This story deals with themes of reluctance and coercion in a lesbian setting. If you think that such material might be offensive to you please look for another story.
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Chapter One
The later than normal train had the benefit of some spare seats and I was glad of the opportunity to stare vacantly out of the window. My visit to the doctor that morning had taken a completely unexpected turn and I was still trying to come to terms with it.
Having just hit thirty-five I thought that I needed to pay more attention to my health and so I had booked myself in for a general check-up. My regular doctor had just retired, having looked after me for most of my adult life, and this was my first appointment with Dr. Addison.
She looked as if she was just out of medical school but she was totally proficient and quickly put me at ease. I exercise regularly, eat reasonably well and know that some consider me beautiful and so I was not altogether surprised when she congratulated me on my general well-being.
It was when she began to address more personal issues that I became less comfortable. I told her that I was slightly stressed at work on occasion and that I was happy living alone. She asked if I had a regular partner to which the answer was no.
She then proceeded to lecture me on the virtues of safe sex and I felt mildly affronted telling her that I had no great interest. This was true to a degree. I found men attractive, and harboured vague thoughts of motherhood eventually, but I seemed to be missing the spark of arousal.
She asked me straight out if I masturbated, which took me aback, but I answered truthfully and told her that I enjoyed it.
It was then that she broached the possibility that I might be asexual and explained that there was a lot of new research into the idea that a percentage of the population, both male and female, had no interest in sex.
As I continued to take in the passing view I wondered if it was true of me and, if so, whether or not that made me deficient in some way. I would not confess to her, or anybody else for that matter, that I made use of pornography to fuel my private fantasies and that, surely, confounded her argument.
The train pulled into the next station and the platform canopy shaded the sun. I refocused on the window picking up the reflected image of my fellow passengers. My eyes were taken by a young woman engrossed with her phone. For a split second I thought that she was not wearing a skirt but then saw that, with her legs crossed, it had ridden up to expose her thigh.
My instinct was to turn around to cast a surreptitious glance and see her for real but I held fast and tried to place her within the carriage. She was sitting opposite in the next bank of seats.
The reflection was imperfect but I could make out enough to see that she was a very attractive blonde and I put her age somewhere between seventeen and twenty. It amused me to be able to look at her without her being aware of my attention.
She was wearing a name badge and so I was guessing that she was one of the many medical students who used the service. This was borne out as she remained on the train giving me further opportunity to stare.
It was mischievous but I figured that there was no harm done. It did, however, set me to thinking about how I would react if I thought that someone was checking me out in such a devious manner.
As we pulled into the terminus I gathered myself and shuffled off the train only to find myself following her along the platform. I wondered if my guess about her had been wrong. She had long legs shown off to devastating effect by her abbreviated hemline and it hardly seemed an appropriate manner of dress for a health professional.
As the sunlight caught her I found myself trying to make out whether or not she was wearing a bra. From behind there was no evidence of it and I was now intrigued as to what her job might be.
At the barriers we went our separate ways, her to the bus stand, me to the underground, and I gave her no further thought during the course of a very busy day.
That evening I ran myself a hot bath, and relaxed with a copy of Vogue. Afterwards I sat up in bed finishing the magazine when I reached an article on fashion trends in Denmark. The model featured in the photo shoot looked not dissimilar to the girl on the train and, almost without being aware of it, my fingers idled between my legs.
In recent months I had found myself gravitating towards lesbian themed pornography. I needed something more than just pneumatic coupling, something a little more believable, and lesbian scenes, particularly those directed by women, at least gave the impression that the participants might just be genuinely enjoying themselves.
Now, without being entirely sure why, I tried to conjure an image of a desirable man as my fingers worked more purposefully. My new contact at Phelps fitted the bill. He was not the sharpest tool in the box but he was undeniably handsome and possessed of a certain naïve charm.
The problem was that I could not stay focused and my mind kept wandering back to my journey that morning. In my mind's eye I was still watching the girl's reflection but, this time, my fingers were brazenly at work much as they were now.
The thought of doing it in public was a novelty and I found it exciting. Normally, I take a very leisurely approach but, spurred by this hint of deviance, I rubbed myself more purposefully.
Seconds later I was lifting my hips from the bed and, twisting my wrist, I pushed two fingers deep inside.
I was stunned by how hot and wet I was and I worked myself furiously. I could usually control the onset of my climax but this time it remained frustratingly out of reach as though urging me on to greater effort.
