27 Minutes free porn video

July 2014

In all my travels, the Paris Metro is one of my favourite transport systems. Whether whizzing across to breathtaking views of La Tour Eiffel or hopping up to Anvers to marvel at the gleaming Sacré Cœur and bustling artists of Place du Tertre, it's an essential piece of kit to explore what is arguably the most romantic European city.

To plan a Metro journey -- just like most other underground systems -- the rule of thumb is to allow roughly three minutes per stop. While transit time between stations is only about a minute, the remainder comprises stopping; starting; doors releasing; people crushing on and off; and walking to and from trains.

Such ready-reckoning is founded on averages and I know enough basic statistics to understand this can vary at different times of day -- rush hour being one of them. And, although not an accurate measurement, perception is another factor that alters journey time; usually proportional to how important the meeting is and how late I'm running.

The extrapolated time period of this particular journey, however, was due to an external agent: my fiancé Adam. Nine little stations, start to finish. Funny how twenty-seven minutes can feel like a lifetime in the wrong hands.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

To be fair to Adam, it wasn't entirely his fault. I can hold up my hand and claim fifty percent responsibility. Well, maybe forty.

It had started on the Eurostar that morning as we looked forward to a relaxing few days together. After a bit of wrangling we'd managed to align our leave at short notice and secured a last minute train-plus-hotel deal. Nothing fancy, just a much needed break from the windowless office and smell of printer toner.

Huddled in a pair of seats that evidently had legroom designed by someone shorter than me, I watched the early morning sun streaming in from the opposite window as it flickered across Adam's face while he read. His eyes scanned quickly and the pages turned as he absorbed the latest Jack Reacher escapade. From experience I knew there was precious little chance of drawing Adam's focus away from one of those stories once he got stuck in, so I just continued my contemplative observations, appeasing the anthropologist in me.

The carriage was a comfortable, constant temperature but by all accounts it was going to be a hot day in the capital, so we'd dressed accordingly. Adam was in his customary T-shirt and baggy shorts sporting more pockets than strictly necessary. With Vans, shades and Lego Darth Vader cap rounding off the apparel he resembled some kind of skateboardesque, comic-con reject, though the nerd factor was lessened with a large side order of cute. The impish grin he had flashed at me as we were queuing to board -- a grin that ended in tiny dimples by prominent cheekbones -- always finished the package for me. Such spark, such lust for life. It was infectious and still made me all melty inside when our eyes met.

I'd similarly kitted out for summer, but with a cheeky twist. A fairly low-cut, pastel blue halterneck top and matching bra allowed my long, dark plait to swish behind me -- Lara Croft style -- while a miniskirt and strappy sandal with a sizeable heel gave my legs a chance to breathe, bringing me up to Adam's height. Partway between chic and à la mode, with a dash of ooh-la-la, I certainly felt fabulous and powerful. Dressing up in gorgeous clothes always excited me, and the fairy dust that only the Parisian air could sprinkle was sure to magnify this fervour.

My percentage of blame stemmed from the fact I'd deliberately chosen the outfit to give Adam something to lust over: in a city full of beautiful, tanned foreigners, I wanted his attention to remain squarely on me. Insecure? Probably just a little. After all, I'm not classically pretty and in truth somewhat ungainly, with a tiny extra bit of belly of which I'm not proud. Plus, at the back of my mind was the thought of how many more years I could get away with such an outfit in public, so I was determined to make the most of what assets I had while I still had them in some kind of presentable package.

As large agricultural expanses of French countryside whipped past en route to Gare du Nord, I concluded my clothing was making the correct impression. On more than one occasion I caught sight of his shorts bulging as he glanced away from his book and flicked his eyes up and down my body, pretending not to be checking me out. Victory! Me 1; Lee c***d 0.

One time when he broke at a chapter point to appraise me, I tickled him, ignoring the disapproving stares from the more serious folk around us. I used the intimacy as an excuse to brush against his lovely erection a few times -- accidentally on purpose. Feeling him jump and swell at my brief touches started to make me hot and horny; made doubly delicious by having to exercise restraint when all I really wanted to do that minute was slip his dick out, marvel the firmness I had shaped, climb on top of him and sink it inside me to the hilt. The urgency of the vivid, slutty thought surprised me and I blinked to clear my mind, sitting back in my seat and eyeing my man lustfully, trying to calm my raging salacity before it landed me in trouble.

As a distraction I looked across the aisle. It was midweek so there were plenty of business people tapping spreadsheets into laptops, or pecking and stroking phones; as if being caught not working at any time of day was a crime. I assumed most of them didn't even qualify for overtime during the commute and shook my head in sympathy. What a world we inhabited, where corporations ruled over personal life with the unwritten fear of unemployment shackled to every soul. Almost everywhere I looked, up and down the carriage, was the embodiment of 'live to work'.

While I was similarly employed in the IT sector, my job thankfully came with the perk of regular travel. If 'perk' was the right term for being catapulted in a metal tube from city to city and staying in budget chain hotels devoid of character and decent food. Even then, I was firmly in the 'work to live' category and made a conscious effort to constrain my work activities to the nine-to-five time slot I was paid whenever possible. Adam too. His philosophy was that if it didn't fit into the working day then it could wait until the next. And for a manager, that was a refreshing outlook which earned him respect from his team and disdain from his superiors.

Another train rocketed by in the opposite direction, scaring me half to death. The blast of noise only lasted a few seconds but my heart jumped and beat rapidly after the unexpected interruption. I grinned at Adam whom it seemed had been similarly startled, then he returned to reading and I remained content to just watch.

By all outward appearances most people would correctly peg him as a computer buff. He just had that look; the slim frame; the indoor complexion; shoulders slightly rolled forward due to excessive laptop use. But to me, he was simply sexy. It wasn't any particular element in isolation, but the combination that appealed. Although his smile and soft-spoken manner had been my initial attraction, his off-the-wall humour added to the allure as I got to know him. He could also cook a mean pasta sauce from scratch and knew how to listen when I needed to let off steam: two qualities that I'm quietly convinced made some of my friends jealous in comparison to their partners' laddish -- and somewhat Cro-Magnon -- behaviour.

As if that wasn't enough, when the time came for Adam and I to make love for the first time, my fate had been sealed. I was totally unprepared for the size of his tongue, and what he could do with it. His utter devotion to my pleasure blew me away and soon had me arching my pelvis up off the bed, pressing hard against his face, uncharacteristically begging for more and being delighted to receive it. By the time he flung off his rumpled clothes, crawled up so our eyes were level, made my heart thump uncontrollably as he gazed into my being, and entered me, I was already two orgasms ahead and well on my way to a third. If I hadn't stopped him from eating me, I sensed he'd have stayed down there until I collapsed or turned inside out, whichever came sooner.

