Fiction – Underground

The second of my stories originally published on Wordejaculation.

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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.

On Heat and Heat

I’ve never really realised how much the weather affects my moods until over the last couple of years. I don’t just mean light levels at the nights draw in, but also how my own levels of desire seem to be directly linked to warmth. Looking back at some of the stories I’ve written, it’s noticeable to me that a lot of them take place in the heat of a summer’s day. It’s easier that way – fewer clothes meaning more of a body on show, for starters. I guess it’s just not really considered sexy to be layered up in various jumpers, hoodies, pairs of socks etc. I’ve noted it as a challenge to myself to try and write a story based in cold climes! I’m thinking lots of open fires will be required!

In the meantime, I’ve taken a break from my tumblr, which was consuming me somewhat (although I had forgotten that these posts are set to automatically link there!). Maybe the lack of constant visual stimulation is also having an effect on my lack of muse? Whatever it is, I hope I don’t have to wait until next spring to be inspired again…

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?