Her:
Walking toward the platform at Knightsbridge station, I struggle to keep my modesty because my short loose skirt wants to float around my hips with every step. I curse my vain American attempt to appear less touristy as the designer shoes pinch my toes. My bare legs are getting so many lewd looks from men of all ages, even at this early hour of the day. And the soft chiffon floral blouse dips just low enough in front to give a tempting glance of my cleavage, the pearl buttons straining as the canvas bag slung on my shoulder pulls at the delicate fabric.
The outfit had looked so good this past weekend when I was shopping on Regent Street that I had to have it. It is a little sexy for my days spent wandering in book shops, antique stores, and museums, but much more feminine and flattering than the jeans and pullover shirts I had been slobbishly traipsing around in during my first week in London. I am determined to spend today lost in the British Museum, and have my sketchbook, pencils and journal tucked into my shoulder bag.
As I wait for the Piccadilly Line train to arrive, I casually lift my slightly damp hair and twist it into a careless knot at the nape of my neck. Stubborn tendrils of my auburn hair refuse to be tamed, and have to be casually brushed away from my face from time to time. I am still perturbed about the amount of time I had to wait for my shower at the hostel this morning. Sometimes traveling on a budget has its pitfalls, including interfering with best laid plans and train schedules.
I look anxiously down the dark tunnel, awaiting the tell-tale rush of air and distant approaching light as the platform around me grows suddenly crowded with people on their way to work. I curse my fate for having to begin my day's venture at the morning peak travel time. But I wanted to get as much time at the museum as I possibly could today, so I couldn't wait another hour or so for the traffic to decrease.
The train arrives and I am swept into the car with the tide of morning commuters. I survey the crowded seating, and choose to stand so that I can make a quick escape at Leicester Square to change trains. I hold on to the cold smooth pole with one hand and clutch at my shoulder bag with the other. I study the mini tube map on the wall of the train intently, careful not to stare at the other people who are clustered nearby. Once I have that map almost memorized, I amuse myself by reading the headlines on the tabloids that various passengers clutch preciously. I notice with further amusement some men seated nearby whose glances take in every inch of my smooth legs from my elevated heels to my flirty skirt hem.
With each short stop the train grows even more crowded and few people exit as we make our way toward the heart of the city. It becomes nearly impossible to maintain a discreet physical distance or avoid eye contact with the men and women around me. At least with so many people on the train, few of them have a good view of my legs and can't gawk, though I catch a couple of older women casting disparaging glances at my immodest neckline.
At Green Park, we stop for a few seconds longer than at the other stations, and I use the time to shift my bag to the other shoulder to avoid bumping the short woman who is now crowding me on the right. When I put my hand back on the pole, I brush a warm masculine hand that has taken the place where my hand was. Blushing, I turn quickly to the man standing close...sooooclose...behind me and murmur "sorry," looking up at his strong handsome face through lowered eyelashes. When I blush, it makes my eyes look even more green than usual, and looking at him makes my pupils dilate as my heart begins racing. I'm sure that everyone can see my nipples hardening through my thin blouse.
He has thick, dark hair and deep, dark eyes that barely glance my way over his folded copy of the Financial Times held so casually in his hand that isn't next to mine. I turn away quickly, but not before I notice the impeccable business suit clothing his strong hard body. His masculine smell infuses itself into my senses as the last few passengers push their way onto the train, making it impossible for me to avoid brushing my back against him. I feel him raise his hand out to my side so his paper isn't pressed into my back.
The train moves, and the sudden lurch pushes me back into him, despite the straining of my legs to hold me steady. I feel electricity course through my body as my soft curves press momentarily against his hard thighs. The movement of the train swings my hips gently, and the pile of people in front of me pushes me inevitably closer to touching him with each sway. I feel warmth spreading from between my legs up my spine and making my breath come quick and fast. I can feel his heat behind me, his breath on my flushed neck.
So I stop fighting the movement and relax my stance, my body immediately pressing against his. I try to listen to his breath, feel out his response with my back, but I notice no change. Surely he merely sees that I have no room to move away, and he is so engrossed in his routine commute that I am nothing more than another person to politely ignore on this crowded train. If he only knew the physical effect he was having on me! I am certain that everyone else can see exactly how aroused I am by my flushed cheeks, rosy lips, blushing cleavage, and dreamy eyes. I press my thighs together and let the rhythm of the train and the heat of his body bring me tantalizingly close to a state of public indecency.
Meanwhile, my perverse nature crafts a fantasy of turning around and slipping my hands around his neck, pulling his face down to close over his warm lips with my hungry kiss. I imagine his tongue taking over my mouth with surprise and delight, while I press my tender aroused breasts against his unyielding torso. I eagerly wrap one of my legs around his, pulling his growing hardness into the ravenous heat between my thighs.
We kiss with increasing intensity, oblivious to the shock of the passengers around us. He slides one hand up my thigh into my panties and finds me wet and waiting to take him in. With one swift move he's undone his trousers and slipped his rigid cock into my soft warm depths, and the rhythm of the train becomes the rhythm of our passion. We scream in mutual climax...and I realize the screaming is actually the sound of the train braking for the next stop.
I snap back to reality and notice that my panties are extremely damp as the train begins to slow. I quickly look around to see if anyone noticed my venture into fantasy land, if somehow I'd given myself away with a facial expression or a soft moan while they watched. Most of all, I wonder what he could possibly be thinking as the train picks up speed and begins to move us in a softly undulating rhythm once again.