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A train journey with an unexpected extra.
This is the story of a train journey and although it is true it is about getting from London to Birmingham, it is also another journey for me, a journey of self-discovery. You’re probably wondering a little about who I am, so a few words are needed. I will put out the obvious ones, like outgoing, friendly woman in her mid-20s. I’ll add hazel eyes, brunette and big boobs because for some of you that means something. I add the words fun-loving and adventurous because it can mean so many different things: we all interpret these words in our own way. I always smile when I heard people describe themselves in that way- I wonder what they would think of my version of fun-loving and adventurous.
Train journeys are for most people a chore, A to B – get it over with. And that day I will admit I probably saw it as an A to B exercise, coming at the end of a long, hot day shopping in London. I had my purchases in my bag, some rather special clothes I had sought out to surprise my boyfriend. He had noticed something a girl was wearing in a film and I had felt him stiffen in involuntary response. Let’s just say what she was wearing isn’t available in the big high street chains.
It was when we had to change trains at Hemel Hempstead that the story starts. A train was cancelled and so all of us were directed to an already full train. We squeezed into the corridors and between seats – an awkward experience of enforced closeness. Not that I mind it I hasten to add. It seemed strangely erotic because my thoughts had wandered a bit in the first leg of the journey out of London. Maybe it was the garments in my bag that had stimulated my imagination. Sorry I should add – I do have a very fertile imagination. Fertile is a good word, I smiled at that. Certainly my mind had seemed especially open to new possibilities, ones that had both seemed exciting but also right on the edge of acceptable. Risky also. But I smiled at that. I couldn’t help find the risky bit strangely exhilarating. There have been a few risky encounters before that day reader, ones I may yet tell but I sensed a new boldness on the train and I was impatient if I’m honest.
I have been in public squeezes before – on buses, the underground and so on. But this time we were literally packed. I was in the corridor by the end of the carriage and I tried to assess who I was having this clothes-on orgy with. To my left was a middle aged woman, well dressed, somewhat preoccupied. To my right, a large woman in a denim jacket probably around my age. In front of me was another man, well-built probably in his 50s in tee shirt and jeans but with his back to me. I realised my large boobs pressed against his back, something, if I’m honest, I didn’t really mind.
The most intriguing for me there was a tall older man behind me, bald and slightly overweight, in a business suit. I had noticed him looking at me when we jostled for space in the corridor. He was looking at me in a way I found interesting. You see reader we do all find different things interesting: it touches us in a way that captivates us. I should add I suppose that it was interesting to me because his look had tapped into a kink that was growing stronger with each passing day. I suppose it had to slip out at some time in this story so I may as well admit it now. I know you will have your own kinks, but mine is older men. There I said it. The words are out there now. Don’t leave me now, there are good reasons – just stay with me. Oh did I forget to say? When I say my kink is older men I don’t canlı bahis just mean chatting to them, although that is incredibly erotic also.
So I stood wedged between the middle aged man in front of me and this older man behind me. He had managed to position himself so he was behind me and able to look down the front of my dress, being much taller than me.
You’re wondering what I was wearing. The truth is not very much under my thin, billowy summer dress. A strapless bra that hardly kept my F boobs in order and a very tiny G string, a thing of mainly elastic with a tiny triangle of thin white satin. I did say it was a hot day so please excuse the fact it felt a bit wet down there between my legs. The tiny white satin triangle was sticking to me and I could feel it rubbing as I flexed my thighs. I probably should also mention I had started to get wet because of my thoughts of how I was going to surprise my boyfriend with a new garment. Garment is the loosest possible term for a bra harness and I smiled again at how wet it had made me when I tried it on; a wetness that lingered in the tiny G string.
