Black Lace Quickies 3

by Kerri Sharpe

  We slowed down and jolted to a stop at the next station. Sudoku was on the move. Perfect. We all edged a little away from him, giving him space to manoeuvre. There was only one direction I was going to move in: backwards. The doors opened, we created a pathway for his exit, and he was gone. I stood pressed closely against Grisham, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against my shoulder blades and the nudging of his toes on the back of my heels. And there was no mistaking what else I could feel stirring against my arse.

  I edged my right leg behind me and pressed the back of my thigh firmly against his hardening cock. I shifted my weight again, slowly grinding against his crotch, and felt a burst of hot breath blast against my neck. Game on.

  I bent down again, lingering to scratch a nonexistent itch on my shin, and swayed my hips from side to side, just enough movement to cause the friction I wanted. His breathing was shallow now and my knickers were distinctly damp. I straightened up and was surprised to suddenly feel his hand on my hip. His fingertips pressed into my skin, pulling me harder on to his cock. I continued to rock against him but was finding it difficult to remain discreet.

  Determined though I was to keep control of myself, there was something I could not resist any longer. I eased my body away from his and felt his grip on my hip tighten. I reached back and gently rubbed the palm of my hand over the front of his trousers.

  His fingers trailed along the curve of my hip, then grazed my arse, fluttering across the material of my tailored trousers. He began to caress more insistently, rubbing and squeezing my flesh, and then he drove his fingers between my legs in an effort to force my thighs apart. How easy it would have been to allow him to touch me there. But that wasn’t part of the game. I twisted my lower body away from him.

  I heard a low groan and quickly reached back, keeping the rest of my body at a safe distance. I closed my fingers around him, feeling his heat as I gripped his hardness, and I squeezed along his length, imagining the sight of him, his cock straining for release. I sensed the tension in every muscle in his body as he tried to keep his composure. He was struggling. He was not the kind of man who let strangers grope him on the train and he certainly wasn’t the sort of man to make an exhibition of himself. And yet here we were. Even through the fabric of his trousers, I began to feel his cock pulse and twitch. He was going to come.

  Perfect timing. As he tried desperately to hold on, we screeched into the next station. The doors opened and in a lightning moment I had released him, picked up my bag, barged past the student and exited the train.

  I didn’t look back, though I’d have liked to see the state I’d worked him into. I was curious as to whether the vision of his cock through his trousers was as impressive as the sensation of it in my hands. There was no doubt in my mind that it would have been. And I’d have liked to see the expression of sheer bloody disbelief on his face. It was an expression I’d seen so many times before – because sometimes I did look back – and it was one that sent an electric spasm between my thighs every time. How totally broken apart and lost they looked and how exhilarating to have been the cause of such undoing.

  But, seconds later, my thoughts took a darker turn, as they often did. He would undoubtedly be pissed off. Would he really let me get away with it? Or would he follow me? Stalk me along the platform, shadow me through the exit barriers and track my movements on the streets above? Would he catch up with me, whisper angry words in my ear and demand to claim what had been promised? In short, would he be so desperate that he’d hunt me down and fuck me? And would I be so desperate for my own release that I would let him?

  Needless to say, he didn’t. He wouldn’t. He would feel frustrated. Enraged, probably. He would think the word ‘bitch’, say it aloud even, a hiss of bitterness under his breath. But, ultimately, he wouldn’t want to make a scene.

  I always enjoyed the rush of those first couple of minutes afterwards. Because no matter how many times I’d done it, or how confidently I strode, or how much absolute trust I had in my intuitive ability to choose my playmate for the journey, there was always, always, the very real possibility that I could fuck it all up. There was always a chance that I’d pick the wrong man.

  The cacophony of voices, traffic and general city noise brought some clarity to my frenzied mind as I exited the underground and made my way along the busy street above. But, still, my body was buzzing as I walked the familiar route to work.

