Train 887
Copyright© 2026 by Virael de la Fer
Chapter 1. Monday, May 16, 2022. Morning.
Drama Sex Story: Chapter 1. Monday, May 16, 2022. Morning. - Twin bet: scariest/tragic AI story. Hers — WoW; mine — dark chikan erotica, inspired by the very real groping problem on crowded trains (which I've personally encountered and witnessed during my trip to Seoul) + a famous JAV film. This is pure fiction, expanded into bleak non-con with psychological depth and tragic end. Non-native English + AI polish. Spot grammar errors, awkward phrasing or typos? Please comment — I'll fix them! Thanks!
Caution: This Drama Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion NonConsensual Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Crime School Tear Jerker Humiliation Rough Gang Bang Cream Pie Exhibitionism Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Public Sex Caution ENF Violence
The alarm at 6:30 lets out its usual sharp beep. I reach out, slap the button, but keep my eyes closed. Another thirty seconds — I just lie there, curled up under the thin blanket. My nightgown has ridden up almost to my waist, cool air brushing my thighs and stomach — goosebumps ripple across my skin. The room is cold, the radiators barely warm. The house is silent: Mom already left for her morning shift at the konbini, Dad for early construction. They always leave before I wake up. Sometimes I think we hardly see each other anymore, but I push the thought away fast — no time to whine.
I sit up on the edge of the bed and stretch. My breasts pull the thin fabric of the nightgown taut — they really got noticeably heavier over the summer. I instinctively cup them through the material, just checking. My nipples harden from the touch and the cold. I blush at myself. “Stop it, idiot, it’s normal. Everyone grows.” I stand up, bare feet hitting the icy linoleum — ouch, brr. I shuffle to the kitchen in my slippers.
The kitchen is dark — I only turn on the light above the sink to save electricity. I pour milk from the carton — ice-cold, it makes my teeth ache. I drink slowly, standing by the window. Outside it’s still almost night, yellow streetlights blinking. Our apartment is small, in an old panel building, but I like it: quiet, familiar. My parents say we’ll save up for something bigger someday, but for now ... for now this is it. That’s why I still wear my old school uniform — the new university one is too expensive, and this one still fits. The skirt has gotten too short, the blouse hugs my chest tighter than before, but Mom says, “Wear it until it tears, then we’ll think about it.”
I finish the milk, put the glass in the sink. Head to the bathroom.
I turn on the light — the bulb flickers, as always. Brush my teeth, look in the mirror. Face sleepy, cheeks slightly pink, eyes big. I look sixteen, even though I’m already eighteen. At university everyone jokes: “Are you sure you didn’t run away from high school?” I laugh along, but inside it feels a little awkward. I want them to see me as an adult.
Then exercise — my little habit. I spread the mat on the floor in my room, put on quiet music on my phone. Squats, bends, plank. My body warms up, breathing quickens. My breasts sway with the movements — I try not to look down. Thighs tense, butt tightens. After summer vacation my figure changed: waist stayed slim, but everything else ... rounded out. I feel strange — beautiful and awkward at the same time.
After exercise — shower. Hot water wraps around me instantly, steam rising to the ceiling. I peel off the nightgown — the fabric sticks to my slightly sweaty skin — and step under the spray. Water runs down my shoulders, breasts, stomach. Nipples harden from the heat. I slide my palms over my body — down the sides, over my hips. Skin smooth, hot. Between my legs — a soft, thick triangle of hair. I barely touch it, just trim the edges with scissors every couple of weeks. It’s more comfortable that way. Normal. Not like in those videos where everything is shaved smooth and ... too explicit. In Japan lots of girls keep it natural — it’s feminine.
My hand drifts lower almost automatically. Fingers find my clit — familiar, warm spot. I start slow, circles. This is my morning ritual — like brushing my teeth or exercising. Breathing stutters, legs part slightly. I lean my back against the cold tile — the contrast burns pleasantly. Movements faster. Mind empty — only sensations: swelling, wetness, light trembling in my knees. A little more ... My body arches, everything inside contracts in a warm wave. A quiet sigh — I bite my lip. The orgasm comes soft but deep. Legs weaken, but I hold onto the wall. I stand under the water another minute, feeling my heart beat steady and strong. “Good ... Now I’m definitely awake.”
I turn off the shower. Dry off with the old soft towel — skin pink, hot. In the mirror — naked, droplets on shoulders and breasts. Beautiful? Probably. But I quickly look away — awkward to stare at myself too long.
I get dressed. White cotton underwear — simple, comfortable. School uniform: white blouse (buttons straining a bit over my chest), tie (tied neatly), skirt ... Damn, it really is short. The hem barely covers the tops of my thighs. If I bend or the wind catches it — everything will show. I tug it down — useless. “Just don’t bend too much.” Knee-high socks, loafers. Hair in two ponytails — easier and looks cute. Light lip gloss, a touch of mascara.
Breakfast — quick: rice from the fridge, yesterday’s miso soup, some vegetables. I eat standing at the table, checking my phone — messages from classmates: “First class at 9:00, don’t be late!” I smile. Ordinary day.
I grab my bag — heavy, textbooks, notebooks, lunchbox from Mom. Turn off the light, lock the door. The stairwell smells of dampness and neighbors’ breakfast. I go down the stairs — elevator broken again.
Outside it’s cool, autumn wind immediately flips up my skirt. I press it down with my hand, hurry toward the station. Heart beats a little faster than usual — probably from walking. The 8:15 train is always packed. But I’m used to it. Squeeze in, stand, get there. Nothing scary.
Day 1. Monday. Subway.
I run to the platform one minute before the train arrives. Doors already open, crowd pours in thick. I squeeze in last, right to the center of the car — where there’s usually more room by the handrail. I raise one hand high, grip the cold metal, press my bag to my chest with the other. The train jolts forward lightly, and the swaying starts immediately.
The car is crammed. People pressed shoulder to shoulder, back to back. Smell of strangers’ jackets, faint sweat, perfume, wet asphalt from outside. Breathing is hard, but I’m used to it. I try to stand straight, legs slightly apart to keep balance on turns.
At first I notice nothing strange. Just crowding. But after a couple of minutes I feel it: someone behind me presses closer than necessary. His hip presses firmly against my ass — insistent. I tense, try to shift forward a few centimeters. No chance — ahead is a wall of backs. The train’s sway makes the friction repeat over and over — slow, rhythmic.
My heart starts pounding faster. “Just the crowding ... everyone stands like this,” I tell myself. But then a hand appears.
A large, male palm lands on my ass — right over the skirt. At first it just rests, as if accidental. I freeze. Breathing falters. Fingers start slow circles — soft but confident. Through the thin skirt fabric I feel the heat of his palm. Skin under my knee socks breaks into goosebumps.
I instinctively clench my buttocks, try to pull away. Useless — he just presses harder. The hand slides lower, under the hem of the skirt. Fingers touch bare skin above the sock tops — where the stockings end. Slowly rise higher, along the inner thigh. I squeeze my legs tighter, but he parts them with his knee — not rough, but insistent.
“No ... please, no...” I repeat mentally, but no sound comes out. Fear chokes my throat: if I scream — everyone will turn. They’ll see my hiked skirt, my trembling. They’ll think I ... asked for it? Let it happen? Liked it?