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Secretary, Waiting for Commuter Train

A blustery winter morning in busy downtown Denver. The Campbell Street station platform was crowded with commuters waiting for the 8:15 a.m. train. Sky: sunny. Wind: out of the north at 15 mph. Temperature: 17 degrees Fahrenheit. Used to equipping for the cold in this mile-high mountain city, the commuters made the platform even more crowded by being heavily bundled in coats, boots, hats, scarves and gloves. Some looked to their left, waiting for the train, which was a few minutes late. Some looked down past the tracks, to the highway which ran under the platform at right angles, cars and trucks whooshing loudly underneath, making the platform vibrate slightly.

But increasingly the commuters’ astonished attention was directed toward the young girl, about college age, waiting with them in the center of the platform. Absolutely naked.

No, not naked. Those close to her could see the little black string of silk that crossed her hips a few inches below her navel, and the little string that ran down from it to cut in between her shaved, tanned pussy lips. Those behind her could see the little string as it emerged from the sensuous cleft of her butt crack to join the hip string just under the little “Y” of her tailbone dimple. And they could see the strappy backless high-heeled sandals she wore on her feet. A pocketbook was slung over her bare shoulder.

As people passed she stared ahead with the poker face of the average commuter. Sometimes she acknowledged people with a little polite smile. Except for her lack of clothes she was in every other way just one of the commuters. A serious girl on her way to work. Perceptive observers would have noted the lipstick, the slight trace of makeup, the carefully set hair, the glossy polish on her fingernails and toenails, the fact that the stringy thong was made of fine silk, the sandals were black with patent leather straps, and the pocketbook looked new. She was actually in her full formal office attire, on her way to work. But mostly the people on the platform noticed her pale skin, her nipples, tiny and hard and gray, and the goose bumps on her bare butt cheeks and thighs. As a gust sliced through the heavily bundled crowd, they cringed at the thought of the icy wind attacking the girl’s nipples, blasting her bare pussy lips, her bare toes. Surely she must be freezing and going numb, courting frostbite and hypothermia.

Yet the girl stood still, remarkably not shivering, not seeming to take any notice of the cold or the fact that she was totally naked except for the tiny string around her hips and the two thin straps crossing each foot. Instead, she looked down the tracks occasionally like everyone else, wondering what was happening with the train, and showed no especial disappointment when the announcement came over on screechy loudspeakers that it would be ten minutes late. Ten minutes extra she waited there with everyone else.

Then when the train finally came, she walked on, perhaps a bit more stiffly than the rest, and stood in the middle of the car, holding her pocketbook against her shoulder with one hand, holding the strap above her with the other, as everyone looked speechlessly at her perfectly toned body, the concave sweep of her tummy, her breasts jutting out firmly, her bare skin in the harsh light front and center making a bright contrast with the dark coats and heavy clothing of everyone else. When the train came to the downtown stop she filed out with the rest, walking into a tall building to her job as a secretary on the 27th floor. Glad to have the stringy thong bottom and the sandals. She had fought for a long, long time for the string and something to put on her feet, and though these skimpy items did nothing to protect her from the cold or to cover even as much as a square inch of her skin, she was grateful for them every minute of every day . . .

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7 Comments


Definitely liking this. Need some backstory for this, dear author.


Truly exciting.

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donnylaja
donnylaja
Aug 06, 2022
Replying to

But . . . suspension of disbelief!!


If a scene comes to me but a story can't really be built around it, I generally put it in as a dream. There are numerous examples of this with Tami.


As for Mailgirls, the idea is, flatly, incredible. It can't be fixed up or saved. "Five Mailgirls" (and the story, "Apokni", that I contributed to "Mailgirls: The Anthology", currently on Amazon) seem to buy into the concept but in fact run away from it.

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