Tuesday, 24 May 2011

The Hitch

Coach rides can be so boring. Especially long overnighters between college and home. It's Friday night... no, I check my watch, it's very early Saturday morning now. Everyone else is probably asleep or out clubbing, except me and the other passengers. I can't even doze, with the unseen countryside, punctuated with the odd streetlight, whizzing past the window on one side. And him on the other.

He's pretty hot but I can't pluck up the courage to talk, shy mature student that I am. So I bury myself in my erotic novel & try not to think about him. Try not to think about it. Him and me. As I get deeper, more engrossed in the purple prose as the characters fuck without abandon after pages of foreplay, described in the filthiest, most arousing of terms, it's difficult not to paint them as myself and his embodiment of cuteness, only the thickness of our clothes away.

I've got a pleasant itch between my thighs, and glance at him sideways. His head has lolled back. slightly towards me, eyes closed. Hopefully he won't notice, as my irritation needs attention, and I slowly but deliberately hitch my denim skirt up, a bit at a time, on the side away from him. My fingers work silently to make the movements look casual, until they are able to... yes, just touch the fabric of my undies. Then another swift hitch of my skirt, and they find the leg band. Tug it delicately away from my damp skin. Up a bit more, in a little further, and my nails sink in warm sensitive wetness.

I give a small shudder, glance at him quickly again. Still breathing low and slow. I let my fingers swirl lazily, skinny dipping myself, teasing the tingles, and continue reading with my left hand propping the book in front of my eyes.

Jeeeeeeeez, that is good!

With deft skill learned from doing this too many times in private, a slender finger curls the page of the one-handed book over to more fictional fucking, as the other acts it out as best a few fingers can. Which is pretty fantastic for now. Before long I'm only browsing the pages casually, as I let my fingers work out my more lurid fantasies as only frustrations can.

I'm so deep in myself, my own imagination, I almost don't notice when my fingers are joined by a soulmate. A larger doppelganger. Like giant fleshy ants, my fingers tap the other to make sure it's real, and it taps back 'Oh yes. May I join you?'. Or something similar. I tap back 'Why not... ?'.

My eyes had closed in bliss and I'm now too scared to open them, as the big fingers scurry off quickly, for a quick hitch of my skirt on the other side, before it snuggles down beside mine again in its bed of slippery, soaked sensuality.

It can't be him, can it?

I decide not to open my eyes, not even turn my head, just let my hands, fingers, nails tap out what I'd like. Guide that oh so gorgeously big hand, long fingers and exquisitely strong nails search out my needs and satisfy them. Maybe not as sensitively as mine but fuck, who am I to complain? They're buff fit fingers, guessing they work out enough in their own wanky way, so as his palm cups the fluffiness of my mound, I feel like I'm watching... no, that's not quite right, feeling a pro at work. A bodybuilder flexing his abs and six-pack, all for me. And what delicious moves.

My hand leaves his, easing back in admiration as his fingers plunge in, like a swimmer diving into a pool, swirling through my depths. My hand flattens across my belly, sensing his motions under my surface as they curl up and around. And it isn't long before my horniness clarifies and sharpens into a short orgasm of pleasantly satisfying intensity, rippling and quivering over his fingers.

But he doesn't end there. Gentle soothing caresses stroke and calm my insides to sleep, and forgetting where I am, let alone who, my head lolls to one side and I join it.

There's a jolt and I awaken suddenly as the coach comes to a halt at my home station. It takes me a few seconds to recollect how and why I drifted off. Then a blushing realisation, glancing down then up. My skirt has been hitched back to my parted knees. He is getting his bag from the overhead store.

My face expresses a single question: did it happen between us? His only answer is a wink and a blown kiss. Then he is gone.


But my body knows something did, in the way bodies only can. And when I'm alone and in need, I'll always remember his fingers hitching their own way inside...

It'll do, for now.



  1. I love this scene. Did they, didn't they? Is it imagination run riot or did the stranger actually touch her? Love it.


  2. A great story. Very hot. And I love the word "wanky". :o)

  3. "skinny dipping myself" Love that!

    *fans self* Whew!


  4. Soooo good! I may have to revisit, erm, a few times ;-)

  5. Oh, I loved this. Tres sensual, tres hot!!

  6. Love the way you ended it - we'll never know. But we can imagine, and we will...

    Nice work

  7. Mmm, now that's how one travels. Love the open interpretation, but all of them are hot as hell!