'Once In The Journey Of Life'

by Sandrine Lopez

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Don't want to be the wallflower, the quiet one, shy girl, person no-one speaks to... ignores.

But it's my nature. I like to watch people, see how they move, dress, talk, live. Call me a student of the human condition, if you like. It's a bit like the sex my friends always talk about. Either a giver or a taker. I take quietly, passively, without them knowing, share their existence vicariously. But I remain detached. Partitioned. Separate. There, but not really...

Words, tales, gossip, instead of the experience, taste, feel itself.

So I set out to be a part of it. Change, transform, re-invent...

Typical, tale of my life, the night I choose is victim to one of the worse public transport fuck-ups ever. We never get the full story, like we ever do, but the tannoyed weary announcements invent new excuses to explain why our train has all the speed of a snail, direction of a moth.

Eventually we're dumped on an already packed platform, the dark, crowd loud heat of a Friday night gone bad. No choice but to change here and catch another crippled carriage. Just one more stop down the line to go. Pity the poor souls damned to travel further, for an eternity on the midnight delights of British Rail...

I feel overdressed, my own change drawing lusty looks and piercing whistles. My heels are higher, the skirt much shorter, blouse too tight, too sheer, wishing I'd worn a bra... Unwanted bodies pressed against mine as we all vie for personal space.

A tumble, a tide, of tortured travellers down the platform to where there's space and air, however summer burning, to breathe. I have no wall to flower against, spotlighted under a lamp. The only darkness for hiding is the platform edge.

One other body detached himself from the crowd, standing near, on the edge too. Admiring glances, up and down. Could be any smart casually dressed clubber, on his way between scenes, or just on a journey, no destination in mind.

Not especially good looking, attractive over handsome, but confident against my fight not to be shy, demure, ignored. I sought attention, realise now you get the unwanted with wanted, chaff with wheat, bathwater with the babe. Subconsciously I move away, while every nerve is magnetised to him, my eyes, smile, as I back off, not knowing quite what I want, don't want...

Risk the platform spotlight as I move to the other side. He follows slowly, first with gaze, then slow but sure steps. It becomes a slow dance, as I totter from edge to edge, until he stops in the middle, watching me pace back and forth like a trapped animal.

Eventually I decide he may be just what I need. For all I know he could be married, have a girlfriend, be attached, wandering eyes but not motive. I return the admiring gaze, the taunting smile, revel in his spotlight. It's reflected back, more intense.

The only sign I can give, fighting the nervous wall of self-doubt I still cling to, is a one word conversation, more unsaid than said, and flash of my ticket. My destination. Whether you like it or not...

He slowly flips his own ticket out, and replies singly too. His objective. Beyond my stop. Welcome to join me?

There's a thundering trundle as the train aches from slow to stop beside us. It's going both our ways. There's a brief parting as we embark through different doors, eyes still locked, until the pushs, bumps, grinds and shoves karma us together between carriages. Standing room only.

The need for everyone else to get off Hell's Platform presses us together. As if our sardine tin audience is watching, waiting, clamouring for us to get it on.

I lean back against the wall with him ironing my clothes, gently, slowly, hotly, up and down, me still in them, in time with the train trundling on its track. The wall gives slightly to one side, door of the unisex toilet. I feel behind for the handle, draw it open, jump inside. I see his pained expression of parting, even for a loo break I don't actually need. Then, as the door closes, I impulsively reach out, drag him inside, close and lock it behind me, gasping. There's a muffled 'woooo' from the crumpled crowd outside, some clapping.

Now he's the trapped animal. Certain of what he'd like but unsure of what I want. He's not the only one. There's a third creature inside with us, within me, starting to pace and pound round my gut. Growling for attention. Wants I'm beginning to crave.

Just him, me, and this being of desire. The last two, like converging tracks, become one...

Grabbing his lapels, pressing my lips to his, I push him down on the toilet seat before he has a chance to return my forceful smooches. I'm bent over, standing room only, feeling burning needs to take him, even if he doesn't want it. Taking actively, no longer passive. Is that right? That's the wall I've always had. The flower wilts from the new heat... a twisting, wild creeper grows in its place, entwining round him.

He grips inside my thighs, pulls them apart so I'm plonked heavily on his lap, straddling him. Buzz of excitement, gasps of tension. We're really magnetised now, attraction pulling us bodily to each other. I can feel his stiffy through his trousers, the meagre thin fabric of my panties. Know he wants it inside me. I'm so aroused, so high, so full of need I don't just want to press my naked skin to his, I want to be inside him too. Part his body and snuggle beneath the cover of his flesh. Two animals becoming one.

The journey between stations is usually a few minutes. At its current crawl, we may have ten or so. Make them all count...

One...

Bumpity-bump... bumpity-bump... Train on its tracks.

Bumpity-bump... bumpity-bump... My heart pounding so loud, so heavily, it makes my unsupported breasts jiggle.

Bumpity-bump... bumpity-bump... Rubbing against each other. Clothes in the way...

Two...

Raise myself so we can fumble, tear, at his trouser belt, button, zip. Hug his waist to lift him so he can tug them down. Then his boxers. Freed, his erection springs up. Just the thought of it easing, no... grinding, into me... a low subconscious whimper, moan, sigh... call it what you will, it's mine.