The older man behind me had worked out that my dress was billowy – a nice word. Thin and gaping would be another description. There wasn’t much of it also I should add, an olive green material that only just hung onto my shoulders and didn’t bother to try reaching my knees. So really not much at all. And very loose and thin. I mean actually very thin. When I wrapped my hand over the dress it felt like touching skin. I had done it in the morning when I put it on, relishing the sensual pleasure of my hand over my body. In truth, when I had done it had been imagining many other hands groping the dress. Male hands of a certain type, the sort not spoken of in polite circles. But I have digressed.
The man behind me was looking straight down the front of my dress since his head was pretty much over my shoulder. I could feel his breath on my hair he was that close. On another occasion I would have baulked at this invasion of my personal space, but today was different. Let’s say I was in another place mentally that hot day. I shuddered. Was I really going to see some of my very wayward wishes fulfilled? It seemed unlikely if I was practical about it: too many things had to be in place.
When he had first looked at my boobs I knew that look -it could only mean one thing: pervert. I gave a little involuntary gasp. The word had such power to me. On the one hand the creepy obsession, furtive looks, masturbating on buses and all that sort of thing. There was a part of me that found the idea compelling and fascinating. I can’t remember how fragments of perversion had slipped into my imagination, but they had; I smiled at the strange mix that was my mind.
The train jolted and we all bumped together, my boobs pushing forcefully into the man’s back. He probably enjoyed it, or even if he didn’t, I certainly did. Human contact excited me. And from behind I felt the older man pressing into me. I couldn’t help fantasising about him, reflecting on the pervy look he gave as he ogled my boobs. He was looking at them now, his eyes unashamedly eating them up. An idea flashed through my head and made me heart skip a beat but that was surely one step too far.
What was he thinking as he was pressed against me? Had he actually got a pervy mind? What if he was just enjoying my boobs like most men seemed to? I had a moment’s panic: I needed him to have a pervy streak if my next chapter was to come about. As a tease to myself, I thrust my bum back as much bahis siteleri as I could, to make him feel me. It was hard to tell if he responded, because everyone was pushed together so tightly. I noticed he didn’t seem to pull back. I felt a sense of hope rising me.
But another thought crowded in. What if he was a real pervert? My body was touching him and if I set him off what might happen? Would he follow me home? for a moment I wasn’t sure if I was terrified or exhilarated and I rocked between the two.
The train glided to a stop at Milton Keynes. A few passengers got off and for a second I found myself panicking that the older man might as well. When he remained pressed to me I sensed from my relief that I was choosing excitement over caution. More people got on and the crush of bodies continued.
I was happy to feel the train move again, mostly because I loved the rhythmic shaking of the carriage that bumped me first against the middle aged man in front and then back against the older one behind me. It was hot, heat from both bodies and summer sun. Heat always aroused me and the sweat forming on my stomach and boobs seemed so sensual. I flexed my thighs again and squirmed my G string against my pussy lips. My thoughts were stirring again, ones that rode like warriors on horses – unstoppable, urgent, insistent like a drum beat. Wild thoughts, outrageous ones, dirty ones of whores and sluts.
A part of me reasoned I should just arouse myself with my thoughts and touch myself at home: after all this was the most public place. You could be arrested for indecent acts in public couldn’t you? It was as I was resigned to my own company that I felt his hand on my bum cheek. I shuddered. God – he was touching me!
A wave of revulsion came over me: he was a pervert. I was trapped against a pervert, on a train. I let my heart race for several seconds at my new predicament. Do I scream? Do I slap him? But even as these thoughts jostled inside me, I felt his hand now caressing my bum cheek, a smooth circling as if he was kneading dough. It was utterly sensual as well as a violation. My mind was flipping every second from fear to lust and back again. But lust was winning: I had imagined something like this haven’t I? In fact I had wanted it. In some dark and dirty corner there was a part of me that found older men intensely erotic, and here was one perving me.
My pussy told me what my brain was struggling to accept; I wanted this. I felt a fresh wetness drench my G string, and I squeezed my thighs to feel the wet material drag across my lips. God this was madness, but it was far and away the most intense arousal I had ever known.
