Everyone But Me

My mind was a thousand miles away. I don't remember what I'd been thinking about, but I was in that state where you stare blankly at anything and everything, your eyes scanning from one thing to the next, while your brain is so deeply lost, either to fantasy or thought. And I couldn't hear the tracks anymore, or the announcer, or the occasional passenger's cough; and I couldn't feel the sway anymore, even as I was consistently rocked back and forth where I stood.

A sudden jolt forwards knocked me so abruptly from my stupor, and when I returned from my tiptoes back to my heels, having staggered forwards to then stagger back again, I felt myself bump into a woman behind me (and I knew it was a woman, because no matter how brief our collision—hardly even a nanosecond, if that—I had nevertheless felt the distinct shape of a woman's body, specifically her breasts, momentarily press up against me), so I immediately uttered an instinctive apology, hoping that would be enough to amend the little oopsie I'd made, even if it was pretty beyond my control.

But apparently it wasn't enough, because a paralyzing fear was thrust into my heart like the plunge of a dagger, as her arms locked around mine, pulling me back into her when I dared to politely escape. And I felt her breasts glued now to my back; I could smell her perfume that, no matter how lovely the fragrance, could only terrify me in that suddenly dire, panic-striking moment; and I could feel as her hands caressed my arm, her fingers stroking my sleeve... her sharp nails dragging along, yet without applying any pressure—though it was enough to warn me of her having them, to be sure.

My eyes immediately threw themselves out for the other passenger's to catch, that they might return to me my gaze; and it was almost as if I was begging for their reassurance, as if someone giving me a nod after assessing the situation would normalize a stranger so suddenly grabbing and pinning me to them against my will. But she held onto me as though I was familiar to her, so while a few men, a few women returned my gaze, they stared right through me, as if I was a little girl being held in place and kept safe by her mother, and as if it was far too awkward to stare at someone's child with them right there to protect her, so they would shortly divert their eyes. And upon realizing that no one was going to understand the situation and speak up on my behalf, I threatened to turn—

"No. Eyes forward," she hissed into my ear, though almost sweetly. But the assertion in her voice—that is, the raw confidence that I would blindly obey, never daring to threaten her authority again... made me do just that, my body jolting upright, and my eyes staring straight ahead, as every hair on my body stood on end (especially my neck, because I could feel her hot breath rolling out onto my flesh like steam, her face so close to me), and I scanned the train car desperately, looking from person to person with eyes that pleaded "Help me."

...Not that they noticed—or, if they did... not that they did anything about it...

I felt her nail across my bare flesh now—against my forehead, and then my temple, as she pulled a bang back and tucked it behind my ear. While I was prohibited from seeing her face, it was as though she wanted to, in her desire to freely look upon me, taunt me with the appreciative study of my features... And I could have seen her from my peripheral, and probably could have gotten away with it, given that the train swayed us back and forth again and again (her into me, and then me back into her)—but so powerful was her coercive charm over me, that I didn't dare even contemplate the possibility for longer than I had to... I banished the thought from my mind, letting her feast her literal eyes on me, so thoroughly helpless to this stranger's forceful demands.

And then, as if to test my obedience—that, or the fear in my heart, and how enslaved I was to the sinking, pulse-pounding gravity of anxiety forcing me ever down inside myself, firstly into complaisance, and secondly into compliance, as words were but a choke in the back of my throat, and actions the knot in my stomach—I heard her whisper to me the single word "Stay" as she let me go, her hold no longer physical, save for the breasts in my back, and the femininity of the rest of her body I felt snaked against mine.

I did as told, however. And I felt so humiliated and ashamed over it, too—for what kind of person was I? To domesticate a wild animal, you have to punish it into submission or bribe it into cooperation... But this meant I was already domesticated, because she had yet to punish me, and I had yet to even so much as provoke punishment—and when there isn't any kind of compensation, let alone consent... I realized then and there, for the first time in my life, that I was a slave; that, somehow, my entire life leading up to this moment had been nothing more than a training exercise seeking to render me as weak and pathetic and docile as possible, so that the first person to grab me and start issuing orders became my master—or, in this woman's case, my... mistress...

