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🚆 “Stranger on the Train” — Part 1: Cosplay Tease
It was supposed to be just another ride home.
He boarded the 4:45 express like always, headphones in, phone in hand. The train was nearly empty — just a few scattered commuters, noses buried in books or scrolling through their screens. The weather outside was grey, drizzling rain tracing lazy lines down the windows. He took his usual window seat and leaned back.
Then she entered.
She didn’t just walk — she glided.
Pink hair in perfectly styled twin-tails, a tiny black backpack bouncing on her back, and an outfit that looked like it belonged at Comic-Con, not on a public train. A short pleated skirt, just long enough to cover what mattered — barely. A white blouse stretched tight across her chest, unbuttoned just low enough to hint at the lace of her bra. Over-the-knee socks framed her thighs like they were made to be stared at.
She sat across from him. Their eyes didn’t meet — not yet — but she knew he was looking. How could he not?
He swallowed hard. His jeans felt tight already. He shifted in his seat, pulling his coat over his lap like it was nothing. His eyes flicked from her lips to her thighs, to the little tilt of her skirt as she uncrossed and recrossed her legs. Was it intentional? God, it felt like it.
She pulled out her phone, opened something, and slowly, almost teasingly, licked her bottom lip. She still hadn’t looked at him. That made it worse — or better.
His hand moved beneath his coat. Cautiously. Slowly. But deliberately.
He wasn’t proud. He didn’t plan this. But she was unreal — like a living wet dream. Every shift of her legs, every soft sigh from her lips as she scrolled made it worse. His breathing got heavier. His hand wrapped around himself, barely moving, just enough for the pressure to build.
Still… she didn’t look.
Until she did.
A glance — brief, sharp, devastating. Straight into his eyes. And then her lips curved into a tiny smirk. No judgment. Just amusement. Like she knew exactly what he was doing... and liked it.
She leaned forward ever so slightly. Her skirt lifted just enough to expose the black lace beneath. No stockings. No panties. Just her, wet and shaved and shameless.
He nearly lost control right there.
Her eyes sparkled with mischief. She tapped something on her phone — then turned the screen toward him.
A message.
“Don’t stop. I want to watch.”
His breath caught in his throat.
His hand moved faster now, hidden under the coat but driven by pure need. She bit her lip. Her legs parted slightly. Her fingers slipped down, just barely under the hem of her skirt, and she began touching herself in sync with his rhythm.
Two strangers, playing a silent, dangerous game — in public, in broad daylight — as the train roared forward.
The sound of the tracks blurred into a heartbeat in his ears. His muscles tensed. He was close.
She mouthed the words “Let go.”
And he did.
A deep exhale. A barely stifled groan. Release. Satisfaction. And shame — but laced with exhilaration.
By the time he caught his breath, she was already standing.
As the train slowed into the next station, she adjusted her skirt, picked up her bag, and leaned down — her lips just inches from his ear.
“Same time tomorrow?”
Then she was gone, disappearing into the crowd like a mirage.
