Until I put my head in his lap on that bench. He stroked my hair and told me how beautiful I was. I rested my cheek against his crotch and felt him beginning to harden.
When I smiled up at him and asked, he admitted, yes… seeing me curled up on the bench was turning him on. It was winter, and I was wearing jeans and high suede boots and a little black sweater that my nipples poked right through—and not from the cold.
When his hand brushed one on its way to my hip, it made me shiver.
“Are you turned on?” he whispered, glancing around at the people milling through the station.
I nodded. “Since the first time you kissed me…”
He smiled. “You once told me you could make yourself come without using your hands…”
It was true. I’d done it before, in certain situations, when I was extremely aroused and couldn’t, for whatever reason, touch myself. I hadn’t climaxed once all weekend, and my whole body was on fire with need. I glanced around, unsure, seeing the light in his eyes. There was no one sitting on our bench, but there was a man reading the paper across from us. New people were constantly coming in and out of the station, up and down the stairs. He wanted me to make myself come… in such a public place? Could I do it, without touching myself?
“Do it for me.” His hand moved upward, cupping my breast. The movement of his thumb over my nipple was hidden, as I was curled up toward the back of the bench, my cheek resting against the line of his zipper. The sensation went straight to my clit, making my pussy come alive almost instantly, like a cat that had just been waiting for its prey to make a sudden move. My body pounced on the idea and I began to squeeze my thighs together, moving my hips in almost imperceptible circles.
He watched me, his eyes shining, his thumb moving faster over my nipple through the fabric of my sweater. I felt my clit rubbing against the seam of my jeans—a useful stimulant under the circumstances—and tried to control my movements. I wanted to writhe and buck and twist on that bench, to come so hard people on the incoming train could hear me. But I stayed quiet… my breath coming faster, growing shaky, my face flushing with the heat of my pleasure.
The shadow of someone passed over us and I slowed, biting my lip, but Dan encouraged me, tweaking my nipple, making me sigh and gasp. I wanted to tuck my hands between my legs, to rock against my palm, but I didn’t dare. My clit was throbbing as I nudged myself, bit by agonizing bit, toward orgasm. My thighs were flexed so tightly that, three days later, I would still feel the soreness in my muscles—but I didn’t notice it then. His cock strained against his jeans—I could actually feel it pulsing through the denim—and that turned me on even more. I longed to take him into my mouth, to make him come, too…
But he was focused on me, whispering things I could barely hear, “That’s it, good girl, do it for me, come on, baby, that’s so good, you’re so beautiful, don’t stop, don’t stop…” I couldn’t have stopped if I wanted to. The delicious, winding spiral that had been stretching between he and I all weekend was pulled to its maximum, taut and trembling with such force that my thighs, my breath, my whole being shook with it. I knew it was going to snap back, and the sensation would send me into orbit.
“Oh god…” I whispered it. I think I whispered.
My hips moved faster now, my thighs squeezed together so tight they hurt, my little clit rubbing over the seam of my jeans again and again and again. Dan moved his hand surreptitiously to my other breast, shifting his weight, his thumb touching my nipple and that did it—the feeling reached its limit and my whole body stiffened with pleasure and I quivered in his lap, burying my face against the hard, heated length of his shaft as I came, feeling surge after surge shuddering through me.
We didn’t talk afterward. He stroked my hair as my body began to relax and the flush in my cheeks began to fade. I didn’t open my eyes for a long time, too afraid of what—or who—I might see around us. Later, Dan said he didn’t think anyone had noticed, and considering how busy it was, he was probably right.
I didn’t sit up until it was time to go to his train, and we walked, hands swinging, to where he would start his part of the journey home. He kissed me goodbye. It was the last time I’d ever see him, although I didn’t know it at the time. Things didn’t work out…
relationships often don’t.
But I’ll never forget that weekend. Or the time we spent together on that bench in Union Station.
WATCHING HIM MASTURBATE
I love to watch a man masturbate. It’s a little fetish of mine, and I think it started because my ex-husband claimed he never masturbated. I couldn’t imagine—I know I did, all the time, and according to the statistics, men supposedly did it much more than women. It took him over a year before he was willing to let me give him a handjob—and it was even longer than that before he would masturbate in front of me. And that was after I caught him. Or, really… he caught me watching.
I’d been watching for a while. I was a bad influence on him-I introduced him to porn. He discovered he loved watching two girls together, and I’d purchased several tapes of girl on girl porn just for him. He couldn’t resist. Which is what I was hoping. At night, after he thought I was asleep, he’d sneak into the living room and put on some girlie porn. Me, I’d wait to hear the low moans of the girls on the television before sneaking out myself, watching from the doorway.
The angle was a good one—I could see his profile, leaning back into the couch, his cock standing straight up in his pumping fist. I could also see the television screen, the girls there humping a double dildo between them, riding a pink jellied cock and moaning loudly. It was hard to decide which to watch, the movement of his hand up and down the length of his cock, or the sweet sight of two wet pussies, one blonde, one dark, impaled on a slick dildo. Just standing there, my panties were getting wet.
When the girls on screen started moaning louder, fucking faster, pressing their pussies as close as they could, his hand moved faster. When the blonde reached out to squeeze the dark-haired girl’s nipple, I heard a sharp intake of his breath, and his hand moved a little faster still.
“Oh, god, baby, I’m coming, I’m coming!” The dark-haired girl moaned, her belly quivering, her whole body stiff, and I saw his hand squeezing the tip of his cock—hard—a bit of precum gathered at the tip. The sight made me breathless with lust, and I ached to go lick it off, but I didn’t want him to know I was there.
I finally gave into the ache between my legs, sliding my hand down to touch myself. I was afraid to interrupt him, thinking he’d be too embarrassed being caught that he’d stop. I didn’t want him to stop. I wanted to see him come. The dark-haired girl had moved position, so she was licking the blonde, using the dildo to fuck her at the same time, the end in her hand, the cock had been inside her pussy, still shiny and slick.
“Oh yeah,” I heard him whisper as the blonde played with her nipples, pinching, squeezing, moaning, begging the other girl to lick her faster.
“Oh, baby, yes, that’s soooo good!” the blonde moaned, reaching her fingers down to spread her pussy lips wider. “Eat that wet cunt! Oh god! Lick it ’til I come all over your face!”
He was jerking himself fast now-so fast!—his breath filling the room. His hand shuttled up and down his thick length, finally focusing right at the head, his eyes half-closed as he watched the screen. My eyes went from him to the TV and back again, my fingers wet, rubbing my clit while I watched. My pussy ached, my nipples hard under my t-shirt, as he pumped faster, harder, his breath coming in panting gasps, his hips bucking up, his toes curling. He was close. So was I.