Eric, male, commuter, 34

Finally, just one stop to go until you can get out, get to your bed, and sleep for long enough that your brain stops playing tricks on you. Your fantasies of sleeping are interrupted by the feeling of a hand on your leg. It felt soft, through the fabric of your suit pants, but not warm. Of course, you look down, but there's nothing there. Just a crease in your pants.

You write it off as a shift in the fabric from the jerking of the old metro car, but as you do, the hand moves, stroking up your leg. This time, as you look down, you see the indentation of a feminine hand, sliding up your leg.

Frozen in fear and confusion, you feel the hand slowly make its way to your crotch. It expertly slows down as it approaches your bulge, before it moves to squeeze just enough to feel good. The invisible foreplay continues. You look around the car to see if anyone is looking at you as you feel your member swelling inside your pants, in conflicted pleasure.

The light flickers yet again. Amongst the flickers, you see a real hand on your crotch. It's beautiful, with long, dark purple nails, and some kind of jewellery on its wrist. As the light continues to flickers, you follow its arm to see a beautiful woman kneeling on the empty seat next to you, bent over, but looking straight up at your eyes with the same piercingly intense stare.

You jump out of your seat and look down at her to confront her, but as the light stabilises, once again she is not there.

At this point, the train screeches to a halt at your stop.

"Okay. Fuck this," you say, stepping sideways towards the door as you pick up your bag, holding it in front of your crotch, and rush off of the train, almost knocking some poor girl as you do.

You're washing up the remains of your microwave meal when you hear a knock at the door. You are not expecting anyone. You dry your hands and investigate.

You see a girl standing there on your doorstep, shaking.

"I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong addre-- Oh my god, are you okay?" You change your tone as you notice her shaking, you assume in fear. You're not sure, but you think you can see tears welling in her eyes. Certainly her eye makeup was smudged. Judging from her black dress and makeup, she'd been out to a bar, but she didn't seem drunk.

She steps into your house, awkwardly, almost wobbly, but purposefully.

You move out of her way, leaning back on the wall of your hallway as she pushes past. You look at her, wondering if she's some kind of thief, but she is small and doesn't even have a bag, let alone a weapon. You move to the door and look out each way onto the street for an accomplice or even film crew, but see nothing. You close the door softly, and follow her to your living room to see if she's okay.

As you step into your living room, she moves towards you, just a step away from you. She puts an elegant hand on your chest and lets it slide down your abdomen as she lowers herself to a kneel in front of you. She grabs your belt and starts to undo it haphazardly, as if she hadn't done it before from this angle, at which point enough alarm bells are going off in your mind.

You step back from her, and she screeches, almost as if in pain, and unmistakeable tears run from her eyes. "PLEASE!"

You get the eeriest feeling that, despite being alone with her, it's not you she's begging.