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30 degrees. Day after day. Relentless. Men with sweat-soaked backs, women with rivulets of sweat running between their swaying breasts. Slow trains, uncomfortable closeness, and the slow languid appreciation of people wearing not much at all.
I know nothing about pheromones, but I swear the air was heavy with them. It’s like, without anyone actually being aware of it, they are constantly ready to fuck. Swollen with bloodlust.
I sat on the train from Basingstoke at eleven on a Sunday morning, and thankfully the aircon made life bearable. England is not set up for heavy snow or relentless heat. People wear the looks of confusion, staring with suspicion at the skies as if the pale, faded blue would somehow provide an answer.
The girl across from me was dressed for the heat. Strappy top, low cut, the tops of her breasts on display to anyone who cared to notice. Her hair was pulled back to allow the cool air to get to her skin. The goosebumps on her arms suggested that she may not have factored the air conditioning into her plans.
Her very prominent nipples told a similar story.
Of course I was caught. I’m hopeless when I see something that grabs my attention in such a visceral way. I hate that I was staring. I hate more that I was caught. But here’s the thing. This girl was in no way being overtly sexual. It’s hot, it’s her right to wear whatever she wants. She was not asking me to look at her breasts – and yet I did. I looked up as she was leaning over to write in her work book, and I saw a lot of her breasts. And I cannot help it – I liked what I saw.
I looked away that first time, but by the 30th time, I was getting sloppy. I noticed the nipples, and I felt bad for the fact that I was being sneaky. I decided I would get up and move, because clearly I was the one with the problem, not her.
She was a student. Young, attractive, carefree. Me? 40, careworn, but still young enough to be able to play my part in the game of life. As I began gathering my things I bumped her foot with mine.
“Sorry.” I said.
She looked up at me with engaging, warm eyes.
“Pardon?” she enquired, easily.
“I just apologised for touching your foot.” I explained.
She smiled, and used her hand in a dismissive expression.
“God, don’t worry, it’s not as if anyone can keep themselves to themselves in these trains, is it?”
“No, not easy” I agreed.
“But that doesn’t quite explain why you’ve spent the past half hour staring at my tits, does it?” She asked, again – so easily, like she had commented on the weather. There was no rebuke in her voice, just as there was no invitation or suggestion. Just a very fair statement.
I opened my mouth to speak, but said nothing. Then I realised I was 40, not a child, and that it was time I did the right thing. I was relieved to be able to admit to my admiring glances.
“You’re right. I have been. I apologise if it made you feel uncomfortable.”
She smiled, then looked down at her breasts.
“In this heat, I need to keep cool, and the fact is that people like boobs, so you’ve not offended me, I just think you could do with working on subtlety.” She put me immediately at ease.
We watched the countryside ripping past us at break-neck speed, and the silence didn’t feel like it needed to be broken, such was our comfort.
“I’m guessing that you’re married.” She stated, suddenly. I nodded. “And that you gather up all the glances of boobs and bums and knickers and take them home and make splendid love with your wife”.
Another statement. Another direct hit.
She smiled when I nodded again.
“I think girls like me should be paid for what we do for relationships. We offer up a glimpse of cleavage here and there, and somewhere shortly thereafter, a beautiful thing occurs.” She giggled at the thought.
The train began to slow, even though we were miles from the next station. We both paid attention to the unexpected turn of events for a while, conversation on pause, prominent breasts forgotten. The train came to a halt, and shortly after the engines died.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry for the delay, there’s a signalling fault ahead and we could be here for some time. bahis firmaları Further to this, the air conditioning will have to be turned off whilst stationary. We hope to be on the move shortly, and I will keep you informed”.
And with the air-con turned off, it immediately became uncomfortable. Air conditioned trains don’t have windows to open, so we were facing an uncertain period of stuffy, sweltering frustration.
I looked over at my new friend, and realised I didn’t know her name. I knew the shape of her breasts and the way her nipples responded to the cold, but I didn’t know her name. And that was fine with me. She began fanning herself with the writing pad, and I could see her begin to flush in the heat.
I could feel the blood thrumming in my veins, part heat, part desire, part adrenaline. I decided to go for broke.
“How would you feel about building the foundations of an amazing moment with my wife?” I asked a little nervously.
She fixed her gaze on me. I couldn’t read her thoughts.
“Go on” She said. “What would you have me do?”
I want to see you. I want, quite desperately, to see a lot more of you. To memorise you and tell my wife about you.
She looked out the window at the parched countryside, blinking slowly.
“Ok.” She simply said.
