Vignette: Getting Close on the Tube

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Blonde

I usually try to avoid travelling on the London underground during the evening rush-hour, but today I have a late tutorial and it’s already five o’clock before I get to Holborn station. You’re waiting for me by the ticket office, and greet me with a lingering kiss. You hold me tight as we stand on the escalator, descending into the hot maelstrom of commuters, shoppers and tourists, all fighting to get to wherever it is they are going. I feel your hands stroking my bum. I know from the text messages that you have been sending me that you’ve been feeling horny all day, and wanting to have me. They have made me feel sexy too, and I have been rubbing myself through my thin jeans all afternoon whenever I am able. Now your sensual touch starts to make me feel tingly already, and I long to get back to your flat, knowing what we will do when we get there. The platform is packed too, and we let the first train go, hoping that the next one will be less crowded. But it is just istanbul travesti as bad, so we decide to squeeze on anyway and hope that it will empty further on. We find ourselves pressed together at the end of a carriage, wedged into the corner by the single door. Your face is nuzzling at my neck and I can feel your warm breath on my skin, your hair brushing against my cheek, fresh scent of shampoo. I feel very close to you: not just physically, but emotionally too. Normally I hate standing in a crowded tube, but with you to cling to it becomes a pleasure; a special time of intimacy. I rub my leg against yours, like a friendly cat. I feel your mouth on the bare skin of my neck; you press your lips against my skin and suck at it. Is that your tongue I can feel, rough and wet? I purr deep in my throat. I can feel my breasts pressed against your chest, moulding together. I imagine how it would feel if we were both naked, my pale bare skin contrasted istanbul travestileri with your fit tanned body. More people squeeze on at Oxford Circus. We are squashed even closer. Somehow you have got your hand behind me, and I can feel it stroking lightly over my bum, then sliding round my hip and lingering on my thigh. I feel a little shiver of pleasure run through my body. Your hand moves round to the front; I suck in my breath as it reaches the plump bulge of my pudenda in my tight thin jeans. My arm is round your back, resting on you, but now I pull you against me, acknowledging your touch. Your hand stays where it is, and I feel your finger pressing against my mound, finding the little depression where my slit bisects it. I feel my face flushing, both with excitement and embarrassment. My eyes flick left and right, trying to see if anyone is watching. People nearby are reading papers, doing crosswords, listening to music, each absorbed in travesti istanbul his or her own private little world. But you are in my world and I am in yours. Your hand rests casually against my pubic mound. Slowly at first, as if by accident, you start to massage it, two fingers pushing between my thighs. Squeezing and rubbing, you crease and wrinkle my jeans tight against my pussy. I feel them rubbing directly against my bulge, pressing between my labia as you rub more vigorously, trying to keep your arm still so that no-one will notice what is going on. The noise of the rumbling tube muffles the occasional sound of thumb rubbing across tight jeans. Your mouth is still at my neck. Your teeth nip at my skin. Your fingers are fiddling round my crotch. I realise you have found my jeans zip. You wouldn’t, would you? You would. I realise you have slowly pulled down the zip. I whisper your name, fearful yet not wanting you to stop. Your hand pressed against the opening, fingers slip inside, now sliding against the thin silky covering of my little cotton panties. You can feel every detail of my plump little mound, stroking it gently. Moulding it, squeezing it. I feel a tingling in my pussy; know I must be getting wet down there.

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Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

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