Fiction – Underground

The second of my stories originally published on Wordejaculation.


She was grumpy. It had been one of those days at work where nothing seemed to go right. Customers weren’t happy, her boss was frustrated and the stupid cow she shared an office with had decided to leave early and dumped all the urgent tasks on her.

His day, on the other hand, had left him buzzing – one of those rare days when everything seemed to have gone his way, and the testosterone was flowing. Plus that new girl in HR was definitely flirting with him. He grinned as he walked the short distance to the underground station and got on the train.

The métro on the way home was packed, as usual. She sighed, squeezed her way in and tried her hardest not to breathe in the smell of stale commuters. As she stood holding onto the rail, she closed her eyes and imagined herself far away. People were still squeezing on, until it seemed every possible drop of air was being taken up. As the train set off, she let her body yield to the rocking movement of the carriage. Inwardly cursing the bags and briefcases that were digging into her, she concentrated on her mental image of palm trees and sunny beaches.

He looked around the carriage and momentarily hesitated as he brushed up against the woman in front of him. Was that the new girl from HR? The one with the amazing arse and the penchant for killer heels? He had spent many an enjoyable moment wanking over the thought of dragging her into the nearest fire escape and fucking her senseless. He was momentarily disappointed as he realised that this was in fact a different woman – still, the resemblance was striking. Damn, she was also pretty hot. He felt his cock start to throb as he admired the way this woman’s curves were visible through the pencil skirt she was wearing. He cursed the fact he was directly behind her and tried to imagine the front of her blouse – slightly too many buttons undone, perhaps…a peek of a lacy bra?

As she desperately tried to get to her happy place, she became aware of something pressing against her hip that did not align with the usual pressure of a packed commute. She had not paid the man behind her much attention until then – he was the usual middle-aged manager in a suit that seemed to frequent that line, no doubt heading back to the suburbs to his miserable frigid wife and 2.4 children. She inwardly shook her head as she tried to get the bizarre thought out of her mind that the man was pressing his penis into her – it had obviously just been too long since she had last got laid, and her mind was starting to play tricks.

He mulled over what might happen if he should press his crotch against her. Would she cry out? Turn around and insult him?  Stamp her stiletto on his foot? Parisian women could be pretty forthright. The thought turned him on even more. There was now no hiding the fact that his cock was fully erect and pressing against her arse. He panicked, held his breath and waited for her inevitable reaction.

She tried to concentrate on what she would have to eat that evening. And yet…that was definitely a body part pressing into her, now with barely perceptible movement. She swore she could now clearly feel the outline; the long, firm shaft and the exposed head. Her first reaction was shock. She looked around the carriage surreptitiously,  but all the other commuters were wrapped up in themselves and nobody was paying her the slightest bit of attention. Why would they? The man was so close to her, with his briefcase strategically placed at groin height. Nobody would be able to see a thing. While these thoughts were shooting through her mind, the man’s initially tentative movements grew stronger and more confident. She knew she should cry out and draw attention to what was happening, and yet her mouth was dry and she felt paralysed. All she could think of was the way his cock was rubbing against her buttock with an increasing urgency. She was convinced she could hear his breathing quickening.

He could not believe that she had not reacted by now. All he could focus on was her arse and the way his cock was rubbing rhythmically against it. He wanted so badly to lift her skirt up, pull aside her panties and thrust his hard prick into her pussy in full view of all the commuters. Rip open her blouse and expose her tits to the carriage… The fantasy spurred him on, until he felt more brazen and more confident.

Quickly, and barely perceptibly, his hand brushed her other buttock, reached towards his crotch and, with a single smooth motion, undid his zip and grabbed his cock out of his trousers. It felt amazing. The feel of the extra friction from the rough cloth of her skirt against his throbbing head almost made him come instantly.

She could now more clearly feel every stroke of his cock through her skirt. She gagged slightly, yet something still compelled her not to move. Her thoughts were a mixture of curiosity and disgust.

The man placed a hand on her left buttock to steady himself as with a last, barely imperceptible, thrust of his hips he shot his load all over her skirt. As the train slowed towards the next station, he rapidly zipped himself up, bent forward, whispered “Merci, madame” and left the train.

With that she knew it was over, as quickly as it had begun. All that she was left with was a sick feeling in her stomach, a sticky wet patch on her skirt and a tingling in her cunt.


