London Is Mine

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

I can’t explain it, and I’m really not sure I want to. It’s been there for so long that I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t, this desire for vulnerability, the risk of being caught, and the exhilarating threat of exposure and humiliation that it brings.Even after all these years, if I think about it, I can still almost feel my first ever orgasm. Of all the places, it happened in the swimming pool at school. The teacher blew the whistle for everyone to get out, but I remained floating face down on the water, hearing the startled shouting voices above me. Then it happened, this unexpected wave of euphoria washed over me, a sensation which at the time was new and confusing, but one that now I recognise as an orgasm.I, of course, had no idea what it was, but I knew I liked it; I liked it a lot, and ever since, I’ve sought to relive that moment, and somehow placing myself in a position of danger or jeopardy fulfils it. ********** It was one of those dull, muggy afternoons where the city seemed to suck the air from your lungs. ‘Humid with the threat of thunder,’ I think was what the weatherman said.As I walked to the underground at Hyde Park Corner, I could feel my short, mustard coloured mini dress clinging to me as I took the escalator to the lower floor. Every part of my ensemble had been carefully chosen for maximum effect: the dress, my shoes, my hair, and yes, my underwear, a delicate white thong, invisible to the eye.I was braless, although it had crossed my mind to wear something that accentuated my breasts, the sweltering humidity swayed my choice in the end. I was comfortable with my body, running, swimming, and yoga taking care of that.It didn’t take long before my attire was pleasantly rewarded. A man and his partner walked towards me, and their faces said it all, her jealous scowl, and his quick backward glance at my behind as we passed, to which he received a swift poke in the ribs.The platform was busy but hadn’t yet reached that awful sardine moment where the pushing and shoving begin for available space. The hot blast of air stung my eyes as the train güvenilir bahis approached, and I was relieved to find that the carriage was relatively quiet as I took my seat.The man sitting opposite me was reading a copy of that night’s Evening Standard and was expensively dressed. His crisp white shirt positively radiated under his tailored navy-blue suit. He was handsome, the tan on his face and hands telling me that he’d either not long ago been on holiday or that he spent a lot of time on the golf course. He was most definitely upper management, his finely manicured fingernails telling me that apart from maybe spraying the roses in his back garden, he hadn’t done any manual work in his life.I guessed his age; early fifties maybe, the slight greying on the temples of his healthy thick black thatch of combed-back hair, giving him away. As did the gold wedding ring on the third finger of his left hand: married. I was amazed by how cool he appeared. All my fellow passengers looked flustered, fanning themselves with whatever was available, while he sat there in his buttoned-up shirt and tie as if it were a crisp spring morning.I watched as his eyes left his newspaper and slowly began to work their way up my body, starting with my shoes, then inching up my bare legs, and over the hem of my skirt, pausing on my breasts. I was aware that not only was my body responding to his attention, I could feel my nipples hardening and pressing against the cotton of my dress, but also that he had noticed.The train stopped at Green Park. No one got off, but we were joined by a lady who sat next to my admirer. When I’d taken my seat earlier, I realised that the hem of my dress had ridden up slightly, showing maybe a little more leg than I had intended. I hadn’t adjusted my position, enjoying the slight thrill that the man’s attention brought, which our new travelling companion immediately noticed, giving me the kind of disapproving look normally reserved for my father on a Saturday night. She then caught the man’s gaze and grasped the situation, her prying eyes dotting back and forth güvenilir bahis siteleri between us.His main focus appeared to be centred on the tiny triangle formed by the cross of my legs and the hem of my dress. There were two more stops before I completed my journey, and I wondered if it would be too soon. If I showed my hand now, would that be enough to satisfy his curiosity, or as I wished, leave him wanting more and keeping him on the hook? I chose to keep my powder dry.Piccadilly Circus, and the carriage filled up with all seats taken, but I still held his attention. Until that moment, his eyes hadn’t ventured any higher than my breasts. When they eventually did, they were staring into mine. I was conscious not to waver, only a quick flutter of my eyelids sufficed.I could read him clearly. When he again lowered his eyes, I rewarded him. It was only brief, but a slight shift of my legs allowed him to see in between, giving him my consent to venture further and glimpse the white flash of my underwear. His expression gave away his intentions by licking the lips of his pinched smile.I christened him Charles. I don’t know where that name came from, but I find that it adds to the intrigue to invent a persona. Charles Henry Fortescue, civil servant, adviser to the treasury. I also imagined his wife innocently waiting at home, enjoying a cheeky early evening gin and tonic before hubby returns from the rat race, unaware of what was currently going through his mind and how easy he was to snare.Or perhaps she is in on the game, fully conscious of her husband’s weakness, eagerly awaiting his return so he can tell her all about his latest conquest, allowing her in turn to administer a punishment. The imagination is such a wonderful gift, don’t you think?Leicester Square was the last stop before I got off. The carriage was now crowded, and Charles graciously gave up his seat to a pregnant woman. He stood in front of me, gripping the rail, his crotch directly in line with my eyes. I could see the impressive outline of his member pressing against the material of iddaa siteleri his Savile-Row-tailored blue suit trousers.‘I see that sir dresses to the left,’ I could hear his tailor saying. That much was obvious, even to my untrained eye.“The next station is Covent Garden, please alight on the right-hand side of the train,” the train’s speakers crackled the recorded announcement, and I stirred from my seat, brushing past him as I stood. The subtle scent of sandalwood caught me. “Please mind the gap.” I smiled inwardly as he took the bait, keeping a discreet distance from me as we travelled through the maze of corridors and up the clunking escalator.London was choking as I walked out into the early evening, the smouldering heat radiating from the buildings and the crowds. The bars and restaurants full of tourists and pre-theatre goers as I checked the reflection in a shop window, confirming that he was still following me, ten steps behind.We continued down James Street, taking a left into Floral Street towards Covent Garden. The heady sense of anticipation was already having its effect on me, feeling the suggestive seeping, oozing, trickle of desire collecting in my underwear.I had no plan as to where I was going but walked aimlessly until I spied a narrow alley between an Italian restaurant and a bakery. This was it, the final test of his resolve. Without thinking I turned into a passage that appeared to run the entire length of the two buildings, stopping abruptly at a brick wall dead-end.I fleetingly cast my eyes around the confined area, over the dirty, unwashed windows covered in cobwebs and city smut that overlooked the alley from two levels. Each building had a black door, beside which sat two large red rubbish bins, sending a pang of excitement up my spine as the peril of being discovered increased. Behind me, I heard the scrape of footsteps, and I closed my eyes, this was it. Sensing his presence, I turned to see him standing merely a metre from me.“The spider has the fly,” he said, and for the first time, I heard his voice. There was a pleasing whisky-gravel in his tone, very Eton and Oxbridge. “But which is which? Am I the fly, falling for your honeytrap? If so, then I suspect we will soon have the company of the assailant at my back. Or is it you, my dear, the prick-tease who has met her match.”

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32