Come Play With Me Again

by Sommer Marsden

  I stood in the same place, having taken off my coat on the platform. It lay folded on my bag and I leaned against the partition in a thinner blouse and tighter skirt than I’d worn the day before, waiting to reach London Bridge. Underneath my blouse I wore the push-up bra I usually reserved for nights out. It made the buttons of my blouse strain a little over the generous curves. I wondered whether to fasten my cardigan over the top, but the devil in me decided against it.

  If I was going to act like a slut, I might as well look like one.

  ‘You look nice,’ he said, slotting himself in as close to me as possible. It was a purr, low and throaty, delivered direct to my ear. ‘Is this for my benefit?’

  His fingers whispered over the nape of my neck, making my hair stand on end.

  ‘Just … work gear,’ I said, swallowing.

  ‘Really?’ He didn’t believe me. ‘What type of work would that be, with the padded bra and the tight skirt? Are you changing at Moorgate for Soho?’

  ‘Jesus! You’re so rude.’

  The volume of my exclamation attracted the attention of some of our fellow passengers.

  He gave my neck a light warning pinch, and moved his hand down my back, letting it rest on my waistband.

  ‘Sorry,’ I muttered.

  He put his lips right against my ear. ‘I can be a lot ruder than that,’ he promised. ‘But that’s up to you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ My heart bumped along with the train on the track.

  ‘Want me to show you?’ His hand slipped down over the curve of my bum.

  I clenched my thighs, heat rushing into my face. Nobody could see what he was doing – it all took place below the glass part of the divider – but I felt as if everybody knew.

  ‘You could undo a button or two,’ he said, looking down my cleavage.

  ‘I couldn’t!’ I gasped.

  ‘Yes, you could. Look – I’ll hold my jacket like this – and nobody can see.’

  It was true; the position of his jacket obscured the view for everyone but him and me. The near-silent whisper in which he made his dirty suggestions made them somehow all the more thrilling. I was so wet I worried that it would soak through my skirt. His hand still stroked the fullest part of my bottom – if it went any lower, would he notice my arousal?

  Keeping my eyes lowered, I unfastened the top button of my blouse. He crowded closer to me, shielding me from public view. He would only have to take one step away for everything to be visible to everyone. I looked up at him, uncertain, and he nodded, his face tense. This was an instruction to undo another button.

  I could see my chest heaving as I gradually exposed the upper slopes of my breasts to him.

  The hand on my bottom moved up and closed around the still clothed portion of my right breast, squeezing the softness.

  ‘Nice bra,’ he noted, gazing down at the dark-red and gold scalloped lace.

  ‘Thanks. Have you seen enough?’ It was a dangerous question and I held my breath.

  ‘For now,’ he said.

  With a mixture of relief and disappointment, I refastened my blouse. What on earth was the disappointment about? Did I want him to rip the thing off me, here on the train, and bury his face in my breasts? Actually, it was a titillating image and I immediately wished I hadn’t thought it.

  His hand moved back down, patted my hip, then slid to my thigh.

  ‘What’s under this?’ he whispered.

  I could see the effect of our illicit activities in the bulge at his crotch. He would need to carry his bag in front of it somehow when he got off the train, wherever that might be. I betted it was Old Street. There was a whiff of hipster in the gloriously unchecked hair and the blasé attitude to shaving.

  ‘My legs,’ I whispered back.

  He reached around behind me and gave my bottom the teeniest, most discreet smack. A tap, really, but it set off a red alert between my thighs. Damn, I was soaking. I was going to have to consider bringing a change of underwear to work if this kept up.

  ‘Smartarse,’ he said. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Tights,’ I said. ‘And, obviously, knickers.’

  ‘Why obviously?’ he said.

  My ears burned. I had a feeling this was going to be expanded on at some point.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow – stockings. OK?’

  ‘I don’t have any.’

  ‘Then buy some.’ He delved into his trouser pocket – must have been a bit crowded in there, judging by the continuing bulge at his crotch – and pulled out a wallet, from which he extracted a ten-pound note. ‘Here. I want you wearing them tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?’

