She rises at approximately 7am. With some effort she rights her aching body, peels away her warm night clothes, and drifts towards the shower. The hot water wakes her gently, as images from the past night’s dreams begin to reassemble.
As the lust percolating in her unconscious begins to pour its way down into her body, she feels swollen in her own hands. Her ass and breasts seem heavy, ripe.
Her heart flutters as she steps to the glass wall and pins her arm against it. With her hand trapped over her lap, she curls her middle finger to find her throbbing clitoris. Impatiently, she rubs, pinches, and hits herself, while the still-running water laps at the crease of her ass like a devilish tongue.
The sensations conspire against her, and she’s bested within moments. Butterflies explode in her belly as her knees buckle and her breasts inch down the glass. “You made me come” she mewls at an imaginary lover, the embers of her climax quickly cooling.
This is Aria’s morning routine. At least, it is most mornings. But today she wakes too late, and is forced to sheath her still yearning body in her work clothes. A long day of uncomfortable simmering awaits, unless an opportunity presents itself.
It’s on the first train she’s reminded of her error. An attractive young woman in a short skirt sits across, typing frantically with both thumbs. The screen illuminates the wide eyes and crooked smirk of a well-tended lover. She is, without a doubt, exchanging messages with the last person to satisfy her. As she types, she leans forward anxiously, her knees kissing. As she reads, she relaxes backwards, knees parting to welcome the reply; eyes chasing the text.
Aria watches the slither of pink underwear pinched between her companion’s thighs appear and disappear in hypnotic repetition. She wonders how wet it is under there, and how much wetter it must be getting as each incoming message is enjoyed. She wonders which of them craves getting off more.
The young woman jostles in her seat, fighting the heat rising beneath her skin. She shoots a burst of glances around the carriage—seemingly conscious she’s becoming publicly aroused. Tense, Aria’s hands clasp in a ball over the front of her skirt, pressing down towards the warmth. She imagines the young woman’s thighs gliding past her ears and her face colliding with that pink stripe. With a stiffened tongue, she stuffs the flimsy material inside her.
The taste of blood punctures Aria’s reverie. Apparently, she was biting her a little too hard. It’s her stop anyway—and Pink Panties’ too, it would seem. Aria loses sight of her as the groaning crowd engulfs them.
The next train is busier, forcing Aria to stand. It’s hotter, too. Much hotter. She can feel a bead of sweat run under her shirt like a fingernail, then a second down the inside of her thigh, making her shudder.
As the train begins to lurch and jolt, bodies both male and female collide with her hips and ass. She grips the rail above her and closes her eyes. She feels small, and the clamor around her large. She’s a piece of candy being tossed and chewed in the mouth of a greedy God.
Meeting a violent jolt by tensing her stomach, Aria feels the poppers on the right of her skirt burst open. Gasping, she widens her stride to catch the garment with her thighs. Then, tentatively, she peers down between her breasts to check she’s not exposed. Though her skirt is perilously loose around the waist, her dignity remains intact.
She closes her eyes again, and begins to breathe deeply, letting the ruffles of her shirt tickle her nervous belly as it expands and contracts. She imagines a dozen sets of eyes on her disheveled figure, judging. As a wave of sickly arousal radiates from her groin, a bead of sweat circumnavigates her navel, and dissolves into the waistband of her underwear.
“Fuck”, she spits, as an announcer blares abruptly into her ear. The train relents, and she hastily adjusts herself. It’s her stop again.