At the time, I couldn't reflect on whether it was luck or destiny that had drawn us together. There was no past or future, only the moment; his mouth drenched in my come, the heady sweet mixture invading my senses as our cheeks and lips brushed while he drove into me. Stroke after stroke I was powerless beneath him: legs spread, pussy drooling, eyes closed, mouth open; panting his name between thrusts, pulling him against me, digging my nails into his back, and inhaling his manly musk that was oh so new and oh so right.

Our bodies seemed to fit perfectly together and we had none of the usual first time awkwardness or apologies for misplaced elbows and knees. Like opposite poles of a magnet we just connected and our limbs locked as his girth easily split my slippery channel, seeking the depths his tongue hadn't already reached. I let him take me, content to be filled as my pulse raced and mind could barely keep up with the volume of messages it was being asked to process.

I remembered how magnificent it felt to once again be on the receiving end after a fairly lengthy barren spell of having just my hands, toys and innermost thoughts for company. Though unladylike to admit it, I hadn't realised quite how much I missed hot, hard cock until that day. I clung on when he picked up the pace, then let go as my body automatically stepped up through its orgasmic gears; finding myself only able to writhe beneath him, bunching fistfuls of bed sheets in the process. As I bucked against him and wrapped my legs around his torso, our moans synchronised and actions became one. He erupted inside me and I came shortly after, my cries echoing off the walls of the rented house as our juice collided.

While that night had been eclipsed many times since, I still treasured the feeling of that first union. The heat inside; the wetness; the far-off explosions that wracked my body and were so other-worldly that I wondered if they even belonged to me. It was only when the white noise had ceased, the room began to take shape once more, and I found his lips still smelling strongly of my sex that I could be sure. We lost ourselves in that kiss and stayed joined for goodness knows how long; elated and spent.

Returning my thoughts to the present, I found Adam settled in his seat, gazing ahead over the seatbacks and I just watched him thinking, aware of my body churning inside at the reminiscence. I watched the way the dimples along his jaw line rhythmically formed and disappeared as he clenched his teeth; his hazel eyes always alert, examining, taking everything in.

He leaned into me, and I had to strain to hear him, even over the fairly low background noise of the train. "Ever notice how the luggage rack is a bit reflective?"

I looked directly up at our reflection. "Not until you mentioned it."

"Look ahead a few rows."

I shifted my gaze forward and focused on the strip of angled glass that ran the length of the carriage.

He leaned conspiratorially further. "See the girl there. Low cut top. Big chest."

Trust a man to notice that. Her opened book was in her lap, and sure enough from this angle it was possible to look right down her blouse at generous cleavage.

I tutted. "So that's why you've been getting hard all this time? Her not me?"

"Hardly! But I've been wondering if anyone else has ever noticed."

"Her chest?"

"No, silly! The luggage rack."

"I doubt you're the first."

"Right. That got me thinking. What if you swung your legs up into my lap?"

He reached down and gently guided my legs across him so my feet dangled into the aisle a few inches. I leaned against the side of the vibrating train and let him position the back of my knees over his groin. I was already quite aroused after the daydream, and figured this could become interesting.

With the barest touch, his hand brushed my thigh. "What if I ran my hand up like this?" The motion made me shudder, a trail of goose bumps immediately forming in its wake. "And what if I nudged your skirt a little higher?"

It didn't reveal much -- maybe half an inch more skin -- but the fact the skirt was already short amplified the distance. I furtively looked across the carriage at our nearest neighbour with potential line of sight. Podgy and pallid with greasy hair swept back in a pony tail, he was engrossed in his laptop and I sensed only a direct atomic hit would draw his concentration away from his quest to climb the corporate ladder.

Adam's half-whispered monologue drew me back. "What about another inch? How does that make you feel?"

"Uncomfortable. Curious. A little excited. You showing me off now?"

He smiled. "Would you like that?"

I weighed up either side. "I guess. Up to a point."

He indicated my clothes. "So this is you being conservative is it?"

Silence answered on my behalf.

Adam let the question hang a few moments longer as the train banked. "Thought so. You like to tease don't you? You like the power play."

It was more of a statement than a question, but I nodded anyway. He knew the answer; just liked when I admitted it.

"Being in the saddle gets you off. It's the control. That's why you're a little unsure now. You don't know what'll happen next because I'm threatening to take away your reins. To make you mine."

"Enough of the horse references; I'm not My Little Pony! Unless you're planning to ride me, then give me a sugar lump?"

"Cheek will get you a slapped bottom, young lady."

"Promise?"

He ignored that, to my slight irritation at the wasted bait, and went on. "What if I called the shots today? All day. You have to do my every bidding. Would you like that?"

I actually quite liked the sound of it, looked down at my hands in my lap and nodded almost imperceptibly.

Though his tone remained measured, his voice tightened a little. "Imagine what I could show people. What people could see right now. Besides perhaps giving that guy over there an early coronary, what about other people? Some of them could look up at the glass and see what my hand just did to your skirt. See whatever we did."

My heart skipped a beat at the idea. It was devilish but I was curious how far he'd go. We trusted each other to the point we'd never push too far at the expense of the other's distress, but we both loved exploring the dark fringes of our relationship. Even if things became heavy I knew I could always back out and he'd respect my decision, but being ever so slightly out of control was something I had discovered was a tremendous turn on. So I played along. "What exactly could we do in this tiny space?"

"Plenty," he confirmed, his hand still resting on one leg at the base of my skirt, just three or four inches below my centre that had well and truly woken up, stirring at the lewd thoughts flashing through my mind. I wiggled against him suggestively, parted my thighs ever so slightly and liked the reaction.

He fondled the hem of my skirt. "Just having your legs like this is driving me crazy."

"I noticed."

He grasped the hem between his fingertips. "What if I..."

Pensive, I waited, skin alert, breathing irregularly. His eyes found mine and stared deeply.

"... did nothing."

I deflated. "Nothing?"

"Yes, just sat like this and related what I wanted to do to you later. Described all the parts of your body I want to touch, stroke and lick when we get to the hotel. Tell you exactly how much your sexy curves turn me on. How much your clothes tease and hug your shape. How I long to see what's beneath them, even though I've seen you naked hundreds of times before. How I want to stand behind you and free your hair while whispering that all I've been able to think about the whole day was the moment I had you all to myself. I want to run my hands down through your hair, untie your top, then undo your bra and watch it fall to the floor from your soft shoulders. I long to reach round and feel the weight of your breasts, roll your nipples between my fingers and listen to the breath catch in your throat as they harden. Listen to your tiny whimpers as I squeeze and pinch the tips of your gorgeous breasts, only being able to imagine how it must feel."

