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The Girl on the Train

by Frenulum

Copyright © 2004 Frenulum. All rights reserved.

One of the first things a man like me learns is to keep a low profile. I live modestly, don’t flash a lot of cash, don’t walk around with a babe on each arm. I dress to blend in — to be unmemorable. And I walk, ride a bike, or take mass transit when possible.

It makes sense for two reasons. First, ostentation draws attention — of the Internal Revenue Service, for example, who might wonder at a man with no job living a mansion-and-limousine life-style. And second, because it’s so important to get out among other people. I mean, if you spend your morning in the back of a limo, the only woman you’re going to meet is the driver. Whereas if you ride a bus, for example, you never know what bits of nature’s beauty might be in store.

One morning not long ago I had a rendezvous planned for downtown, and decided to make the trip on the city’s new light rail line. I bought a ticket, waited barely a minute before a handsome silver and yellow train pulled in, and boarded the half-full car with the quiet, sleepy morning rush-hour crowd.

As people found seats, I walked the length of the aisle, scanning faces. That’s another habit I’ve picked up. To be sure, when I evaluate a potential — oh, “victim” is such a harsh word... let us say “playmate” — there are many physical factors to consider: tits, ass, legs, hair, build, skin, and so on. But those are qualities that humans take time to evaluate. The differences between a firmly rounded buttock and a soft one, or between a gently curvaceous leg and a blocky, muscular one, take seconds of appraisal to distinguish and appreciate.

But we have face recognition hardware built right into our brains. And we can place a face on the continuum from ugly to beautiful in a fraction of a heartbeat.

So, as I say, I scan faces. It’s less obvious, less likely to get me noticed. If someone does glance at me, they see a guy looking for a friend, or just for a seat. And when I do spy a beauty, that’s the time to see if the rest of the package is in harmony with the lovely face.

And oh! did I ever spy a beauty!

A young woman, certainly not more than 22 or 23, with a stunningly pure, beautiful face. The sort of face that one only sees in cosmetic ads — thoroughly retouched and edited for flawless perfection — yet somehow, miraculously, made real.

Her skin was clear and fresh, with a slight rose on her cheeks that came from within. She had shoulder length straight brown hair, parted in the center: the deep, rich color shone with golden highlights where the sun caught it. Her eyes were brown to match, and rimmed by long lashes. If there was artifice to her beauty, it was too subtly done for me to detect. And I’m an expert.

Her mouth was small and delicate, yet the lips were full and pink and inviting. Her fate was effectively sealed with that fraction-of-a-second glimpse of her lips. I actually felt myself longing to kiss them, before a more primitive urge displaced the initial one.

All this in a blink. I slowed, and allowed myself to take in a few more details: a two piece business suit, dark grey, faintly pinstriped; a modest ivory blouse, meant to be taken for silk but certainly polyester. The suit coat was narrow waisted but otherwise concealed the girl’s figure, and the skirt reached her knees as she sat — it would be comfortably below the knee when she stood.

Her legs were clad in sheer black hose, and I felt my cock begin to stir as they came into view. If anything could rival that inviting bud of a mouth, it would be these lovely, sexy legs: meant to be caressed, to be fondled, to be explored. Meant to be spread. And then, the final delight: on the young woman’s feet, a completely unexpected pair of black, ankle-strap sandals, with a far from business-like four-inch stiletto heel.

Looking at her was like looking at three different women — like those mix-and-match books that let you turn divided pages to make new creatures out of animal parts.

From the neck up, she looked like the Queen of the Junior Prom, heartbreakingly lovely, with an innocence so deep as to seem eternal.

From the collar of her coat to the hem of her skirt, she was the classic businesswoman, all professional, with only the tight curve of the skirt around her bottom to reveal the lovely shape within.

And from the hem on down to the tips of those spike heels, she looked like a wet dream incarnate. The goddess of leg men everywhere. I wanted her.

