Many thanks to literot for his continued support.
I can’t explain it, and I’m really not sure I want to. It’s been there for so long that I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t, this desire for vulnerability, the risk of being caught, and the exhilarating threat of exposure and humiliation that it brings.
Even after all these years, if I think about it, I can still almost feel my first ever orgasm. Of all the places, it happened in the swimming pool at school. The teacher blew the whistle for everyone to get out, but I remained floating face down on the water, hearing the startled shouting voices above me. Then it happened, this unexpected wave of euphoria washed over me, a sensation which at the time was new and confusing, but one that now I recognise as an orgasm.
I, of course, had no idea what it was, but I knew I liked it; I liked it a lot, and ever since, I’ve sought to relive that moment, and somehow placing myself in a position of danger or jeopardy fulfils it.
It was one of those dull, muggy afternoons where the city seemed to suck the air from your lungs. ‘Humid with the threat of thunder,’ I think was what the weatherman said.
As I walked to the underground at Hyde Park Corner, I could feel my short, mustard coloured mini dress clinging to me as I took the escalator to the lower floor. Every part of my ensemble had been carefully chosen for maximum effect: the dress, my shoes, my hair, and yes, my underwear, a delicate white thong, invisible to the eye.
I was braless, although it had crossed my mind to wear something that accentuated my breasts, the sweltering humidity swayed my choice in the end. I was comfortable with my body, running, swimming, and yoga taking care of that.
It didn’t take long before my attire was pleasantly rewarded. A man and his partner walked towards me, and their faces said it all, her jealous scowl, and his quick backward glance at my behind as we passed, to which he received a swift poke in the ribs.
The platform was busy but hadn’t yet reached that awful sardine moment where the pushing and shoving begin for available space. The hot blast of air stung my eyes as the train approached, and I was relieved to find that the carriage was relatively quiet as I took my seat.
The man sitting opposite me was reading a copy of that night’s Evening Standard and was expensively dressed. His crisp white shirt positively radiated under his tailored navy-blue suit. He was handsome, the tan on his face and hands telling me that he’d either not long ago been on holiday or that he spent a lot of time on the golf course. He was most definitely upper management, his finely manicured fingernails telling me that apart from maybe spraying the roses in his back garden, he hadn’t done any manual work in his life.
I guessed his age; early fifties maybe, the slight greying on the temples of his healthy thick black thatch of combed-back hair, giving him away. As did the gold wedding ring on the third finger of his left hand: married. I was amazed by how cool he appeared. All my fellow passengers looked flustered, fanning themselves with whatever was available, while he sat there in his buttoned-up shirt and tie as if it were a crisp spring morning.
I watched as his eyes left his newspaper and slowly began to work their way up my body, starting with my shoes, then inching up my bare legs, and over the hem of my skirt, pausing on my breasts. I was aware that not only was my body responding to his attention, I could feel my nipples hardening and pressing against the cotton of my dress, but also that he had noticed.
The train stopped at Green Park. No one got off, but we were joined by a lady who sat next to my admirer. When I’d taken my seat earlier, I realised that the hem of my dress had ridden up slightly, showing maybe a little more leg than I had intended. I hadn’t adjusted my position, enjoying the slight thrill that the man’s attention brought, which our new travelling companion immediately noticed, giving me the kind of disapproving look normally reserved for my father on a Saturday night. She then caught the man’s gaze and grasped the situation, her prying eyes dotting back and forth between us.
His main focus appeared to be centred on the tiny triangle formed by the cross of my legs and the hem of my dress. There were two more stops before I completed my journey, and I wondered if it would be too soon. If I showed my hand now, would that be enough to satisfy his curiosity, or as I wished, leave him wanting more and keeping him on the hook? I chose to keep my powder dry.
Piccadilly Circus, and the carriage filled up with all seats taken, but I still held his attention. Until that moment, his eyes hadn’t ventured any higher than my breasts. When they eventually did, they were staring into mine. I was conscious not to waver, only a quick flutter of my eyelids sufficed.
I could read him clearly. When he again lowered his eyes, I rewarded him. It was only brief, but a slight shift of my legs allowed him to see in between, giving him my consent to venture further and glimpse the white flash of my underwear. His expression gave away his intentions by licking the lips of his pinched smile.
I christened him Charles. I don’t know where that name came from, but I find that it adds to the intrigue to invent a persona. Charles Henry Fortescue, civil servant, adviser to the treasury. I also imagined his wife innocently waiting at home, enjoying a cheeky early evening gin and tonic before hubby returns from the rat race, unaware of what was currently going through his mind and how easy he was to snare.