Truly, I am already domesticated.

The train slowed, then halted. People shuffled out as different people shuffled in. And the woman, with her intangible leash firmly grasped in hand, she asked, "Is that your stop?"—to which I meekly replied, barely able to form words, "No."

"It's your stop," she insisted, her lips to my ear, breath on my face—and I couldn't recognize her inflection, or, even as she went on to clarify, what she wanted me to do, or what she even expected. "If you're strong enough," she taunted, "make it your stop, and go."

She was giving me the opportunity to run; and if I did, I wondered if she would follow, like a game of cat and mouse—and an irrational fear, perhaps, because what would she do if she caught me... kill me? While I didn't know her intentions—she could have a knife in her coat pocket, and be waiting and wanting to drive it into my side for all I knew—I could somehow sense this wasn't about violence... or, at least, not that sort of violence.—And besides, it wasn't my stop. No matter how badly I wanted to be free from her, and no longer feel this surge of adrenaline leaving me so dizzy and faint-headed; no matter how relieving it would've been to be so far from her, that my heart might finally find a normal pace, and I could stop the jitter in my every nerve, keeping me ever on the verge of trembling—I didn't want to spend my day lost, wandering around in the city, where, honestly, even worse things could happen. And even though I was too afraid to consciously move a single muscle—and I have to emphasize the word "consciously", because I was shaking every so often, anxiety so very unconscious in comparison—and even though I really didn't have any real say in the matter, because I was, even if I wanted to dart for those doors before they closed, and swim to safety through the sea of people just therebeyond... I was trapped, locked in place, with the breasts of an unknown stranger planted in my back, and causing my back to arch, and my knees to wobble...

I, helpless, watched those doors close...

And as the train pushed me back into her chest, as if to remind me of my decision as her breasts pressed and squished against me; and as the announcer blared over the speaker to affirm the next stop, I heard her, unmistakably—especially because her lips were all but in my ear—whisper, "Good girl," all the while taking hold of my arm once again, and using the back of her free hand to caress the side of my face... in its sweetness, so menacing.

But then, and so suddenly... my heart sank, and my stomach turned upside down, before and after my guts started to twist up into tortuous knots, and I felt the color flush from my face, and I started to uncontrollably shiver... because the stranger, in an instant, she seized my chest and wasn't shy at all about groping, and fondling, and kneading my breasts to her heart's content—where I, either because I'm not very busty, or because her fingers were quite long and slender, fit perfectly into her hands... a fact she kept reminding me, with the way her palms squeezed the entirety of my breasts, between and sometimes even while pushing them together, or prying them apart... her hands felt through my jacket, shirt, and bra—until that wasn't enough, and she had to unzip the jacket, letting it fall open at my sides while having comparatively more access now to my bust...

I cast my gaze out again, less like a fisherman casts his line this time, and more like a very urgent message in a bottle... because I couldn't do much else...

But as it became all too clear to everyone that I really was some kind of victim, in some kind of unwanted situation, and that the woman behind me was the predator to my prey—even the people I recognized from before, who had stayed on the train instead of stepping off... They couldn't even look right through me, as if I wasn't there: no, their eyes traced over and around me, ignoring the fact I was there, and that they knew it; that they knew what was happening to me, and refused to help. And that was when I realized that they were all slaves, too—not just me, but everyone, if we truly are these docile, domesticated creatures, and the first person who comes along and demonstrates any sort of assertion or strength, gets to prey on us, freely... not even like the wolf upon the helpless sheep, but the farmer who truly is allowed, without any consequence, to butcher and feast upon his own stock.

As she groped me, I had meanwhile felt her teeth gingerly nipping at and along the lobe of my ear... and I mewed with protest as her wet lips escalated into wrapping themselves around my earlobe, and suckle and squelch until I could feel her warm saliva, firstly soaking my ear, and then dribbling in a single strand down to my neck, and then down under my clothes... And as her hands reached up my shirt, and seized the front of my bra—but only to yank, and with a single mighty jerk, rip the garment so that the straps tore, and she was allowed to pull it out from under my shirt, and pocket it as to keep my bra for herself... her hands returned up under my shirt, to my bare chest now, where her hands were cold at first, but the heat between my shirt and chest soon warmed them, as she took to squeezing and kneading my breasts once more, but this time, flesh to flesh...