  ‘Mm hmm.’ He tucked the banknote into the waistband of my skirt. ‘This skirt’s a bit tight for what I have in mind, though. Something looser. And stockings. Suspenders if you want, but holdups are fine. Oh. Here’s your stop.’

  ‘You’re going to have to work on that before you get to yours,’ I said, indicating his erection.

  ‘I’ve got it in hand,’ he said with a wink, slapping my bottom again as the doors opened, sending me on my way with a prickly-heat sweat and an uncomfortably wet gusset.

  Oh, my God. This was crazy. It had to stop before we went too far and got arrested.

  I wouldn’t do the stocking thing. I’d give him his tenner back tomorrow and revert to reading my book. Or maybe just suggest we exchange phone numbers, like civilised people.

  And yet the next morning found me clinging to that yellow pole in a flippy flared skirt, another push-up bra and the required hosiery. I’d overspent the ten pounds, sucked in by a gorgeous suspender belt and the most sophisticated smoky seamed stockings in the window of the expensive sex shop in Covent Garden. That had been an interesting lunch hour.

  Despite a lack of evidence, I had the feeling that everyone knew what I was doing. Everybody must have noticed that I never sat in my end seat any more, and that I was always crowded close to the tall red-haired guy, and that my workwear was becoming exponentially sexier with the passing of each day. I was the blatant slut of the 7.57 to High Barnet. I couldn’t face any of them but stared fixedly at my phone screen until we pulled out of Borough and my heart began to pound.

  I put the phone away, almost dancing with excitement.

  For once he was one of the first on, claiming his territory at my side with heavy-bag-wielding determination.

  ‘Did you do it?’ he asked, his breath displacing the tendrils of hair behind my ear.

  ‘Maybe,’ I whispered back.

  He put a hand on my waist, his fingertips pressing into me. His raised eyebrows indicated displeasure with my response.

  ‘OK,’ I said, surrendering. ‘Yes.’

  The lowest, faintest hint of a growl, for my ears only.

  ‘Good,’ he said.

  Without even thinking about what was visible to the other passengers, he reached up and plucked at my top button, opening up my lower throat and collarbone to general view. My breasts were still concealed, but it was a gesture of intent, and somebody must have seen it.

  ‘What are you …?’ I gasped in a mild panic.

  He put a finger to my lips.

  ‘You didn’t look comfortable,’ he said. He came closer, his feet on either side of mine, and braced one hand on the partition just above my head. Now he covered me completely, hiding most of me from the other passengers, but this was several degrees more intimate than the usual crowded tube huddle, and anyone who looked our way couldn’t fail to think that we were together as a couple.

  The heat of our bodies crossed paths, mine to him, his to mine. His aftershave blended with my perfume and the faint remains of coffee and peppermint. His trousers brushed my skirt, too lightly for limbs to touch, but there was still an erotic edge to it, a hint of frottage.

  I swallowed, resting my head back against the toughened glass in a gesture of offering.

  He accepted.

  For a horrible moment I thoug
ht he was going to cross the line of tube etiquette and kiss me, but instead he put his hand on my hip and slid it slowly down until it encountered the telltale bump of a suspender snap.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he breathed. ‘Well done.’

  But this wasn’t evidence enough, apparently, because his hand crept lower, reaching the mid-thigh hem of my skirt. He curled his fingers inside, drew it slowly up, and further up.

  And now we had to rely on the tendency of tube passengers not to look too closely at what anyone else was up to. Would the magic hold? I held my breath as he pushed my hem higher, fraction by fraction, finally reaching the lacy top of my stocking and cupping it with his exploring hand.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, very quietly, very low in his throat, just for me and nobody else to hear. ‘You sexy little … oh, God. Why did I ask you to do this?’

  He shut his eyes and rested his forehead above mine on the glass partition for a moment, apparently overwhelmed. I could see, and feel, the swollen lump at his crotch as it made contact with my stomach.

