressive chest, but more importantly, in big white letters barring it, the six letters forming the word "PEGGER". As she saw me startled, she grinned:

"- Sorry boy..." and, after grabbing her beer and sipping from it, she added, "But I guess you kinda saw that one coming from a mile away, didn't you?".

-To be honest, I didn't really think of anything... I just followed you," I replied, not knowing what else to add. She sat next to me on her big used couch. She had very deep, brown eyes, mesmerising, and her gaze was at the same time incredibly powerful and incredibly tender.

"- I have peculiar tastes," she sighed, "and I know that may be scary. I saw you a few times on the tube, although you didn't see me. And today, I found your shyness endearing."

I was about to reply, but she put a finger on my lips:

"- I am really attracted by sweetness in men. It makes me want to do things to them. Things that can be scary, or lovely. Or a little bit of both," she added, grinning again, "But I never forced anyone to do anything, and I never will. I demand choice, and I demand decisiveness. You don't ever get to change whatever you're gonna choose to do. If you want, you can stay here a while, and we'll chat. I'll ask you things about yourself, tell me things about me. You'll finish your drink and go. If you stay, I want you to know it has to be all-in. I do not like doing things halfway."

And, leaning closer to me, so I could feel her body heat radiating through her clothes and mine, she added, almost whispering into my ear:

"- But I want you to know that what I do, I do really, really well".

I remember the closeness to her, her smell, her eyes, so close to me, her face and her smile, mine as well, when I heard myself say, "I'd like that". A second later, her lips, and her arms, were clutching me so strong it hurt.

I don't remember for how long we kissed, but it seems it lasted for ages. She was overwhelming, warm, confident, conquering. Her kisses were like molten lava on my lips, and with every new one I surrendered myself a bit more to her will. Her skin was soft and smooth, and as I grabbed her back and her neck I could feel she was muscular, but not in the beefy way of someone working out constantly. She had the lean muscle of someone used to walking for miles without stopping, of someone of tremendous endurance.

She pushed me back on the couch and made me lie on my back, spreading my legs and leaning on me. Her boobs pressed on my chest, as she held me in her arms and kissed me again with a renewed vivacity.

I was caressing her strong back, her beautiful dark braided hair, her hips, her butt, and could feel her pawing all over me, grabbing my hips and my thighs as she locked me into a missionary position, all the while kissing me, and touching my cheeks and neck, gently, mock-choking me for a while, while looking at me with envy and excitation. I was out of breath, dazzled, but she knew exactly what she was doing.

She sat up on the couch, legs spread broadly, and gestured me to sit between them. I did as she said, and almost immediately, she hands were running on my tummy, between my legs, on my neck, avoiding my genitals to focus on other arousing parts of my body, while she kept on kissing me almost vampire-like, nibbling on my offered neck and giggling when I moaned in pain and pleasure.

Her hands slid under my shirt and I could feel their warmth on my skin, every area she touched was as electrified, goose bumps sprawling all over me as I stayed, passive and panting, at her mercy.

She started unbuttoning my shirt quickly, and very soon I was bare-chested in the cold air of her apartment. I started complaining, which only led her to untie my belt and throw away my pants, leaving me naked and cold between her legs. As she ran an appreciating finger down my back and on my butt, she asked:

"- Anything to complain about, bitch boy?"

She had said "bitch" in such a sexy, belittling, and almost carnivorous way, that I felt obliged to shake my head and immediately felt the most sensitive parts of myself harden, which she didn't fail to notice

"- Is it making you hard when I call you my bitch, bitch boy?," she said almost viciously. - Yes..." I moaned, as she happily began gnawing on my throat and sliding her hand on my inner thigh.

As a reward, she pinched my ass in a most sadistic way, blocking me as I jump in pain, and making me stay.

"- Uh uh, you're gonna have to take waaaaay more than that if you're gonna stay here, little bitch," she giggled, "Maybe I should put you across my lap and give you a good spanking, to set the tone... I'm sure you wouldn't even resist..."