I knew how it felt: divine. Quite often when alone with my own thoughts and hands, I'd lay back and massage my nipples just the way he described. Slowly at first, then gradually faster and harder until my twin mounds were capped with what resembled two lychees floating on small pools of molten caramel. I'd squeeze and tweak relentlessly until my hands were needed more urgently in other areas of my body.

Adam continued. "I want to spin you around to face me, watch the way your chest heaves. Just observe you topless. Then I'll step back and demand you dance to a beat only you can hear. I love the way you move and swish your hair about and sway your body; love the way you tease me with your gyrations and turns, bending away from me, showing off your beautiful behind, lifting the skirt halfway and slapping each exposed cheek. The sight of the crease beneath your bottom and the sound of the spanks echoing round the room turns me on immeasurably."

He paused for a moment and I breathed deeply, using his words to transport myself into the scene; to feel what it would be like to perform for him; to imagine how excited I would become. Perhaps it was the onset of summer, perhaps the clothes, perhaps the risqué circumstances -- or a little of all three -- but I was feeling the itch inside already and wanted to be there with him now. Just the two of us alone, to take our time exploring parts of our bodies we already knew intimately, yet would find intensely pleasurable to rediscover.

"When you've finished dancing and cheeks are flushed pink I'll beckon you forward and bend to take a nipple into my warm mouth. Lick it. Suck it. Bite it. Hear you moan. Do the same to the other one. Make you hot. Make you wet. Make you ready for me, because you know how much I love the taste of you when you're dripping. How I'd love to sink to my knees in front of you, lift this titchy excuse for a skirt, yank off your panties and just dive in to eat you. Listen to you cry out as you reach down and grab the back of my head, pulling me up against your soaking pussy, forcing me to service you. You know what it does to me, how hard it makes me to slide my tongue inside you, to run it up your shaved slit all the way to the top. Flick it over your jumping clitoris. Feel you guide my face to the perfect spot, clamping me against your little button as you gasp with each stroke, making your knees weak when my tongue slithers south and drives back up into your hot box."

Damn he was good. I was beginning to liquefy inside and felt the need to touch myself; imagining what it would be like to do it right here, right now. To just inch up the skirt a little bit more, slip my fingers inside my underwear and make contact with the tiny smooth gemstone peeking out from its hiding place. To wet my fingers then draw circles around it. Flick it. Tap it. To close my eyes as I give it what it wants. To give myself what _I_ want: raised heart rate; electric current zapping every erogenous zone on its rapid circuit of my body; a steadily increasing inner heat that would spur more finger movement beneath my knickers. Yet fighting the desire to let go completely and give in to my needs; having to hold back because of the people around us.

Adam's vision continued. "With each stroke of my tongue making you dizzy with excitement, I'd have to hold you steady with my hands, one supporting each buttock. I could then press my fingertips into your gorgeous crack, seeking your arsehole, fingering the dark knot, longing to sink my fat prick into your behind. How I love the feel of your tight bottom wrapped around the end of my dick. Love the sounds you make as you cry into the night with each dirty thrust; not caring what the neighbors think."

It was true. I was that girl. The horny, loud-mouthed slut who would beg for cock in the heat of the moment. The girl every boy's mother warned him about. The one who was truly happiest when the man she loved was thrusting inside her body. My skin flushed but there was no respite from Adam's lust-filled descriptions. No sanctuary where my mind could take stock of his words.

"First I'd make you come against my face of course, because the way your juice dribbles over my chin makes me rock hard. The taste of you, the sweet smell of your intoxicating nectar drives me wild with lust. Once is never enough. I have to lick you over and over again until you can't take any more. Until there's almost no friction between us; just a slick film of clear sap that is constantly replenished from inside you."

Oh, that was insanely hot. The combination of his syrupy voice and loaded words, along with his fingertips wandering over my silky smooth legs were having a profound effect on my body. The fact that someone could look up and see us at any time, or breeze past, or be listening in; it all heightened the fantasy.

"There's something about the noises you make when your orgasm grips you. It's so erotic. The way your pussy flutters against my lips when you come gives me such pleasure. I'm addicted to your taste. I'd be compelled to slide my fingers around from your bottom to your naked, wet pussy lips and push them inside you repeatedly, hear you moan, coat my fingers with your juices so I can suck them and savour every drop of your delicious sap. No doubt there would be too much for me to handle so I'd have to glide my fingers back inside your drenched tunnel, scoop out your nectar and drift my hands up your body so you could lick it from me. I know you love the taste of yourself almost as much as I do."

That was also true. He knew me so well.

"After we've both had our fill of your scrumptious cream I wouldn't be able to resist pulling you down to the floor on top of me. I'd be so revved up I'd have to plunge my cock straight into your wetness; to feel you from the inside. I want to watch you wearing nothing but that sexy little skirt; head tipped back; your hair tickling my legs; my hands kneading your breasts as you ride me from this orgasm to your next. And the one after that. I love the way you do that little belly dance and grind against me, wiggling and writhing as our bodies crush together and you start to come again. There's nothing more beautiful than watching the joy in your face as you lose control. The way your lip trembles a little and your breath stutters just before you groan deeply at the onset of your orgasm. It makes me want you more than anything in the world. It tips me over the edge, making me fire hot come deep inside your spasming body, to mingle with the juices that flow from your tight, heavenly slit, the mixture drizzling out between us as you scream to the rafters."

He paused, probably for effect and to gauge my state of mind, which I guessed was easy to read. "Would you like to feel that?"

Ask a stupid question. I nodded emphatically, mesmerised by his fingers tracing up and down my legs, nerve endings fusing parts of my body as I half expected him to slide out of the seat and either go down on me, or grab me by the hand and drag me to the train's toilet where he could ravage me.

But he did neither. He sat there, watching me, stroking me. Enjoying the discomfort his words had inflicted on both my body and mind. His masterful imagery had me internally panting; yapping like a puppy at the sight of its lead. And I suspected that was exactly how he wanted me to stay; bouncing around the hall trying to snatch the lead from his grasp; ready to bolt to the field at his command.

Expectantly I raised my eyebrows, signalling that it was ok for him to take me. He just smiled. "Do you think the people up the carriage can see you squirming like this? Do you think they'd start to take notice if I let you touch yourself?"