Fiction – Chemistry Studies

This is a story I wrote some time ago now that was originally published on the “Wordejaculation” site, which is now sadly defunct. Time to republish it (and another piece that I’ll post another time) here, I think.


It was the summer of 2003. The summer when people finally started believing in global warming. The hottest summer in 500 years.

I was in my final year at university, sharing a flat with two others – Nickie, a med student who we never saw as she was always off doing whatever it is medical students do, and Rob,  who, like me, was in the final stages of finishing his Chemistry degree. He and I had been pretty much inseparable since Fresher’s Week, when we first bonded over Tequila slammers and a love of dancing “ironically” to Beyonce’s chart topper Crazy In Love.

Rob was a walking, talking cliché – tall, dark, handsome, athletic. He had the gift of the gab and was utterly charming. I don’t think there was a girl in our year that didn’t throw herself at him at one point or another. Ironically, this made me both incredibly popular with those who thought getting in with me meant getting close to Rob, and unpopular with those who couldn’t understand our platonic relationship and were jealous of how much time we spent together.

It was around the end of May that Rob started seeing Charlotte. He had of course been out with girls before, but I knew from the beginning that this was new. Charlotte was very different to the clean-cut  girls with blonde swishy hair that seemed his normal type. She was half French; petite, olive skinned with long dark hair and the most amazing pert round breasts and peachy arse I had ever seen.

One hot and sticky Monday, I let myself in to the flat to hear laughter coming from Rob’s bedroom. I put away my shopping, and headed for my room. As I passed Rob’s room, I noticed the door was slightly ajar and caught a good view of the bed, where the two of them were lying dressed only in their underwear, with Charlotte’s back towards me. I caught a glimpse of her round cheeks in the tiniest of frilly knickers and something made me stop and admire the two of them. The next thing I knew, Rob was pulling her towards him, kissing her neck and running his hands up her thighs.

My head told me to disappear and leave them to it, but I remained rooted to the spot. He slowly slipped her bra strap off her shoulder and started kissing her collarbone. She giggled as his mouth moved lower towards her right breast and one hand moved from the outside of her thigh to the inside, while the other moved to undo the clasp of her bra.

I was frozen; barely daring to breathe as I glimpsed the silhouette of her right breast, before Rob hungrily started sucking the nipple. Charlotte moaned slightly as Rob also cupped his hand around her left breast. I willed them to move around so I could see everything that was happening, but of course they were completely oblivious to both me and the increasing dampness between my legs.

As Rob continued to focus on her breasts, Charlotte ran her hand along his arm, across his chest and down towards the soft fluff of his navel. She let her fingers linger, teasing the short hair, and playfully sticking her fingers in his belly button before slowly running her index finger along the inside of the waistband of his boxer shorts. As she shifted slightly onto her left buttock, I saw the outline of Rob’s hard, erect cock straining at the fabric, with a delicious, barely imperceptible wet patch where his cock had dribbled. Charlotte’s hand wandered further inside his boxer shorts and I could just make out the way her finger ran up and down his shaft.  As she grasped it with both hands and pulled it out of his shorts, I had to stifle a moan. My pussy was dripping at this point, and I pressed my hand between my legs in the vain hope of – what? – certainly not stopping myself, I was well past that point by now!

Still kissing, sucking, stroking and teasing, they pulled off their last remaining items of clothing. They were now completely naked. They were such an amazing looking couple, and I could not get enough of the sight of both of them. I held my breath, silently willing them on to the next level. As Charlotte went up on her knees, I saw Rob’s cock, rigid and glistening through her thighs. As she gently rubbed her pussy against its tip, I felt my own hand lift up the flimsy dress I was wearing, push aside my soaking knickers, and push my fingers deep into my own juices. I stifled a moan as my fingers found my clit and furiously began to rub.

In front of me, Rob had grabbed Charlotte’s waist and pushed her down hard onto his cock. As she slid up and down, her movements hinting at the pleasure she was experiencing, I felt myself attempting to mimic the sensation by thrusting my fingers deep inside myself. The way her breasts moved, the way she thrust her head back and closed her eyes – these were things I felt for myself. I felt every movement of his hands exploring her body, felt his fingertips tracing her nipples, and felt every thrust of his hot prick as it carved through me. I bit my lower lip to stop myself from crying out as their lovemaking grew more frenzied. I staggered backwards, leant against the wall and gave in to the delicious sensations – my fingers on my clit, thrusting into my pussy and rubbing my nipples. As I felt the first shudder of orgasm tingling in my legs and my cunt, I opened my eyes for a final glimpse of the couple in front of me and drank in the view of her tits, and his cock. Charlotte let out a long, deep moan that instantly told me her climax too was close. Rob thrust into her one last time, and all three of us came with a delicious sigh.

