Early morning

They’d planned it, of course, not that their fellow passengers would realise.

Ten past seven tube from the stop before his. Final carriage. ‎Stand at the end.

Do‎n’t flinch when he boards. When he sits down, ignoring her. Don’t glance in his direction. Don’t give away how wet she is getting.

He would acknowledge her at some point. That much he had promised. And between the second and third stops, she sensed his gaze. Looking her up and down. Stripping her mentally. Fucking her with his eyes.

Between the third and fourth? Nothing. He looked at his watch, his phone, as if oblivious to her presence. And then the commuters were on their feet, pushing towards the exit, and he was in front of her.

Taking her wrist firmly. Holding her tight as the next wave of weary Londoners boarded. Using them pushing past as an excuse to press against her. To murmur in her ear: “What do you want?”

“I want you to fuck me, sir.”

He pulls back, just a little. Far enough to place a finger under her chin and lift her eyes to his. “Tell me again?”

She leans in to ‎whisper: he pushes her back. Almost inaudibly: “I want you to fuck me, sir.”

“I can’t hear you.”

Cheeks burning with the embarrassment the third time. And, yes, heads do turn her way. As the train pulls into the next stop, and he turns for the door and steps into the platform.

Not a glance behind him, as he leaves her to continue her journey. Just the one word on her phone as she emerges a few minutes later into the crisp nearly-Spring air of the awakening city.

‘Lunchtime…’