I shot him a surprised glare, as if he'd overstepped the mark, but it wouldn't fool him. He knew part of me wanted to do exactly that. Knew what a tangled mess of hormones I was. Knew that touching myself was the third most exhilarating experience in my world; the second being when I touched myself for his benefit and could see the effect I had on him. In first place was being eaten out by him.

He also knew I was rarely about the quick fix or the shortcut to Big O. Certainly there have been times when the moment presented itself, and I've been swept away on a wave of passion that startled even me. From zero to a white hot explosion before I've had a chance to realise it's my body shaking and my underwear that's soaked.

But, given a choice, I'm a long haul girl. The slow build up, the drive through sexual hills and valleys, the smouldering glances, the prolonged tension in my body and twisted realities in my mind bringing me to fever pitch; making those precious flashes of release all the sweeter. Whether this situation was the former or the latter was too soon to tell. It could go either way depending on the next few minutes; and either direction was a win for me.

My stillness made him chuckle. "That's what I love about you. Resilient to the core. Never take the path of least resistance if the other track takes you to new heights."

"You've made your point. I'm all hot and bothered. What do you want?"

"Proof."

"Of?"

"How much you want me."

As thoughts began to take shape and a rough plan appeared in my head, a slow smile formed. It was going to be fairly easy. Shortcut time; or so I'd make it seem.

I gazed at him and slid my legs side to side in his lap, feeling his erection straining against the material of the shorts, desperate to touch my bare flesh. My feet wiggled in the aisle as I teased him. If he wanted to play hardball, so could I.

Tipping my head into the crook of the seat against the carriage wall I closed my eyes, bringing my hands to rest once more in my lap. Ever so slowly I ran my fingers over his, then drew my hands together and moved them upwards over the lightly bunched skirt, skimming my tummy and top, before they converged just below my breasts. I bit my lower lip and touched the base of my 36Cs, brushing fingertips over the soft fabric, feeling decidedly naughty at being so blatant. I shivered and traced my fingers around their circumference a few times, the circles gradually becoming smaller as I neared the peak, like following a series of contour lines on a mountainous map. As I reached the summit I grazed nipples that stood to attention and longed to be sucked. Bonds formed between pleasure receptors, rushing me with warmth that swirled around my tummy on its journey to my sex. It reached my core and I involuntarily opened my legs a little, hearing Adam take a short breath. Ha! Who was in control now? Moi.

My eyes snapped open as a businessman nudged my feet, lurching by our seats and continuing unsteadily up the aisle carrying a brown paper bag stuffed with goodies from the onboard café. If he saw up my skirt or noticed me touching myself he didn't show it. But he could hardly have missed it. Maybe later he'd let his mind wander when he reached the privacy of his home or hotel room, wondering what had possessed the girl on the train to be so bold, as he stroked himself to sticky release.

Adam was smiling at me. I could see the outline of his cock trying to burst from his clothes. Peeking across the aisle and up ahead at the glass canopy I saw nobody was paying us any obvious interest and reopened my legs. Just an inch. Then two. Adam's gaze shifted to my lap and he sneakily lifted the skirt a further tiny amount. From that angle he would have been able to see the beginnings of my panties; the delicate combination of pale blue cotton and lace stretched over my dampening mound; maybe even catch a whiff of my arousal.

It was exciting. Dangerous. One glance from Laptop Guy and he'd get an eyeful. Another inch of motion from Adam and my skirt would be bunched enough that our antics might begin to draw attention. Anyone else passing by the seat would easily see my open legs and have their eyes poked out by my prominent nipples.

I liked this game.

It was new. And it turned me on.

Brain-induced chemicals rushed through me, spiking my alert levels, making every soft hair on the surface of my skin stand on end; imagining what might happen next; what he'd have me do. Or, more wickedly, what he'd do to me as I pretended it was against my will. If we made it as far as the toilet cubicle I envisioned he might well issue me with a sharp spanking for dressing in such a provocative manner and trying to seduce him. The trouble with being spanked when I was in this mood was that I enjoyed it way too much. The distinctive cracks of palm meeting reddened buttocks and my subsequent cries of pain laced with pleasure would no doubt travel outside the cubicle to anyone passing who dared listen.

I sighed at the thought and Adam's voice hardly registered, floating in the background of my consciousness. "Take them off."

Blinking, I focused on him. "What?"

He briefly adopted an American accent. "Take off your panties, sugar."

"What?" I repeated.

The Englishman was back: "They're the proof that you want me. Take them off."

"No!"

"Yes."

"I can't... you're crazy."

"You can, and I know, in that order. Now take them off." He was quietly insistent but I didn't comply. I was thinking of the ramifications. And the possibilities. Then of the logistics of how I might do it undetected. Then what would happen if I was caught.

Adam spoke calmly, evenly. "When we get to the hotel, if you want me to treat you to everything -- and I mean everything -- I said earlier, you'll take them off."

Argh! Maybe this was long haul after all. He'd made me think I was running the show when I wasn't. Coiled me up like a slinky at the top of the staircase, knowing he had control of exactly when to send me head over heels from stair to stair. I gave him The Look; one that he knew well. Defeated yet defiant. Subservient yet willing. Desperate yet trusting. He always dubbed it my Oscar-winner because it conveyed so much in a single expression.

I knew I had to do it. Despite every thought to the contrary I knew I'd regret it if not, or would always wonder what could have happened if I'd just been that little bit bolder. It was insane really, yet recent history indicated that similar acts of insanity were the ones in which I gained most; all of them part eccentricity, part trust and part leap of faith.

Whether his threat of withholding services was real or not, there was no doubt I wanted his touch later and didn't want to risk losing out, so it had to be done.

The decision made, I sighed again -- rather theatrically like I was beaten, while I back-flipped inside. More hormones coursed my veins as I slid my hands down the sides of my body, mindful of any external signs of discovery yet striving to act naturally. As if there was such a thing as acting naturally when trying to take off underwear in public.

Reaching the hem of my skirt I weighed up the options. Slow, hoping to keep movement to a minimum to avoid detection. Or fast to try and get it over with in the shortest amount of time.

Slow or fast.

Long time; short time.

It was risky either way. I slid my fingers up beneath my skirt and hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties, feeling the elastic give a little, then raised my hips slightly off the seat using Adam's legs as a pivot. Was I really ready to do this? To undress in public? What would it make me? It didn't bear thinking about.