Yes, as all that happened—oh!, I wanted to scream... I would have screamed, if anything at all dared to come out, as I choked on a thousand different unknown words, and a million more soundless sounds... because the woman, I felt the wettest, warmest, most disgusting sensation, as her tongue dove right into my ear, and slurped around like she was French kissing me in the wrong hole—actively violating me, and causing me to gasp, as she held me slightly under her, my back bending now instead of arching, with her breasts pressed firmly against me, her hands clasping my own breasts, and her tongue a sloppy, salivating worm plunging into my ear hole, when not tracing along the grooves of my outer ear, even up under the folds, which she was all too eager to dig her tongue into...

My eyes darted around, begging each and everyone for help, my heart pounding out of my chest, the fear consuming me alive—because I was mewing and murmuring now, so evidently having my will violated, along with my ear and chest, in front of everyone and for all to see... But their gazes were cast to the floor, if they weren't brave enough to ignore my existence by looking around but never directly at the scene so clearly on display...

I felt one of her hands, as the other still clutched my breast, and squeezed... it trailed down to my stomach, briefly stuck a finger into my bellybutton after feeling around for it... and then revealed itself out from under my shirt, to grip the button of my jeans—And it was at that moment, out of instinct, I suddenly grabbed her wrist... only to, in not even an instant, feel her claw sink into the flesh under my shirt, as if those fingernails threatened to pierce my skin and tear out my heart if I refused their wielder (and I'm sure she could feel my terrified heart racing into her palm, as I shook under her).

Immediately, then, I let go... Her nails yielded, sparing me, as her opposite hand slowly and expertly undid my button, and I could only shake in absolute fear as the little zipper, held between two fingers, was pulled down... as if a single tooth at a time. And then, once the front of my jeans were open, and she'd pulled them so they were as open as they possibly could be... her fingernails traced along the waist of my panties, until a fingertip threatened to slide under—

"No, stop—please," I somehow managed to blurt out, my voice all choked up and gravelly from not having spoke in what seemed a thousand years.

"Shut your slut fuckin' mouth," she roared under her breath into my ear, suddenly having me gripped by the cheeks, her thumb prodding one and two curved fingers hooked into the other. Shaking my head from side to side: "Understand that you're my property—I own you... You were free, just waiting to be taken, and I bought you—you were sold to me, for free, and still, I bought you; still... you're mine.

"Now, nod to tell me that you understand." I did as instructed, and quickly. "Now nod to tell me you're mine." She slapped me when I hesitated—and hard, too, so that I really felt the sting upon my cheek—so, just as quickly as before, I complied, and again and again, desperately. "Because you're mine, and I can do with you whatever I please—nod." Another slap—not because I wasn't going to, but because she managed to strike me across the face before I even had the chance... So I paused, she raised her hand to hit me a third time, and this time, with sincerity... I nodded, knowing my fate; knowing why she had undone my jeans, and pulled them open for everyone to see my underwear (if they would even look at me, which they wouldn't), and why she was going to dive her hand down into my panties... and that, even if the stinging in my cheek lessened, or the claw piercing my breast let go and became again a savory knead... my eyes were watering; I was probably about to cry.

"Good girl."

...And to make matters worse, I was very self-conscious about the fact I hadn't shaved in a while. I wasn't seeing anyone, it was the middle of winter, and my mind was so preoccupied with the banality of everyday life, that I simply couldn't be hassled to shave but the minimum (my legs, underarms, and etc)... So when the stranger reached down, pulling the front of my panties open so she could peer down inside, she smiled—and while I couldn't see her face to actually see that she was smiling, I could hear it, and very audibly, when she remarked, "Oh my, what's this?" so amused by the fact I had hair where there otherwise would've been a clean, smooth mound for her fingers to glide across...

If nothing else, it hid from her—though only for a short while longer—what of my vulva she would've seen from her aerial perspective...

