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Helen noticed the boyfriend before the girl. He was tall and handsome in a young, trendy way; muscular arms wrapped around his girlfriend. Italian tourists, they looked like. Maybe Spanish. 20-something. Wedged into a corner by the door of the tube train, utterly oblivious to the rush-hour cram.

Helen, sitting next to her husband George and on their way to The Bundle Of Joy Baby Exhibition, tried not to watch the couple. Especially, she tried - and failed - not to stare at the boyfriend's pierced tongue; pondering a Mumsnet discussion about tongue-studs being good for extra stimulation. Down there.

She sighed, and crossed her legs. A twisted curiosity had her searching out his girlfriend's face, as if she might find someone with a saintly, blissed expression. Someone utterly satisfied.

In reality, the girl made her smile. Helen might well be a tourist in London these days but she grew up in the city and went through exactly the same punkette look herself when she was that age, some 10 years ago. In fact, the girl did not look unlike her, wicked eyes, leonine nose and a big mouth. The only difference was her jet-black hair; a high contrast monochrome colouring that seemed naturally suited to punk. Helen always had difficulty rebelling with her drab, English ash-blonde.

The girl could not stop kissing her boyfriend. Helen wondered if this proved the tongue-stud theory or not. Were they 'thank you' kisses or was she still... needy? Hands appeared on the boy's rear, small with gloss black nails and thick thumb rings; they squeezed his backside then pulled his hips hard to hers. He laughed loudly. Someone tutted.

Helen blinked and looked away, feeling suddenly creepy, and squeezed George's hand. He reciprocated with a quick succession over-excited twitches. She had promised him a birthday 'doing' later; he would be like this all day. She wished she had sorted him out that morning rather than have it hanging over her.

It had been kind of fun watching pay-per-view cheeky-TV in the hotel room the night before, but it was always too intense. Even though they'd both climaxed (doggy) while watching, it had been quick and fizzy and left her wanting more. Then as she fell asleep, she kept getting lurid flashes of plundered glistening pinkness. She had even woken up aroused in the middle of the night, much to George's delight, but he too seemed over-stimulated and frustratingly kept finishing too quickly.

Her husband had been squeamish about sex since the ultrasound. Still early days, Helen hardly showed at all, and he was as rutty and attentive as ever before he saw the little bean curled up in there. Recently he approached her bits with a sensitivity that was simply irritating and she had hoped a naughty weekend might re-ignite him, but not this way. A succession of little firecrackers when all she wanted was one great big bang.

Meanwhile - mocking her - the girl was really getting off on her boy's slim hips, with her bare thighs frog-legged either side of him. Helen's ears warmed. It was just as if the pay-per-view porn had followed her out into the real world. Maybe she had become so bothered she was projecting them into being from her subconscious. Then the couple were swallowing each other whole, mouths locked like tussling hippos and Helen squirmed. She wanted a month of tongue. All over. Then - dear Lord please - a long and rigorous and pumpy shafting. She needed not a mouthful of George's overexcitement.

RideACockHorse, on Mumsnet, had got so fed up with her *quot;Dear O.H.*quot; - and his obsession with her 'head' - that she went to the lengths of hypnotism. She had herself convinced that her tongue was another g-spot. The first couple of posts about the results were - literally - ecstatic. Her and her hubby had stopped going out of an evening, just so they could stay at home and play. The O.H. kept buying her gifts and even wrote her love poems. But, by the third post, RideACockHorse had undone the hypnotism. When every snack was an explicit act of self-love, she was piling on the pounds. Priorities.

The train stopped and people squeezed escort bostancı out, including the handsome boyfriend. The girl gripped his hand to the last second and even plucked kisses to it before she let it go.

*quot;Remind you of anyone?*quot; George said, nodding at her.

Helen had an urge to punch him.

An old man shuffled and wobbled amongst the jostle of people getting on and Helen, in a force of habit, offered up her seat quickly. The only space left to stand was that vacated by the boy, then - as the train became even more rammed - she found herself in the awkward position of being almost pressed to the punkette, who was glowering at everyone.

The train lurched as it pulled away. The girl was ok - leaning against the wall with her legs braced in a narrow A - but Helen stumbled. The girl caught her, but not before Helen had planted her flip-flopped foot between the girl's boots, to steady herself.

They shared an awkward smirk, left in an unusually intimate position. She was side-on to the girl, but Helen's leg was between her knees and neither could move. Helen tried to act like this was normal, just another day stuffed in the sweltering London tube. Mind the gap and all that. As long as they didn't look at each other, it was all good.

But the girl did look. She stared at the discrete dripping-rose tattoo on Helen's shoulder. The logo of an obscure and aggressive all-girl band in the 90s. She blinked and raised an eyebrow and checked Helen's reflection in the black glass, eyes flicking around her face, then with the briefest of glances down at her breasts and legs. Helen tried to be cool and grown up but had an urge to giggle like a teenager. Probably the last time she'd been appraised so blatently, too. Honestly. Italians. Spanish. Whatever.