And so, I did... the things I do. There is no vocabulary for it. I really can’t explain.

I dropped easily into the seat next to her, and immediately violated the strangers-don’t-talk protocol of mass transit.

“Oh, you beautiful treasure, those legs are magnificent. Pull your skirt up a little higher for me and let me see how sexy they look.”

To anyone else looking on, my actions would appear to be those of a man well acquainted with the young beauty. Someone who’d seen an old friend and plopped down for a welcome chat. I spoke too quietly to be overheard, and to a casual glance my seatmate would appear perfectly comfortable with me.

But I knew what to look for: I could see the panic rising in her eyes, and the subtle but definite tension in her body as she tried desperately to command her muscles. She sat beside me, powerless to scream, or fight, or flee, and against every instinct and desire she possessed, reached down to wiggle the hem of her skirt higher on her thighs.

A passenger standing near us caught the motion, looked, stared for a second — and then changed his position slightly so he could take in, without being too obvious, whatever show might be on offer. It was not surprising that other men had noticed the beautiful girl.

I had her stop when the skirt was up to mini length. Her legs were every bit as inviting above as they were below, and I let myself imagine the sweetness of parting them, caressing them, plunging between them.

“Those are beautiful, sexy legs, sweetheart. No wonder you like to show them off in sexy shoes. Which are you wearing: stockings, or panty-hose?”

“Panty-hose.” The involuntary reply slipped out as a whisper. I knew what was going on in her mind right now — and it would include a feeling of outrage that she was betraying herself, seeming to coöperate when she wanted to fight.

“Oh, what a pity. I simply don’t tolerate panty-hose. Such a shame: we’re becoming good friends so quickly, and already there’s one thing I’ll have to punish you for.” If she hadn’t been under my control she would have been in full panic by now, but my influence made her reaction visible only to the best trained observer. No other passengers were paying us any attention, except for the fellow who was still discreetly enjoying my young beauty’s exquisite legs.

“But that’s nothing we need to worry about now,” I continued, quietly. “Let’s keep getting better acquainted. What’s your first name, honey, and how old are you?”

Still barely above a whisper, she replied instantly, her compelling desire to remain silent overcome by my strength without the slightest battle. “Janet. I’m twenty-one.”

“What a classic, lovely name for a lovely girl. Now, my sweet little Janet, tell me, just between good friends: when was the last time you had your precious little cunt stuffed by a good hard cock, hmm?”

I saw a glint in her eyes, and reached inside her mind to suppress her tears a little more firmly. It wouldn’t do to have someone notice us having an apparently friendly conversation while tears rolled down the young woman’s cheeks.

She had to answer. Every scrap of her free will had been shredded by my intrusion. “Never,” she whispered.

My half-hard cock gave a little jump at the unexpected reply. “Is that so, princess? A virgin at your age. Oh, lovely, lovely; I’d never have guessed. We are going to have such a wonderful time together — I just dote on virgins. What have you done, then — hand jobs, a little bit of lovely cocksucking, what?”

“Nothing. I haven’t — I’m waiting until —”

I cut her off. “Oh, precious, isn’t that sweet. Saving yourself for your wedding night, is that it? Oh my goodness, darling, that is so refreshing to hear in these wanton times. And a girl as pretty as you, you must have had dozens of suitors. Well, well, well.”

She came down from her extreme panic just a tick, as for a moment it sounded to her that I had some chance of respecting her wishes. What is that phrase the teens use these days? Oh, yes: “As if.”

“I’ll tell you what, sweet Janet,” I continued. “Since I like you so much already, and because you’ve been such a good girl, sticking to your principles so carefully, I’ll do something extra nice for you. If you don’t do anything to annoy me before then, I’ll make you believe I’m your beloved husband tomorrow, when I’m popping your sweet precious cherry. Isn’t that generous of me?”

Her state of panic slammed back to 100%, and I could even hear the edge of it in her whispered “No.” By now, she’d be so desperate that she’d start to think of pleading with me. But I hadn’t left her that option — she could only listen, answer questions, and obey.