“Right.” I said, trying to sound like I had a clue, like I could play the role of the authoritarian. “I’ve been imagining your nipples. I’ve been wondering if they are dark, or rosey pink, and how they look standing to attention.”
She looked around, ensuring that we were alone in our space in the carriage. She then stared me straight in the eye and slowly pulled down the front of her top, exposing her milky white breasts, topped with nipples of the softest pink. She was pert, they looked firm, and she pulled firmly at the nipples, eliciting a slight gasp from her as she did so.
“Does this answer your question?” She asked, without putting her boobs back.
“Will your wife benefit? In the words of Allanis Morissette – will you be thinking of me when you fuck her?” She asked.
She looked surprised.
“Well, yes, but it won’t just be me. My wife will also be thinking of you. She will be wildly turned on that someone as beautiful and youthful as you shared something so private.”
“I like that thought. Although I need to correct you. Youthful, yes, beautiful, no. I’m happy with how I look, and right now, at this stage in my life, I’m excited by the way my body attracts attention. My boobs, my bum, even my cunt.”
I looked up, my turn to be surprised.
“I can’t be doing with words like pussy or panties. When I’m being anatomical, it’s my vagina. When I’m being sexual, it’s my cunt. Simple as that.”
I laughed. “My wife can’t get used to the fact that I think about her cunt all the time. The smell, the taste, the growth of hair she has, the way it swells moments before she comes. The way I stretch it and manipulate it so that she loses track of what finger is where.”
“Lucky woman!” she said. “When I grow up, I want to find someone as obsessed as you. Now where were we?”
I was going to get you to turn around, kneel on your seat and point your bottom out to me.
“Excellent. Good thing the train’s quiet.” She tucked her boobs back inside her top and did as I had asked. She was wearing a filmy skirt to her knees, allowing easy arrangement for the job at hand. Her pert bottom was pointed at me in a fabulously comely fashion.
“What now?” She asked.
“Please pull your skirt up and show me slowly if you have any hair down there.”
She followed my wishes, but slowly. I took in simple yellow knickers covering a delightful arse. She rubbed each cheek, weighting, cupping, clearly massaging to give and get the full affect. Then she reached in and pulled the gusset aside, exposing a surprisingly red and open slit, surrounded by soft downy mid-brown hair, the same as that on her head.
“How are we doing back there?” She asked, innocently.
“No words” I stammered.
She turned her head to look at me, then reached around with her right hand, dipping her index finger inside herself, gathering a generous kaçak iddaa amount of lubrication and bringing it back to her mouth where she liked it clean. With that she turned and sat back down, a look of pride on her face, like she’d just achieved something substantial in life.
“God it’s hot.” She said. “And it’s not being helped by getting ridiculously turned on parading myself thus.”
I loved the way she spoke.
“What’s something you wish you and your wife would do sexually, but that she won’t comply with?” She asked.
I thought about it.
“We’ve done most things.” I said. “We’re relatively open with the things we’re into. We watch some porn together, she lets me put a finger in her bum, but neither of us want or need to go the full anal. She’s had a woman lick her cunt, but she’s not interested in returning the favour. Actually, the only thing I think we would both like to do is have our minds blown by our ultimates.”
“Ultimates? Do tell.”
“Well, for her, it would be a black dancer, all sensuous and lithe, who would fuck her hard, fill her and tick the black box on her to do list.” I laughed.
“Me and her both. I’ve done just that, and it was as wonderful as I had imagined. Although you need to be able to take a bigger cock.” She stated matter of factly. “And you?” What’s your ultimate?”
“This.” I stated. “This is full of mystery still – it hasn’t been tainted by reality. I’ve not come too soon, I’ve not broken the spell with something I said. We haven’t discovered that the whole was less than the sum of the parts.”
She heard the pun, but let it pass, making her even more attractive to me.
“I’d love to see my wife come from another woman going down on her, and I’d like to fuck the other woman from behind – but only if my wife is enjoying it. I never want anyone to do anything just for me – it has to be win/win and genuine.”
“So no escorts or prostitutes for you, then?” She surmised.
“God no.” I said. “I have no problem with prostitution, just not for me.
“It sounds to me as though you like being in control, but that you’re not sure of how to be properly in control.” She said. I had never thought of it in such a way, and I realised she was right.
“You wife would probably cum on another woman’s face if you made it clear that was what you really, really wanted. A few wines, and a girl can do some pretty amazing things”
There was an easy silence.
“Oh – did you get to see the things you wanted from me? I’d hate to short change you.” She was genuinely a lovely person, who was clearly enjoying herself.
“I’d like to see you with your knickers off, knees drawn up to your chest, so your cunt and arse were fully exposed.” My voice was slightly hoarse, and I realised I had not used my manners. “If that’s ok”.
