Red Line. Blue Eyes. Wet Thighs

You’re on a train. Red line, northbound. It’s packed with the after-work peak hour squeeze. Bodies close. Sweat slicks your skin under your blouse, air thick and humid, the failing air-con no match for this. You’re shoved against the pole near the door, hips grinding into the metal with each jolt of the train. Strangers press in from all sides.

Through the crowd of people your eyes meet two blue eyes in a handsome face.

You blink.

Eyes gone.

Your nipples are hard, pressing against the fabric of your bra. How? Why?

You blink.

Your pussy tingles. It’s wet. You’re soaking your panties.

You blink.

No. Not wearing panties. You’re sure you put some on this morning. Maybe forgot?

Your arousal climbs. It must be the vibrations of the train. You try to shift away from the pole, but there’s no space to move.

Your tight skirt rides up slightly. You tug it down with one hand, brushing the bare curve of your exposed butt cheeks. But no, you did put on panties this morning. You’re sure of it. Red ones. They’re not here now.

A tunnel. The carriage plunges into darkness and the train swings round a corner. You gasp, gripping the pole to keep from falling, not from the movement of the train but from the orgasm which just wracked your body. Your pussy clenches hard, walls spasming as the orgasm rips free, hot and violent. Your inner thighs are slick with your arousal. The train lights flicker on. On unsteady legs, you look around frantically. You meet that pair of blue eyes again.

You blink.

The blue eyes aren’t there.

No one else notices your flushed face, your rumpled skirt, or the scent of your arousal mixing with the crowd’s sweat.

Your journey continues. Stop after stop. No blue eyes. No more orgasms. But your wet thighs alone are proof that this was not your imagination.

The train slows. The speakers crackle. “Khatib. Please mind the platform gap.”

It’s the stop before yours. The doors hiss open. There’s a blast of fresh air and a handful of passengers disembark, squeezing past you, bodies close.

You blink.

Your nipples ache with the touch of strangers brushing past. Your breasts feel… different. You clutch at your chest. You’re not wearing a bra. You know you were before. But now your breasts swing free, naked but for your blouse, nipples visible through the sheer fabric.

The doors close. The train moves.

The speakers crackle. “Next stop, Yishun. Doors will open on the left.”

Nearly home. Home is a three-room flat. Top floor of a rundown HDB lowrise, built in the eighties with a lift that goes from the first to third floor only. Any other day you’d complain about the stairs. Or the noise of the chess uncles arguing or the smoke of the joss paper burning that somehow drifts up three floors. You’d complain your younger brother spends his bookout weekends playing video games when you’re the one paying for the WiFi. You’d complain Ah Ma smokes in the flat. You’d complain that Dad leaves his shoes right inside the door instead of on the rack and you’d complain that Mum gambles too much on mahjong while you’re trying to keep the family afloat and save for your own future. But not today. Today, home is safe.

No blue eyes. No missing clothing. No unexplained orgasms. Safe.

The train slows. The speakers crackle. “Yishun. Please mind the platform gap.” The train stops. The doors hiss open.

You push your way out, off the train. The cooler air of the air-conditioned platform is a relief as it hits your overheated skin. Your pussy still pulses, empty and aching, the wetness of desire is thick on your thighs as you rush straight for the toilets. The toilet is only a thirty-second dash from the train doors, and you’re already halfway there.

You blink.

You stumble.

There’s something in your butt. Stretching it from the inside. Almost feeling like a poo trying to come out. But it’s not poo. And it’s not coming out. You look frantically around, heart pounding, but all you see is oblivious commuters rushing home after another damn sian 9 to 6. No suspicious faces, no blue eyes.

You hurry. Reach the toilets, rush into a cubicle. Slam the door. Inspect.

Your fingers probe your slick butt crack. There’s a buttplug in your butt. How did that get there? Your fingers grasp the free end and pull. It comes out with a wet suck, your asshole gaping for but a moment, before it clenches shut. You stare at the plug. A string of your pussy juice clings to it, mixing with the lube that coated it. Then you throw it in the sani bin. You grab some toilet paper and try to wipe yourself clean of lube and pussy-juice.

Under the stall door you see two shoes. Men’s shoes. Black and polished. They’re standing directly outside your cubicle, pointed towards you.

You fumble with the lock and fling the door open.

No one.

You wash your hands, like you’re trying to wash the whole journey off. Water runs, but the feeling stays. Splash cold water on your face, but it doesn’t cool the heat inside.

What else can you do?

Go home. Lock the door. Pretend it never happened. Pray the blue eyes don’t follow.

By the time you leave the toilets, the crowd from your train has cleared. Hardly anyone around. No blue eyes. You grab your card and tap out of the station.

You glance at your watch. 18:49:43. It’s less than a ten-minute walk home. It'd be closer to five without the stairs. You take the escalators out of the station. The world above is quiet. Again, the rush from your train has dispersed. People made their way to their homes in the time it took you to remove a buttplug from your rear.

You walk home in the muggy night air, nipples chafing at your blouse, pussy lips still swollen with arousal. After a right turn, you reach the covered linkway. It’s a hundred metres of straight walking. No place for someone to hide; no way for someone to follow without you noticing. But still, you glance around every few steps. Scanning the shadows for a pair of blue eyes or a pair of polished shoes. But you see nothing.

The linkway is empty. No sound but the dim of traffic and the echo of your heels as they click, clack, click along the concrete.

You’re halfway through. You stop to look behind you. No one there. You glance at your watch. 18:52:01.

You blink.

You’re on your hands and knees. Concrete bites you as though you’ve fallen. Did you fall? Yes… no… There’s something in your butt again. Your fingers fly to your crack, it’s slick with new lube. Your fingers skid over the jewel of the buttplug. You jerk your fingers back and sit up, looking around frantically. You see no one. The linkway is empty.

You blink.

If your arse feels full, your pussy feels empty. The kind of empty ache it gets after a thorough fucking with a fat cock.

But there was no cock. Was there?

Something warm and thick is dribbling out of your pussy. Down your thigh. You touch it with your hand. It’s sticky. You bring it to your face to look. It’s white. It smells musky. It smells like cum. It smells like man.

There was a cock. Between standing and falling there was a cock. It was inside you and fucked you raw. Then it dumped a fresh load of cum deep in your slick, hot cunt.

You try to get your legs under you, to scramble to your feet.

You blink.

You’re on your hands and knees again.

A scream tears from your throat. Wet. Broken. Filthy. The orgasm rips through your body, unforgivingly. From the deepest, hottest knot in your belly, a white-hot pulse radiates outwards. Up your spine, down your thighs, out to the tips of your fingers. Your pussy clenches so hard it hurts, walls spasming in violent, endless waves, milking nothing but the ghost of something inside you. A gush of wetness floods your thighs. Hot. Slick. Shameful. Dripping down your legs to the concrete below in thick, glistening strands.

The linkway spins then your vision snaps back. Your breath comes in ragged sobs and the noise of the distant traffic is drowned beneath the hammering of your heart. You’re shaking. Ruined. Leaking. The air smells of your cunt. Your fear. Your need.

And still, nobody’s here.

Just you.

Have you been drugged? How much time has passed? You look at your watch. 18:52:59

Not even one minute

You’re naked. Since when are you naked? But you are. Stark naked. Tits bouncing free, pussy exposed and dripping. On the ground next to you is a pile of clothes. Your clothes. Neatly folded. There’s a note on top. Your heart pounds as you pick it up, and unfold the paper with trembling fingers.

Until next time is scrawled in cursive.

You blink