Unbecoming Behavior for a Young Lad

In the early seventies while working for an editorial company in the States, I was fortunate to land a job as a fashion correspondent. This introduced me to some of the foremost fashion houses of the time in the UK. I was then at first hand to keep tabs on the latest fashions as they developed in Little Ol' England and report back to my editor in the States.

I had been chosen, because I was the most suited for the task. I'd just turned 23, so I suppose the right sort of age, was an attractive young woman, had just become single again and was already writing magazine articles on fashion Stateside, so I knew a fair bit about the business. I'd also screwed my middle aged editor, so that helped. Hey, this was the 1970's, I was ambitious and wanted promotion, so why not?

This era, for me and for many others who were involved in fashion, was a fabulous period. The sixties had been ground breaking in so many areas, such as music with the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, photography with David Bailey and Lord Lichfield, fashion with Vivienne Westwood and Laura Ashley, science with man's accomplishments in outer space, especially landing on the Moon in '69. There were just so many. Of course there were downsides such as the Vietnam War, which still dragged on into this decade, but all in all the Swinging Sixties was a hard act to follow.

But the seventies did its damned best to surpass the earlier decade. Fashion in particular and later, the revolution seen in music with the punk movement. At that time, as a very attractive twenty something, I was spoilt rotten as far as men went. I could get my way with anything if I wanted. And I frequently did. My move to London meant that I'd lost my first really serious boyfriend of the time, Sean. Not so bad as I'd found out he'd been fucking around and was becoming a real pain. I'd met Sean at a Stones concert in New York. He descended from an Irish line (I think his grandfather was from Dublin) and with his more than handsome appearance and oh so charming Irish manner, unfortunately, as I sadly found out, I was not the only one attracted to him.

Of course it could work both ways and with women's liberation and the pill, women too could screw around if they wanted. Sexual promiscuity was safer at that time and delightfully available. HIV and aids were to appear in a later era, in the 80's, and yes there were and still are many other sexual diseases, but if a young woman chose to take the risk, by using oral contraception she was always prepared for endless exciting, vibrant possibilities.

Rid of my boyfriend Sean and his philandering ways, when I arrived in London, not wishing at that time to involve myself in another serious relationship, that's just what I did - screw around I mean. An attractive, young, ambitious American girl with a very well paid job in London, well the world was my oyster as they say. But, hey, I made a point of not being the proverbial easy lay. I was choosy who fucked me. Most of the time.

To get around the city, I spent a lot of time on the London Underground, the Tube as it known colloquially. This extensive mostly under the ground rail network was started in the earlier part of the nineteenth century, back in the wonderful Victorian era. The plethora of tunnels were cut through mostly soft clay and today they cover most of London with comprehensive links to the regular rail routes to and from destinations throughout the UK. Enough of the history lesson. Back to me and my rather naughty story.

For work and socializing in London, the London Underground was and still is by far the easiest way to get about - and the cheapest, which at that time pleased my editor who was something of a bastard when it came to expenses. However on the rare occasion and I had no option but to take a taxi, he wouldn't have to reach out for one of his heart tablets.

Unfortunately, I had to travel mostly at peak times, at rush hour when the tube was at its busiest, as my work hours dictated this. More often than not, we were packed in tight, like sardines. This being my first time in such a busy train, deep under the ground, I found it so claustrophobic. At times, truthfully, I found it a little frightening.

Well, I must confess, I rapidly changed my mind. After a few trips on the good old London Tube, as I became more accustomed to it, I found that it was actually rather more fun than I had earlier thought.

In the intimate crush of the carriage I would regularly have my body felt, rubbed, touched, stroked, prodded, squashed, pinched and poked - nearly every time by fingers, hands, breasts, bums, hands and other appendages of the human body, some well erect. I was even kissed on the neck once - not sure how or why, it just happened so quickly. Likewise my limbs or body would commit the same unavoidable but at times enjoyable offences on other passengers, male or female, I wasn't choosy.

