London Bridge. The familiar knot of excitement tightened in my stomach.
I never saw him until he was practically upon me. I’d look for him every time, in the heaving mass on the platform, but the push and shove, the bags in the face, the elbows in the stomach, created a smokescreen through which he would suddenly appear like a beacon of flame-haired light, every morning.
When this first started, I’d be sitting down, taking full advantage of getting on near the beginning of the line, coveting my end-of-row seat. Back in those days, I’d have earplugs in and be staring at my book.
I can’t quite remember when he first impinged on my consciousness. I’d looked up a couple of times and thought, Nice hair. My admiration had extended, gradually, incrementally, with each stolen glance, to the rest of him. Eventually – perhaps a few days, perhaps a couple of weeks later – it had occurred to me that it was a bit strange that he always contrived to be in the same carriage as me. I was well used to getting on with the same crew at Colliers Wood, but by London Bridge surely you just took your chance wherever you could find an inch of platform space?
The glances lengthened. Oh, God, he’s seen me looking, look away.
But he was just as guilty of that as I was. It became a game – five points if you got a look in without him noticing; back to zero if he caught you. I rarely scored more than fifteen. Eventually, he caught me every time – even if I wasn’t looking at him, the heat in my cheeks must have told him what I was up to.
Our lips joined in, twitching upwards with each captured moment of eye contact.
It was absurd. One day soon, I was going to burst out laughing, and how would that look on a packed tube train full of grumpy morning commuters? Insane, that was how.
I tried to give up, focusing severely on my book for a few days. This only served to embolden him; every day as I stood up to alight at Moorgate he was a little bit closer. I twisted my neck, avoiding looking at him, as I picked my way over dozens of feet on my way to the door.
Then, one day, I made the fatal error of looking back at him before the doors opened. He didn’t look away.
I thought I might catch fire.
Green eyes.
The next day I’d made a resolution. Why not flirt with him? Where was the harm? I was single … oh, he might not be single. But what were we going to get up to on a tube train anyway?
I took my favourite end-row seat and waited for him. At London Bridge, he surfed in on that hectic human wave and stood right in front of me, towering over me, the sides of our feet touching. I was looking directly at his belt buckle and the grey-trousered crotch below it. If I wanted to see his face, I’d have to tilt my head back – too blatant. I didn’t dare. Not that sticking his dick in front of my face wasn’t blatant – was it intentional, though?
The hand that wasn’t hanging on to the bar fidgeted with a phone, just above my head. I pretended to read the same paragraph of my book over and over until without warning he turned the phone and held it in front of my face.
There was a notepad message.
‘Must be a good book,’ it said.
All the blood rushed to my head. I clutched my book tightly, trying to stop it flipping out of my trembling hand. This represented a level of escalation for which I was not prepared.
I had no choice but to lift my eyes to his. I nodded slightly, preventing the threatened nervous laugh by biting down hard on my lower lip.
He smiled back, keying another message into his phone with dexterous rapidity.
‘I’m jealous of it.’
I couldn’t help an inelegant snort of a laugh this time. I mouthed, ‘Why?’ at his expectant face.
‘You used to pay me more attention,’ he typed. ‘But now you prefer that bloody book. Throw it under the train.’
I shook my head, snuffling with silent laughter. God, this was far too exciting for 8.17 on a Tuesday morning.
He made a sudden lunge for it and swiped it from my hand before I knew what was happening. I sat gaping at him, open-mouthed, while he read the back cover. I looked to each side of me, to see if anyone had registered this astonishing behaviour, but nobody was looking and nobody cared.
He flicked through it, slowly and teasingly, eyeing me over the pages as if challenging me to snatch it back. But I sat with my hands primly in my lap, feigning unconcern – probably not very convincingly.
He handed the book back as the train slid into Moorgate. I couldn’t get off unless he stepped back a little – our knees were practically touching. For a split second, it looked as if he wasn’t going to move, but he let me up as soon as the train halted, leaving me to rush off in a hot and bothered state.
Bloody hell! What had that been about? The ante had been upped on our mild flirtation by about a thousand per cent. I looked back at the train as it prepared to leave. He was sitting in my seat. I imagined my warmth transferred to him. It didn’t do much to dampen my unexpected Tuesday-morning arousal.
On Wednesday morning I changed my tactics. I moved out of my seat at Borough and stood by the door instead. My book stayed in my bag, strictly a commute-home read now.