Last chance to back out; to call his bluff. But a look into his eyes convinced me he was telling the truth, and I knew it would ultimately be worth my while, whatever the short term cost. My pussy leaked a little to offer substantiation, staining the underwear I was about to remove, so I solidified the plan: the quick approach.

I inhaled deeply and in a flurry, yanked my panties down, immediately feeling the coolness of the air conditioning drying my damp, bare lips. My body temperature rose to compensate, and the butterflies jostled wildly inside me as the material rolled and slid quickly down my smooth thighs. The knickers caught momentarily on my knees and I didn't have the reach to carry on, so I had to lean forward and draw my legs up out of the aisle to continue the garment's descent over my shapely calves. Mere seconds later at my ankles, I rejoiced inside at being home free and wrestled the panties over the straps of my sandals. They snagged on the heel and I frantically fought to pull them off.

And froze.

Laptop Guy was staring straight at me. Well, not into my pupils. The atomic bomb had landed, its epicentre between my thighs. With my legs raised and me hunched forward trying to release the underwear from my shoes he had a clear view right up my skirt.

A sinking feeling of dread took over; probably enough embarrassment for both of us. Why hadn't I swung my legs down into the footwell and done it discreetly in my seat? It seemed so obvious now. So fucking logical.

I cursed myself under my breath, unable to move and unsure whether it was out of terror or from the cold, hard realisation of what I'd done. For what seemed an eternity, I stared at this stranger like I was the proverbial deer in his headlights, his gawp locked and unwavering on my puffy nether lips; all his birthdays arriving at once. Common decency dictated he should look away, even though I was far from decent, but he didn't. Just kept on staring, becoming visibly hard beneath the table.

By rights I should have been utterly mortified, but something didn't add up. Something inside me buzzed and it took a few beats to figure it out. Maybe what I was feeling wasn't alarm at all; maybe that prickle was... excitement? Perhaps deep down I'd subconsciously wanted to get caught; wanted some third party to lust over me.

That thought rocked me. It couldn't have been one of my thoughts... could it? Was I defective? Wired wrongly: a bad model from the production line awaiting recall. The fact I was now tingling all over in the face of discovery seemed to corroborate the evidence, and the change of state caught me off guard. I was somehow disgusted at myself for not taking more care, yet elated at the thrill of exposure.

One thing was clear: there wasn't much point pretending it hadn't happened, so when my motor functions restarted I demurely continued to disengage the material from the heel, handed Adam his prize and settled back in my seat with my legs closed across his lap, smoothing my skirt down in the process.

Open-mouthed and clearly very aroused, Laptop Guy's spreadsheet was a distant memory. I smiled sheepishly at him, electrified inside from the rush. Poor bastard probably never got anything like that. He looked the type of person that constantly missed out while all the good stuff happened to everyone else. Like he was always in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Or right place and right time for once.

I went light-headed, delirious with lust, unable to comprehend every emotion that was battering at the gateway to my mind. Nothing and everything made sense and my elevated heart rate wasn't helping. In that instant of turmoil I felt a surge of wildness bubble up and inundate my very being; maybe I wanted to verify that what I'd felt moments before wasn't a fluke, or that I'd interpreted the signals inside me correctly. Either way, this guy's luck would change today.

Almost on autopilot, I flirtatiously batted my eyelashes at him and let my knees drift apart. Slowly but surely, inch by sordid inch I revealed my sex, this time deliberately. He looked like he was going to pop from excitement as he returned to staring straight up my legs at my pussy, traces of my obvious arousal surely glistening on the smooth outer lips in the flickering sunlight.

God it was such a turn on, flashing this poor stranger. My skin shivered and a lump caught in my throat as I realised my mouth was suddenly very dry and my nipples wanted to burst through both layers of clothing. The extra oxygen and hormones flooding my head gave me immediate clarity and fired wake-up messages to every corner of my body, which glowed as if I'd just eaten a piece of the Merovingian's chocolate cake. My heart hammered so loudly I half expected the people three rows ahead to turn in their seats and tell me to keep it down.

I stayed that way like still life, each passing second heightening the pleasure as my body fuelled itself on the sheer rapture in Laptop Guy's features. I was being revered: Lady Godiva to his Peeping Tom. His gaze fixed squarely on my rapidly moistening cunt, no doubt etching the image in his mind so he may relive the memory in private. Such thoughts filled me with an intense heat. I was his personal centrefold; the object of his night time fantasies. And right then it suited me perfectly.

Letting him bask in my innermost secrets a few moments more, I broke the spell and brought my finger to my lips to quietly make a "shhhh", then closed my legs. His wistful expression lingered but he soon realised the show was over and self-consciously returned to his spreadsheet, rearranging his underpants in the process. I bet the figures on-screen now seemed dull in comparison, but the damage was done. He glanced over our way a few times just in case I changed my mind, before concluding that truly was it.

Adam smiled at me when he was sure I'd finished, shaking his head and whispering, "You fucking hussy."

"Stop complaining! You got your proof. So I got a little... carried away."

With my insides far from returning to normal, he pulled the tray table down over my legs and placed my panties on it, spreading the material out so we could both see the crotch. I noticed Laptop Guy sneaking another glance in our direction to view the unmistakable wet spot; off-white, translucent and sticky. Adam proclaimed, "I present Exhibit A. Does the lady have anything to say in her defence?"

"A scoundrel seduced me with promises he'd better keep."

"Oh he'll keep them. Along with these." He snatched up my knickers from the table and stuffed them in one of his pockets.

I protested half-heartedly. In truth, the possibilities were back, running ideas through the forefront of my dirty mind. And those corrupt thoughts, along with the fact I was now travelling without underwear, kept me aroused for the remainder of the journey through the French landscape.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was still early when we reached Paris -- too early to check into the hotel near Gare de L'est -- so we picked up a carnet, ditched our bags at the station and went sightseeing.

Being just the right side of Bastille Day, the city was baking and heaving. Within two or three weeks it would become a comparative ghost town as the locals flocked south for the holidays. But today the throngs of indigenous Parisians and tourists gave Adam plenty of opportunity to show off his chattel. He took full advantage.

We did all the touristy things: ate crêpes; wandered the sun-drenched Rues hand-in-hand; watched street artists making silhouettes and caricatures of passers-by; sidestepped hawkers trying to sell us novelty statuettes of the city's most famous landmarks; and shopped.

Despite the hordes, Paris somehow retained a laid back atmosphere. Maybe the heat slowed people down enough that they took time to enjoy the environment; admire the stunning architecture; sit and drink in cafés, content to watch the world go by instead of hustling. Even those in suits who clearly had a destination, moved with a grace and poise that seemed incongruous to the busy surroundings.

