Girl

You hustle, stuck somewhere in that awkward gait between a frantic walk and a run. Your open strappy shoes are not the least practical in the world, especially in the current warmth, but there is enough height in them to put safe running just out of reach. Besides, at your natural height, you’re hardly going to tower over anyone due to the addition of a few centimetres.

You’re not quite late for the train after the one you’d planned to catch, resigned now to battling your way through rush hour. You dodge and jink your way through the crowd with only the occasional brush or bump. A few even faster travellers-to-be pass you, hurrying to catch their own trains, or perhaps outpacing you to yours.

“Did you see the fucking pins on that?”

“Yeah mate and what about that arse?”

You smile inside as the voices fade behind: two younger men, barely out of their teenage years, unable to stop themselves from checking you out as they passed. A little rude, perhaps, but you would have been disappointed if you hadn’t elicited some sort of reaction. Not with this outfit.

If one could call it an outfit. A dress, that’s all it is; a sheer, white, stretchy, form fitting dress. It moulds to your form in a way you know oozes sex appeal and it is short, very short. The thin fabric barely covers your tight bottom and, whenever you wear it, you have to take great care when sitting or when tempted to bend over. Of course tempting the right person has sometimes tempted you into being the temptress.

Apart from your shoes, you’re wearing nothing else: no t-shirt nor top nor cardigan nor coat; no bra to hide your erect nipples; no knickers shielding your bare pussy from the movements of the air, or from view.

You brush past a man in a suit. Your nipples harden at the contact, pushing into the dress and surely making themselves visible. Another man looks you up and down with obvious approval as he passes; a third tries to look indifferent, and fails, furtive glances giving him away.

You begin to feel that tingling itch: that need within you as you near the platform. The train is there, waiting with its doors open. You see the crowd within: standing room only. Today your tingling body will be touched and squeezed, hot and bothered. Your cheeks flush in anticipation; you only hope you have the willpower to hold yourself together until you get home.

“When I get home”, you chant to yourself under your breath. “When I get home.”

You step onto the train and make your way down the carriage. You were right: standing room only. In this outfit you would usually stand a chance of being offered a seat by a dumbstruck young man, but today a heavily pregnant lady is busily swapping with one gentlemanly soul. The chances of another swap seem remote.

But you would have declined anyway. Today you’re horny; today you want to be part of the swaying, jostling, and, if you’re lucky, groping crowd.

The seat swap reaches its laborious conclusion; as it does so the aisle fills up behind you, bumping you politely forward until you are wedged in place. You’re stuck now between a tall, blue suited man to your front and someone - someone unseen - to your back.

Beepbeepbeepbeep.

The rapid beeping heralds the closing of the doors. Departure time.

The train lurches as the engine engages; everyone is jolted backwards. Your bottom bumps into the passenger behind, directly at crotch level. A man then, by the feel of what’s pressing into your bum.

The man behind moves back slightly, politely extricating himself from any embarrassing predicament, surely thinking that you must be about to turn around and give him what for.

But you don’t; what you do is move back a little bit more, planting your derrière gently but firmly back in his groin.

Your move mister.

His move is to be hesitant. You feel his surprise at the renewed contact, the first tiny flinch as his societally imposed reactions make him automatically start to pull away. But now - now he pauses.

It’s make or break time. Now he’ll either break contact, perhaps out of embarrassment or fear, or he will stay - maybe even push back.

Still he hesitates, perhaps unsure if your intentions are real. But they are real - oh so real. You bite your lower lip and decide to sweeten the deal.

You sway as the train sways, letting your hips exaggerate the motion imperceptibly. Imperceptibly to all, that is, except the groin behind you. You let your cheeks rub over his bulge - his ever increasing bulge - swaying and rubbing and positioning until you have teased him to what feels like full erection. A full erection that now sits comfortably in the cleft between your toned buttocks.

So it would seem that he is interested, and he hasn’t made any further attempts to pull himself away. In fact you feel his body lean in towards you slightly; his warmth radiates into your back. You catch his scent as you breathe: he’s wearing aftershave, mellow and intoxicating - it mixes well with the musky undertones of a man who has spent his day at work.

At last you feel him move. The bulge of his cock rides up and down your bottom, always to the rhythm of the swaying carriage, disguising his motion. If anything he gets harder, belying your earlier assumption that he was fully erect.

You inhale his scent again. Your pussy tingles and moistens as your body responds. He’s rubbing you - rubbing you obscenely but discreetly in this crowded space. Your shoulder and, occasionally, your aroused, sensitive nipples brush against the oblivious be-suited man in front.

The train slows.

“Next stop: Sumburgh. Next stop: Sumburgh.”

A few people get off; more get on. Everyone shuffles up and squeezes tighter. The seats to either side of you now are back to back, creating little triangles where bins are placed. Your beau - your unseen beau - presses into you again, even before the train resumes its journey.

Clickety clack, clickety clack.

The sound of the rails worms its way into your brain. It’s hypnotic - drawing you in to a world of pressing bodies, of heady aftershave and warmth, of swaying and rubbing.

And then you feel his hand upon you.

His touch is light, landing on your hip and settling there. He squeezes gently and then his hand drifts. Slowly, slowly it inches its way down your dress, using the motion of the train to nudge closer and closer to the hem. You push your bottom back in to him, grinding it against the bulge of his cock, hoping he understands that you approve.

He must do, for his hand drops still further; now the fingers rest on your bare thigh. The feel of his skin on yours is electric, sending ripples of sensation from your skin directly, it seems, to your pussy. His fingers trace circles on your thigh, drifting down still more until his palm is touching you too. You feel the moisture build in your pussy and you squirm - not in discomfort, but in need.

He lifts your skirt a tiny fraction, tucking his fingers underneath. His skin touches your skin up high on your leg. Then you feel his other hand - on the other side. He has a grip on your hips now. If only - if only he could pull you back onto him and fuck you here, right now. But he can’t.