Hadn't really thought I'd need them so soon, if ever, at all, but fumble in my bag for a condom. Stretch tear the wrapping, stretch it over him. Stretching my panties to one side as I settle back down on him, sheathed skin on skin, inside skin. Ooooh, that first contact, touch, penetration, slide, embrace of my twat around him, moments of bliss, snuggle, grip. And it keeps going in, fuck, is it ever going to stop. Eventually, our thighs connect. He's all the way.

Three...

Shrug his jacket off. Unbutton what I can of his shirt. His hands support the small of my arching back, as he tugs at my blouse with his teeth, popping it open until he can kiss my nips, snog them, sucking needily, greedily like a baby. That goes all the way too. Up, around, down... shocks of sensation connecting with him deep up, full of him, in my gut.

His hands under my thighs, lifting my knees, my full weight on him, over him. I'm no model, stick-insect, lightweight. But he likes it, loves it, obsesses against my heaviness as he jiggles, pumps, pounds, up into me. Bringing us closer, closer, still...

Four...

Humpity-hump... humpity-hump... Bouncy up and down.

Humpity-hump... humpity-hump... In and out, right in... and right out, in out, in out in out...

Humpity-hump... humpity-hump... Closer, so close now...

All the way.

Train as fast as it can go.

Five...

Clawing at each other, tongues in mouths, mingling of wetness, excitement, intensity.

He lets go, gives it all up. My purple painted nails dig deep into my palms, toes curl within stockings and shoes, teeth gnawing lip, parted lips, sighs, moans, cries, tremble all over, shudder, convulse...

Another one word conversation. He says, "Yes... ". I just give a chokey squeal of perfect pleasure, sensing every white-hot last spurt, hug him to death, his stubble against my cheek and throat.

Six...

More smoochies, kissies, snuggles, long moments. The bliss of after, comfort of just holding, being, existing within each other...

Amazingly he's still hard, huge, hot, held fast in my gut. Super-sized sensations from a satisfying, long overdue, unscheduled shag...

Seven...

Return ticket ride.

I struggle up, off him, let him stand. His condomed cock glistens as he peels it off in a thick wedge of loo paper, drops it in the loo. Whiteness dribbles from him, splashing around, on us. Its sticky scent drives me, dares me, to risk bareback.

I bend over, brace myself on the toilet seat now. Look back, look him straight in the eyes, yes again. Yes! No words, just instinct. He gathers up my skirt round my waist, tugs my damp panties down, just enough to reveal, let him see, slip slide into, my wet anticipating hunger.

Humpity-hump... humpity-hump...

His knees angle between mine, spreading them, thighs parting. His strength against the taut tugging binding of my undies. Push me. His firm hand grapples forward, clawing my shoulder, whole body, back onto him. Pull me. The other reaches under, hammocks a free swinging breast, massages it, my sucked sore nipple. Pinch me.

Eight...

Swaying, rocking, colliding in rhythm with the carriage. Falling, cascading, against, within each other. Bodies in transit, between places, hell and heaven. Closest yet, another climax. Him, me, one tripping over another. Powerfully, explosively, loudly, lingering. Mingling with the scream of train brakes, objective reached.

My vision blurs, misty-eyed, mascara smudging... soaring, roaring in ears, rushing of blood in my head, all over, all the way, legs give way but he holds me up until finished, suckling on his cock with my cunt, milked, drained...

Nine...

Bump... bump... bump... Train slowing for station approach.

Bump... bump... bump... Our hearts, bodies, breathless pants, ease down from their brief marathon.

Bump... Limbs separate.

Bump... Souls tear apart from union.

A mop of tissues, off skin, dabbing clothes, flush away the evidence.

Quick studies in fastening clothing, straightening hair, modesty, composure...

Ten...

The carriage shudders to its own climatic stop. Was it good for the train too?

A journey's end. The show over, our audience is already moving on. Release the door, and I join the flurry of people, swept away backwards, eyes still locked, with a last call of his name. I call mine out too, introduction after intimacy, but what does it matter... Mr Tom Two-Stops-Up-The-Line? We'll probably never meet again.

Even now, only a memory, echo, remembrance, scorching hot, sticky wet, white keepsake, where it counted, tantalisingly cooling, dribbles caught in the towel sandwiched between my damp panties and raw cunt. Oozing out squishingily as I shimmy, tender thighs painfully aware of each other, out the station.

Hook up with my friends, squee hugs and air kisses. But even my perfume, body spray, can't mask the musk of him, the unmistakeable smell of sex, spunk, and my deepest self too.

"What is that scent you're wearing?" As if they need to be told, all far too knowing for that. Add to that a laddered stocking, unseemly crumpled skirt, an undone button, forgotten in haste...

I shrug, "I just... grabbed what was handy." A smile, smirk, hands-up guiltiness acting innocent.

No longer entirely ignored but I keep my mystery while they gossip, speculate, try to entice it out of me - unlike his cum still freely leaking, now cool as if thick clingy perspiration - with drink, raised eyebrows, more sexy, lusty, bawdy tales of their own.

I just find the wall again, cling to it, but liking the new dark, growing, taller self, petalled head held high, a sunflower now, glowing.


*end*


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#wankwednesday