The Great Train Rubber
The train platform is already a bustling hive of activity when Dawn steps on to it, though she’s early for the train herself. Men, women, and children were waiting patiently and calmly for the next train. Normally, she’d have joined the waiting throng of people or looked for some of her friends. However, as she’s feeling bored she wandered along the platform to stretch her legs before the long, dull train ride ahead.
As she walked along she tugged absently at the side of her skirt trying to pull it lower, as the wind threatened to expose her. The skirt stubbornly refused to go any lower thanks to her rounded hips. Letting out a huff of frustration, she turned to study her likeness being reflected in a metal surface attached to one of the station walls.
She gazed at herself for a moment in the slightly distorted image the unpolished metal offered her, and flicked part of her black cornrows over her shoulder. It’s long down her back, just past her scapula, layered to her collar at the sides. Dawn’s pretty hot by modern standards, but looks hadn’t always given her the best of times due to her being of mixed-race. Her dad is a Nigerian refugee, while her mother an English-descended third-generation Australian.
Her skin is a deep caramel color, her thick lips are pink, eyes a golden brown, and a beautiful smile made brighter by her white teeth.
She’s dressed in a short blue skirt and a white blouse with a matching blue jacket, with a matching white lace bra (C-cup) and panties. The skirt’s no longer a great fit as it’s shrunk in the wash over time (at least that’s her excuse). The skirt had been just above her knees when she bought it, however, now it’s mid-thigh.
The train pulling into the station snapped Dawn from her visual and internal reflection, and she realized she had wandered all the way to the end of the platform. She looked around and saw no other women in the group of commuters she’s standing with. The trains in Sydney are notorious for perverts who like to grope women. While Dawn had never had it happen to her it, there’s an unwritten rule that says the best way to prevent being molested, is stay with other women.
Since she had little choice, Dawn joined the men waiting by her and is suddenly swept along as they pile into the last carriage. She’s so small she’s like a cork being driven by an ocean swell, with little choice of where her final destination in the train car would be. When the crush of men stopped moving, she found herself near the back of the carriage. Men were on either side of her while behind her another man is pressed tightly against her. Eventually, she’s facing one of the carriage windows so closely, that she’s nearly pinned against it.
Dawn remains still until the train doors shut with a soft swoosh, and the train leaves the station. She always enjoyed the train journey, as she found that the rattle of the carriages, the rhythmic: ‘duh dun duh dun duh dun’ sound the train wheels made over the tracks, and even the close press of bodies on the train, comforting. Sometimes the combination of all these things had nearly made her drift off to sleep even when she’s standing.
The first few minutes of the journey passed uneventfully, then as the train car rocked slightly she felt something bump against her behind for the briefest moment. Her body tensed at the contact, but she didn’t panic, as it’s not so uncommon in the pressed jumble of bodies to have accidental touching when the carriages swayed around.
Just as she’s starting to relax, she’s bumped again. Once, twice and a third time. This time Dawn knew it wasn’t an accident, as it hadn’t been earlier. She could even tell ‘the bump’ felt like the back of someone’s hand, and most likely the person right behind her. She froze, suddenly frightened, and sharply alert to any movement that may come her way.
Seconds passed like minutes, and she wasn’t surprised when a hand touched her again. However, her breath is stolen because this time her left ass cheek is boldly cupped by the offending hand. The hand didn’t stop at just that either, as it started to massage, squeeze, fondle and stroke over her skirt covered ass. In one movement, his fingers even lightly touched the skin on the back of her upper thigh, and it causes a tingle to race up the length of her spine. Goose bumps flourish where the fingers had so briefly touched her flesh, confusing her, but she decides to ignore it. Dawn couldn’t deny the touch elicited a small twinge of excitement as well.
Dawn is trying to decide what she should do about the hand on her ass. Yet even as she’s thinking, the man’s hand slinks round her side, and with calm confidence, lands on her right breast. She gasps softly. The hand begins to knead and squeeze the firm, but pliant flesh. This puts her brain into a spin as she just has no idea how she should react. She looks around to see if anyone else has noticed what’s happening to her, but the men either side of her have their backs to her, and she’s too short for anyone else to see in the tight pack of bodies around her. Dawn is inexperienced, sexually speaking, and had denied unwed sex due to her religious beliefs. Her dad had forbidden her from dating boys until she had finished high school, and though she’s now in college, she had never broken free from those moral shackles.
It’s her inexperience that’s causing Dawn difficulty in this moment. Her pent-up sexual energy has often caused her to fantasize about what it would feel like to have a man touch her most intimate places. However, on a public train during rush hour was the last place she had expected it to happen.
Even as she stared wide-eyed at his hand on her breast, his other hand (that had been on her ass) came around her side and started on her left breast.
Dawn blushed deeply as her nipples went hard inside her white lacy bra, and worse, she could feel the familiar warm tingle of arousal starting in her loins and growing into her stomach. She should fight this feeling, yet while her mind is reeling, her body is responding to the stimulation. Dawn didn’t know how to stop him. She’d been brought up to never make a scene in public, it isn’t the done thing. Not to mention her religious parents had raised her to be subservient to men, and Dawn had a submissive streak.
Dawn stood like a rabbit caught in headlights, as she watched his hands hypnotically while they continued their assault on her breasts. She noticed that his hands were strong with long, slender fingers, and they looked as if they were the hands of an elderly man. She watched trance-like as his hands moved from her tits and with quick ease opened the three buttons on the front of her blouse, before starting to loosen and untuck it from her skirt. Then, with a quick motion, he pulled her blouse with both hands until it bunched under her chin, exposing her white lacy bra to anyone who happened to look. For the first time, Dawn reacted and grabbed his hands firmly, trying pull her blouse down. Scared someone would see her in such an embarrassing situation.
“Relax, Sweetie, I’m just having some harmless fun,” said a small male voice.
Dawn hesitated, her hands holding his as they continued to rub slowly over her increasingly sensitive tits. Eventually, she meekly removes her hands from his, and lowers them back to her sides. Dawn knew she’d just surrendered to him, and he would know this, and take it as permission to continue.
The pervert senior citizen’s hands took full advantage of their newfound freedom, and pulled the bra cups of both breasts, lower, so her small areolas and erect nipples are exposed to all. His fingers, then started to caress, flick, and even lightly pinch her nipples, causing Dawn to groan softly as her nubs are always highly sensitive. She closed her eyes, partly due to the pleasure that’s radiating from her breasts and groin, but mostly, she didn’t want to know whether others were watching her public surrender to the senior citizen.
Why am I letting this happen to me? It feels nice, but it’s wrong. This pervert is molesting me. How can I be enjoying this? What does that make me? His willing slut? Oh, God, please help me.
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