The place also had that indefinable smell about it; as if the very act of the sun beating down on the buildings and uneven pavements that bordered the backstreets released some pheromone that bound people. It made them hold hands, smile, laugh, kiss, belong. As with every other time I'd visited, I wasn't immune and was very much under the city's hex. But this time it was different -- invigorating -- because of what I was wearing. Or rather, wasn't.

Adam started my humiliation gently by making me bend over a fair few times to look at things on the bottom shelf of department stores, standing back to watch my skirt slowly rise along with my temperature. I'd like to say having him perv at me from behind didn't turn me on, but I'd be lying. Each time he made me do it, I flushed and loved it.

Bending like this also afforded people standing beside me a peek down my top to catch a dose of cleavage. In one shop, I swung from a crouch up towards a couple of guys browsing wine, and as I sashayed past them down the aisle, I'm sure I heard one of them comment to his friend, "Y'a du monde au balcon." It was lost on me at the time but I looked it up later to find that its literal translation of "There's a world at the balcony" was an idiom for "She has large breasts." Maybe I was a little better endowed than the typical French lady and would have preferred "Elle a une belle poitrine" (a beautiful chest) but since I was acting like a brazen strumpet I guess I deserved it.

Hurrying from the shops giggling like mischievous teenagers at our new game, we boarded an up-escalator in Les Halles and Adam gently exposed me, giving a bunch of lads a few stairs lower something more than shopping to think about. The whoops and delighted banter as they feasted on my bare bottom caused a trickle of juice to escape and roll down my thigh.

Even iconic structures weren't sacred. Beneath the glass pyramids of the Louvre, Adam made sure I hiked my skirt higher than necessary as I took the stairs so anyone behind us would be able to see the treasures usually hidden underneath. It was debauch and I swear the Mona Lisa's expression seemed judgemental.

While we ate lunch, I thought maybe a respite would be in order, but I was wrong. In a crowded and noisy café I was instructed to slide two fingers inside myself beneath the table and feed Adam the contents. "Just to check you still want me," he had claimed as I self-consciously reached across the table and brought my glistening fingers to his lips, watching him hungrily suck my juices from them amid a few disbelieving stares from nearby patrons.

I ought to have felt shame. I ought to have felt abhorrence at my reckless disregard for decorum in such a public setting. So why did I love the feeling so much? Why was there a fierce undercurrent of stimulation jetting around my body? What the hell was wrong with me? Was I turning into a sexual adrenaline junkie and would soon find myself craving a naked skydive to get my rocks off? Or was the city's mystical air to blame? I didn't have any concrete answers, just a barrage of questions, the conclusions to which were laced with equal parts uncertainty and euphoria.

During the hottest part of the day, we sought shade at the Tuileries garden where he told me to bask opposite him in a pair of chairs we were lucky to find. At his insistence I lifted my feet into his lap, unable to resist pressing the sole of a sandal against his obvious bulge, watching him fight his own body's reaction and briefly closing his eyes.

Regaining his composure he diligently and sensually massaged my calves and ankles, which he knew damn well was one of my hotspots, until he deemed I'd taken enough.

Plenty of people -- mostly men -- did a double-take and caught a glimpse of my hot pussy and it kept me on a sexual knife edge all day, to such an extent I considered more than once sneaking off to the ladies' and fingering myself to completion. Although it took every ounce of resolve and discipline I could muster, I resisted my own urges on the basis that it would heighten things later. Adam was good on his word -- always had been -- so I found a way to tap into my willpower reserves and keep myself in check for the sake of the final event.

Mid-afternoon, my display of restraint and obedience earned me a very special treat. He led me up Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré to queue outside a shop that made me rub my eyes in disbelief. I gawped at him, and when he confirmed it was no joke, I was unable to wipe the silly grin off my face until we were let inside, whereby the grin turned to awe.

To a self-confessed shoe-lover, being in the gaudy dream world of one of Christian Louboutin's grottos was sheer heaven. I didn't even think Adam had paid much attention to the fact I'd splashed out on a pair a few years earlier, let alone that he knew where the shop was. But maybe I'd mentioned them a little too often, prompting him to look the place up.

Regardless, I was totally immersed in the spectacle, where each pair of shoes on display was lovingly tucked in an arched pigeon-hole like a prized work of art. Gushing at the designs, from the extraordinary to the downright bizarre and impractical, I wanted to try at least a quarter of the stock on.

Adam brought me back to planet Earth, patiently explaining that we wouldn't have time so I needed to be selective and, of course, there was a condition attached: I had to show my pussy to the sales assistant with each pair I tried on. Bah! Even being spoiled had a proviso.

In light of this information I went straight for an elegant pair of Simple Pumps; the 85s. Classic and practical styling with those to-die-for red soles. As the assistant knelt to slip on the gorgeous footwear I 'accidentally' parted my thighs. The reaction was fleeting but definitely there, and the double whammy of wearing such powerful shoes in this dream location and acting like a slut in them made me colour. I suddenly craved my man. Wanted to charge him, slam him against the wall in the three-and-a-half inch heels, mouths connecting, tongues duelling, hands irrepressibly clutching at each other through our clothes until they snaked down between us, seeking the nucleus of our desires without concern for the surroundings. Me breathlessly rubbing his steel outline; him probing my impatient honey trap, nibbling my ear as the clientele and assistants stopped to stare at the sight of two people lost under each other's spell.

Realising I had to get out before I actually did it, I quickly paraded in the heels, loving the power they gave me. Despite myself I couldn't resist trying on a couple more pairs of equally elegant shoes -- flashing the assistant again as Adam had instructed -- before deciding on the 85s after all.

Clutching my purchase like a k** with a new toy robot as we left to continue our sightseeing, I was on cloud nine and figured things couldn't become any sweeter. Then everything changed: the journey back from La Defense truly took my breath away.

After admiring the view along the Axe Historique from the mighty superstructure of La Grande Arche we boarded the Metro from the business district at the start of rush hour. The carriage was packed full of commuters and we were jostled about for the first few stations, shoved this way and that as people pushed past in both directions. It was sweaty and unfresh and for the first time in the city I wished there was a nicer way to travel.

Things settled down around Porte Maillot a few stations later, and we found a spot near the centre of the carriage where we were not pushed as much. I was strap hanging so my belly button was exposed and skirt was riding a little high; a small mercy in the hot, sticky confines of the train. The skin-to-air ratio no doubt kept me cooler than the suits around me.