I hid in my bedroom for the rest of the afternoon, too embarrassed to face the pair of them. It was only when I heard Charlotte leave that I dared venture into the kitchen, where I found Rob sipping a bottle of beer and flicking through the local paper.

He looked up as I came in, and grinned.

“Good afternoon?”
“Yeah, not bad” I mumbled, my face flushing at the thought of what I had seen and what I had done.
He looked at me thoughtfully and then said; “Well, maybe next time you would like to join us…”

That, however, is another story.

Fiction – Special Order

Every Friday lunchtime he took his sorry self to the café round the corner to see her. Without fail, he ordered a cheese and tomato sandwich, and a diet coke. A pathetic lunch for the end of another pathetic week. Self-pity wasn’t becoming, he knew that. His father had told him often enough; “Pull yourself together! Be a man!”. He didn’t really know what that meant any more.

His luck was in – she was serving today. She wore the same uniform as the other waitresses, except she had obviously tried to make the dowdy green skirt and blouse more appealing recently, by tucking and tightening to expose a bit of cleavage and giving more of a pencil-skirt effect, instead of the usual A-line. Her shoes were different too, he noticed. Being on their feet all day, the rest of the staff favoured comfort over style, but her black patent stilettos looked anything but comfortable. He wondered idly what it would be like to feel one of them pressing into his flesh, the sharp heel scraping the surface of his skin, and shivered involuntarily.

Completely lost in thought, he had not realised that she was walking towards him. Picking up his plate, she deliberately seemed to bend over so that he could not help but catch a glimpse of the tops of her breasts contained in her lacy bra.

“Gents. Now.” The command was a bark – quiet, so that the couple at the next table could not hear, but there was no doubting its forcefulness. Her face was passive, unsmiling, registering no hint of emotion. It was the first time he had really had cause to study her face up close. Her green eyes had a depth to them that didn’t betray what was going on behind them, and the rosebud mouth looked innocent enough. “Yes.” he said, waiting for her to distance herself to the back of the café.

He stood and made his way quickly in the same direction, heading for the gents toilets, hoping his excitement was not too obvious. His heart pounded as he opened the door. Once inside, he hesitated, hung his coat on the back of the door, and waited.

The door opened a minute or so later, and she came in, locking the door behind her. “Take your pants down”. It was the same quiet, confident tone, and again her face was expressionless. He obeyed quickly, unbuckling his belt, and unzipping his trousers. He hesitated slightly with his underwear, but a slightly raised eyebrow let him know she meant business.

As he stood there hoping for her approval, he knew deep down he would be disappointed. It was the first time her face expressed anything other than impassivity, and the half smile felt crueler than any outright open sneer might have done. She gestured behind him. “Sit down, open your legs”. He bit back a quip that he felt rising in his throat, an involuntary habit of his to defuse tension.

Standing in front of him, hands on hips, legs slightly apart, she surveyed him for a moment, and nodded. Reaching down to the hem of her skirt, she slowly started to roll it up her thighs. A loose thread hanging off the seam caught his eye, a reminder of the home-made alteration, a strange imperfection in her otherwise consummate appearance. Her legs were passable – her highly toned calves hinted at an ease with high heels, and her thighs were probably slightly chunkier than modern beauty dictated – but the confidence with which she now stood before him made up for any perceived imperfections.

She wore hold-ups under her skirt, nothing else. He was pleased to see that a neatly trimmed triangle adorned her pubic mound, while the rest of her cunt was fully shaved and exposed to him. While he tried to catch a peek of her labia, she came closer and put her hands on each of his shoulders. “Legs apart”, she ordered, and straddled him face on. They stayed like that for several seconds. He didn’t know where to look or put his hands, but desperately wanted to rip her blouse open and bury his face in her tits, yet her whole demeanour told him that would not be welcome. Instead he leaned back and gripped the edge of the toilet seat and waited.

He felt the warm liquid splashing his cock before he quite realised what was happening, little droplets of urine splashing his inner thighs as she pissed between his legs. The long, steady stream ran off into the bowl below him, and he closed his eyes momentarily to concentrate on the sound of piss against porcelain.