Mild worry that he might not get on that morning had become a feature of my journey, but now it wasn’t mild. I really needed to see him on the train today.
I flattened myself back as the crowd surged on, all with the wrong hair, wrong coats, wrong bodies, until at last he was there, brushing against me without even seeing me – he was looking at my usual seat. Up this close to him, I could smell his aftershave, which was ravishing. Hell, if he got any closer I’d be able to determine whether he was a tea or coffee drinker.
He looked towards the other end of the carriage, still unaware of my proximity.
Giddy with his nearness, I hooked a finger into the back of his belt and tugged. I felt him stiffen, then turn quickly to face me.
An indignant glare turned to a drolly raised eyebrow and a smile.
‘There you are,’ he said, under his breath, mindful of the other commuters swaying along on either side of us.
He spoke! He had a voice. A nice one.
‘Hello,’ I whispered back.
He eased a little closer to me, bumping his hip into my side. The point of contact felt as if it might burn through our clothes. He bent and spoke into my ear.
‘No book today?’
His breath sent waves of knee-weakening lust through me. My knuckles whitened as I clung to the pole for dear life.
I shook my head. My hair brushed his face.
He was closer still, one hand resting lightly in the small of my back. I did nothing to shake him off.
‘It’s hot on this train,’ he murmured. ‘Why don’t you take off your coat?’
He might as well have asked me to strip naked, for the effect his words had on me. Shallow breath, shaking hands and not a dry thigh in the house.
‘I’m getting off soon,’ I objected, still in a stage whisper.
‘Is that so?’ He hiked his eyebrows again, enjoying the innuendo. ‘I’ve heard this kind of thing sometimes happens on the tube but I never …’
‘Oh, my God, what are you like? Stop it!’
‘You don’t want me to stop,’ he said, pressing his fingertips into my back just a little harder. ‘You want to take off your coat. Do it. Go on.’
There were a hundred reasons why I should just tell him to get lost, but they were all somewhere else, obscured by the outrageous exhilaration of it all. The more he behaved like a pervy sex pest, the more I seemed to like it.
I untied the fabric belt and unbuttoned. He did the rest, removing the coat from my shoulders with a mock-gallant flourish.
‘Isn’t that better?’ he asked, looking me up and down.
Green and white polka-dot blouse, grey tailored skirt, black tights, black cardigan. Bit librarianish, but he didn’t seem to object, if the hungry look in his eye was anything to go by.
‘Mm hmm,’ I said, pressing my lips together, unable to face him in his triumph.
I sucked in a breath, heart stopping for a moment, as he dug one fingertip inside the cuff of my blouse and stroked the inside of my wrist.
‘You should keep your coat off tomorrow,’ he said, slightly croaky in my ear. ‘Will you do that?’
I nodded, my eyes shut, his maddening feathery touch overtaking my senses, drawing me closer to him. He undid the button and managed to get his busy fingertips halfway up to my elbow.
If running his fingers up my arm made me feel this mad with desire, what chance did I stand of fending off any more serious advances?
He dragged his nails across the sensitive skin, holding my wrist tight in his other hand.
I thought I might faint. In fact, when the train jolted to a halt, I thought that was what had happened.
But it was Moorgate. God damn it. I almost fell on to the platform, dragging my coat behind me, all blurred and pulsing with frustrated need.
He winked as the train moved on.
Arsehole. How dared he do this to me? I’d get in a different carriage tomorrow, maybe even take a different train.
But I didn’t.
I stood in the same place, having taken off my coat on the platform. It lay folded on my bag and I leaned against the partition in a thinner blouse and tighter skirt than I’d worn the day before, waiting to reach London Bridge. Underneath my blouse I wore the push-up bra I usually reserved for nights out. It made the buttons of my blouse strain a little over the generous curves. I wondered whether to fasten my cardigan over the top, but the devil in me decided against it.
If I was going to act like a slut, I might as well look like one.
‘You look nice,’ he said, slotting himself in as close to me as possible. It was a purr, low and throaty, delivered direct to my ear. ‘Is this for my benefit?’
His fingers whispered over the nape of my neck, making my hair stand on end.
‘Just … work gear,’ I said, swallowing.
‘Really?’ He didn’t believe me. ‘What type of work would that be, with the padded bra and the tight skirt? Are you changing at Moorgate for Soho?’