"You nasty bitch," she insisted on teasing me, though her delighted inflection betraying just how much she reveled in her perverted discovery. "Is this what you like, then?" she hissed, sliding her fingers into my pubic hair—only to get them all tangled up therein, before gripping hard, and tugging, so that I felt the very roots of every seized hair prodding against my skin from the inside out as she pulled me about by the mound.

But I shook my head, my face so flustered and red in utter humiliation, even as I winced and gasped in the... admittedly almost titillating discomfort and pain of... the very perverse and... well, gay thing she was doing to me.

"Oh? So what, you usually shave? I caught you at a bad time?"

I nodded, feeling all too vividly she was asking only to exploit my vulnerabilities and shame... Goddamn, I wish I would have just taken the time to shave... I'll never neglect the opportunity again, if only it meant I could disappear into the ether... Who cares if I even reappear afterwards, just as long as I escape this moment now, where I can't bear my shame—my stupid, stupid stupidity, of not having properly groomed myself, like I should have... Or my weakness, or my lack of perversity, that would let me own up to this, let me feel proud of myself, or somehow escape, through liking it...

"The extra heat, with your panties sealed and contained... the smell of your pussy, it builds up and gets in your pubes, trapped and bathing in your stink," she then explained to me, audibly getting off on every word she's saying to me, as her fingers roll around through my hair, and grate against my mound underneath them, between them...

Shoving her fingers up under my nostrils: "Sniff—I want you to smell yourself, and the scrumptious stink of your shame... So sniff, you little slut—sniff real deep, because I want you to enjoy the smell, so that, every time you accidentally grow your pubes out, you feel the urge to run your fingers through them, and sniff them and think about me..."

...Oh, that stench—so effeminate, and sexual... I shuddered.

But, dissatisfied with the way I turned my head and refused her fingers, not wanting to... smell myself...—she suddenly thrust them into my mouth, my tongue slipping between her fingers as she seized it, and forced me to endure no longer the smell, but the pungent taste of pussy, just as she'd said, having built up in my pubic hair, between my panties and my sometimes sweating mound...

"Don't you dare pull away, or bite down," she hissed into my ear, before suddenly gnawing my cheek, first with her lips and then lightly with her teeth. "I want you to taste it, and enjoy tasting it... You need to savor your own cunt fumes—if not with your nose, then with your mouth..."

When I stopped squirming in my attempt to deny what was happening—because whether I liked it or not, there was the taste, and it was in my mouth... on my tongue... I paused, panting through my nose (which, much to my dismay, only enhanced the raunchy flavor tasted from so many fingers slipping against my tongue), and I realized her face was right against mine... I glanced down, and there stared at me, under a thin, yet darkly colored eyebrow, an eye of green, speckled with tinges of a silvery blue, so close that it was as if completely disembodied from all context, whether from the moment, or the situation; the emotion of its owner, or even the stranger herself who had taken her hand from under my shirt, that she might grip me by the arm and pull it behind my back.

Staring me dead in the eye: "I won't stop until you like it." Naturally, then, I nodded desperately upon hearing this. "Oh, what's that? Are you trying to tell me you like it?" A dozen more nods rapidly ensued.

"So," she cut right through my charade, and I knew it immediately, from not even just the tone of her voice, but the tone of her voice as she uttered a single word, and my heart skipped a beat before racing even faster to compensate in anticipation for those words that were to follow... "If you like it so much, then—you know," she twisted my arm, and then wrapped her leg around one of mine, that she might grind its back with her thighs, while simultaneously holding me in place within the confines of her grapple, tripping me if I try to pull away, "if you like the taste of your own hairy fucking pussy—you won't mind touching yourself to the taste, then, will you?"

I couldn't respond, her perversity drowning me in so much reluctance, confusion, and fear... on too many different levels for each... So she twisted my arm a little more, until I was gasping in wincing distress around her fingers, and nodding in compliance for her to stop.

After having waited a second, only to twist my arm again—and this time, even harder—when I don't actually follow through with her demands: "I told you to touch yourself—fingers on clit, right fucking now."