  There had been countless Grishams. My first hit was accidental, so I suppose it doesn’t really count as a hit, but that was what started it all off, so I feel I should mention it. I had left work later than usual and was in a panic because I was sure I was going to miss my train, which in turn would have led me to be late for a dinner date with my then boyfriend. I’d sprinted down the platform, my heart sinking as I saw that the train was packed. A seat was out of the question, but would there be standing room for one more? Well, of course there was, but only just. It was the tightest of squeezes. I forced my way into a vestibule area at the back of the train just as the guard blew his whistle and the door was slammed shut behind me. There were so many of us in that tiny area, all standing in far closer proximity than we would have in any other circumstance. As the train rumbled along we all rocked together, bumping into one another a little, stumbling slightly and reaching out instinctively to keep our balance. I was pressed against a businessman: tall, broad, fortyish. We stood facing each other, my cheek almost touching his shoulder. We were a few minutes into the journey when I finally realised exactly where my hand had ended up when I’d tried to grab something to prevent toppling over. I felt myself blush but, as I went to remove my hand, the man took hold of my wrist, keeping me in position. All things considered, I guess he was a bit of a pervert. But, judging by the immediate drenching of my underwear, I guess I was too.

  Trains had always, in my mind, been a great location for crotch watching. One of my favourite commuting pastimes up until that point had been sitting staring – discreetly, of course – at all the sights that met my eyeline You know how it is when sometimes you just want something? Well, Pervy Businessman made me realise just how easy it was to get it.

  My first deliberate hit was just a few days after my liaison with Pervy. I hadn’t managed to get it out of my head: his sheer audacity making me touch him like that in a crowded carriage. More than that, though, I couldn’t get over how much it had turned me on. So one morning I found myself standing near the luggage hold during rush hour. A man was standing opposite me, quiet, unassuming. He looked respectable. Safe. Just as we arrived at the final station stop, we both gathered our belongings ready to move off the train. I had a quick look over my shoulder to check that no one was immediately behind us, then I took a deep breath, reached out and touched him. He turned to me sharply and opened his mouth as though to speak but he remained silent. I rubbed just a little and then squeezed his cock firmly, and then I was gone, speeding along the platform, heart thumping wildly and with a huge grin on my face. It had lasted no more than a few seconds but I couldn’t believe I had done it or that I’d got away with it. And I knew then that I was addicted.

  You’re probably thinking that the leaving part is cruel, and I suppose, if I’m honest, it is. But I enjoy the power of it. Not that it always ends that way. Sometimes they get to come. Unfortunately for Grisham, he was simply a victim of timing. Early-morning meetings really could play havoc with a girl’s social life.

  My office building was one of those ultramodern marvels – all open-plan work areas and glass-walled meeting rooms. It was a hive of creativity, containing everything required to produce some of the biggest magazine titles in the country. As the managing editor of the glossy women’s monthly, I had an office in the middle of the main editorial area, but that wasn’t where I headed straightaway.

  I swiped my security pass in the main reception area, took the lift to the third floor and ignored the coffee cart, which was usually my first port of call. I headed straight to the staff toilets, swung
a cubicle door open with far more force than I had intended, then locked it behind me and stood with my back to it. I slid one hand down inside the front of my trousers and then hooked a couple of fingers under the cloth of my underwear. I smiled with relief as my fingers began their exploration. There were certainly worse ways to start a Monday morning.

  ‘Kate?’ It was Natalie, my PA. ‘Is that you?’

  For fuck’s sake! My hand froze, hovering inside my knickers. I leaned my head back against the door and closed my eyes.

  ‘Kate?’

  ‘Yep,’ I said as cheerily as I could. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Thought so. Look, I thought I’d better warn you: I’ve just done the latest cover report and we seem to have forty grand unaccounted for.’

  ‘Unaccounted for?’ I sighed and repositioned my clothing, then flushed the loo. Well, thousands of pounds going missing does tend to quash one’s ardour – as does having your PA standing with her ear almost up against the door when you’re trying to come. I emerged from the cubicle.

  ‘Morning,’ Natalie beamed and then quickly became serious again. ‘Yes, as in “missing”. As in “we’ve clearly spent it but fuck knows how, where or why”.’

