The commuter train ran from the suburbs to the city every twenty minutes, and I’d been taking it for two years—same car, same seat by the window, same playlist of sad indie rock that matched my mood. Then Sloane moved in.
She was my stepsister. Twenty-seven. A sound engineer who worked at a studio downtown and had an unhealthy obsession with audio—microphones, frequencies, the way a whisper could travel through bone conduction and feel like it was coming from inside your own skull.
She’d started sending me voice notes three weeks ago. Not texts—actual audio files, whispered into her phone in the dark, describing things that made me blush at my desk, that made me take longer showers, that made me press my pillow over my face at night and pretend I wasn’t completely lost.
Tonight was the first time she’d done it in public.
Our parents had invited us to dinner in the city—a “family night out” that was supposed to help us bond. We’d taken the train together. Sloane had suggested I “listen to something relaxing” for the ride. She’d paired our Bluetooth devices before we boarded, setting up a private connection that bypassed the train’s public WiFi.
I thought she was being nice. I was an idiot.
The train was packed. Rush hour. Bodies pressed against bodies, the smell of rain and perfume and exhaustion filling the car. I was by the window, my cream sweater pulled tight, my coat on my lap. Sloane was standing in the aisle beside me, one hand on the overhead rail, her phone in her other hand, looking down at me with an expression that was completely predatory.
The first voice note played in my ears.
“You’re wearing the white lace underwear,” she whispered, her voice intimate, close, like she was inside my head. “The ones I saw on the laundry line yesterday. I thought about stealing them. But I’d rather take them off you myself.”
I flinched. My eyes flew open. Looked up at her.
She was smirking. Typing something on her phone. A second note played.
“I want you to slide your coat off your lap. Slowly. Like you’re hot. Like you need air. And then I want you to spread your legs. Just slightly. Enough that I can see what the lace is doing to you.”
“Sloane,” I whispered, though the word was lost in the train’s rattle.
A third note. “Don’t speak. Don’t move your lips. Just listen. And do exactly what I tell you.”
I slid my coat off my lap. Slowly. Pretending I was warm. The train was warm—overcrowded, humid, full of bodies. My coat fell to the floor. My lap was exposed. My skirt was knee-length, modest, completely appropriate for a family dinner.
“Spread your legs,” her voice whispered. “Now.”
I did. Just slightly. An inch. Then two. Sloane’s eyes dropped to my lap, to the place where my white lace underwear was now visible if you knew where to look. And she definitely knew.
A fourth note. “Good girl. Now touch yourself. Through the skirt. Just a brush. Just enough to make you remember who’s in control.”
I couldn’t. Not here. Not with a businessman in a suit to my left, a teenager with headphones to my right, and our parents sitting three rows ahead, sharing a newspaper, completely absorbed in the crossword.
But Sloane was looking at me. Waiting. Her finger hovering over her phone, ready to send another note that would be even worse, even more explicit, even more impossible to ignore.
I touched myself. Through the skirt. A brush of my fingers over the fabric, pressing just enough to send a jolt of electricity through my body. I bit my lip. Closed my eyes. Pretended I was just adjusting my position.
“Again,” the voice whispered. “And hold it this time. Press hard. Imagine it’s my hand. My mouth. My tongue doing exactly what I’ve described in the notes you listen to at 2 AM.”
I pressed harder. My fingers found my clit through the fabric, circling slowly, matching the rhythm of the train’s movement. I was flushed, sweating, completely exposed despite being fully clothed.
Sloane leaned down. Her lips brushed my ear—not speaking into the phone, just whispering directly, a double sensation that made me gasp.
“Then don’t make a sound,” she breathed. “And don’t you dare take those earbuds out until I tell you to.”
Her hand was on my knee. Sliding upward under my coat, which was now on the floor, leaving me exposed. Her fingers found my thigh, my hip, the edge of my underwear.
The train stopped. Our station. The conductor’s voice crackled over the intercom.
Our parents stood up. Her mother stretched. My father folded the newspaper. They turned toward us, smiling, ready for family dinner.
Sloane didn’t remove her hand. She just slid her fingers inside my underwear, pressing against me, her eyes locked on mine while her parents walked toward us.
“Ready, girls?” her mother asked.
“Almost,” Sloane said, her voice perfectly casual, her fingers pressing harder, circling faster. “Just helping her find her coat. She dropped it.”
She sent one final note. I heard it in my ears as her mother turned away, as my father offered his arm, as the train doors opened and the platform waited.
“When we get home,” the voice whispered, “I’m going to finish this in your room. With the door open. And you’re going to try not to scream while I use my mouth on you and our parents watch TV downstairs.”
I came as we stepped off the train. Sloane’s hand was inside my coat, her fingers pressing exactly where I needed, her voice still in my ears. The orgasm was sharp, quick, completely silent—my body shaking, my face flushing, my hand gripping Sloane’s arm for support.
“Are you okay, honey?” my father asked. “You look flushed.”
“Just warm from the train,” I managed. “Need some air.”
Sloane smiled. Removed her hand. Licked her fingers while her mother wasn’t looking.
We had dinner. We laughed. We pretended to be a family. And when we got home, Sloane followed me to my room, left the door open like she’d promised, and made me come three times with her mouth while the sound of the TV downstairs covered every sound I made.
I still take the train. Every day. And every time I put in my earbuds, I hope it’s her. Sometimes it is. And when it is, I spread my legs. And I listen.