In the close proximity, this intimate contact was unavoidable. I am sure most of it was accidental, but however, sometimes, I was certain that it was more deliberate. Possibly even pre-conceived. Certainly, it was on my part, sometimes. If there was a good looking guy or even a sexy woman I liked the look of, they'd certainly get more than a rub if they were lucky.

Often I would get to work a gooey wet mess having been brought to the brink by all the arousal. I'd crash through the door, wave hello to my work colleagues and shoot directly into the bathroom to, er straighten things out, so to speak. Most mornings, I'd somehow start work with a smile on my flushed cheeks and a very wet feeling between my legs.

I must confess that I actually excelled on the stimulation, finding it was almost like a drug. The more I got, the more sexual excitement I needed to quench my rather naughty new found affliction. In an attempt to provocate increased levels of tube intimacy, to placate my addiction, I decided to wear increasingly risqué outfits.

Boy, did it work. The first week the afflictions on my body more than quadrupled and it was so successful I would regularly have bruising on my breasts and bottom and other parts of my body.

While I was living and working in London that first glorious summer, having been there for nearly six months, I was so lucky to be able to wear many of the very latest new sexy designs. Fortunately I found that I got on really well with most, if not all the fashion houses. I treated them with the utmost respect and reported only what they wanted me to, often allowing my work to be read and if necessary censored by my contacts, before I wired it over to my editor.

I realized if I crossed the thin line and went too far in what I wrote, I could loose their trust. I would get no more gossip and that would mean no more juicy stories, so it would be goodbye job and bye bye London. Looking back, I think the fashion houses were manipulating trends in the industry in a clever way, by allowing only what they wanted the public and their customers to know.

This meant that for me, by carefully toeing the line and reporting just what they wanted, I could beg for and wear some of the latest designs. Some as yet unseen on (and some that never made it to) the cat walk. Typically these garments were made of the flimsiest, thin, highly colored printed material. Absolutely ideal for keeping cool in hot weather. This made it doubly exciting, wearing this sheerest of fabric over my flesh. Typically with no underwear. Fun on the hurly burly of the bustling, jostling underground. Deliciously naughty, huh?

After I'd seen one of the fashion models with a super smooth shaved pubic area, I just had to try it out. She told me that in the late 1950's her mother had been a high class hooker and she had been her introduction to shaving her vaginal hair. So, that evening I carefully did the same to my pussy, as I have done ever since, although now I go for the Brazilian wax method which removes all my unwanted hair, everywhere. Not only does it feel sexy with that thin barrier removed, it helped with some of the clingy fabrics I wore. What a dirty slut I was.

I fondly recall one particular hot summer's day that first exciting year. It was a baking late July afternoon and I was on my way home from work. In the crowded throng of passengers, the inside of the packed train was incredibly hot. As we traveled to our various destinations sweat ran off most of those who stood huddled around me. For some reason, this time the train was even more packed than normal. I think there was a bus or taxi driver dispute, I'm not sure, but it was very, very busy.

What I was wearing then still makes me blush when I think about it, even now. In my never ending quest to be noticed, I had at long last cajoled what I considered at the time the ultimate in fashion wear, a pair of hot pants. They were something I'd heard many of the models talking about.

Also known as short shorts, they were launched by Mary Quant in the sixties. In the early seventies they made a massive comeback. Considered by many as being rather too naughty to wear, they were in a way a type of a radical advance on the already short mini skirt, which could not get any shorter, as it already revealed more than glimpses of the wearer's panties. That's if they wore any.

The pair that I had managed to scrounge, were in dark blue almost black and made of a stretchy polyester material. They had a tantalizing, revealing one and a half inch gap down both sides of the legs exposing my bare flesh (no panties), with eyelets, through which a lace was threaded in a criss-cross manner which held them together. As I pulled them up and over myself, as they slithered snuggly around me, they felt so deliciously tight. Like a second skin, kissing my naked pussy, hugging my arse, and riding sexily along and into the crack of my buttocks.