When she had finished, she shook herself slightly and smiled at him for the first time in the whole encounter.

“Lick me dry”

She stood up and offered him her cunt. He greedily licked the final warm droplets, interspersed with the musky juices that gave away her arousal. Before he got a chance to get too carried away, however, she took a step back, smoothed down her skirt, and headed for the door.

He waited in the tiny windowless toilet for her footsteps to recede and the heat of his face to cool down, before pulling up his clothes, grabbing his coat and heading out of the door.

Realism in Erotica

The more I overthink things, the more I have doubts.

I’ve been pootling about on the internet a lot reading about sex. This is of course nothing new. What is new, however, is that this time it is for “research”, rather than purely for pleasure. I’ve had a story idea in my mind for the last couple of weeks that doesn’t lend itself to being immediately written. It needs thought, and factual checking, and to be honest I am not sure it’s ever going to get written.

I did a bit of research for Morning Glory, specifically related to the mechanics and sensations of the male orgasm, and at the time I could not help but “cum” across similar pieces about the female orgasm. I was reminded of the fact that, if the internet is to be believed, only around three quarters of women achieve orgasm through vaginal penetration alone. Guess what? I’m one of them. It is also estimated that 10 to 15% of women struggle to reach orgasm at all (thankfully, I’m not one of them!).

Yet it seems standard practice in a lot of erotica that the female protagonist achieves multiple orgasms merely by looking at her partner (yes, E.L. James and her highly orgasmic virgin springs to mind here). I’m probably as guilty as the next person here (although I deliberately avoided this when I wrote Construction – the eagle eyed among you may have noticed that Jo did not orgasm at all).

Then there’s the thorny subject of safe sex. Sometimes the fumble for a condom can make a good literary device, whereas a more fantasy setting might do away with the messy real-life business of contraception.

By doing this, am I just as guilty of perpetuating myths about sex as, for example some might accuse mainstream porn of? Is it obvious enough that fiction is fantasy and should be taken with a pinch of salt?

Finally, how well can I get away with practices I have not experienced myself? At the risk of mentioning “that book” again, E.L. James has come in for a lot of criticism for the nature of the BDSM relationship between Christian Grey and Ana Steele, especially from those who do live in a “true” Dom/Sub relationship. While she has admitted that it is a fantasy of hers, I don’t recall her admitting she had direct experience of a lot of the practices. I don’t have experience of a male/male relationship, for example, but I have an idea floating around in my head that might involve something like that. Does the fact I am unqualified mean I should not bother?

There are two ways of looking at things I suppose; rule number one of writing anything is supposedly “Stick to what you know”. All well and good, but if that were true there would be a lot less historical fiction, crime fiction and certainly no fantasy! A good writer should overcome these obstacles and be able to transport you into a fictional world that either a) seems realistic or b) makes you suspend disbelief enough to just go with the story.

I should probably stop thinking and just get on with writing though, shouldn’t I…?

Will You Still Lust Me Tomorrow?

There comes a time in our lives when the realisation hits that we are no longer in the first bloom of youth. For some, it is earlier than for others. What happens to love and lust as we get older? Does our perception of what is attractive change? Does a winning smile take precedence over a rock-hard set of abs? Does a good sense of humour make up for drooping breasts? No longer does a penis stand as proud as it once did. No longer is a pussy pink and juicy.

Is love more important than lust as we get older?

Will you still need me,
Will you still feed me?
When I’m 64?

Fiction – Morning glory

Whilst this piece is entirely fictional, the starting point was an incredibly vivid dream that I had a while ago about suddenly waking up as a man. I’m not sure whether I’ve done the sensations justice, but it seemed like a good exercise in trying to truly imagine myself in the skin of someone else, as it were. I’m sure any male readers out there can let me know how I did! 😉


I can distinctly remember the date – 14th April. It was the first Saturday morning in about 3 months that I had not had to get up for work. As is of course typical in these cases, my body clock was now so hard wired to a 6.30 start that no amount of squeezing my eyes tightly shut against the filtering early morning light could send me back to sleep.

I sighed and shifted in my bed, hugging the duvet around me, willing it to lull me back into slumber. While I knew it was probably in vain, I wasn’t going to let the opportunity to spend a lazy morning pass me by. Absentmindedly, I scratched my balls.