‘Jesus! You’re so rude.’
The volume of my exclamation attracted the attention of some of our fellow passengers.
He gave my neck a light warning pinch, and moved his hand down my back, letting it rest on my waistband.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered.
He put his lips right against my ear. ‘I can be a lot ruder than that,’ he promised. ‘But that’s up to you.’
‘What do you mean?’ My heart bumped along with the train on the track.
‘Want me to show you?’ His hand slipped down over the curve of my bum.
I clenched my thighs, heat rushing into my face. Nobody could see what he was doing – it all took place below the glass part of the divider – but I felt as if everybody knew.
‘You could undo a button or two,’ he said, looking down my cleavage.
‘I couldn’t!’ I gasped.
‘Yes, you could. Look – I’ll hold my jacket like this – and nobody can see.’
It was true; the position of his jacket obscured the view for everyone but him and me. The near-silent whisper in which he made his dirty suggestions made them somehow all the more thrilling. I was so wet I worried that it would soak through my skirt. His hand still stroked the fullest part of my bottom – if it went any lower, would he notice my arousal?
Keeping my eyes lowered, I unfastened the top button of my blouse. He crowded closer to me, shielding me from public view. He would only have to take one step away for everything to be visible to everyone. I looked up at him, uncertain, and he nodded, his face tense. This was an instruction to undo another button.
I could see my chest heaving as I gradually exposed the upper slopes of my breasts to him.
The hand on my bottom moved up and closed around the still clothed portion of my right breast, squeezing the softness.
‘Nice bra,’ he noted, gazing down at the dark-red and gold scalloped lace.
‘Thanks. Have you seen enough?’ It was a dangerous question and I held my breath.
‘For now,’ he said.
With a mixture of relief and disappointment, I refastened my blouse. What on earth was the disappointment about? Did I want him to rip the thing off me, here on the train, and bury his face in my breasts? Actually, it was a titillating image and I immediately wished I hadn’t thought it.
His hand moved back down, patted my hip, then slid to my thigh.
‘What’s under this?’ he whispered.
I could see the effect of our illicit activities in the bulge at his crotch. He would need to carry his bag in front of it somehow when he got off the train, wherever that might be. I betted it was Old Street. There was a whiff of hipster in the gloriously unchecked hair and the blasé attitude to shaving.
‘My legs,’ I whispered back.
He reached around behind me and gave my bottom the teeniest, most discreet smack. A tap, really, but it set off a red alert between my thighs. Damn, I was soaking. I was going to have to consider bringing a change of underwear to work if this kept up.
‘Smartarse,’ he said. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Tights,’ I said. ‘And, obviously, knickers.’
‘Why obviously?’ he said.
My ears burned. I had a feeling this was going to be expanded on at some point.
‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow – stockings. OK?’
‘I don’t have any.’
‘Then buy some.’ He delved into his trouser pocket – must have been a bit crowded in there, judging by the continuing bulge at his crotch – and pulled out a wallet, from which he extracted a ten-pound note. ‘Here. I want you wearing them tomorrow.’
‘You’re a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?’
‘Mm hmm.’ He tucked the banknote into the waistband of my skirt. ‘This skirt’s a bit tight for what I have in mind, though. Something looser. And stockings. Suspenders if you want, but holdups are fine. Oh. Here’s your stop.’
‘You’re going to have to work on that before you get to yours,’ I said, indicating his erection.
‘I’ve got it in hand,’ he said with a wink, slapping my bottom again as the doors opened, sending me on my way with a prickly-heat sweat and an uncomfortably wet gusset.
Oh, my God. This was crazy. It had to stop before we went too far and got arrested.
I wouldn’t do the stocking thing. I’d give him his tenner back tomorrow and revert to reading my book. Or maybe just suggest we exchange phone numbers, like civilised people.
And yet the next morning found me clinging to that yellow pole in a flippy flared skirt, another push-up bra and the required hosiery. I’d overspent the ten pounds, sucked in by a gorgeous suspender belt and the most sophisticated smoky seamed stockings in the window of the expensive sex shop in Covent Garden. That had been an interesting lunch hour.
