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I was late leaving for work that morning. My husband had got up in the middle of the night to pilot his jumbo jet off to Djakarta or somewhere, and the batteries in my bloody alarm clock had chosen that night to give up the ghost. Cursing to the heavens I gave myself a quick splash in the shower, dragged on my business suit, laddering a brand new pair of tights in the process, half-tumbled downstairs to the kitchen, slurped a cup of tea, kissed my21-year old daughter on the crown of her head as she sat blearily preparing for her day at college, and breathlessly sprinted the half-mile to the station.
I usually taking the early train to London, because at least that gives me a sporting chance of getting a seat. I hate getting the 7.26 (ridiculously precise scheduling, as if it ever ran to time) because it’s always so crowded. On this day it seemed even worse than usual and I could barely squeeze on board. As it was I was crammed into a corner beside the door, tight against the partition from the seated area, hemmed in on all sides and barely able to breathe. I comforted myself with the thought that, this being the express service (the railway company’s little joke, as it chugs and wheezes along its journey), at least there were no more stops before the central London terminus.
We had been going perhaps ten minutes when I felt my skirt riding up behind me. I’ve always prided myself on having shapely legs and I tend to wear business skirts that end an inch or so above my knee. In irritation I brushed at it, but then to my horror I felt a hand touching the back of my leg, underneath the skirt, just below my buttock. I gasped in shock and would doubtless have uttered a loud and angry exclamation, but before I could I felt warm breather on my ear and a voice whispered “Make a sound and I’ll cut you.” I felt a sharp point pressing against my ribs and clamped my mouth shut in fear. With the benefit of hindsight it seems ridiculous to believe that my assailant would really have stabbed me on a crowded commuter train (even assuming it really was a knife jabbing against my ribs), but at the time I was too istanbul escort terrified to think so rationally.
The voice in my ear had been, I was sure, female. Desperately, too scared to move my head, I swivelled my eyes left and right, but all I could see was business suited male backs, their owners completely oblivious of me. I looked at the glass of the window and saw the vaguest reflection of the person pressed against my back: just an impression of pale skin and long dark hair. I gasped again and swallowed fearfully as, apparently satisfied that she had me cowed and in her power, she moved her hand upwards, onto my bum, forcing my skirt to bunch at the top of my thighs. I could feel her breath ruffling the short blonde hair at the back of my head, and I shuddered as her hand moved again and I felt the elasticated waists of my pants and tights being eased away from me, then her fingernails scratching softly across my bum, in direct contact with my goose-pimpled skin. I was mortified: I simply couldn’t believe this woman intended to sexually assault me in such a public place.
She seemed to press even closer against me; her hand moved between my bum cheeks then I jerked involuntarily as a finger pressed against the puckered hole of my anus then actually pushed inside me. Nobody had ever penetrated my bottom before, and despite my fear I found the sensation remarkably erotic. As she wormed her finger deep into me and began to ream it around, almost without being aware of it I found my hips pushing backwards, pressing me onto that probing digit. Supporting my weight on my forearms against the wall of the carriage, my chest began to rise and fall as my panting breath began to cloud the window. I could feel my cunny twitching and a rich warmth beginning to build in my belly.
After a few minutes I felt her finger withdraw, and wondered momentarily, almost with a stab of disappointment, whether she had finished toying with me. On the contrary, her warm hand squeezed one of my bum cheeks then began to slip between my thighs. Until that morning I would have been horrified if any woman, indeed şirinevler escort anybody other than my husband, had attempted to touch my body with any degree of intimacy; but now, no longer caring about the 200 or more other people occupying that train carriage — that was for her to worry about — I shuffled my feel slightly wider apart, giving her easier access to her target. Despite the rumble of the train I thought I heard her chuckle, then I had to clamp my teeth together to suppress a sigh of pleasure as a finger stroked the length of my snatch.
She massaged my clit and I dug my teeth into my lower lip and tried not to whimper with ecstasy. Then several fingers plunged into me and began to scooch around in my soaking cunny. I slumped forwards onto the wall of the train, my entire body aflame with lust, helpless to prevent a small gasp escaping my lips. With my rapid, deep breathing, my eyes screwed shut, my face no doubt flushed, I’m sure a few of my fellow passengers must have noticed that something was happening to me, but I didn’t give a shit about that. The position must have been awkward for her, but I didn’t care about that either, gyrating my hips in a circle as she alternately fucked me with those fingers then caressed my tender inner flesh, driving me half-mad with arousal. I knew it wouldn’t take long before I climaxed, and as the moment approached I allowed the strap of my handbag to slip off my shoulders and held it tightly between my teeth. I wasn’t able to avoid a cry of delight as finally my cunt clamped around her hand and a thousand suns exploded in my head, but miraculously the train went over points or something at that point and I think the sound of my pleasure was mostly drowned out.
I was still panting, sparks flaring in front of my eyes, as she withdrew her hand and smoothed down my crumpled skirt. I was vaguely aware of something pressing against my lips — my mouth — and obediently opened it. Three fingers slipped inside, three wet, sticky fingers, covered in the sweet juice of my cunny, and completely uncaring as to whether anybody taksim escort saw, or what they thought, I sucked on them, stroking my tongue around them, swallowing every morsel of my own nectar. I felt her breath on my ear again, and she whispered, “You’re a greedy cow, aren’t you. Call me and I’ll let you eat my pussy.” I felt her other hand slip for a moment into the pocket of my suit jacket, and moments later there was a deafening squealing of brakes and clanking as we pulled into our destination.
As the train disgorged its thousands of passengers I whipped around on the platform trying to pick out my pleasure-giver, but she had already merged into the throng and it was hopeless. My knees trembling, my cunny aching pleasurably, feeling sweaty despite the cool day, I tottered on shaking legs to my office. With every step it felt as if her fingers were still inside me, in my anus and my cunny, sending the most intense joy to my brain and super-heating my entire body. The very first thing I did at work was to stumble into the Ladies and remove my soaking wet panties and tights. I would buy some more during my lunch hour, but in the meantime it gave me an extra thrill knowing I would be walking around among my male colleagues naked beneath my skirt, my cunny still purring from the exercise it had been given.
As I slumped into my chair in my private office, I remembered the feel of her hand sliding into my pocket. I reached inside and, sure enough, there was a scrap of paper, torn from a notebook, with written on it a single name and a mobile phone number. I stared at it, my mind racing. There was no question that the woman had committed a criminal assault on me. Perhaps she had done it to others in the last, and would do it to still more women in the future. I could use the information she had given me to do my public duty and report her to the police. On the other hand — my still wet cunny twitched at the thought — she had given me greater sexual pleasure, and a far more explosive orgasm, than my husband, or my own hand, had in a very long time. I had not doubt that, in private, with our clothes off, she could give me so much more, and I could give it back to her. Even so, a public sexual assault…
I knew in my heart that there was only one decision I could make, and with trembling hands and a racing heart I lifted the telephone receiver and began to dial.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32