I’m slouched in this grimy train seat, cursing my life as the carriage rattles along. Trains are the fucking worst—not the ride, but the parade of weirdos who always seem to park their asses around me.

Today, though, I thought I hit the jackpot for a hot second. This chick in a pink camisole and a jean miniskirt plopped down next to me, her tits practically spilling out, smelling like some sweet-ass perfume that had my cock twitching. She was gone after one stop at Downtown, though, and now I’m stuck with the usual freaks piling in.

Across from me, some twitchy dude in a sundress—yeah, a fucking sundress—keeps bouncing his leg like he’s got ants in his pants. His massive rack jiggles every time, straining against the thin fabric, nipples poking through like they’re begging for attention. If he was a chick, I’d be in heaven, but this guy’s a dude, and a creepy one at that. I catch his eye by accident, so I yank my phone up, pretending to scroll through X, anything to avoid this nutcase.

Then, because my life’s a goddamn circus, he leans forward, tits swaying, and goes, “Do you see anything wrong with me?” His voice is all high and shaky, and I groan internally. Fuck my life.

“Nah, dawg,” I mutter, eyes glued to my phone, thumbing through some bullshit meme. “You just an average dude.” Average, my ass—he’s dressed like a stripper and acting like he’s tweaking out.

He grabs his tits—full-on squeezes them, like he’s auditioning for a porn flick—and says, “Do you see these tits? I’m not a woman, but no one sees anything wrong?” His eyes are wild, and I’m done. Fucking weirdo alert.

“Look, man,” I snap, lowering my phone just enough to glare at him, “I’m just tryna chill here. I don’t want no weird shit, aight?” My voice is sharp, but I’m keeping it cool, hoping he’ll take the hint and fuck off. Instead, he fidgets with his skirt, pulling out this sleek, silver device that looks like some sci-fi bullshit. I try to ignore it, raising my phone again, scrolling past some thirst trap without really seeing it. Then—bam—a pink flash blinds me, like someone set off a glitter bomb in my face. My eyes sting, and I blink hard, feeling a weird tingle crawl down my neck, warm and prickly.

“Dude,” I bark, pointing a finger at him, “did you just flash me with that pink light shit?” My nail’s painted pink, all glossy. “Keep that thing away from me, aight?!”

I tug at my pink camisole, making sure my tits are still tucked in, though one strap’s slipped down my shoulder, and the lace is digging into my skin. Why the fuck did I wear this today? It’s tight as hell, my nipples rubbing against the fabric.

I shift, trying to get comfy, but my thighs are thick, rubbing together, and I can feel my panties—pink, silky, and way too fucking snug—sticking to my pussy with every move. I can still smell that chick’s perfume, sweet and floral, mixed with my own sweat from this muggy-ass train.

The weirdo leans forward, dress barely containing his rack, and says, “Dude, you seriously don’t notice anything wrong with me? Or you, for that matter?” His voice is all desperate now, and I’m about to lose it.

I glare at him, annoyed as fuck. “The only thing wrong here is you, weirdo! You’re dressed like a slut, acting all twitchy and shit, waving that toy around!” I’m practically yelling, and a few heads turn, but I don’t care. My tits bounce as I lean forward, heavy and warm, and I cross my arms under them, pushing them up without thinking. My panties are soaked now, clinging to my pussy, and it’s pissing me off how turned on I’m getting just from arguing. “What the fuck you on about?”

He shakes his head, looking like I just kicked his puppy. “You’re a woman now, dressed like a slut too, but you don’t see it?” He gestures at me, and I look down, confused. What’s he yapping about? My body’s the same as always—big, juicy tits stretching this camisole, a little pudge at my waist, thick thighs spilling out of this miniskirt. I can feel the sweat beading under my boobs, the damp heat in my crotch, and it’s just… me. Always been me.

“Dude, you’re high as fuck,” I scoff, spreading my legs to get comfy, not even noticing how my skirt rides up, flashing my pink panties to half the carriage. The silky fabric’s rubbing my clit just right, and I bite my lip to keep from moaning. “Get your ass to a doctor or something.”

The train lurches to a stop, and he bolts up, tits bouncing, sundress flapping as he hauls ass out the door without another word. I shake my head, muttering, “Fucking trains, man.”

Two more stops till I’m home. I slump back, phone still in hand, scrolling through X again, but my mind’s half on how tight these panties are, how my nipples are aching against the lace. I shift again, legs wide, not giving a fuck who sees what. Thirst traps on X, got my pussy throbbing now, and I’m half-tempted to sneak a hand down there, but I hold off, barely. All I can think is how much I hate this damn train and the freaks it drags in.

But somewhere, deep down, there’s this nagging itch—like maybe, just maybe, something’s off. I shove it down, chalking it up to the weirdo’s bullshit.