My hand ached with the exertion and I was groaning loudly which is something I never do. Then, in a moment of frightening clarity I saw the girl's face as if she was in the same room. She smiled and gently touched my cheek.
"Come for me..."
My orgasm was so intense as to be almost painful. It rolled on and on and the contractions crushed my fingers but I did not want it to end. I felt almost delirious as my whole body hummed with the force of it but, at the finish, I could take no more and I collapsed on the bed, breathing hard, my skin sheened in perspiration.
Some while later, as I tried to come to terms with this aberration, I gingerly touched my sex still barely believing that it had happened and what had finally triggered it. Almost unconsciously the touch became a caress and I began to bear myself up once more.
This time it was more familiar. It was slow and controlled but it still had echoes of what had gone before. I teased myself for as long as I could and then surrendered to a prolonged release which left me with tears of pleasure in my eyes.
I slept deeply and more contently than I had for some time. Unfortunately, it meant that for the second day running I was going to be late into the office. Normally, I would go to the front of the train to beat the rush on disembarkation but today I stood in the middle of the platform putting myself where I had been the previous day when I only just caught it.
I could not believe how hard my heart was pounding when, two stations later, I peered out of the window wondering if she was going to be there. As the train slowed I felt an unnerving sense of elation when I saw her once again. She was obviously a creature of habit as not only had she opted for the same carriage but she was once again occupied with her phone.
She was wearing another short skirt and tee shirt combination and, as she stood caught in sunlight, I realized why she seemed somehow familiar.
I rarely watch television but one of my guilty pleasures is the show 'Friday Nights Lights' which some American friends of mine had steered me towards during a recent trip to California.
This young woman was like a petite version of the actress Adrianne Palicki who played one of my favourite characters in the series.
As she boarded I willed her to take the same seat so that I could use the window to my advantage but having surveyed the carriage she obviously decided that, today, the shaded side of the train would be preferable and she sat down directly opposite me.
Taken by surprise I looked up at her and she flashed me a disarming smile before settling and continuing with the game she had running on her phone. For a few seconds I was wreathed in her perfume which smelt a little expensive for everyday use.
As the train pulled out I gazed at her reflection and smiled inwardly as I concluded that she would probably look more at home on America's west coast than on a London commuter service. It was a second or two before I realized that she had looked up absently from her phone and she was effectively returning my stare in the glass.
I felt irrationally guilty and quickly turned my head a fraction before I decided that I was being stupid and told myself to get a grip. I purposefully took my Kindle out of my handbag and tried to engage with my current novel.
The reader had a leather case and I held it in my lap in the manner of a traditional book.
The problem was that this allowed me to take furtive glances at her bare legs. She had them crossed, as before, and they seemed to go on forever.
It was insane. I read but took absolutely nothing in. I just kept on looking at her wondering how she kept them so smooth. There was no way she could know where my eyes were fixed but, as if reading my mind, she languidly unfolded her legs and sat with them fractionally parted.
I immediately felt a prickly discomfort across my skin and, in a perverted twist of thought, I wondered what sort of underwear she had chosen.
I almost admonished myself out loud as I fidgeted a little and desperately tried to focus hoping that other passengers might get on and reaffirm some sense of normality.
In the event no one else joined the carriage save two mothers with children who moved to the opposite end. I was still alone with her and an unwelcomed recollection of my fantasy the night before came to my mind.
Almost without thought I brushed my little finger over the tight crotch of my jeans concealed by my book. The resulting frisson made me shiver and I sensed her looking across at me.
I kept my head down and breathed deeply but, to my acute embarrassment, I could feel myself seeping. The urge to touch myself again was almost irresistible and, to compound my discomfort, she shifted slightly in her seat parting her legs a fraction more.
I considered going to the lavatory but we were not too far from our destination and I decided to sit tight. Over the next ten minutes I spent almost the entire time staring at her legs wondering what the hell had come over me.
As the train slowed to a halt I put away my book and looked up at her. She smiled at me and, perhaps I imagined it, but I thought I caught a knowing glint in her eye. I quickly looked away but not before noting her name tag. She was, indeed, employed at the hospital and her name was Bryony Bainbridge.
I was still flustered when I arrived at the office. I grabbed my working attire from my locker and went into the ladies. I stripped out of my jeans and was aghast at just how damp my panties were. Fortunately, I kept a couple of spare pairs in my locker but, as I stood there, naked from the waist down someone entered the adjacent stall. I heard a rustle of clothing and it became apparent that the occupant was using the space as a changing room in the same way I was.