  His fingers stole above the stocking top, tips pressing into my inner thigh, which was slick with perspiration. He let the skirt fall down over his wrist and risked moving his fingers higher. He was virtually in my knickers, running up the line of the suspender elastic, tickling me into a shivering madness of desire.

  Would he really go so far as to put his fingers inside me? And would I really do nothing to stop him?

  I was panting into his collar, my legs stiff, beginning to tremble at the knees. I grabbed hold of his lapels to keep myself from sliding down the partition wall.

  He was so close … he was almost there.

  He tapped two fingers on the satiny gusset of my knickers, sending a shockwave through my pussy, then withdrew.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I whispered, utterly undone, beyond caring about everything around us. ‘Don’t stop.’

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart, but we’re nearly at Moorgate,’ he murmured apologetically. ‘But it’s Friday tomorrow, and you know what day Friday is?’

  ‘Er …’ My head swirled. ‘Dress down?’

  ‘In a way. No pants Friday.’ He winked at my shocked face as the train slowed and juddered. ‘Till tomorrow.’ He turned me to the doors by my shoulders and sent me on my way with a furtive smack to my bottom.

  Was I actually going to stand on a packed tube train in a virtually see-through blouse, short flippy skirt, stockings, suspenders, Wonderbra and no knickers?

  Why, yes. Yes, I was. And I did.

  But at London Bridge he didn’t get on.

  I had to double-check, looking desperately out at the platform in case he was late, running to me, tie streaming, bag flying. But he wasn’t.

  The doors bleeped and shut without him.

  I slumped.

  His connecting train must have been late, I thought. Or perhaps he was ill. I hoped it wasn’t that. But illness was better than my third option, which was that he had merely tired of our game and the way I played it.

  I had to blink back tears, which was ridiculous. Honestly. A few mad fumbles on a tube train didn’t justify this level of upset. But there it was. Now I would have to wait a whole weekend to find out what had happened.

  I got off at Moorgate, crestfallen and inconveniently knickerless. I was going to have to watch who stood behind me on the escalator. Or was there somewhere I could go to put on the pair I had in my handbag for when I reached the office?

  I was scanning the platform for possibilities when someone caught my arm from behind, fingers closing around it. I nearly screamed, then I swung my head round and saw who it was.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ I said, and it was weird to be able to talk to him at a normal volume. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘Thought I’d switch things up a bit,’ he said nonchalantly, slipping his arm through mine and walking me towards the escalator. ‘Don’t want you getting bored with me.’

  ‘Fat chance of that,’ I said. He nudged me gently on to the escalator, standing gallantly behind me so that nobody would see my stocking tops. Was that gallant? Or was it actually just a perving opportunity?

  I didn’t much care. I felt lightheaded and rapturous at this new development, especially when he leaned forward slightly and put his hands on the outsides of my thighs, his palms pressing into my suspender snaps. As public displays of affection went, it was unorthodox, but it felt like a warm kiss of welcome.

  ‘I can’t take you to work with me,’ I said once we were at street level, turning to him and laughing with the sheer delight of it all.

  ‘No, but I can,’ he said obliquely, following me through the ticket barrier.

  ‘What? But you don’t work here.’

  ‘I didn’t. But I do now.’

  He took my hand and ran across the street with me to one of the never-ending building sites that peppered the city – this one had colonised the little street that led to Finsbury Circus. He fished out a key from his jacket pocket, unlocked the padlock that sealed it off from the public and pulled me in after him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m overseeing this site now,’ he said. ‘I’ll be working here for a couple of months at least.’

  He led me up some steps to a portacabin in the corner of the site, unlocked it and locked the door behind us.

  I stared at him, amazed and enthralled.

  ‘I’ll be late …’ I said, hesitating.

  ‘So the train was held up,’ he said, hooking an arm around me and drawing me hard against him. ‘Happens all the time on the Northern Line.’

  ‘True,’ I said into his mouth, before he sealed my lips with a scorching kiss.

