August, to me, has long been a nothing kind of month. No people about, no work coming in, nothing decent on telly. A big fat zero of a month. But this year, that zero becomes an O. Because this August, the Orgasmic anthology hits the shelves.
“How does it feel?” whispered Lloyd, standing beside me, one hand placed possessively on my bum, rubbing my skirt as if this would wear through and reveal the answer.
“Very, very rude,” I replied. “Wicked and indecent. I really hope I don’t have some kind of accident on the way home. I do not want to end up in Casualty wearing these.”
“Does it fill you? Are you wet? Does it rub against your clit?”
“Yes to all three. Shut up, for God’s sake!”
“Oh no, I want you to know you’re wearing it – I don’t want you to be able to forget. And I want you to know that I know. God, this is turning me on. I hope there aren’t any delays on the Northern Line tonight.”
We stepped off the escalator and I made a concerted effort to try and walk normally, notwithstanding the exquisite pressure on my clit and the large fake cock wedged in my pussy.
“It’s giving you a sensational wiggle,” said Lloyd admiringly, falling behind me to survey my swaying backside. “It looks so obvious that your pussy is stuffed. But I suppose I know it is, which makes a difference. Maybe nobody else would guess.”
I was convinced that everybody knew it as we headed on to the platform. Every passer-by, from the teenage youths clicking teeth and sucking back hi-energy sodas to the elderly suited man reading his Telegraph, was perfectly cognisant of the fact that I was wearing vibrating knickers, the crotch soaked, my pussy wrapped around a plastic cock, because I was a dirty slut who loves to come and can’t get enough orgasms.
Lloyd kept putting his hand into his jacket pocket, teasing me with the fear that he might be about to activate the vibrator, causing me to clamp my thighs together and clench my pelvic floor muscles. By the time the dirty-grey train came roaring through the tunnel, though, he had still not pressed the magic button.
The train was about three-quarters full, and we could not find a seat together, so I sat in the centre of one row while he took a place by the door, at the end of the opposite bank. Sitting like that, with a highly-perfumed lady on one side and a gay punk on the other, I was suddenly sure that people might be able to see up my skirt somehow – though it was knee-length and didn’t even give away the fact that I was wearing stockings ordinarily. I decided to cross my legs, but this pushed the nubbed rubber even further into my swimming clit, and made my pussy feel even fuller – an inescapable sensation. I squirmed against the seat cushion, unsure whether to uncross my legs again – and Lloyd chose that moment to flip my switch.
I had to swallow a cry as the invasive presence in my pussy began to rev up, a slow shudder at first, speeding to an almost unbearable throb. It felt so painfully wanton that I knew my climax would not be put off for long. I sat back, stretching my spine, trying my very hardest not to pant or moan. My pussy lips twitched and my nipples were hard and sore, pushing against the lace of my bra until some of the pattern must have transferred to them. Lloyd’s sly, delighted smile accentuated the hot rush of sensation; he had had to put a copy of the Evening Standard over his crotch to hide the excitement of it all. My nether regions seemed to be flexing and rippling beyond any vestige of muscular control; the vibrator whizzed up to maximum speed, my clit was swollen and struggling to barge past the little rubber stimulators, my cheeks were hotter than fire, I was fidgeting so much that my neighbours forewent the customary Tube etiquette of complete-oblivion-to-all and began looking sideways at me. And then I came, pressing my hands down into my lap, trying to breathe through the intense flood of liquid sweetness, shuffling my bottom against the cushion and biting down on my lip.
And we were still only at