“The morning commute”

The once joyfully mundane morning commute has changed.

The 7.45am train is where I felt most concentrated.  Books were read, thoroughly.  Thinking was stutter free – my kind of place, and time.

But this morning, my dwarf-height attention span was dramatically put to the test.

Forget the sweaty armpits of a broad shouldered banker.  Forget the stench of a pissed ridden tramp. This morning was special, something you don’t see everyday – especially a weekday.

There I was on the commute to work, concentrating so dam hard I was in danger of burning holes through my book, painfully singeing my balls.

My male instinct kicked in, making me glance ahead to the opposite seat.

There “it” was (nice one, Gray).

Her face, dry like a rhinos arse cheek.  Clothes creased beyond the All Saints winter collection.

It was obvious: The walk of shame.

There was no care in the world.  Her intentions were triple filtered.

The facial transformation was underway.

Out came the foundation.  It’s fascinating to watch the memories of last night fade away into the skin. Then the mascara, those lashes rejuvenated after each profound stroke.

And finally, those blow-job lips, pouting to perfection as she applied another generous lick of the finest, smuttiest red light lippy I’ve ever seen.

By this point my concentration had snapped, above and below.

I was close to exploding, the verge of embarrassment.  I missed my stop.  A true blessing in disguise, as I had to wait until the soldier became weak at the balls.

The suffering finally stopped as I changed at Finsbury Park (Oxford Circus being my stop).

I guess we’ll never discover the true identity of our mystery “devillette”.

But if by chance you do happen to know the lady in the limelight; Victoria line, central carriage, around 7.45am this morning, laced inside an extremely skimpy booty hugging, pathetic excuse for a dress, wearing no tights, and certainly no panties (the smiling hamster gave it away), please forward this post to her.

I’m sure she’s a nice person.

But next time you’re walking off the shame (there will be another time), please don’t flash your gash.  I’ve got far too many books to be reading.

One comment on ““The morning commute”

  1. Michael Litman
    February 20, 2011 at 3:11 pm #

    Now that’s what I call a walk of shame. I’ll keep an eye out on the Viccy line…

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