The train lumbered along. The girl smelled of patchouli, a fragrance that tossed Helen back to her 20's and she subtly took long, deep breaths of it. In her wild years, Helen had gone through a sexually experimental phase and even had a girlfriend for one bright, brilliant summer. Her girlfriend would dab patchouli at the tops of her inner thighs, so now the fragrance was forever synonymous with being up-close to soft hidden places and delicate flesh. Even now, the tip of Helen's tongue secretly traced the alphabet in her mouth, recalling her special technique for eliciting gasps and swelling sighs.

The experimental time only finished when she met George at a gig - he was the drummer - and he simply filled her heart. His name was coolly ironic back then, and he made her laugh and ache even before they'd got each other's kit off. She even persuaded him to try the patchouli thing for a while but it was never quite so beguiling on his veiny great club. And now, in a few months, she would have a baby. They would have a baby. She would be a mum.

Patchouli was a call from the wild.

The train stopped and picked up more passengers. An aggressive customer with a briefcase leant into Helen's back. Suddenly her thigh was forced between the girl's legs. Helen twisted her face to apologise but the girl fixed her gaze at the glass door, even though there was nothing to see as it faced the black tunnel wall. In silent, crushing embarrassment, they stay wedged together as the train moved off.

Helen wished she was wearing jeans or something thicker and hadn't let George choose her outfit today. A little summer dress. The punkette wore a tiny pleated miniskirt too, and both were bare legged. The soft-on-hard dome of the girl's pubic bone was unmistakable against Helen's leg.

Pornographic shaven-havens flashed behind Helen's eyes. Spread, dripping. She blinked them away and sought out George, awkward because of the wall of suited backs around her. When she caught his eye, he flapped his hand at his face. Only then, she realised her cheeks burned like they'd been slapped. She smiled, nodded, and still wanted to hit him. Why had she offered up her seat to the old bloke? She was pregnant for Christ's sake. Why hadn't George offered, it should be him, here, with his leg shoved against this ümraniye escort sexy girl's warm, podgy...

Fair enough.

She tried to rationalise why she resented, so much, having to pleasure him later. It was nothing they hadn't done a thousand times. She used to rather enjoy all the hardcore stuff, the messy play. Once she got a terrible urge, ravishing him when he was up a ladder, yanking off his jeans and sucking him the complete cycle - from limp to hard to bursting to limp again. She'd loved that. And he would surprise her too. She sat on his lap once, and he pulled down her panties and fingered her to one of the finest (dribbliest!) orgasms of her life. And the actual finest: The day they argued about who could multitask, he brought her to climax switching between licking and shagging and she ended up with a lovely hot spurty mess all over her clit. Hmm. Clit. God how she loved that word. And cock.

Thing is, all these were way more bonding than the ubiquitous Sunday night 'lovemaking' . Why did they have to go? The spontaneous romps? When did watching porn replace... doing it?

Meanwhile, the rocking carriage jiggled the punkette's bits against Helen's leg. The girl shifted but it didn't help, if anything she made it worse. Helen tried to wipe her mind of the filth filling it, as if the girl might smell it on her.

The train halted and Mr Angry got off. Helen sighed, but before she could move her leg out of the danger zone, the girl bambied her knees and clamped her thighs to it, holding her in place. Bare skin to bare skin.

Helen's heart lurched then hammered. There was no innocent reason for this. Her brain crashed, and her mouth went dry. Then, as the train pulled away, the punkette unclamped her soft vice, slowly. All Helen had to do was slide her leg back and everyone would carry on their merry way.

She leant into the girl, putting more pressure on their secret coupling, and twitched the muscle against her in case that wasn't *quot;yes*quot; enough. She had cyclist's thighs from all her spin classes and was very proud of her muscular bottom and legs. The stranger caught a breath. The train picked up speed and jiggled them together and the girl rolled her hips, too. Hungrily.

Helen wondered if her dirty thoughts were contagious - and she had infected this poor girl with her insatiable itch - but it was more likely the boyfriend got her fired up with all that hip action and snogging. Though it certainly appeared the young stud's tongue-stud clearly wasn't doing its job, after all.

Helen's hands trembled with illicit pleasure and she bit her lip to stop it quivering. Her head was full of the image of the girl's mound, resolved from its impression on her thigh. She fancied it was puffy and bald with a fat, throbbing clit. A hole slavering for her massive boyfriend's massive cock. She hadn't touched a girl since she met George, let alone made one cum. The thought that she might now, secretly, on a crowded train right under her husband's nose, made her deliriously horny.

