London is the only place to live in England for me. The crowded streets and bars, packed buses and the tube. Yes, the tube, underground, subway. Whatever you want to call it, is my hunting ground. To most people rush hour is a chore to be avoided if at all possible. To me, it is an essential ingredient in my favourite sexual fetish. The close contact with a complete stranger, the interaction, no matter how fleeting of sexually aroused bodies, is my drug of choice.

It doesn't have to be the underground, any crowded places, places where the general public are unaware of the sexual encounter being carried out near them. For me, that's the thrill, often it is a brush of a hand, a furtive grope. But on some occasions masturbation that can give me, and sometimes my partner of the moment the climax we both seek.

When did my fetish begin? Difficult to say, it is a need that has grown over the years. As a young woman, tolerating a hand on my backside on a crowded dance floor. To the intense need for public masturbation, I now need as a mature female in her late thirties.

Today should fill my needs perfectly. A journey on a crowded tube, an hour in a busy art gallery, in my role as a journalist covering the latest exhibition. The jostling in a crowded bar after the event. The prospect of my day had already created an itch in my groin. I had thought of resisting the urge to masturbate in my morning shower. I wanted the yearning for release to build to such a pitch that my body would be screaming for satisfaction. But I knew from experience that a morning climax would only leave me even hornier.

My shower was a source of another fetish. The glorious feeling of my cunt being filled with water. I have orgasmed from a vaginal enema many times. The showerhead I use was carefully chosen. It is long and slim and can be slid deep into my cunt. The combination of warm water and the almost painful needle-like jets, coupled with shower gel rubbed into my clit is enough for a shattering orgasm. In only five minutes my body shook in climax, water ran from my cunt, down my legs in a glorious stream. Shower water, cunt juice, and piss in one copious emission. By the time I had returned to my senses and dried myself, I was even hornier than before.

One thing I had decided on was my apparel. A white blouse with a casual open neck that would allow the odd furtive glance at the skimpy bra just about encasing my 34b tits with, what would certainly be, hard protruding nipples.

The skirt held a secret, it appeared to be a smart calf-length flowing design. Its secret was, what seemed to be pockets, were, in fact, slits allowing easy access to the top of my thighs. Often I would slide a hand inside for a furtive touch of my clit or cunt. But the real purpose was to allow a stranger's fingers to work their magic.

As was my habit, I glanced in the full-length hall mirror as I left the house. At five foot nine, my firm body appeared quite slim, in was particularly pleased my bottom had retained its rounded, but firm state. My long dark brown hair only enhanced my height.

Fifteen minutes found me parked in the multistory car park and heading down the escalator to the underground station and heading for the circle line platform.

The journey from Tower Hill to the Edgware road was thirty-five minutes. Ample time to be groped by horny males on a crowded train.

I deliberately stood in the busiest area of the platform to ensure the carriage I would get into would be jammed packed with early morning commuters with no possibility of a seat. Glancing up at the message board showed me the train I wanted was five minutes away, not long to wait, but on that day my first encounter would happen before that.

The scent of expensive aftershave alerted me to his presence, he was very close. On a crowded platform, this was not unusual, but I sensed he was almost touching me.

The feather-light touch of his hand on the left cheek of my bum was so light it could have been accidental, but I doubted it. To be sure I pushed back slightly to send the groper code to him. I knew if he was a player he would understand if not his hand would immediately withdraw and an embarrassed apology would result.

There was no apology, only a slightly firmer touch of the hand. The game had started, and my fetish radar was on full alert, and loving it. My whole body was on fire with excitement as his fingers traced a line from the outside on my cheek to the base of my spine and down into the top of my bum crack.

Too soon the train swept into the station, the doors opened and the crowd surged forward. The man behind me almost propelled me into the carriage, he obviously had no intention of letting anyone else get between my arse and his hand. I didn't have long to wait.

I pushed my way to the far corner and positioned myself to stare out of the window. My aftershave wearing groper friend made sure he was within inches of me and to my right side.

I knew how to play the game and moved my right leg slightly to touch his. His response was instant, his hand ran gently up and down my leg. He also knew the rules of the game, no eye contact, no acknowledging the touch.

I could feel the tension build, my heartbeat quickened, my spine tingled. But more importantly my cunt moistened and my clit itched.

Now to up the stakes. I moved so he was directly behind me, and reaching behind me ran my left hand over the hard bulge in the front of his expensive business suit.

His right hand slid up and down my leg and stopped when he found, what he thought was a pocket, and slid it inside.

The feel of his fingers on my naked flesh was too much, and a slight gasp burst from my lips. With almost maddening slowness, his fingers moved towards my cunt. The urge to grab his wrist and pull his probing fingers into my now dripping slit was almost overpowering.

As I was rubbing his erection through his trousers I felt him ease his zip down. We were only fifteen minutes into the journey and had twenty left to go, plenty of time for the climax my body craved, and by the feeling of his hard cock enough for his as well.

His was one of the best feeling cocks I had ever masturbated in public. From the feel, it must have been seven or eight inches in length, and certainty the thicker one I had ever encountered. The head was fat and plum-shaped, already a trace of precum lubricated my fingers as I began a slow rhythmic wank.

The thrill of strange fingers, and the knowledge that our fellow passengers had no idea of the joint masturbation taking place within inches of them only added to the excitement of my fetish.

I knew I was seconds away from my climax, I could feel my juices lubricating his thrusting fingers as he expertly finger fucked my cunt, and rubbed my clit. I would have given anything to feel the hard cock I was wanking inside his trousers in my willing cunt, but that was not part of the game. No names, not a word, ships that pass in the night.

Suddenly he thrust a handkerchief into my cock rubbing hand and I knew he was about to cum. I had barely enough time to encase the throbbing rod on the cotton condom before it exploded. I felt the familiar pulse of an erupting cock and the hot spunk wet on my fingers as it poured from the swollen head. I love the feel of a man cumming for me. But to me, being able to make a man cum by hand while he does the same to me, is more sensual than fucking. Don't get me wrong, to feel my cunt filled with hard flesh and hot spunk pouring into me is great. Just not as thrilling.

This was all too much for me, I felt my knees tremble as a huge orgasm crashed through me. My cunt muscles gripping the pounding fingers as I strove for maximum satisfaction. Even biting my lip was not sufficient to stifle the groan as I gripped the carriage safely pole to keep from falling.

Fortunately, my noise was drowned out by the squeal of breaks as the train slowed for the station. A minute later found me off the train and heading for the exit, swept along by a sea of humanity heading for their work. My fellow masturbator among them, I had never seen his face. But I couldn't resist lifting my hand to my mouth and tasting the result of my handiwork that had oozed through his cotton spunk catcher, it tasted good. I wondered if he did the same, and sucked my juice from his fingers. I hope he did.