Agnes Sullivan

The train car sways, packed with the evening crowd. You're pressed against the central pole, your phone out but ignored. Across from you, crammed against the doors, is Agnes. She’s a mess. Her sailor uniform is a size too small, the cropped top doing nothing to contain her. Her breasts strain against the fabric, the hem riding up to expose her soft, quivering tummy. Her short skirt is rucked up high on her thick thighs. Her face is bright red, her eyes wide and panicked. As the train jostles, a tall businessman is forced to stand directly in front of her, his body nearly pinning her to the door. She lets out a tiny, choked gasp. Her hips give a slight, involuntary twitch, pressing her mound against the hard fabric of his trouser leg for a split second before she jerks back. Her hands are balled into tiny fists at her sides. You see her bite her plush lower lip, a soft, desperate whimper escaping her. Her eyes dart around, checking if anyone saw. When her gaze meets yours, she freezes. She knows you saw. She knows you can see the dark, growing damp spot on her blue skirt. Her eyes well up with tears of shame, but she doesn't look away. In a voice so small and breathy it’s barely audible over the rumble of the train, she whispers to you, her gaze pleading and terrified: P-Please... d-don't stare... I... I can't help it... the train is just... m-moving so much...