I wiggled my ass as a signal to him and I felt his hand clench the cheek. I thrust back to make sure he got the message loud and clear. I felt my heart rate quicken. Have the others noticed? I glanced about, nervous, furtive but very aroused. They all seemed in their own little world while my ass was being fondled by a stranger right next to them.
I let out a gentle moan and the smart lady glanced at me. I smiled at her and she looked away. I don’t know why I was concerned about them – the way things were going I would soon not care.
I gave a firm thrust back into his groin and then wiggled my ass pointedly side to side. Fuck you better do something quick, I told myself. Something had taken over me.
I felt his hand drag the thin dress upward and the gossamer thin material slid up my ass cheek. Then he scrunched it up onto my hip and slid his hand down onto my bare flesh. It was as bahis şirketleri if he had a red hot glove. I flinched and gasped. My whole body was lighting up, and needing to stimulate my nipples I dragged my big F boobs across the back of the man in front of me. I felt my nipples harden and become sensitive. Then I wiggled my shoulders and my dress slipped down a bit, revealing my boobs a little more. What was I becoming? The words filled my head and exhilarated me: cum slut.
But what would he do? Was this to be it? A grope and then he left the train at Northampton? I felt a wave of panic. Surely not!
I wiggled my shoulders again so my dress slipped even further and glancing down my ample cleavage beckoned like the Grand Canyon. He must get the hint!
And he did. His fingers slid under the thin elastic of the G string and I felt it tug against my pussy. Then his hand slipped between my bum cheeks, now damp with sweat. I felt his hand grope and then pause. I could have cried: why was he stopping? My moment of being a slut could have ended.
The train slowed and stopped and with the lack of movement he paused. I panted, wanton lust coursing through me. Get moving – please! And it did; the train glided off and as the rhythmic shaking resumed he started to finger me through the G string. I knew it was soaked, and he massaged it into the slit, the silky material caressing the moist folds of my labia. I was exhilarated. A stranger was molesting me, an older stranger. Fuck, oh fuck, I wanted it.
I leant my head towards him, my hair brushing his cheek. I wanted to cum and I wanted him to know that. I breathed out “yes” almost as a hiss. I knew he heard because his fingering changed. He dragged the G string to the side and his warm fingers folded into my pussy, teasing it till it tingled.
I’m not sure how long I climaxed – it seemed to be a blur of ecstasy, maybe more a succession of climaxes all rolled into one. I must have groaned because the smart woman kept snapping her head towards me and looking disapproving. I didn’t care. I only knew my pussy was on fire and I had found my vocation.
He held me like that for the whole section to Coventry, his finger working my dripping pussy. Then I finally stopped panting and wiggled my bum into his groin. As the train moved off for Birmingham I knew there was more to do. I reached back and tried to grope his trousers. I felt his cock like some giant peppermill, straining his trousers. It was in that instant I knew two things for certain: I wanted to be fucked by older men and also to be fucked by total strangers.
I felt him deal with the zip and then I felt his cock rubbing hard against my ass crack. I loved it. I was enraptured. I squirmed under it, relishing his perversion, feeling it driving up against sweaty, wet skin. And I wanted more…Fuck yes! I wanted him in my ass, driven right in to complete my mission. I squirmed and writhed, acheing for him to get himself up my ass. As I lifted myself on my toes I felt him ride into my tight hole, the pain a joyous climax deep in me. I know little of how long he abused my ass, only that the whole time I was now fulfilling my most vivid fantasies, a way of life that was calling out to me. I hoped that Birmingham would not come too soon. Luckily as the train began to slow I felt him stiffen and pull back. Great wads of cum danced across my ass crack. I pressed myself against him, feeling the slow crawl of cum down my bum cheeks and thighs, delighted that at last I was a real slut, a train whore. I would be back for more.
As the crush of bodies cleared I picked up my bag with the bra harness, and walked along the platform with his still cum dripping down my thighs. I had my new vocation, and with my heart singing I headed back to my boyfriend.
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