My hand froze. Very, very slowly I lowered it back down between my legs. Balls. Plums. Nuts. Testicles.


It was at this point that I remember screaming very loudly, although to be honest with hindsight I think may have blanked out quite how hysterical I was. All I know is that the sound of my scream freaked me out even more, for instead of my girly squeal, the scream was the low, gruff cry of a man.

When I finally managed to stop my vocal cords from making any more noise, I listened to my heart palpitations instead. As I tried to slow my breathing down, I tentatively put my hands between my legs again. Still there. Two ripe, dangly man balls, beautifully firm underneath the soft layer of skin and downy hair. I rolled one of them in my hand like a Chinese stress ball. The sensation was strange, almost like I was two people. I could feel myself caressing the testicle, and deep inside what I could only think of as my “loins” I could feel the hand doing so. I could feel each digit teasing the skin, squeezing and caressing. It felt new and exciting.

As my hand grazed my upper thigh, I started to explore the rest of my new body. Slowly I lowered my hand onto my legs and felt the unfamiliar weave of hair. “So much for waxing appointments”, I muttered to myself. The muscular thighs tensed slightly under my touch. My left hand tentatively jumped to my chest. Gone were the swelling breasts. Gone was the need for a bra. Where my boobs had been, I now found two flat nipples and a mass of short, curly hairs. I laughed as I silently thanked the fact that I slept naked and tried not to imagine a male torso in a nightdress.

For a while, I simply enjoyed the unfamiliar sensation of running my short nails through the hair on my chest, before heading further South towards my belly. I swirled my fingers around the fluffy bellybutton, and traced the “V” between my hips. I grinned like a lunatic to discover I had abs. Whoever this body belonged to worked out. I was HOT…or at least the body I was inhabiting was! I giggled as I flexed my biceps and felt the breadth of my shoulders. I sniffed the musky scent of my armpit and practiced repeatedly swallowing with my hand on my Adam’s apple.

Of course, I can’t deny that all this time I had been delaying the inevitable. In some ways I was surprised at my reaction – in drunken conversations with friends about what we would do if we were the opposite sex for the day the fascination had always been what it would feel like to have a cock. Now that it had happened, I found I was just as intrigued by all the other elements of the body that felt so unfamiliar from within, from the stubble on my chin, to the wiggle of my pecs.

Yet the act of merely thinking about the penis appeared to have woken it up. At first, I may have confused the tingling sensation in my lower abdomen with hunger. Before long, however, I was sure it was a rush of blood I was feeling. As a woman, the familiar throbbing that accompanies the rush of blood to the genitals is firmly between the legs; this was similar in sensation, yet located slightly above what I was used to – and quite obviously on the outside of the body. There was no familiar wetness – no pussy, therefore no juices – but instead a delicious steady throbbing and tightening of my groin.

I could put it off no longer. My hand shook as I reached down and grabbed my growing cock. Still only semi-erect, I grasped the shaft and just held both it and my breath, while I felt it grow in my hand. The skin on the outside was soft and loose, while underneath the shaft hardened and pulsed.

I had of course held cocks many times before. This, however, was different. Each movement from my hand sent tingles through my groin and up and down my spine. With increasing confidence, I started the familiar up and down pumping wrist action. The skin moving underneath my hand seemed to simultaneously stroke the shaft, providing double the pleasure. As the foreskin moved up and over the frenulum and the glans, I shuddered and let out a deep moan. God, it felt good.

Somewhere in my still apparently female brain I felt the urge to insert a finger into the memory of my cunt, yet shoving my free hand between my legs only gave me the warmth of my scrotum. As my heart raced faster, the thumb of the hand around the shaft of my cock teased the glans, where I could feel a dribble of pre-cum. I luxuriated in rolling my thumb to lubricate the head, teasing the slit and marvelling at the soft-yet-hardness of it all.

My cock – yes, my cock! – was proud and hard between my legs. I had taken full ownership and was no longer hesitant in my movements. All my energy and power seemed to be focused on my groin as I revelled in my new-found manhood. Faster and faster I stroked, giving in to the delicious sensation of my gathering orgasm.

I came round slowly, my hand still reaching its crescendo, as my partner ejaculated over my hand and onto the sheets of our bed.  I just lay spooned up behind him, and smiled.