Adam had one hand on my waist to steady me and was gripping the overhead rail with the other. I sensed him pressing right up behind me and knew the closeness of our bodies would make him horny. Honestly, I was surprised he hadn't tried to jump me at numerous occasions throughout the day and admired his patience. Certainly he had opportunities, and I was partly disappointed he hadn't. The things he'd made me do -- things I didn't expect to enjoy to the extent I did -- were as much for his benefit as mine and I'm sure he was equally relieved to be going to the hotel so he could have me all to himself. That thought alone made the journey bearable. It went without saying that I'd give myself completely to him; whatever he desired he could take. I doubted he'd hold out very long anyway, so whatever he chose would have to be rapid and unbridled. Perfect!

As part payment for all the day's torture I pushed back a little, using the irregular momentum of the carriages to gently grind and swish against his cock. It quickly and predictably began to swell as he felt what was mere millimetres away from him; so close yet so far. I smiled to myself. Even under these unpleasant conditions I still had it.

Then I felt him ease me away and creep his hand down over my perspiring midriff onto my skirt. Very slowly, he circled his palm over my bottom, tracing the curvature and making me shiver at the touches. As my erogenous zones switched on yet again, my senses sharpened while his hand travelled lower to cup my butt. He rhythmically squeezed my cheek, then gently slapped my behind. I glowed, longing for him to do it again. Instead I felt the material of the skirt begin to pinch up, and shot him a sceptical expression over my shoulder. He gazed back at me, eyes twinkling, and continued edging the skirt ever higher. He couldn't be serious? Here?!

I tensed and looked fearfully around the carriage as the skirt slid higher to reveal my pert cheeks, his hand meeting the crease of bare flesh at the base of my curvy rear. Nobody seemed to be paying us any attention as he walked his fingers around into the cleft and nestled the leading edge of his finger right into my crack, again kneading the flesh of one cheek.

Everyone pressed shoulder to shoulder around me was oblivious to what was happening below waist level and my mind flashed, figuring out ways in which he might fuck me in the middle of the commuters without detection. Inexplicably, I began to grow excited at the prospect, wondering how I'd keep quiet enough to not cause a ruckus. On reflection, it was interesting I chose to consider the logistics of the act rather than immediately rule it out. That probably said more about my character than an army of psychiatrists could; although they'd ultimately arrive at the same conclusion: I was a dirty bitch.

Adam pushed his hand firmly into my crack, making sure to massage the entrance to my anus in the process, and little sparks of joy leapt from thigh to thigh. He knew it would turn me on and gently eased me forward. At that moment I knew I was in trouble. I should have left him alone instead of trying to be clever and torturing him. Should have remembered my role. Now I sensed I was going to pay for the insubordination, and obediently bent at the waist a few degrees from vertical, pulling on the strap for support. His hand followed the contour of my arse lower until his finger met the base of my pussy. Before I had time to react, his digit snaked inside me to the first knuckle.

I must have gasped, as the guy reading the paper a few feet away shot a curious look in my direction then returned to the business pages. The density of passengers made it impossible for anybody else to tell what was going on, but it wouldn't take much to alert them so I battled inwardly to control my actions while Adam probed.

As passengers fought their way on and off at Argentine and the unmistakably French odour of new bodies assaulted my senses, I was confident the only person that appreciated what it felt like to be fingered on public transport was me; the tender persistence, somehow hurriedly executed, making me hotter. A bead of sweat trickled slowly from the top of my sacrum, around my side and caught on the waistband of my skirt, its path across my pores a momentary welcome in the stifling closeness.

Adam continued, in and out becoming more of an abstract concept than a series of discrete movements in one locale, setting my fires smouldering and connecting regions of my body through neural pathways and spiritual meridians. Although my skirt was still just low enough to cover my pussy at the front, it was lewdly scrunched up at the rear and the thoughts of how the everyday people would react if they caught sight of my naked bottom fuelled my body into producing more of my very own sex d**g. It flowed rapidly from head to toe, then returned and I felt myself radiate heat as nerve endings stood in readiness.

The only problem being, I wanted more.

And more.

Finding enough space between someone else's feet, I stepped out my left foot half a pace, still straddling the bag containing my new shoes. That was all the encouragement Adam needed. He lowered his position against me slightly further and I felt his index finger glide all the way into my sticky chute. It was exactly what I needed; more love d**g coursed my veins and my body eagerly lapped it up. With no requirement for extra lubrication, Adam sawed his finger back and forth as I closed my eyes and let the situation take me away.

The swaying of the carriages made me feel as if I was floating; as though my legs were drifting behind me while I dangled on a rope from a hot air balloon. In my mind I looked down to see Paris from the air; the slow-moving traffic along the Champs-Élysées; Montparnasse towers; the bustle of people in the streets trying to complete their purchases before the boutiques closed for the night. And as I passed overhead, people would look up and point because they could see up my skirt; catch a glimpse of my pussy glistening in the early evening sun as fluid oozed from it, clinging to my entrance. The shoppers couldn't help staring up at the strange British lady, sans panties, who had spent the day discovering the sheer release and electric thrill of a little exhibitionism. Someone for whom this latest chapter in her sexual awakening would continue to define her as she explored her desires more and more with the man she loved.

That man chose that moment to glide his finger out of my tunnel and I returned to the reality of the carriage as my body craved his next touch. I arched my back cat-like and pressed against his hand, willing him to continue. After a long, teasing moment he didn't disappoint: his finger went in again, slowly, tantalisingly, and I felt fuller than before. It took a few strokes to register he was using two fingers: wow, that felt wonderful. He slid them forward time and again, plumbing my depths, trying to locate the source of wetness and produce more. The angle made it difficult, if not impossible, for him to reach the spot that would really set the juice generator in motion, but that didn't stop him trying. He wiggled and pressed the back of his fingers against the front wall of my sex, patiently adjusting and refining the technique, hunting for the button that would give me ultimate pleasure.

Truthfully, at that point it didn't matter to me if he found it or not: I was already well on my way to a crushing orgasm. The receptors in my brain were processing signals as fast as they were fired, shooting waves of energy downward to the train floor and back up my legs, circling my engorged labia, punching straight through my proud clitoris, swirling my hips to where Adam's hand supported my bare bottom, and racing up my spine to meet the next wave.

Amid the electrical disturbance inside me, I became vaguely aware of the train stopping and a surge of people pushing us forward, almost losing my balance as I struggled to recognise where external heat ended and internal fires began. If it wasn't for Adam stepping with me to keep me steady I'd have toppled into the lap of the man whom I found myself facing. People milled around us, pressing, shoving, settling into the cramped train. The driver made a tinny, mumbled announcement and those that deciphered it shuffled more before the buzzer sounded and the doors promptly rolled shut. Over the seated man's shoulder I could just make out the station name as the Metro rumbled forward: Charles de Gaulle - Étoile.