“‘Course it is.” As there was a table in our way, she got out of our seating section and made her way across the aisle so she was on the seats closest to me. She put her back against the window, and lifted her feet onto the seat. Her knickers stayed on, and I could see that they were sodden with heat and moisture.”
“What do you think your wife would think if you went home with the knickers of a 20 year old student, which are rich with the smell of a cunt on the verge of explosion?” She asked.
“We’ll have to see.” I responded.
She pulled her knees to her chest, lifted her feet and with her right hand, pushed the gusset o of her knickers into herself. They moulded against her womanhood, outlining her cunt for me. It was lewd, it was forward and it was quite possibly the hottest thing I had ever seen. She then pulled the knickers aside and set about probing her depths with her right hand, closing her eyes and losing herself in her moment.
Knowing the spell could be broken any time, she worked fast. Her left hand was employed to keep the knickers aside, and with her right hand, her index and middle finger were used to pump at her open and slick channel, while her thumb brushed her clit and her little finger tickled at the space between the bottom of her vagina and her anus. She worked at herself feverishly – eyes still closed. She seemed to thrust harder into herself, and her top kaçak bahis seemed to suddenly want to double over as she was hit with a freight train of sensation.
The sounds of her orgasm were drowned out by the electrics starting up and the driver announcing the good news about our continued journey to London. I had no idea what he actually said, so intent was I on the sight before me – a young woman in the throes of total ecstasy.
When she recovered she quickly removed her now useless under garment and came and sat next to me. There was a genuine closeness between us now.
“I have a problem.” She whispered.
“And how can I help?” I asked, genuinely concerned. I was turned on beyond belief – more sexually amped than I can recall, but still part of me wanted to lend a hand to this young woman should she need it.
“I’ll show you.” She said.
With that she lifted the arm rest between us, unbuttoned my shorts and released my straining cock, slick with excitement. She wasted no time, climbing into my lap and facing away from me. Before I knew it, I slid into her depths, and it was a truly indescribable sensation. I had no time for guilt or preserving the perfection of the tease, she had impaled herself with me.
“My problem, was that I needed to be fucked, and I decided you could do with a little fun yourself” She whispered over her shoulder to me as she rode me slowly, but grinding down on me.
I reached around with my left hand, releasing a boob and pulling at her nipple, and with my right hand I reached around and found her own hand pleasuring herself.
“The other hole.” she gasped.
I turned my palm upwards and placed my middle finger so that every time she sank onto me, I massaged her anal opening.
Which was all it took.
She exploded, and I followed immediately, forcing myself into her with everything I had in my being.
After a minute or so, she climbed off me and took her knickers, holding them to her cunt to catch our mixed fluids. She then quietly went back to her seat, picking up her pen, and prepared to write on a blank piece of paper.
“What’s your wife’s name?” She asked.
“Carina.” I responded.
“Dear Carina” she said – slowly telling me what she was writing as she went.
“I have to admit to some very bad behaviour. I just fucked your husband. He had no choice. I was in desperate need to be fucked, and – well, he was in no position to refuse. That said, he started it by staring at my boobs when he was sitting across from me on the train, and they like to be looked at, so… look, he’s a very good looking man, and you’re a lucky woman.
He clearly adores you, and was intent on just taking the excitement of some harmless flirtation home to you, where I was reliably informed that you would both fuck like rabbits.
But I couldn’t hold out. So – as I said, I fucked him.
He has my undies. They are soaked with the produce from my cunt and his cock, and the thought that you will get to see them turns me on ridiculously.
It may sound a bit strange, but is there any way you could return the favour? We could be like pen-pals, only we’ll do it with knickers! Probably way too kinky, but right now, sitting next to your beautiful man, I feel somehow connected to you both.
I hope I haven’t frightened you off, and that your husband has the courage to show you this letter.
She signed the letter, adding her address and contact details as we were arriving at London Waterloo. She ripped the page from her pad, folded it nicely and handed the letter to me.
“Thanks, Leila” I said, happy that I now had a name to call her.
“And you are?” She asked politely.
“James.” I responded.
“Nice to meet you, James.” She said, all formal suddenly.
I followed behind her as she walked through the barriers at Waterloo. She looked around for the underground and was about to head off when she looked back to see me standing there. She walked quickly to me and kissed me on the lips hard. No tongues, nothing sexual, just a warm, solid connection between two people – an acknowledgment of something beautiful.
“Please have courage, James. I will be checking my mail regularly.”
With that she turned away from me and was gone. I had the slick memory of her on my skin, and her very sodden knickers in my pocket.
Question is, do I have the courage?
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