Despite a lack of evidence, I had the feeling that everyone knew what I was doing. Everybody must have noticed that I never sat in my end seat any more, and that I was always crowded close to the tall red-haired guy, and that my workwear was becoming exponentially sexier with the passing of each day. I was the blatant slut of the 7.57 to High Barnet. I couldn’t face any of them but stared fixedly at my phone screen until we pulled out of Borough and my heart began to pound.
I put the phone away, almost dancing with excitement.
For once he was one of the first on, claiming his territory at my side with heavy-bag-wielding determination.
‘Did you do it?’ he asked, his breath displacing the tendrils of hair behind my ear.
‘Maybe,’ I whispered back.
He put a hand on my waist, his fingertips pressing into me. His raised eyebrows indicated displeasure with my response.
‘OK,’ I said, surrendering. ‘Yes.’
The lowest, faintest hint of a growl, for my ears only.
‘Good,’ he said.
Without even thinking about what was visible to the other passengers, he reached up and plucked at my top button, opening up my lower throat and collarbone to general view. My breasts were still concealed, but it was a gesture of intent, and somebody must have seen it.
‘What are you …?’ I gasped in a mild panic.
He put a finger to my lips.
‘You didn’t look comfortable,’ he said. He came closer, his feet on either side of mine, and braced one hand on the partition just above my head. Now he covered me completely, hiding most of me from the other passengers, but this was several degrees more intimate than the usual crowded tube huddle, and anyone who looked our way couldn’t fail to think that we were together as a couple.
The heat of our bodies crossed paths, mine to him, his to mine. His aftershave blended with my perfume and the faint remains of coffee and peppermint. His trousers brushed my skirt, too lightly for limbs to touch, but there was still an erotic edge to it, a hint of frottage.
I swallowed, resting my head back against the toughened glass in a gesture of offering.
He accepted.
For a horrible moment I thought he was going to cross the line of tube etiquette and kiss me, but instead he put his hand on my hip and slid it slowly down until it encountered the telltale bump of a suspender snap.
‘Oh, yes,’ he breathed. ‘Well done.’
But this wasn’t evidence enough, apparently, because his hand crept lower, reaching the mid-thigh hem of my skirt. He curled his fingers inside, drew it slowly up, and further up.
And now we had to rely on the tendency of tube passengers not to look too closely at what anyone else was up to. Would the magic hold? I held my breath as he pushed my hem higher, fraction by fraction, finally reaching the lacy top of my stocking and cupping it with his exploring hand.
‘Hmm,’ he said, very quietly, very low in his throat, just for me and nobody else to hear. ‘You sexy little … oh, God. Why did I ask you to do this?’
He shut his eyes and rested his forehead above mine on the glass partition for a moment, apparently overwhelmed. I could see, and feel, the swollen lump at his crotch as it made contact with my stomach.
His fingers stole above the stocking top, tips pressing into my inner thigh, which was slick with perspiration. He let the skirt fall down over his wrist and risked moving his fingers higher. He was virtually in my knickers, running up the line of the suspender elastic, tickling me into a shivering madness of desire.
Would he really go so far as to put his fingers inside me? And would I really do nothing to stop him?
I was panting into his collar, my legs stiff, beginning to tremble at the knees. I grabbed hold of his lapels to keep myself from sliding down the partition wall.
He was so close … he was almost there.
He tapped two fingers on the satiny gusset of my knickers, sending a shockwave through my pussy, then withdrew.
‘Oh, God,’ I whispered, utterly undone, beyond caring about everything around us. ‘Don’t stop.’
‘Sorry, sweetheart, but we’re nearly at Moorgate,’ he murmured apologetically. ‘But it’s Friday tomorrow, and you know what day Friday is?’
‘Er …’ My head swirled. ‘Dress down?’
‘In a way. No pants Friday.’ He winked at my shocked face as the train slowed and juddered. ‘Till tomorrow.’ He turned me to the doors by my shoulders and sent me on my way with a furtive smack to my bottom.
Was I actually going to stand on a packed tube train in a virtually see-through blouse, short flippy skirt, stockings, suspenders, Wonderbra and no knickers?
Why, yes. Yes, I was. And I did.
But at London Bridge he didn’t get on.
I had to double-check, looking desperately out at the platform in case he was late, running to me, tie streaming, bag flying. But he wasn’t.
The doors bleeped and shut without him.
I slumped.
His connecting train must have been late, I thought. Or perhaps he was ill. I hoped it wasn’t that. But illness was better than my third option, which was that he had merely tired of our game and the way I played it.