  I sighed again as I squirted soap onto my hands. It smelled of peaches. How very 80s.

  ‘Also …’ I looked at her warily and she smiled apologetically. ‘Lindsay Sharman is kicking up a stink about her contract. As in she says we’re in breach of it.’

  I raised my eyebrows in alarm.

  ‘Personally,’ Natalie said conspiratorially, ‘I think she’s after a bit more money because her column’s just won an award. I’ve dug her contract out and left it on your desk.’

  ‘Thanks. In the meantime, send her some flowers and invite her out for lunch, will you? Sometime next week. I’m sure we can’t be in the wrong with this, but I want to keep hold of her.’

  I shook my hands over the basin and turned around to find Natalie in front of me holding out a paper towel. ‘And also …’ she began.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  I snatched the towel from her and began to dab at my hands.

  ‘Have you seen the papers this morning?’ she asked.

  I faltered. ‘No. I was working on the train,’ I lied.

  ‘Working? On the tube as well?’ She pulled a face. ‘I don’t know how you can. I hate the tube – why don’t you just let me arrange for a car to pick you up in the mornings? Much more civilised.’

  ‘As I’ve told you before, I’m doing my bit for the environment,’ I said doing my best not to look shifty.

  ‘Well, I think you’re mad. Anyway, the papers. Maya Singleton has been outed in all the tabloids. There are photos of her and her girlfriend looking all lovey-dovey, which doesn’t in any way reflect the content of our interview with her.’

  I groaned. Maya Singleton was the hottest British property in Hollywood and we had bagged an exclusive with her a few weeks before.

  ‘So, basically, that’s October’s cover and main interview feature shot to shit,’ Natalie concluded. ‘And, if you’re wondering why I’ve accosted you in the loo, it’s because Alex is waiting for you in your office so I thought I’d better prepare you.’

  As if I didn’t have enough to deal with without the publishing director pouncing on me as soon as I get through the door.

  I smiled weakly. ‘Thanks, Nat. And, when you’ve got a minute, would you mind …’

  ‘There’s a latte on your desk.’

  Sometimes, I thank God for Natalie.

  Miraculously, the day actually panned out far more positively than the frantic exchange in the loo had led me to expect. A bit of creative thinking and a whole lot of charm meant that, by the time I left the office at 9 p.m., all crises had been pretty much averted.

  I slumped, exhausted, into a window seat and willed the train to go faster. The day had presented one major challenge after another and I was looking forward to a soak in the bath and a glass or three of Shiraz. That didn’t, however, stop somebody from catching my eye: a boot-shod woman sitting across the aisle. She was very attractive, petite but curvy with dark hair and dark eyes. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth, which, together with her smart though somewhat rumpled appearance, gave her a just-shagged look, which I found rather appealing. There were a number of factors working against me here, of course. First, I barely had the strength to blink. Secondly, we were both sitting down. In my experience, standing was much better – easier access, easier to make any physical contact look accidental, easier to move position and conceal any sauciness, and easier to escape should a kerfuffle ensue. The final obstacle was, of course, that she was a woman.

  It’s not that I didn’t want to play with women – I most definitely did and, on occasion, I had. It’s just that they were tricky. If choosing a male playmate was a risky business, picking a woman was a million times more so. Fundamentally, the crux of the matter was this: no man had ever turned me down. OK, some were up for more than others, some played for a little while, then left rather hastily, some looked quite appalled with themselves – and probably with me too. But not one of them had told me ‘no’ or pushed me away. Are they just not fussed? Will they take anything going? Perhaps they simply have less to lose and, if some woman wants to grab their dick on their way to work, yippee. Women, I like to think, are far more complex creatures. Anyway, whether my Great Gender Theory was right or not, I remain convinced that a woman is far more likely to reject me so I’m always cautious.