The train rolled to a gentle stop and there was the usual on-and-off bustle. The leg fancier kept his place, even though there were more open seats now — no wonder, as Janet’s skirt was still pulled up to a delectable height. Oh, those legs!

I leaned a little closer to the girl, as if to impart some choice gossip, and as I spoke I caused a smile to grow on her face — merely for the appearance of authenticity. “Just for the record, my dear, lovely Janet, I have a huge cock. Quite abnormal, really. It tends to cause a fair amount of discomfort even for experienced girls. During the rest of the day, you might want to imagine how that’s going to feel when I deflower you.”

I patted her leg as I sat back, enjoying the sleek feel of the hosiery against the firm flesh of her thigh. Ahh, youth! I love a woman’s body before it has started to soften, when breasts are firm and high, when arms and thighs are taut and strong, when the mons rises gently from a solid stomach, when the buttocks quiver like springs at every stinging slap. I was so going to love taking this innocent creature’s maidenhead.

We were reaching the edge of the city, and I suddenly remembered an important question. “Which is your stop, sweetheart?”


“Oh, we haven’t much time then, have we? I’ll give you your instructions right away. You’re paying close attention to me now, aren’t you, dear?” Of course she was, she hadn’t any choice in the matter.


“Here’s what I need you to do today, honey-bunch. First, go to work as usual, ok? And then arrange to take this afternoon and all of tomorrow off. You may give your supervisor any reason you like, but of course you won’t be able to tell the truth — you understand that, sweetie, don’t you?”

“Yes.” I’d built in a very thorough understanding of the limits with which I’d bound her. She’d be unable to tell anyone of her morning’s adventure, unable to speak of it or write it or even hint at it. She’d be unable to show distress, worry, or fear; no tension, no crying, no distracted air to alert a friend or coworker. In fact she’d act quite normally, with the single exception of obeying me fully and without resistance. And all of this was certain knowledge in her mind.

I continued instructing her. “Then first thing this afternoon, I’ll need you to go to this salon.” I pulled a business card out of my shirt pocket, clicked open a pen, and made a note on the back. I handed the card to Janet. “When you get there, just show this card at the desk. You may move now, to put it in a safe place.”

The enthralled young woman slipped the card into a lining pocket of her suit coat, and then began to reach down toward the hem of her skirt, thinking that, with some freedom of movement, she might be able to reclaim a little modesty. Her hands, however, did not obey, returning to a folded position in her lap. For the moment, I let the attempted rebellion pass.

“They’ll show you to a private room, and a very nice lady named Wanda will come and see you. She’ll help you undress, and she’ll make you nice and comfortable, and then she’ll put a nice warm coat of wax all over your sweet little pussy.” I watched understanding dawn behind Janet’s beautiful eyes. “And when it’s cool, she’ll take hold of the cloth, and she’ll rrrrrip every last pussy hair right out of your body. I understand it hurts like the devil, but that’s ok. I think a little pain is worth it, if it makes you more attractive to me. Don’t you agree, my lamb?”

“No. I don’t want to do that.”

Ah, I love spirit. “But don’t you think even the prettiest little snatch is ever so much cuter when it’s smooth and bare?”

“I don’t know.” Well, I suppose I can forgive a girl for not having thought about the subject as carefully as I have over the years.

“Trust me. You’ll look just smashing without that nasty old bush. It will be such a nice compliment to your fresh, pretty face.” In fact, it occurred to me, with her youthful face and a hairless puss, it would only take a couple of pigtails and a plaid skirt to get the whole schoolgirl cliché in full swing. Not really my trip, ordinarily, but something to think about.