Fiction – Construction

(As an aside, this one should probably also be known as The One In Which I Think I Probably Watch Too Much Porn, as it involves frankly slightly ridiculous stereotypes of big burly men in hard hats, and normally features a 70s-style soundtrack in my head when I play the scenario through.)


“Eurgh. Thursday.” thought Jo, as her eyes started to focus on the room around her, and her ears protested at the hard-core dance music that appeared to be emanating from her clock radio. “Too early. Always too fucking early.”

She rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom. Surveying her reflection in the mirror, she mentally made a note to make more effort to take her make-up off before going to bed. Just like she did every other morning. Squinting in the bright sunlight, she rummaged around in the bathroom cabinet for painkillers, and quickly downed them with icy water from the tap.

The shower was the one thing that worked in her pokey flat, and she stripped off and climbed into it,  luxuriating in the way the hard driving rivulets of water stung her body into a state that might actually pass as alertness. As she absentmindedly soaped herself with lemon-scented shower gel, she played back the events of the night before. There had been wine. Yes, lots of wine. Eurgh. Then shots with that group of guys. Double eurgh. No wonder her head was throbbing.

She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel from the hook on the back of the door. It would have to be instant coffee again – she really should get round to getting a new machine. Mornings like this were made for proper coffee; strong, dark and invigorating. The list of things that were already going wrong was getting longer, and it wasn’t even 7.30 yet.

Jo threw a slice of stale bread in the toaster and went to grab some clothes. She rummaged in her wardrobe and found the first top that looked like it might be vaguely presentable, and teamed it with a flared navy skirt. Simple, yet at least fairly smart for the office. Glancing at the overflowing laundry basket next to her wardrobe, she quickly decided against underwear. It was forecast to be a reasonably warm day anyway, and maybe some fresh air would do her some good – whatever it was blowing.

A slice of toast and some of her favourite songs on the radio helped lift her mood and she felt a little more human. Lashings of mascara and a slick of lipgloss ensured she also looked it. Jo grabbed her keys and her bag and headed out of the door to the bus stop. For once she wasn’t even going to be late!

It seemed everyone was out of town for the summer, and thankfully the bus had plenty of seats for a change. She put her bag down and collapsed onto the nearest one. The other passengers on the bus were the usual mix of elderly and commuters – no school kids at this time of year, thank God – the usual combination of strangers and familiar commuting faces. There was the woman who wore that awful pink lipstick that really didn’t suit her skin tone, and behind her the man that she occasionally bumped into at the corner shop being bullied into buying icecreams for his kids.

She didn’t recognise the man sat facing the back of the bus diagonally to her. He was maybe in his early 60s, Jo thought, with a shock of white hair and a dress-sense that seemed more up-to-date than his age implied. He was still handsome, and Jo could tell he’d obviously been a real heart-breaker in his youth. Or maybe he still was?

Her mental image made her unconsciously smile, and she blushed as she realised he was looking straight at her with a quizzical look in his eyes. She’d obviously made her interest in him too clear. Jo shifted uncomfortably in her seat and crossed, then re-crossed her legs. The movement reminded her of the fact she was not wearing underwear, and created a slight stickiness at the very top of her inner thigh. Older foxy man was now blatantly checking out her legs! Dirty old man!

Jo glanced out of the window and realised she was only two stops away from the office, when at the same time a wicked thought ran through her mind. Surreptitiously she tried to see if she could guess where her opposite number would be getting off. Dressed like that she supposed the likelihood was pretty big that he would be going further into the centre of town. She figured she was therefore pretty safe in what she wanted to do.

One more stop to go. She had to time it right or she would lose her nerve completely. Her stomach churned and she felt inwardly giddy. She’d never done anything like this. Well, not when sober anyway…

As the bus rounded the corner that meant she had a couple of hundred yards to her stop, Jo casually dropped her hands onto her lap. Gathering the soft fabric of her skirt in her fingers, she glanced around to ensure that the man opposite was the only person who would be able to see what she was doing. He was staring idly out of the window, and she wondered if he would actually even notice.

With one sure, slow movement she slid the fabric of her skirt up her thighs and quickly uncrossed her legs, exposing her cunt. She held her breath and blushed  a deep red as the man opposite turned his head because of the movement, and caught what must have been a full view of her glistening pussy.