As the train was swallowed by the blackness of the tunnel, the gentle in and out of Adam's fingers resumed in mine. Sometimes the motion of us hitting a corner would thrust them deeper inside me and I'd bite my lip or let out a tiny gasp that was absorbed by the noisy carriage and dense body of passengers. Other times he'd slip right back to the entrance and I'd feel my petals close in his wake, trying to return to shape despite the imprint of his fingers remaining like memory foam, only to be split again moments later.

There were people nudging against both sides of me, hips banging hips as the train lurched and I clung to the strap, hardly believing what was happening. I looked down at my body through glazed eyes; long bare legs, slightly parted to allow for Adam's continued onslaught; skirt barely covering my pelvis; a strip of clammy stomach reflecting the fluorescent lighting; the halterneck trying to contain my straining bosoms; nipples proud and clearly defined as heat spread through them on its way to flush my neck. I was probably quite a sight, and I wondered if the man ahead of me might notice.

He was barely into his fifties, very French with thin rimmed glasses and silver hair, reading Le Monde and seemingly ignoring his wife chattering next to him; responding only with the occasional grunt or "Oui". I could only partially see her because of the passengers flanking me, but from what I could tell she was a matronly figure, wizened by the European sun.

Inside me, Adam's fingers continued to glide and my breathing was becoming more laboured. I wasn't sure how much more I could take, rapidly approaching the point where control of my actions disappeared and raw instinct took over to decide the fate of my body's release. Maybe he sensed it, maybe he didn't, but he gently pulled out and I'm sure I whimpered. Something at least caused the Frenchman to look up from his paper and make eye contact. He looked quizzically, fleetingly, then self-consciously returned to his paper.

My insides screamed for Adam's touch. What the hell was his game? He couldn't leave me like this, balancing on a sexual tightrope without a safety net. All I could feel were his fingers curled and supporting the crease beneath my bottom. Maybe he was fiddling with his dick, freeing it from his pants. Perhaps the next thing I'd feel would be his rigid shaft pressing at my drooling entrance. I nearly came with anticipation of what I was sure would be the most daring sexual act we had ever entertained, bracing myself for the invasion of his magnificent cock in my silky confines.

Instead he pushed his finger between my exposed cheeks to touch my rosebud with its tip, circling and tickling the nerve endings all around my dark opening. My body responded immediately, bouncing delightful messages along my subcutaneous network, joining the neural with the physical and leaving me yearning for more. I wanted him inside me so badly I felt like screaming at him to drill me where I stood.

His finger probed a few millimetres into my back passage, preparing me. But for what? He couldn't be serious? Fucking me was one thing; anal was off-the-chart depraved. How did he expect to slip his dick into my butt -- even just the first adorable inch or three, the hardness pressing against all the right places despite barely moving inside me. The simple act of thinking about it made me shudder at the memory of his many conquests in my dark, tight behind. Recalling the suffocating orgasms and hours of joy afterwards as I floated in the afterglow.

He shifted a little and I tensed, waiting for the moment to arrive, trying unsuccessfully to relax the muscles in my groin to make whatever he had planned easier and less likely to cause a commotion. The wait was almost painful and as I concentrated on the areas between my legs I was startled to feel his breath on my ear, whispering urgently.

"You want more?"

I nodded impatiently, unsure what "more" meant but almost past the point of caring: I wanted showtime. Naturally, he knew I was going to say yes and I'm sure he was enjoying my discomfort, even though it must have been almost as tough for him to hold back.

There was a further excruciating moment of nothingness as I geared up for him. Yet instead of the expected hot sword ramming into one of my eager passages, his fingers dutifully and gradually inched south again. They tucked into my wet folds as if they belonged there permanently. Then immediately something else: his thumb pressed against my backside, seeking my crinkled hole, circling and sending ripples through my hips, finding the target and quickly pressing home. I let him of course. The familiar, dull ache in my rear, senses igniting as he pressed forward to clutch me in the classic bowling ball grip: two in the slit, one up the arse.

Managing to catch my emotions just in time, only a tiny cry escaped my hastily bitten lip and I thrust back against his palm as he fingered me. Though I truly wanted it to be his cock -- and I'd have willingly taken him any way he dictated right then -- his fingers were a superb surrogate and I squirmed and writhed in ecstasy. The spasms set up around each orifice radiated and collided somewhere in the centre of my body just behind my clit; different types of message for sure, but ones aimed in a single direction: my satisfaction. It was as if my little jewel was an electromagnet, humming powerfully and trying to draw every atom of my body towards the source.

With every passing moment, the intensity grew. Proud and firm, the gatekeeper to my sloshing insides, my clit stood defiantly, begging to be touched; daring me to complete my Holy Trinity of erogenous zones and send me off into the orgasmic abyss.

I had one free hand. But could I really do it? Here? The people either side of me had their backs or shoulders squashed against me. Adam and his relentless invasion shielded me from behind. So the only wild card was the Frenchman. I took in what I could, with any remaining brain power that wasn't diverted to keeping me aroused, weighing the risks. Although he was reading, I noticed he wasn't altogether concentrating. His eyes kept flicking up in my direction, glancing at each part of me in turn. Maybe my earlier noises weren't as subtle as I'd thought and he was keeping tabs on me in case things became interesting. Perhaps he'd already figured what was going on and was biding his time, hoping to see more.

From his seat I guessed he saw a desperate, dishevelled, very hot woman, leaning forward from a strap with her mouth agape and her eyes partially closed. Definite signs of arousal if the prominent state of my nipples wasn't enough of a clue. Whether he could see Adam's hand driving fingers between my legs was questionable, but I couldn't rule it out. The thrill that he could guess or see what was going on knotted my insides.

Did I have the courage to touch myself in front of this stranger? I'd already shown myself during the day. I'd flashed Laptop Guy and the sales assistant, and it had given me a massive buzz to do so. Heck, I'd once masturbated into the night, naked against a hotel window, so how hard was this?

My bottom clawed Adam's thumb and my pussy tried to swallow his fingers as we set up a steady rhythm. I stared dead ahead through glassy eyes. It came down to whether I trusted the Frenchman to take this for what it was -- a horny woman taking advantage of a situation and giving herself ultimate pleasure -- or whether he would cause a scene. I was having trouble focusing and found it hard to process,