Northern Deligts

"Roll up, roll up for the cattle stampede," Fliss thought as the Northern Line train trundled into Kennington Station. Jostled by the scores of other passengers on the crowded platform, all eager to get home after their day's work, she asked herself for the hundredth time how she could have been stupid enough to let herself get up the spout in February; she always got hot and sweaty in the summer as it was, without tottering around with The Lump swelling her like a zeppelin in what was officially the hottest August on record.

Bugger, the train had pulled a bit further along the platform than usual so instead of finding herself at one of the sliding doors she was exactly halfway between two of them as the madding horde surged forward, barely allowing disembarking passengers the chance to step down to the platform. Even if she hadn't been able to nab a seat, Fliss had hoped to be standing in the space between them, in the hope some sympathetic soul would chivalrously offer the pregnant lady theirs.

On a London tube, in the middle of the rush hour? Hah, no chance! She was stuck in the space between the doors on either side of the carriage, hemmed in by other sweaty, smelly bodies, clinging with one arm to the springy strap thing suspended from the ceiling. Any passengers who could see her, all younger than her and mostly male, studiously avoided eye contact, buried in their Evening Standards, jabbing away at their smartphones or simply staring vacantly into space. Bastards! They probably thought she just had a pillow stuck up her shirt, like the two silly cows on TV recently, boasting that was how they always managed to get seats.

Honestly, women were supposed to bloom when they were expecting, all Fliss felt was blooming miserable! Fat (okay, fatter than usual), 34 years old, with swollen aching feet, a crick in her back, blood draining from her strap-hanging hand, her fringe sticking to her forehead, sweat running into her eyes, stuck in a sardine can doubling as a sauna for the next 14 stops with a thing growing inside her which seemed to think it was supposed to kick its way out...and horny as hell. Nobody had told her being in the club made you feel permanently randy: if Steve's bloody submarine didn't get back from the North Atlantic soon she was going to wear her Rampant Rabbit down to a stub! Just thinking about it made her cheeks flush even more red than they already were, and she rubbed her thighs together in anticipation of a good vibro session when she got home.

The misery only got worse at Waterloo, where it seemed like for every person who got off the train three got on, making Fliss feel like toothpaste someone was trying to squeeze out of its tube. Despite her discomfort, Fliss started to feel drowsy, her eyelids and her chin drooping. But as the train jerked its way out of Embankment she jerked back to full consciousness with a start. Someone was cupping her bum! This wasn't just the casual rubbing against each other of the crowded tube, there was definitely a hand fondling her right buttock.

She'd heard about this sort of thing happening on the Underground but she'd never experienced it before. She tried to crane her neck round to see who was squeezed behind her but couldn't. She was just about to ask whoever it was in a loud voice to stop groping her arse when the hand slipped to the centre seam of her maternity slacks and a finger squeezed between her thighs and oooohhhh, managed to touch a sensitive spot. Unable to help herself, Fliss shuddered and emitted a little gasp. Instantly she felt wetness seeping out of her pussy and through the thin material of her pants -- she momentarily hoped it wasn't pee, but then the fingertip flexed again and she felt another small electric shock flash into her belly.

"Okay girl," Fliss told herself, "you're going to be mature about this. You're not going to throw a fir on a crowded train over what might be an innocent mistake, you're just going to ignore it and perhaps it'll stop. You're certainly not -- oh God, there it is again -- not going to encourage it. In that case, Felicity, why did you just move your thighs a little further apart? I didn't, that's a filthy...oh shit, this is so dirty!"

Encouraged by her reaction, the probing hand slipped fully between her thighs and rested on her heated pussy. She had a prominent clit but, even so, Fliss was shocked when one finger found it through the thin material of her slacks and firmly pressed it. She could feel her gusset was sopping wet now, and knew her mystery assailant must be able to as well. So she was surprised, relieved yet at the same time disappointed, when as the train pulled out of Leicester Square the hand withdrew from between her legs. Before she had time to relax, oh fuck, she felt that same hand slip down inside the elasticated waist of the slacks. Oh Jeez, this was way too much, Fliss had to put a stop to it.