My God, once finally in place, as I ran my hand over them, with no underwear of course, these hot pants felt like my own skin, with only the merest trace of the seam as the material met my flesh. The exposed gap each side of my legs showed my flesh below, and this made them feel so hot. They were hot. Christ, as I thought about their history which dated back to prostitutes from the thirties I felt hot wearing them. Funny that, because prostitutes were also the first ones to have shaved their pussy, starting what is more or less the norm for women today. Those clever ladies sure knew how to entice their clients. To round my outfit off, I wore a tight fitting red plunging v necked top which was tantalizingly cut off leaving my midriff bare. For footwear I wore an absolutely gorgeous pair of red high heeled gogo disco boots that came right up to my thighs. Sounds so slutty now, but then, well, it was the seventies and anything went, although, yes I'll admit it now, I must have looked like a tart, but no way do I regret wearing the outfit.

On this warm day, as usual the Tube carriage banged, crashed and jostled about as it ground its way along the tracks. Minding my own business, my mind was miles away as I thought about one of the wonderful new designs of dress I'd seen earlier that day in the iconic fashion area of Soho.

As the train swept a little too fast, clattering noisily as it took a fork in the track, everyone in the carriage rolled and swayed with the motion. As it rocked, I felt someone as they pushed themselves a little harder than they needed to against me. I hitched my breath at the feeling. Thinking they had probably lost their balance, I didn't bother to look around and as the train straightened out, they eased away. But, not completely. I was still conscious of them, their body still making slight contact with mine.

As we continued bumping noisily along the tracks, the movement of the train increased and I realized then, as the pressure returned, it had moved slightly and was now firmly centered on my left buttock. I gasped as whatever it was pressed harder, realizing then that without a shadow of a doubt it had to be a penis and it was erect. My mind worked overtime, trying to decide what to do. Although this possible assailant had done nothing more than rub against me, there was still the possibility that he may go further. Perhaps too much further.

For the present I still decided to do nothing. The train slowed and stopped. The doors slid open. A few passengers alighted, but more climbed on board, increasing the volume to what must have been more than the maximum limit. He stayed behind me, the pressure on my arse continued. Not in painful way at all. No far from that, but quite pleasurable actually, especially as I was sure it was a hot erect penis pressing up against the ultra thin material of my hot pants.

The doors clattered shut and the train lurched away from the platform as we restarted our journey. The person in front of me, a young woman in her late twenties, had to lean back against me as someone squeezed past her to gain a place to stand. This had the effect of driving me back slightly against the person behind me.

He must have thought that by me not moving and now pushing back on him, I was getting into this. Momentarily the carriage lights went out and in the darkness I felt a hand on my waist. I took a deep, pensive breath. Having made more contact, he paused as he awaited my reaction.

Biting my lip I still did nothing and just before the lights flickered back into life the hand worked its way over the front of my hot pants outside the material and moved down, towards my groin. Now resting against my lower belly, he stopped, again as he awaited my reaction. Feeling this unseen stranger hold me, just there, oh my heart beat so fast. I stared hard at the distorted reflections in the carriage window to at least get a glimpse of what he looked like. But it was in vain. I just couldn't see. I didn't want to turn around, in case I scared him away.

Rather than stop him, for apart from the touching he had made no threat to me, I found it incredibly arousing to be, I don't know how to describe it, I suppose, touched up in this manner. So I decided that, unless he went too far, that I would permit his hand and hopefully the fingers attached to it, to do whatever they wanted to do. Within reason. To play along and allow them the right to roam and pleasure themselves on my body.

But, I had not set my limit - what I considered too far actually was. For now I would just continue to coolly hang there, clutching the overhead rail, playing Little Miss Innocent, as if oblivious to what was being done to me. As if.

The train slowed to a stop and as it slowed I saw the sign and realized it was my station where I should have alighted. Shit. But with no partying planned for that Thursday night, I now had something a little more exciting to do other than wash my hair and watch television.

So, fuck it. Let play commence.

Again a few passengers left the carriage and again more replaced the spaces they vacated. As the train accelerated away, leaving my stop behind, once more the lights flickered. I waited pensively for the next move, my breasts heaving as I almost now panted in my desire, the ache below almost too much.

