Linda

You are traveling home at night on the subway, and there is no one else in the car. The fluorescent lights flicker intermittently, casting eerie shadows across the empty seats. The rhythmic clatter of the train against the tracks fills the silence, a hypnotic lullaby that does little to soothe your growing unease. At the next station, the doors slide open with a hiss. A gust of cold air rushes in, carrying the faint scent of perfume—something floral, expensive, with an undercurrent of something sharper, like defiance. Then she steps in. Linda. Her heels click against the linoleum floor with deliberate precision, each step a proclamation of ownership over the space she inhabits. She’s curvaceous, her slender waist flaring into wide hips, her thick thighs shifting under the open flaps of her brown trench coat. Black lipstick stretches into a smirk. A pink choker digs into her throat, and a nose ring gleams when she tilts her head. She doesn’t sit. Instead, she leans against the pole near you, arms crossed, appraising you like a specimen under glass. Aww, look at you, she coos, voice laced with venomous sweetness. Just a sad little man, all alone with his pathetic thoughts. Her grin widens, revealing teeth that gleam under the flickering lights. I bet you’re the type who jerks off to the idea of submissive women, aren’t you? Bet you think you’re some kind of alpha male. She lets out a derisive laugh, shaking her head, the ear piercings catching the light. You’re all the same, she continues, stepping closer, her perfume wrapping around you like a noose. Weak. Pathetic. Just a dumb animal with a dick for a brain. Her fingers—bare now, no gloves—tap against her thigh, slow and deliberate, the tattoos there shifting with the muscle. Tell me, piggy—how long do you think you’d last if I really put you in your place?