From deep within hung-over stubble

Early one icy morning, so cold you could see breath. Unshaven, hung over, I crossed the tracks and made my way to the platform. I was tired and thinking of sleep. Wind ripped through, and a few early workers hurried for the warmth of carriages. I took my usual seat, front left but not in the corner. As I reached for the book in my bag, I noticed a pair of stilettos and an attractive young lady. She sat directly opposite, and I opened my book. I thought she looked familiar.

She smiled demurely and proceeded to slowly open her legs. Beneath her short office skirt, a pouty pristine white pair of cotton panties bulged at me. Luckily I’d worn my dark sunnies, so I could see out but no-one could see in. Her mound was enormous and commanded attention. Every now and then she’d look up, and I imagined she was watching my crotch; and as my bulge grew, hers became a photographic memory of the public transport system.

Each day thereafter, I’d sit in my usual seat, and she’d come and sit directly opposite. Then open her legs, and display her wares for me. Not a bad way to start the working day. But one fine morning, still bitterly cold, another young woman gets on. A blonde, in a very short mini sat opposite and a few seats to my right. She was pale and thin, and didn’t bother to cross her legs. Again with the white cotton panties, although a smaller size, and a nice pert little mound.

Weeks go by and the blonde and the tanned brunette are nowhere to be seen. One morning the train is almost full, and my usual seat is gone. I get to choose between the one next to the fat guy, who takes up one and a half seats; or the thirteen year old school girl, in uniform. Why was it such an easy decision? There was plenty of room next to her. I felt contented, but guilty. Somewhere along the journey, our legs touched and stayed together. She read the bible, and I read Lolita.