The look of surprise and delight on his face would stay with Jo long after she got off the bus. That would give him something to tell his grandchildren, she thought…


The episode on the bus had made her giddy with excitement, and she practically skipped into the office. All morning she had to try to contain the fits of giggles that seemed to want to explode out of her at the most inopportune moments. Thankfully the office was suffering from the same empty August syndrome as the bus, and she spent most of the morning uninterrupted. Even though the whole thing had only lasted seconds, the arousal that had resulted from her little flash on the bus was acute, and she used quiet periods at her desk and trips to the bathroom to dip her fingers up her skirt into her dripping juices. It only made her hornier.

When it was time for her lunch break, Jo was glad to leave the office – she felt sure it was blindingly obvious to the few colleagues that were left what the only thing on her mind was that day. At one point she was convinced she was so flushed that the office maintenance guy was going to ask her if she had a fever.

She dashed out to the nearest sandwich bar and walked over the small green square that she liked to frequent in the summer, where she sat down on the grass and wolfed down her sandwich with a voracious appetite.

However, no amount of chicken salad on wholemeal could do anything to appease the hunger in her cunt. It was getting beyond a joke. Everywhere she looked she could see hot young office workers of both sexes flirting in the sun. She started to wonder if she was going to have to seduce Ben the IT geek in the stationery cupboard on her return to the office, things were getting that desperate. And all because of some stranger who was probably old enough to be her grandfather!

On her way back to the office, Jo realised that there finally seemed to be movement at the derelict office block across the road. She could see various men in hard hats pointing at sheaves of paper. About time too, the place was a complete eyesore, thought Jo.

She was staring absent-mindedly at the building, when she realised that one of the men was walking purposefully towards her, and smiling in recognition. Jo racked her brains as to where she might know him from, when finally it dawned on her that he had been one of the group that she and her friend had been drinking with in the nightclub the previous evening. She groaned inwardly as she wondered whether she had made a fool of herself, but reading the expression on his face decided against it.

He was maybe just under 6 foot, with floppy blond hair and deep brown eyes that twinkled out from under his hard hat. She could tell from the tan on his face and forearms that he spent a lot of time outside. Her eyes were drawn to the bulge of his biceps under his t-shirt. She had no control over the throbbing that instantly started up between her legs.

“Hi”, the man said as he got close, “it’s Jo, isn’t it? We met last night, at Fifth Avenue? I’m Greg”. As Jo opened her mouth to respond, he leaned in and grinned conspiratorially “I loved the fact you weren’t wearing any underwear”. “Fuck”, thought Jo, as she blushed bright red, then hesitated for a split second, before laughing and whispering back “I’m not wearing any now either”.

Had she really just said that? What was wrong with her? First flashing at respectable older gentlemen, and now this? She had to concede that Greg was a damn sight hotter than Ben the IT geek though…

She looked at the bemused expression on Greg’s face as he processed this piece of information. Jo guessed he hadn’t quite expected that reaction. She weighed up her next move. In for a penny, and all that… “want me to show you?” she breathed.

Greg’s grin grew wider. “Follow me”, he said, and led her round the back of the building. As she walked behind him, Jo had the chance to survey the way his jeans cupped his buttocks as he walked. With every step Jo made up her mind further that she desperately needed to get her hands on that body.

The back of the building contained a small courtyard, with sorry-looking raised beds that must once have contained flowers. Greg gestured to them; “hop up there” he beckoned, throwing his hard hat to the ground. She did as she was told, hoiking her skirt up around her hips at the same time, and spreading her legs. “I told you I wasn’t wearing any underwear” she laughed.

Greg grabbed her right thigh with his left hand while the other desperately scratched at the buckle of his belt. With a swift movement, he unbuttoned the fly of his jeans and pulled out his already erect cock. Jo’s pussy spasmed at the sight, and she grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him towards her. With a slow, soft movement, she pushed her tongue into his mouth as he thrust his cock into her throbbing pussy with the same slow motion. Jo gasped as her aching cunt finally got its fill.

Greg’s movements were slow and steady at first, then grew wilder and less hesitant as  he responded to Jo’s moans. She wrapped her thighs tightly around his hips and drew his full length into her, willing each thrust deeper and harder.  Greg did not last long – his orgasm came quick and hard, and they clung together, panting for a few seconds. Finally he looked at her. “Sorry”, he mumbled, aware that his own orgasm had not waited for Jo’s. “That’s ok”, she smiled, shifting her buttocks on the uncomfortable wooden logs. She glanced up briefly to where she knew another man in a hard hat had been watching. “We can always try again later…”