As I was shaking my head again, she slid her finger between my thick black curls, and I could feel her warm breath down my neck

"- But I'll get plenty of time to slap that ass, won't I? I'll get aaaaaaaaall night if I want to...". I was, entirely, hers.

She teased me a while longer, touching me everywhere, her fingers sometimes soft as cotton, and at other times hard as wood. She made me slowly grind my butt on her lap, almost lapdancing, without music, and she made me crawl in front of her on four legs. She made me bend over, commenting on my curves and shapes, as she sat on the couch sipping beer and caressing herself. She enjoyed every second of it and, I must admit, so did I. She was incredibly macho and girly at the same time.

After a while, she made me come back to her, facing her, and kneel on the couch. Without a word, she made me pass my head under her too large tshirt. In the warm, dark, and musty smell of her clothes, I found my place very quick, and began licking and kissing her broad tits as she encouraged me, grasping as she was at my head, calling me her bitch, her boy, and many other names which I half-heard, excited as I was.

While I sucked on one breast, I grabbed the other passionately, rubbing her teat between my fingers, accelerating and slowing down as she ordered me to. I switched between boobs, and could hear her panting and moaning louder, louder, until she suddenly stopped and grabbed me very close, her arms holding me tight as she was overcome by her orgasm. I stuck my head between her breasts and waited. Having come a first time, she took off her tshirt, revealing both her magnificent boobs and my head, smiling. She stood up and, holding my hand, started taking me to her bedchamber.

The part of the room where the bed was was less lit than the rest, and behind thick curtains. There, a king-sized mattress lay directly on the cold floor, surrounded by fairy lights and candles. Around it she had scattered her clothes and other things: all forms and sorts of toys, paddles and cuffs, plugs, dildos of many sizes, chains and leather, and many bottles of lubricant, both empty and full, some flavoured, some not.

She tossed, more than she pushed me, on the bed, where I fell on my back. Then, she undid the rope that held her trousers and let them slide down her hips, naturally, falling on the floor with a metallic sound from her chains. Under them, she only wore a thin black thong and nothing else. Her skin, in the poorly-lit bedroom, shone like ancient polished metal. She looked like the statue of a queen of times long passed, and she only looked at me.

I was on my back, legs spread. She knelt and picked a small, pink dildo. She held it in her hands.

"- This is going to be your first friend," she declared, "I'm telling you this because I want you to know that I will do you with this. I want you to see it, its size, its shape. It will be inside you, and I will be guiding it. It will feel hard at first, but very fast you'll realise you really can take it. You'll start relaxing and feeling better. And when you're used to it," she picked another one, translucid, as if made of glass, and twice as big, "I will make you meet a new friend. With this one, usually, boys like you start to freak out" (and I was indeed terrified by the size of it, but didn't dare say a thing), "But you'll take it anyway, and let me tell you, you're going to love it, even if you don't want to admit it. It'll stretch you, sure, but it's not bigger than a bigger-than-average cock, and riding it is gonna make you feel slutty and proud. Until..."

As she tossed away the second one, picking up what I would have originally taken for a piece of wood, but was in fact a cock-shaped, enormous, veinous, long, thick and hard dildo

"-...Until you meet your last friend. At that stage you may cry. They usually do. That's also usually when they realise how much they need it to continue. How much they crave to feel the stretch again. That's when they get converted. And that's why I am telling you this: I want you to know that I know you will break. That I know that when you're riding me and my friend here, you will want more, forever. Whether it comes from me or from others. And you will thank me for that".

I could barely respond, but I know two things: I was blushing like never before, and I was harder than ever before.

I didn't see what she was doing but a second later, she was wearing the first dildo without any belt or harness.

"- They're all strapless," she said, "I need to feel something too, right?," she whispered as she spread my legs.

She didn't use lubricant, not yet, and started playing with me softly. It didn't feel good or exciting, not at first, and I felt awkward looking at the ceiling and feeling her toy down there. Until, I don't know how, she turned me on.