Then the carriage fell into complete darkness and seizing his opportunity, in an instant, swiftly, he was on me.

He repositioned both his hands to my hips and his breathing intensified.

Now even closer to me, his face just inches from mine, I could smell his classy aftershave and sense his hot breath on my neck. I could smell his arousal. He needed me. I wanted him.

I felt as his fingers worked each side of my hips. He was attempting to drag my hot pants down. That was going to be out of the question. If he could get them down, pulling them to my knees or lower was not an option as it would have meant my legs would then be locked together. Removing them completely would have been better, but rather interesting if the lights came back on. Somehow he'd have to get himself inside with me still wearing them.

The train continued on towards its next stop which I reckoned was in around 5 minutes time. We were still in complete darkness, save from the occasional illuminating flash as the sparks of electricity from the wheels eerily lit up the carriage for a split second or so.

As my wanton desire for him began to simmer over, desperation set in. Concerned that this sexual liaison may flounder, to become no more than a serious groping, I now wanted him badly, this unseen stranger, inside my vagina and I would have to help him.

With my hot pants still covering my sex but pushed downwards off my hips as he tried desperately to get them off me, I forcefully pulled his hands away, and I groped behind me to search for his cock. I didn't have any trouble. I easily found him there, revealed, very large, ready and erect for me, with sticky pre cum oozing from him. I gripped the main part of his uncircumcised shaft. I heard a feint gasp as his breath hitched.

Arching my back, I pushed my bum back and towards him to give him better access. Now gainfully positioning my tall 5feet 10inch frame over him, (even taller with the Go Go boots), I worked him between my legs, as close as I could to my vagina entrance, trying to get him inside. Realizing what I intended, he reached between my legs and grasped the crutch of my hot pants. Pulling it roughly to one side, the material gave as it ripped a little, stretching sufficiently to expose and grant access to the velvety flesh of my vaginal entrance.

Feeling him finally there, aching inside so hungrily, I pushed down on him, and I gasped as he finally entered, but the unyielding gusset of the hot pants pushed on the side of his cock and it had the effect of drawing his cock slightly sideways, which meant he was slipping into my wet pussy at not quite the right angle. It felt odd. So odd, I suddenly panicked. Had I finished my period? Shit. Did I still have something in me?

My mind had clouded over in lust for this man. I couldn't think. Before I could say anything, he pushed again, harder, much harder and he was in me to the hilt. Then I remembered. Thankfully I'd finished my monthly yesterday so the resistance must have been from the unnatural angle. Now inside, in this position, it felt incredible as his throbbing penis ground into me, a little uncomfortable at first, but so glorious at the same time. Beggars cannot be choosers and under the circumstances in this crowded carriage at this time, this was the best I could expect. It would do. It would have to do.

With small forceful pelvic thrusts he began fucking me. Slowly and gently at first, then after a couple of thrusts, harder and faster, the clattering sounds of the train thankfully covering the rasping sound he made as he worked himself in and out of my fleshy folds. Christ, if the lights came on now.......

By clutching my waist with his right hand he precariously steadied himself and he continued driving into me. His left hand had worked its way onto my clitoris and was rubbing me nicely, thank you Mr Stranger. With my own hands I was grasping the grab rail above my head. Without me doing this we would have surely fallen in a heap on the floor.

Now nicely enjoying ourselves as we fucked one another, I heard the sound of the compressor from the train's braking system start up and felt the train lose speed slightly as it commenced going through the motions of slowing down. For a spilt second the lights flickered back on, then went out again. In the ensuing blackness, as desperation swept over me, I breathed in sharply as I fully contracted my well developed vaginal muscles. This had an immediate and rather dramatic effect of gripping his cock delightfully nice and tight. Immediately it had the desired effect and he began to well up inside me. His penis expanded, his balls tightened and as he climaxed I felt the first of his throbs and pulses as he started to flood me. And boy did he climax. Wow!