Reminded of it by the encroaching festive season, I thought I might share with you a somewhat brief recollection from my youth. Whether you believe it or not is really of no importance. There are days that even I wonder!
Spur-of-the-moment sexual encounters are nothing in the way of a radical occurrence these days. What made this special was the fact that the girl was quite obviously no “horny teen” on the make, simply a fellow traveler, finding herself at the dictate of circumstances incumbent upon her at that moment in her life.
I was but eighteen myself and travelling home from London a week before Christmas, on the South-eastern line from Charing Cross Station which as it happened, was right across from the department store in the Strand, where I worked as a junior salesman in the electrical department.
The train – one of the old solidly-built double-deckers that populated the line in peak hours, was crammed, in the manner of a sardine can. Let’s just say that anyone with bad breath might have found themselves socially ostracized. It was an evening like any other then you might say!
Picking up even more workers at London Bridge, the train was so full, had you wished to disembark in the for-seeable future, you would have needed to prepare for it a couple of stations earlier, to allow yourself time to gain access to a door. As for myself, I was wedged mid-aisle between seating compartments and overhead luggage racks. I can still smell that wood and leather polish.
Hard to avoid the proximity of a young girl when her bottom is crushed up against your upper thighs and her mane of hair all but sealing your nasal orifices. To say we were “spooned” is no exaggerated metaphor. At one point she glanced around and looked up at me as if to apologize for her un-lady-like crowding of my person. Aside from wanting to marry her on the instant, I simply gave thanks to God for his generosity in selecting me to be her fellow standing commuter. So pretty was she and so sweet-smelling that girlish body, albeit wrapped as it was in a thick winter coat, I needed those luggage racks to support my weakened legs.
Something less than a sexual predator in those days, I’m sure I did not have an erection, despite the procreative massage her rear-end was unavoidably bequeathing me as a result of the swaying carriage. The sensation however of having her that up-close and personal was something I remember never wanting to end. I just prayed she lived at the end of the line or at the very least, way past my station.
The playing field altered dramatically when the train braked unexpectedly, coming into New Cross station. Everyone was thrown forward with the inertia and instinctively I put my arm around the girl to prevent her from falling. An older man in front of her did actually stumble I recall.
Just for a second she looked up at me and mouthed a “Thank you.” I was so wholly captivated, it was only after we started picking up speed as we left New Cross, I realized my arm was still around her.
Impulse is a wonderful thing. It lets you do things without having first to weigh up the consequences. Standing probably no more than five-two or three, the collar of her dark woollen coat presented itself fractionally below my chin, almost hidden by the proliferation of what I would think were natural auburn curls that fell a long way past her shoulders. Perhaps I was intoxicated by her subtle perfume and temporarily unhinged, but I remember gently leaning forward and nuzzling her neck through all that hair. She smelt angelic and I knew I was holding her a fraction tighter. I knew she knew it.
The least perceptible of sighs handed me the keys to the city. She pushed backwards with her body, just enough to let me know that right then, on that train, that icy winter’s night, I was supposed to be with her for whatever reason and for however briefly. I doubt she was any older than me which meant neither of us had much of a clue about life or relationships. Still, there we were – players without a script – in so cramped an eco-system, fulfilling some sort of cosmically engineered one-act play that relied on no audience for its success.
The “nuzzle,” I upgraded to a soft kiss, feeling its effect on her immediately. She murmured something, still with her back to me of course, before raising her own arms which more or less clasped mine to her. I kissed her several times; monopolizing an area of some four square inches along her neck-line. I doubt anyone noticed – I wouldn’t have cared if they did in any event!
Completely without any expectation of rebuke, I slipped my right hand inside her coat, no more than two or three buttons down. The warmth on site was considerable. My hand located what felt like quite small breasts that at first I merely cupped experimentally. No one could possibly have seen anything untoward in that confined space. By now she was noticeably pushing back on to me and making the slightest, rather sweet little sounds as I recall, as I grew more adventurous, beginning to fondle both girlish mounds, wholly protected as I was – as we were - by that woolly terrain.
The occasional sigh was now audible – least to me, and fully determined I suppose, to repel further the boundaries of acceptable social behavior, I allowed my fingers to inveigle their way between the buttons of her quite obviously thin blouse. Now it should be stated for posterity, the difference between feeling a teenage girl’s bra through her clothes and actually being able to caress her breasts as they nestle within their skimpy rayon crčche - is considerable. I felt her wriggle against me as I first encroached upon the walls of the forbidden city. The slightest of gasps emanated from her lips as my fingers breached the dyke, slipping inside that soft protector, actually making contact with her breast itself, daring eventually to manipulate even, what was probably a fully erect nipple.
Throughout this protracted engagement, my lips had maintained almost unbroken contact with the girl’s neck. Had we not been wedged so securely between the seat compartments, I doubt either of us could have remained upright. Not that any of this was occupying my thought processes I have to say. Between nuzzling her and fondling those hot little breasts as so surely I was, there was little room left for deductive reasoning.
Whether simply a case of my “making hay while the sun shines,” or the girl was impelled by forces outside of even her control, but it seemed to me right then, that her body language was urging me on to even greater daring. Not by the spoken word of course – we had not exchanged so much as a “hello,” simply the way she was pressing herself up against me.
Working undercover as it were, I tunneled south across that flat abdomen and down what appeared to be a pleated skirt. Reaching the hem, I slipped my hand between her knees and felt my way higher until I reached some remarkably warm areas. Never having felt-up a girl in this fashion, I was probably short on finesse although I didn't hear too many complaints.
At the point I found my palm flush up against the apex of the girl's slim legs I sensed a definite acquiescence and was in no need of a training manual to prompt my next move. Pushing beneath the wasitband of her tight panties, the sensation of parting her pubic curls was much to my liking - hers too, if one were to judge by the slightest of sighs audible in that confined space. Such were upgraded to definitive gasps of either surprise or pleasure - I couldn't tell which - when my fingers located the real prize just a few inches lower.
Such heat I had not encountered before. Probing her (most likely virginal) pussy the full length of that sexy little slit, I soon discovered that one area in particular, seemed to up the wriggling factor. Having little or no experience in the biological functionality of a girl's vaginal cavern, it proved to be a work-experience program I just knew I was going to enjoy from the outset. Multiple descents and ascents later I was able to pinpoint that slightly prominent "nub" with ease. Seemed to me the more attention I bequeathed it, the better its owner responded.
This state of shared Nirvana might have been perpetuated had I not noticed the girl's body tensing suddenly. Holding her tightly, I undertook one final incursion which brought about a series of body-shakes which in other circumstances might have rated high on the Richter Scale. Clasping my hand against her, she felt like she was about to purr. I was aware that my fingers were sudenly a whole lot wetter than they had been just moments earlier.
Soon afterwards, the train began to slow up, coming into Falconwood station, she delicately withdrew my hand from her panties and just for a moment, half-turned towards me, suficiently that I could notice the deep flush resident there. I had determined that I would at the very least introduce myself, neither of us having uttered a solitary word since boarding at Charing Cross.
As the train pulled in, I had been about to open the conversation – something along those lines was more than called for I felt. To my everlasting misery however she reached up and retrieved a shopping bag from the rack beside us, simply glancing back at me with the sweetest smile on her face. Leaving me standing there, completely heartbroken, she made her way with several other passengers to the open door. The last I saw of her as the train gathered speed, she was making her way along the crowded platform to the ticket office.
She never even looked back.
© Peter_Pan 2007
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