We were getting close to Janet’s stop, so I plowed on with her instructions. “When you’re through at the salon, I want you to go shopping for the rest of the afternoon and evening. You’ll concentrate on lingerie. I don’t want any ordinary daywear — nothing like you’d buy for work. I want the sexiest things you can find: sheers, laces, pretty colors, daring styles. Don’t be thinking about support or comfort or practicality, think about putting yourself on display. Think erotic. I want you to buy enough for a dozen different ensembles. And stockings, plenty of them, stay-ups and with garters. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Of course she did; what a smart young lady.

“Teddies, camis, tap pants, G-strings, bustiers: plenty of variety. Then a couple of nice dresses. Short, sexy, flirty. Shoes to match, like the style you’re wearing to work today: nice high spike heels, skimpy and strappy. Fuck-me shoes. Darling little Janet, why do you wear fuck-me shoes to work?”

“I don’t have a very big wardrobe. Sometimes I have to wear things that aren’t really appropriate. I’ve been trying to buy one or two things with every paycheck.”

I actually felt a little pang of sympathy. It must be tough to start out, college loans hanging over your head, rents soaring, trying to piece together a business outfit from whatever’s on hand. But, I’ve never let sympathy slow me down, and I wasn’t going to start with this little morsel.

“So sorry to tax your budget, sweetheart, but it really can’t be helped. Well, here’s your station coming up next. You get a good night’s sleep tonight. Then tomorrow, take this same train. Wear one of your undie outfits, stockings and heels, and one of your new dresses, and bring the rest in a suitcase along with your usual overnight things. I’ll meet you on the train, and we’ll get off together, and then we’ll spend the whole day together getting better acquainted. I have tons and tons of really fun things to teach you.”

The train slowed. I began carefully to unwrap those parts of the girl’s mind that she’d need control of for the rest of the day. When I reached the point where she had some ability to move, she carefully pulled her skirt back down. I stood, gave her a hand up from her seat, and we walked to the door. As I passed the leg man, he gave me a smile and a tiny nod. One man of the world acknowledging another’s fine taste. If only he knew.

The doors slid open and I followed Janet out onto the platform.

“One more thing, sweetheart,” I said. She waited, unable to flee, unable to scream — perhaps, at some level, still unable to believe. “You did a naughty thing earlier, when you tried to adjust your skirt before I gave permission.” The crowd flowed around us, oblivious. “So tomorrow, when you put on a lingerie fashion show for me, when I make you dance and strip for me, when I spank your sassy little bottom for the sin of wearing panty-hose today, when I teach you how to suck my cock, and when I pin your knees to your shoulders and shove it through your cherry, I won’t be able to give you the comfort of believing it’s your wedding night. You’ll know just what’s happening.”

She nodded in understanding. The nightmare was real, and there would be no relief, no escape.

“But at least tomorrow, my dear, lovely girl, you’ll be able to cry.”

I watched her, finally, walk away. What a beautiful sight: a pretty, leggy girl, in skirt and heels, slim hips swaying to the beat of her stride. I could watch that kind of thing all day.

But I had an appointment in a nearby hotel room, with a woman I’d met yesterday morning. I had told her to buy a variety of sex and bondage toys, and was looking forward to seeing what she’d chosen and how many of them I could use on her at once. Time enough to appreciate Miss Janet tomorrow. I was already thinking that I might keep her for longer than a day. Maybe do the schoolgirl thing after all.

I headed down the street, enjoying all the lovely faces and figures of the ladies I passed. I believe I was humming.

Author’s notes on The Girl on the Train

Here’s a concrete example of a story that got away from its author. I set out to write the mind controller as a nice guy — to the extent that a predator can be. But by the end of the story I was very uncomfortable with him.

This is based on a real person: a young woman I saw on the train on my morning commute one day. I’ve described her as accurately as I can: yes, she was that beautiful; yes, her legs were that sexy; and yes, I watched her walk away, sweet buns swinging, on those lovely stilettos.

I never saw her again. It’s been years, now. Whoever she is, I wish her a wonderful life, completely free of evil mind-controlling sex fiends.

I also wish her skirt had been just a little shorter :-)

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