A snippet from my mind on the journey from London to York...
By the time I get onto the train to York I've fucked 17 people. I know, because I counted them.
I don't remember them all, though I'm guessing they'll remember me. At least for an hour or two.
It started with Monserat, the only one whose name I know - not that I bothered to ask, but she was clearly proud as it was displayed over her chest. She was the black girl at the tube station, who didn't flinch when I bent into her booth to suck on one of those named breasts, and barely seemed to notice as I stuck my fingers into her, rubbed her clit, paid her my 15 quid and, with a click of my cuban heels, positively waltzed down the escalator.
She was number one, and you never forget the first. In the platform, I tried the two London Underground workmen, chunky and with those sleeveless yellow jackets, but no, not a flicker. I guess they get offers all the time.
From then on it was madness. I started with the old guy opposite; short, heavy-lidded, dressed in those grey/beige trousers and jacket that pensioner guys seem to be given as a uniform. He wasn't having it. My second rejection? But no, we'll get back to him. A family got on, grandparents and a kid - middle class, and the grandad had that air of once-was about him. He sought me out. Bam. And the game began. So I'm sitting on the tube, you know what I'm looking like... rock chic hair, leather jacket, brown boots, dress, today all rounded off with brown lipstick, dripping with shiny things... I think of a name... Hell, mindfuck works for me. Wanna play?
So I fuck the grandad. He wants more, and more and more. Fuck him. This was a start and to me, it barely counts. However, it's given me confidence and I, truly, feel fired up. Hot-tish. Wet-tish. I fuck three black guys in succession, but they're too easy. And beige-grey guy is starting to annoy me. Who-the-fuck does he think he is? I lay my head against the glass panel that separates me from the damn fine pretty boy, 30s, jeans, whatever, who is standing beside me, and, hell, I'm sure he won't be too distressed if I just, why it's a perfect height, me sitting and all... So, I do... I reach my hands, both arms, around, and I guide his arse around that panel, just right in front of me.
I remember that I'm being trained; trained to cum just through sucking your cock, and I guess any practise can only be a good thing. And so - and I'm not sure exactly when he notices - I unzip him, lift his soft cock up to stare at me, and lick the tip. I guess he notices now, because he kind of looks down, but no-one else seems to and I lick some more. No fuss. Casual. Like an ice-cream cone that's starting to drip, I lick, one day holding him, the other - as instructed - slips down to myself, and I notice that my legs are wider open than I'd realised. I also notice, with an increasing irritation, the beige slacks man is still seemingly oblivious. Pah.