Or perhaps she is in on the game, fully conscious of her husband’s weakness, eagerly awaiting his return so he can tell her all about his latest conquest, allowing her in turn to administer a punishment. The imagination is such a wonderful gift, don’t you think?
Leicester Square was the last stop before I got off. The carriage was now crowded, and Charles graciously gave up his seat to a pregnant woman. He stood in front of me, gripping the rail, his crotch directly in line with my eyes. I could see the impressive outline of his member pressing against the material of his Savile-Row-tailored blue suit trousers.
‘I see that sir dresses to the left,’ I could hear his tailor saying. That much was obvious, even to my untrained eye.
“The next station is Covent Garden, please alight on the right-hand side of the train,” the train’s speakers crackled the recorded announcement, and I stirred from my seat, brushing past him as I stood. The subtle scent of sandalwood caught me. “Please mind the gap.” I smiled inwardly as he took the bait, keeping a discreet distance from me as we travelled through the maze of corridors and up the clunking escalator.
London was choking as I walked out into the early evening, the smouldering heat radiating from the buildings and the crowds. The bars and restaurants full of tourists and pre-theatre goers as I checked the reflection in a shop window, confirming that he was still following me, ten steps behind.
We continued down James Street, taking a left into Floral Street towards Covent Garden. The heady sense of anticipation was already having its effect on me, feeling the suggestive seeping, oozing, trickle of desire collecting in my underwear.
I had no plan as to where I was going but walked aimlessly until I spied a narrow alley between an Italian restaurant and a bakery. This was it, the final test of his resolve. Without thinking I turned into a passage that appeared to run the entire length of the two buildings, stopping abruptly at a brick wall dead-end.
I fleetingly cast my eyes around the confined area, over the dirty, unwashed windows covered in cobwebs and city smut that overlooked the alley from two levels. Each building had a black door, beside which sat two large red rubbish bins, sending a pang of excitement up my spine as the peril of being discovered increased. Behind me, I heard the scrape of footsteps, and I closed my eyes, this was it. Sensing his presence, I turned to see him standing merely a metre from me.
“The spider has the fly,” he said, and for the first time, I heard his voice. There was a pleasing whisky-gravel in his tone, very Eton and Oxbridge. “But which is which? Am I the fly, falling for your honeytrap? If so, then I suspect we will soon have the company of the assailant at my back. Or is it you, my dear, the prick-tease who has met her match.”
My heart was beating fast in my chest, over his shoulder I could see the light at the passages entrance as people passed by, unaware of the events that were unfolding only metres from them. On the other side of the brick, a chef was tunefully barking out instructions.
“Uno gamberoni all’aglio e pomodoro freso. Uno fungi ripieni. Uno cozze provencale.” My eyes remained locked on his as I raised the hem of my dress, hitching my thumbs under the thin waistband of my thong, pulling it down over my hips, knees and finally from around the heel of my shoe, placing it in my small white clutch bag.
Without a word being said, I turned away from him and placed my hands against the rough surface of the wall, feeling the dirt and dust on my fingers, willing his touch. Swiftly he made his move, his arms encircling my waist, then his hands cupping my breasts, causing my nipples to contract, almost painfully.
Stale urine soiled the concrete floor at my feet, eroding the brickwork and filling my nostrils, heightening the intensity, making me acutely aware of what this space is usually used for, seeing the lines of men in my mind’s eyes, their cocks pointed against the wall as they relieve themselves.
I felt his hands on my bare legs, his fingers rising, snaking underneath, lifting the thin cotton above my waist, exposing my bare backside. Then the flat of his left hand on my stomach, fingers creeping lower over the recently shaved pubic area. I responded to his touch as he inserted two fingers, my head lolling back resting onto his chest, hearing the tantalising brrr of a zip being lowered.
“Well, my little slut, it’s time to pay the piper,” he said, rubbing his cock against the soft, wet opening, triggering tiny sparks that gleamed and glowed along the sensitive roadmap of my nerves. The head of his cock felt large as it pressed against my folds. My eyes wide in anticipation, hands clenched tight in a fisted ball, wanting him to fill me, wanting it to hurt, but still he continued to provoke.
“Is this what the slut wants?” he murmured in my ear, as out on the street a police car sped past, the sound of its siren echoing through the narrow passage. Charles seized this moment of confusion, and with one thrust of his hips, he was inside me. I closed my eyes and grimaced as I adjusted to his size and the invasion of my body, the momentary burn of discomfort replaced by a wash of pleasure. His hands were on my shoulders, as he rutted forcefully, feeling his coarse pubic hair grinding against the soft skin of my bare bottom.