  His hands were under my skirt, his tongue down my throat, my bottom on his desk, his fingers up inside me, my fist inside his trousers, his trousers down, my skirt up – all in the space of what seemed like three seconds. I lay back on his desk, my legs wrapped around his hips, panting into his mouth like an animal in heat, ready for the logical conclusion of our week-long foreplay.

  He produced a condom from somewhere, batted my hand off his cock so he could put it on, and then we were away, the table rocking with the force of his thrusts, the windows steaming around us.

  ‘I’d have done this to you on the train,’ he gasped, gripping my shoulders for purchase, ‘if I’d got on there today. I couldn’t wait any longer …’

  ‘I wanted you to,’ I said, latching on to his neck with my mouth.

  I was a bare-faced slut who’d been taken to his office to get what I’d been begging for all week. God, it felt incredible.

  He let go of one shoulder and used his free hand to drive a hard smack up from underneath my hard-working legs, landing on the overhanging part of my bottom.

  ‘Any girl who wears these to work,’ he said, twanging a suspender, ‘ought to expect this kind of thing.’ He spanked me again.

  ‘That’s why I’m wearing them,’ I said, enjoying the hot glow spreading through my skin.

  ‘Thought so.’ Another hard smack, then his thumb alighted on my clit and rubbed away as he continued to rock me all over the desk.

  I came clinging on to his lapels, in a blur of banging and clattering from below and stubbly kissing from above. He followed quickly, a fist in my hair, hot mouth over mine.

  I felt utterly ruined, and must have looked it too.

  ‘You’re going to have to walk to your office looking like that,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘I hope you’ve got decent mirrors in the ladies’. Our portaloo won’t really do the job.’

  He handed me a wad of paper towels and I cleaned myself up, burning-cheeked and sheepish.

  So this was it. It was done. Back to work, and everything back to the old routine.

  But he stopped me before I walked back out.

  ‘So, what time do you leave work?’

  I turned back, hopeful. ‘About sixish.’

  ‘You could meet me here if you want. We could go out for a drink or something.’

  ‘What’s “or something”?�
�� I asked with an arch of my eyebrows.

  ‘Why don’t you come and find out?’ he said.

  Rubbed the Right Way

  Heather Towne

  Linda had always suspected that her best friend Terri’s son Lawrence was gay. Not that she had a problem with that. She just wished that the young man who lived next door with his mother would come out of the closet and get it over with, or find a girlfriend and show the world and his mother that he was actually straight.

  It was more than Lawrence’s slim build and fluffy blond hair, his rather effeminate gestures and manner of speaking, that aroused Linda’s suspicions. It was also his choice of friends (all female), his hobbies (flower arranging and tropical fish collecting) and his careers. According to Terri, Lawrence, by the age of twenty, had already been a hair stylist, a fashion designer and a manicurist. Heavy equipment operators and truck drivers apparently made him giggle.

  So it was no surprise to Linda when Lawrence traipsed into her home and announced one afternoon, ‘I’m going to become a massage therapist – a masseur!’

  ‘That’s wonderful!’ Linda exclaimed, always supportive of her friends and family.

  She was in for a jolt, though, when, a week or so later, as she was sunbathing in the sunroom of her home, Lawrence walked in on her carrying a massage table under one arm and a giant bottle of baby oil under the other. ‘I want to practise on you, Linda. Is that OK? Mother said you probably wouldn’t mind.’

  Linda was stretched out on a towel-covered lounger, wearing just her neon-orange bikini for maximum sun-drenching. Her voluptuous body shone golden under the tanning oil and sun, her large breasts splayed out and her long legs spread. Her eyes popped open and she jackknifed upwards at the sound of her neighbour’s voice. She tried to wrench a towel from under her back to cover her more than partially nude body.

  But Lawrence stopped her, saying, ‘Oh, don’t cover yourself up. You’re fine just like that.’

  He unfolded the massage table, pulled out the legs and propped it up next to Linda’s lounger. Then he flung a towel over his shoulder, uncapped the bottle of baby oil and patted the padded surface of the table. ‘Climb aboard, Linda. It’d be a big help to me. We’re just learning the techniques in class, and the instructor said we should practise as much as possible – as homework.’