I had to blink back tears, which was ridiculous. Honestly. A few mad fumbles on a tube train didn’t justify this level of upset. But there it was. Now I would have to wait a whole weekend to find out what had happened.
I got off at Moorgate, crestfallen and inconveniently knickerless. I was going to have to watch who stood behind me on the escalator. Or was there somewhere I could go to put on the pair I had in my handbag for when I reached the office?
I was scanning the platform for possibilities when someone caught my arm from behind, fingers closing around it. I nearly screamed, then I swung my head round and saw who it was.
‘Oh, my God,’ I said, and it was weird to be able to talk to him at a normal volume. ‘What the hell?’
‘Thought I’d switch things up a bit,’ he said nonchalantly, slipping his arm through mine and walking me towards the escalator. ‘Don’t want you getting bored with me.’
‘Fat chance of that,’ I said. He nudged me gently on to the escalator, standing gallantly behind me so that nobody would see my stocking tops. Was that gallant? Or was it actually just a perving opportunity?
I didn’t much care. I felt lightheaded and rapturous at this new development, especially when he leaned forward slightly and put his hands on the outsides of my thighs, his palms pressing into my suspender snaps. As public displays of affection went, it was unorthodox, but it felt like a warm kiss of welcome.
‘I can’t take you to work with me,’ I said once we were at street level, turning to him and laughing with the sheer delight of it all.
‘No, but I can,’ he said obliquely, following me through the ticket barrier.
‘What? But you don’t work here.’
‘I didn’t. But I do now.’
He took my hand and ran across the street with me to one of the never-ending building sites that peppered the city – this one had colonised the little street that led to Finsbury Circus. He fished out a key from his jacket pocket, unlocked the padlock that sealed it off from the public and pulled me in after him.
‘What?’
‘I’m overseeing this site now,’ he said. ‘I’ll be working here for a couple of months at least.’
He led me up some steps to a portacabin in the corner of the site, unlocked it and locked the door behind us.
I stared at him, amazed and enthralled.
‘I’ll be late …’ I said, hesitating.
‘So the train was held up,’ he said, hooking an arm around me and drawing me hard against him. ‘Happens all the time on the Northern Line.’
‘True,’ I said into his mouth, before he sealed my lips with a scorching kiss.
His hands were under my skirt, his tongue down my throat, my bottom on his desk, his fingers up inside me, my fist inside his trousers, his trousers down, my skirt up – all in the space of what seemed like three seconds. I lay back on his desk, my legs wrapped around his hips, panting into his mouth like an animal in heat, ready for the logical conclusion of our week-long foreplay.
He produced a condom from somewhere, batted my hand off his cock so he could put it on, and then we were away, the table rocking with the force of his thrusts, the windows steaming around us.
‘I’d have done this to you on the train,’ he gasped, gripping my shoulders for purchase, ‘if I’d got on there today. I couldn’t wait any longer …’
‘I wanted you to,’ I said, latching on to his neck with my mouth.
I was a bare-faced slut who’d been taken to his office to get what I’d been begging for all week. God, it felt incredible.
He let go of one shoulder and used his free hand to drive a hard smack up from underneath my hard-working legs, landing on the overhanging part of my bottom.
‘Any girl who wears these to work,’ he said, twanging a suspender, ‘ought to expect this kind of thing.’ He spanked me again.
‘That’s why I’m wearing them,’ I said, enjoying the hot glow spreading through my skin.
‘Thought so.’ Another hard smack, then his thumb alighted on my clit and rubbed away as he continued to rock me all over the desk.
I came clinging on to his lapels, in a blur of banging and clattering from below and stubbly kissing from above. He followed quickly, a fist in my hair, hot mouth over mine.
I felt utterly ruined, and must have looked it too.
‘You’re going to have to walk to your office looking like that,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘I hope you’ve got decent mirrors in the ladies’. Our portaloo won’t really do the job.’
He handed me a wad of paper towels and I cleaned myself up, burning-cheeked and sheepish.
So this was it. It was done. Back to work, and everything back to the old routine.
But he stopped me before I walked back out.
‘So, what time do you leave work?’
I turned back, hopeful. ‘About sixish.’
‘You could meet me here if you want. We could go out for a drink or something.’
‘What’s “or something”?’ I asked with an arch of my eyebrows.
‘Why don’t you come and find out?’ he said.