  That said, one of my favourite hits of all time was a woman. I had known I wanted her as soon as I had spotted her on the platform but I’d deliberated for ages because she looked so straight. Also, we were waiting for an overground train; the first stop wasn’t for half an hour, so, if I made a move and she didn’t want to play, I wouldn’t be able to escape. But we entered the same coach and both stood at the end of the carriage, so I steeled myself and approached her. I had my hand up her skirt in a matter of seconds and had never felt a woman so wet. I buried my fingers deep inside her and fucked her deliciously slowly as we sped through the Thames Valley, her eyes locked with mine all the time as she stared in surprise while her muscles contracted around me. So determined was I to make her come that I flew past my stop and ended up alighting at Slough. Sometimes, alighting at Slough is worth it.

  I turned away from the Booted One. Attracted to her though I was, it just wasn’t going to happen. Sometimes, the desire to sleep is just too great.

  * * *

  The remainder of the week past quickly: more meetings, more financial headaches and plenty more train journeys to keep me occupied. Although, I have to confess, I had been very well behaved during my travels since Grisham – until the morning I found myself standing next to Issey Miyake on the tube. Well, a man wearing his aftershave, anyway.

  He had caught my eye and smiled and I’d smiled back. He was good-looking and impeccably dressed. His suit looked expensive, though he stood in his shirtsleeves with his jacket slung casually over his shoulder. I felt drawn to him and found myself pressed against him in no time. I was going to enjoy this.

  ‘I’ve seen you before,’ he said suddenly, his mouth close to my ear.

  I felt momentarily unsettled, unaccustomed to having to make conversation in such circumstances, but his voice was warm and my unease quickly dissipated. A voyeur who liked what he saw and has waited patiently for his turn – I liked that.

  ‘Really?’ I asked, in my lightest, most flirtatious voice. ‘And what did you see?’ I pushed out my bottom slightly so that it nudged at his crotch.

  ‘You,’ he said, gently caressing the back of my thigh.

  I smiled. ‘Yes?’ I reached back to touch him, but, as I did so, found my wrist caught in his hand.

  ‘Being a prick-tease,’ he continued, tightening his grip on my wrist.

  I gasped in surprise as he continued to squeeze my flesh. Without thinking, I tried to turn and flun
g my other arm back in an attempt to free myself, a move he was obviously anticipating because he immediately ensnared that wrist too.

  A quick risk assessment told me that the situation was obviously not good: I had been grabbed by a stranger with a somewhat threatening demeanour and was unsure how I was going to escape. My heart rate quickened as fear combined with something just as potent; I felt inexplicably weak-kneed with lust and I was appalled at myself. I continued to twist a little in an attempt to break free but he held me firm.

  Perhaps, I thought suddenly, this had been the point of the game all along: to find a player as equally skilled as I was. In which case, surely I had to step up now. To call out for help or catch someone’s eye so that they rushed to my aid or even to struggle until he released me would all mean the end of the game. And, although people would take my side and he could end up in a whole heap of trouble, ultimately, I couldn’t help thinking that I would have lost. And I was a sore loser. Something told me he realised that. Something also told me he wasn’t intent on making trouble. He was just out to play. At least, I hoped so.

  When we arrived at the next station, I was not surprised to be shoved forward. We made our way through the throng of commuters on the platform, he walking slightly behind me so he could keep me close without anyone being able to see how he was holding me. I assumed we were heading for the exit but, as I followed the crowd in that direction, he steered me another way. We ducked under a chain sporting a NO ENTRY sign and headed down a steep stairwell. It was difficult keeping my footing with my hands pulled behind me, but, for some reason, I trusted him not to let me fall. I looked around. There was nothing there, just a small area with a barred gate leading to a narrow underground corridor.

  He positioned me in front of the gate and stood behind me, retaining his one-handed grip on me. Then I felt movement and heard the rustle of clothing and panicked momentarily – this was all happening too fast. But within seconds his grip on my wrists slackened and I felt the coolness of silk snaking its way across my skin. He fastened his tie securely around both my wrists. It wasn’t tight enough to hurt, but it was firm enough to immobilise me.