It was unworldly, as if we were on an island, isolated from the city and walking a tightrope. On one side the threat of public humiliation, while on the other a delicious escape. I pushed back against him, meeting his onslaught, and feeling his hot laboured breath on my neck. A thin film of sweat formed on my brow, and I could feel the occasional tear fall from my temple. He whimpered in my ear, and I recognised the tone, strained and insistent: he was close.
“I’m cumming,” he conceded, and again I pushed back against him, this time with more urgency, dropping my right hand between my legs, teasing my already alert clitoris with my middle finger. The sounds of the city were so clear and so near.
My mind conjured a presence, someone watching from one of the overlooking windows. Someone from the restaurant maybe. Perhaps an Italian boy masturbating while spying on this girl being fucked like a slut in a piss-stenched alley. I wanted it, I wanted to be seen. The very thought sent a warm quiver of bliss through me.
My own climax arrived barely seconds before I felt Charles erupt inside me. I tried to hold on, grabbing the harsh London brickwork as my knees buckled from under me, surrendering myself totally to the nirvana. Reeling, I leant my forehead against its unforgiving surface, while my body contorted and convulsed in ecstasy, gathering tiny, droplets of his seed on my finger and smearing it around my sensitive, distended labia.
Exhausted, he withdrew and staggered away from me, falling back against the wall opposite. I felt his sperm escape, dripping down the inside of my thigh, as I heard the sharp zing from his zipper. Reaching for my bag, I took out a packet of moisturised hand towels, and begin to clean myself, wiping the cum from between my legs and the inside of my thighs. Not a word was spoken between us, although he gestured with a slightly bashful smile as he placed his phone to his ear.
“Hello, darling, where are you?” he said, gaining his composure as I heard the muffled, indecipherable tone of a woman’s voice. I wriggled my thong up my legs and back into place, as he continued. “Okay, I’ll be five minutes, there was a hold-up on the line.” We made fleeting eye contact as he spoke, both of us aware of the lie, appreciating the deceit.
There was this uncomfortable silence, as he ran his fingers through his hair, paused briefly then walked away, tentatively approaching the light at the mouth of the alley and disappearing from view as he turned left and into the unsuspecting crowd. I stood alone in this tiny space, my heart slowly recovering.
Taking out a small compact from my bag, I checked my appearance, wiping my face and reapplying my make-up. Suddenly I began to smile, seeing my reflection in the mirror. I was sure in that brief moment before he left that he wanted to say something. Was it relief, remorse, or the sudden realisation of the ridiculous act that we had just consented to? Maybe all three; I will never know.
The noise from the street got louder as I made my exit, out into the throng, with its chatter, music, and laughter all around me. I didn’t look back; I didn’t need to. I could feel his sperm inside me. I headed towards Covent Garden in search of a drink, a long vodka, lime and lemonade with lots of ice, I think.
The sun was slowly beginning to sink behind the buildings when I approached a French restaurant on King Street. My heart jumped; he was the last person that I expected to see and in fact, I didn’t ever expect to see him again, but there he was with his beautiful and elegantly dressed wife at a table in the window. I slowed my walk almost to a halt as I passed, and he saw me. It was only a glance, but she noticed. I could tell that she’d been here before and that over time she had learnt to read the signs, spotted some weakness in him, a nervous tick possibly or inflexion in his voice that signals her husband’s adultery.
She quickly appraised me, her eyes roving over my body until she was staring into mine. For a second, there was a tiny sense of recognition between us. It was clear to me that she intuitively knew what had happened between us, although I doubt that a conversation had occurred between them. She may not have known the circumstances and I’m sure in her mind she would swap the dirty rat-infested alley for a hotel bed, but she knew. She knew how I would have felt with his cock inside me, and that I still held his seed inside my body, but even more wounding than that, was the reality that it was my body, a younger woman’s body that had made her husband cum.
There was a sadness behind her eyes, a resignation that she could no longer compete. I guess it creeps up on all of us, age, the race that no one can win. I imagine with men like Charles that it’s always a younger woman, and begrudgingly she must accept her place in return for her lifestyle, the money and the prestige. Then, with a discerning shrug, she dismissed me and returned her attention to her husband.
I turned away from them as a group of men passed by, I had their attention at least, the hand of one of them brushed against my bottom. I will never know if it was deliberate or an accident, but it made me feel good. The day was coming to an end, but the night, as always, brings the prospect of sin. I was due to meet a friend and knowing her the way I do, it was clear that anything could, and very probably would be possible.
But that tale is for another day. That night, my dear friends, London was mine.