The girl leant her forehead against the window and her lips parted. She tugged her skirt from where it was tucked between them. Spellbound by dampness in the girl's gusset, and drunk with the blood of her quickened pulse, Helen lifted the front of her own skirt. She bunched it high on her abdomen, her black reflection indecent and widening the girl's eyes.

She was Helen, 'The Trojan Whore'. Her skull carrying a whole invading army of porn out of the pay-per-view world and into the sensible world of commuters. And there she was, lifting the trap-door and letting it run riot.

The girl cleared her throat and the same small, black-nailed hand that moments ago had petted her boyfriend's bum squeezed Helen's cotton-covered sex. Helen faced into the corner where a tube door met the wall, a tiny and intimate space visible only to her and the stranger. No-one could see them, but this was still a frightening, exciting place to be so impolite.

The girl twisted a foot, and seemed very close to climax, judging by invisible, seismic tremors that ran kartal escort bayan through her body. Her fingers rubbed a little circle at Helen's bits, making her want to squeal in delight. This young punk definitely had some experience with girls, given the confidence of her movements, not to mention how much she seemed to enjoy the feeling of Helen in her hand. Then, as if to prove the point, the girl slid it boldly down the front of her knickers. Helen squeaked, quickly pretending it was a sneeze.

For a moment, the hand cupped her, gently squeezing, hot and soft and demanding. Then Helen's knees wobbled as the girl explored her, fingers dipping inside and slipperily tickling her clit. Her eyelids drooped. The girl muttered something in a language she didn't understand but Helen whispered simply, *quot;Yes.*quot;

Then the door right beside them opened.

In their fever, they hadn't noticed pulling into station with a platform on their side. The suddenly opened door revealed a woman waiting to get on the train. Helen froze. The girl froze. They stared coolly at the woman as if this was a normal, everyday thing on the tube. Playing with a fellow commuter's genitalia. The woman huffed, shook her head, and walked off to another door. Helen and the girl tittered as the doors closed again.

Helen gently held the girl's hand in place, but she wasn't going anywhere. If anything, the shock had worked her up even more. She quickened her rubbing, and it became less directed, almost frenzied. She made tiny, barely held yelps and ground hard at Helen's leg.

Helen curled one of the girl's fingers up inside her. It pushed and wriggled. Warm waves gathered and spread across her abdomen, she was close and this was a biggie. She clenched her hole on the girl's probing, and was rewarded with another finger inside her, the thumb ring pleasingly cold and hard on her clit. Helen braced herself as her knees quaked and her climax bloomed.

With a cry locked behind sucked-in lips, the girl spasmed. Her digging fingers stiffened. Her eyes screwed shut and - stopping Helen's own orgasm in its tracks - a tear rolled down her cheek.

Helen melted. She stroked the girl's arm as she shuddered and wrenched little gasps and the punkette's - obviously much needed - release became her own rush of pride. Helen brimmed with delight that she should give a random stranger such relief, but more than that, the unexploded bomb of own climax simply glowed inside her, its power retained. It made her feel... new. No. Grown up.

When the girl finished, she shakily removed her hand from between Helen's legs and palmed the tear from her cheek. Helen leant to catch her eye but she sniffed and turned away. The train rolled into a station, the punk stood, and slid past her; clearly, she'd had enough room to move all along. Cheeky cow! Nevertheless, with all her heart, Helen hoped the girl had got what she needed.

*quot;THIS TRAIN TERMINATES HERE*quot;

Someone squeezed her bum. *quot;This is us, babe,*quot; said George, suddenly right beside her.

The girl quickly joined the bustle around the opening doors. Helen grabbed her husband's arm, blinking and swallowing.

*quot;You alright love?*quot; He said, *quot;You're all flushed and trembly?*quot;

The door opened and the girl pushed out quickly, without looking back. Helen felt something inside her stretch, then snap.

*quot;Hot,*quot; she said. They followed the others off the train. Helen carefully and discretely re-ordered her underwear. George helped a woman off the train with her buggy. The woman smiled, and then flushed when Helen caught her checking out his rear.

*quot;Hmm. This won't take too long will it, the exhibition?*quot; Helen said.

*quot;Shouldn't do. Why?*quot; George wound his arm round her waist.

*quot;Just can't wait to get back to the hotel, that's all. *quot; She reached up, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, *quot;I want you to watch me do myself, while I do you.*quot; She patted his bum. *quot;Multitasking.*quot;

George burst a groan. *quot;Holy shit. I am the luckiest person in the whole bloody world.*quot;

She sniggered. *quot;We both are.*quot;

The girl marched off with Helen's wild years still in her hand. Head down, shoving against the crowd. Helen watched until she dissappeared. Then, grinning, she and her husband joined the slow queue of men and women, holding each other, shuffling expectantly in the opposite direction.