You're a fool if you leisurely stroll down the escalators to the platform in the morning. Always bolt down the left like your life depends on that next tube. This is me--if I didn't time it right I'd be ten minutes late to work. If you ever have the misfortune of meeting my supervisor when you've been ten minutes late for half your career, you would understand.
As I come power walking around the corner, I see the train idling, as if just for me--doors open, engine purring like a lion, not a soul on the platform. Because all of them are packed into the train.
The Lady Underground spoke through the intercom. "Please mind the closing doors."
I had a curse on my lips as I all but dived into the nearest compartment. And with a hair's breadth to spare, the doors just brushing the back of my coat as they hissed shut.
In the process of packing myself into the compartment, everyone lost their balance momentarily and sent hate in my direction via brainwaves. I cleared my throat and hung on to the bar above my head, angling myself so that I didn't bump into the three other hands grabbing the same bar.
To say we were packed like a sardine can was to say India isn't that populated. Everyone gathered around the doors like they'd never get out if they wandered into the compartment, and as a result every inch of my body was rubbing against something or someone.
Which made me realize my crotch was firmly pressed against the posterior of a blonde girl in front of me.
If we were tipped on our sides, we'd be spooning. I could feel everything through her pencil skirt. If she was wearing underwear, it was the sparest G-string in the world. The crest of her cheeks pressed into me pleasantly. I looked down. I could see her neckline from my view, a preview of her cleavage, and an e-reader in her hand.
"This train is to Cockfosters."
I briefly scanned what she was reading before looking away. Then glanced at it again. Looking away. Glancing. I only caught a few words, but it was all I needed.
She was reading erotica. I kid you not. Shameless smut. Gay cowboys, by the looks of it. On the tube. Technology these days... either it gives you more responsibility for your actions or more anonymity and freedom to mess about. No one in that train knew what she was reading besides her and I.
And soon she made sure I knew.
She gently pressed her backside more firmly against me. At first I thought it was the motion of the train pulling her back, but then I realized that she just kept leaning in. When she swayed her hips my eyes bulged and my palms became slick.
At the next stop, no one got off, but more people piled on, forcing me closer against the blonde. I let go of the bar above me and grabbed for the one in the middle. Now I was practically bent over this woman while grinding her like I meant to shag her through her clothes. She didn't seem to mind in the slightest, from what I could see. In fact, she continued to subtly rub against me more.
My entire body began to perspire and I had at least half an erection. I tried careening away from her bottom but there was nowhere for me to go. As if she sensed my retreat, she leaned her entire body comfortably against mine, without shame. I stopped breathing.
And then we hit South Kensington. I said things to myself that the queen would condemn me for as the doors closed and the train departed for Knightsbridge. You see, it's the longest distance to travel between stations in my journey. About a minute and a half, to be precise. It doesn't sound that long, but believe me, when you have a gorgeous woman making your John Thomas stand to attention in a train chockablock full of witnesses, it feels like a bloody hour.
She was hanging onto the pole in the middle of the compartment, but as we took off she simply let go; she was comfortably wedged enough between people to stand freely and not get tossed about by the train. Instead she grabbed hold of my leg and ran her fingers up and up and up....
When I throbbed, she pressed herself against me harder and started to rub me off in the most surreptitious manner possible. She had flipped through the pages to her story quickly, reading eagerly, perhaps only half aware of the absolute agony she was setting up for my day. And I read along with her, like the apparent masochist I am. Soon I hung my head and pretended I was just tired. My grip on the bar was such that my fist had gone purple and white.
When finally we reached Knightsbridge, I was giving the compartment a full salute and looking ready to vomit. Without warning the blonde slipped out from under me and out of the train. It was like having a warm blanket torn off. A very warm, very safe blanket. I was cold and exposed; the more people that disembarked, the more noticeable I was.
Green Park could not have come soon enough. I failed to catch my connecting train, however, for I had to make a stop to the loo. Despite all my efforts, I was still ten minutes late, in the end. Not only did I receive yet another a tongue-lashing from my supervisor, but I got absolutely no work done the entire day.
The chances of me running into her again were a million to one, but that wasn't the worst part. Now I can't stop thinking about gay cowboys.