Train Stranger: My First Illicit Touch from a Dwarf
Monday, November 23, 2009. Commuter train to Saint-Lazare. I remember every shiver. Forty-five years old, Zézette to my husband Félix. Slimmed down, feeling alive. Short plaid skirt, red bra, sheer black tights, thigh-high boots. No panties. Drawer stayed shut. Bold choice. Air bites my bare bush as I walk to the station. Cold wind sneaks up my skirt. Heart quickens. Excitement bubbles. Been too long.
Gare crowded. Rain drizzles. Pussy chills on the platform. Train arrives. Squeeze in. No real seat. Fold-down strapontin facing him. A dwarf. Not a kid, real man, short. One meter thirty maybe. Eyes lock on my lap. MP3 blasts techno. Free paper bores me. Glance up. Coat flaps open from train vibes. Legs parted just enough. My hairy mound shows through thin tights. He’s staring. Hard.
The Approach
Pulse races. Close legs? Boots snag. Stay open. His face flushes. Radar eyes lock in. Almost at station. Tease him. Spread wider. Slow. Deliberate. Red creeps up his neck. He drinks the view. My forest peeks. Innocent game? No. Fear mixes with thrill. No turning back. Crowds surge at next stop. Rise together. Packed like sardines. He presses close. Tiny against my hips. Doors shut. Jerk forward. He stumbles. Hand grabs my thigh. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles. I nod. No anger.
Train rolls. Hand stays. Not accident. Squeezes. Glares down. He holds firm. No escape in crush. Heart pounds. Not my type. But heat builds. Alarm wails. Train halts. Dead stop. He climbs higher. Arm hidden under coat. Fingers near thigh top. Squeeze legs tight. Block him. Dumb move. Shifts inward. Wedges between. Rubbing fails. Pins him deeper. Tugs gusset. Nylon strains.
The Instant
Snap. Rip echoes in mind. Tights torn. He fakes pullout. I relax. Mistake. Dives under. Palm on bush. Hidden. Safe from eyes. Probes fur. Finds slit. Knows paths. Clit swells. Thumb circles. Too much. Legs part. Surrender. He grins up. Eyes pierce. Two fat fingers plunge. Then three. Stretch me wide. Pussy floods. No fight left.
Siren blasts. Train moves. Last chance. Fourth finger rams. Fist-fucks deep. Thumb grinds clit. I arch. Open wide. Waves crash. Orgasm rips. Shuddering. Silent scream. Train slows. He slips out. Gleam in eye. My gaze blank, body humming. Doors open. Empty out. Walk side by side. His pants bulge huge down thigh. Compensation clear.
Quai to Monoprix. New tights. Bureau change. Day drags. Replay every touch. Evening home. Félix early. Eyes devour. Help with boots? Hand slides high. No panties. ‘Slut,’ he grins. Knows. Heart still races. Tomorrow? Bare again. Maybe stockings. For him. Us. Innocence gone. New hunger awake. No regrets. Just crave more.