A finger slid inside her tiny briefs and teasingly stroked up the sensitive crack of her bum, causing her to wiggle at the touch. That felt like a fingernail -- either, thought Fliss, this man had remarkably long nails or it wasn't a man at all. She squeaked and instinctively tightened her buttocks as the finger pushed between them, twirled against her sphincter.

Did she really want this to carry on? Was she actually going to let it? Surely someone else in the tightly packed train must have noticed something unusual? Fliss's loins were on fire and she was starting to pant, far faster than just from the heat of the day. She was tall, but even so she wondered whether her tease was going to be able to reach lower than her bum -- if they wanted to...if she wanted them to. As the pressure of bodies briefly eased at Goodge Street Fliss managed to change her strap-hanging arm and, telling herself it was just to make her posture a little more comfortable, lifted up onto her toes.

As if taking a cue, a body pressed even closer behind her than before, and the hand slipped lower in her knickers. Fliss held her breath and shuddered as a finger made its first contact with the back of her pussy. It slipped in and swam forward, making her knees almost buckle. It was followed by another, stirring around inside her boiling snatch -- or was it a thumb, freeing up the finger to oooaaaggghhh, start massaging her stiff, aching clit? The train juddered to a squealing halt in the darkness of a tunnel, the lights flickered for a moment, and in the ensuing silence she heard a clearly female voice whisper at her ear, "Cum for me."

By now that was exactly what Fliss wanted, and as the train jolted forward again she lowered back off her toes, impaling herself on the swirling digit inside her, pushing her clit more firmly onto the circling finger. The pace of both increased and she clamped her teeth together, aware that she was in danger of gasping, even moaning. An arm reached around her waist, pulling her back even more firmly onto the body clamped to her back.

Fliss managed to hold back through Euston, but as the train approached Mornington Crescent her body could take no more. Her pussy clamped tight, an entire firework factory exploded behind her screwed shut eyelids, she pushed back hard against the mistress of her cunt and she couldn't hold in the moaning, wailing scream which forced itself out of her.

When she managed to open her eyes, her entire body shaking, Fliss realised that the whole carriage was staring at her. She wondered whether her cheeks could turn any redder without a blood vessel bursting. An elderly black matron took her by the arm, saying, "Are you okay love? Here, come and sit down." She led Fliss to a now empty seat, into which she weakly sank, assuring the kindly lady that no, she didn't need medical help. The Lump chose that moment to get in some kicking practice, making her gasp again, and the lady gave her an uncertain look.

As the train resumed its journey Fliss closely examined the remaining standing passengers and tried to work out who it was who had just given her biggest orgasm in weeks. There were three women roughly where she'd been standing: a chubby West African-looking woman of about 30 in what might be a hotel receptionist uniform; a middle-aged lady dressed like a countrywoman in tweeds and a trilby hat with an extravagant feather in the brim; and a short Japanese student type in her early 20s, in faded blue jeans and a black T-shirt. None of them so much as glanced at her, and all three left the carriage at Camden Town.

A short while later Fliss arrived home, feeling scruffy, grimy, and as wet as the business end of a mop. Hobbling into the lounge she kicked off her flip-flops, dropped her handbag and light jacket on the sofa and flopped down beside them. Wiping her brow with the back of a hand, she was still in something of a daze; she would have sworn what had happened on the train had been some kind of fantasy, but for the warm glow still in her belly, the sodden state of her slacks and panties, and the very real memory of fingers on her and inside her.

Feeling in a pocket of her slacks for a paper hankie, her fingers came into contact with an unexpected piece of card. She fished it out to find it was a tube ticket, with a mobile phone number scrawled on it in what looked like eye liner. She stared at it in astonishment, gazed into space for what seemed like hours, then extracted her other hand from her puss -- she hadn't even realised it had slipped in there -- and reached for her own mobile.