We’ve had a lovely evening up in town, a nice meal followed by drinks in a pub. It’s your turn to drive back from the station, so you’ve just had a glass of wine with your meal and have been on the coca-cola since then. But I’ve not been holding back, and I’ve glugged back several pints of rather tasty ale. I’ve been sticking to the low-strength stuff, only 3.8 ABV, so I don’t think I’m going to pass out yet., though my bladder is getting a bit full. We’ve been laughing and holding hands and playing footsie under the table and I don’t want to stop looking at you. You look so pretty in your tight low-neck t-shirt, that shows your breasts.
Suddenly you look at your watch.
“Oh bugger! I’ve forgotten the time! Quickly - drink up, Annie, or we’ll miss the train.”
“Hold on, Vikka, I need a pee first,” I say, downing the last few mouthfuls.
“No time, sweetie, you’ll just have to go on the train.”
We have to run all the way to the station, me feeling a bit wobbly and hoping I don’t fall over and disgrace myself. We make it with seconds to spare, and jump on the last train. All that running has shaken me up, and already I can feel my bladder starting to ache. The train is quite full, with lots of people like us going home after an evening out, but I insist on pushing down the carriages until we can find the one with a toilet. I hate using train toilets– they’re usually dirty and smelly and have a lock that doesn’t work, but it’ll be better than nothing.
And wouldn’t you know it, when we find it, the damn thing’s out of order, with a sign stuck on the door saying sorry for the inconvenience.
“They’ll be bloody sorry all right when I wee all over the floor,” I say, and you raise an eyebrow. Looking back with the benefit of hindsight, perhaps I shouldn’t have said that.
There isn’t room for us both to sit together, so we stand in the space by the doors. You’re obviously feeling horny, because you start kissing me, and I respond happily, enjoying the taste of your tongue in my mouth. I’m light-headed with the alcohol, while you are pretty much stone-cold sober, though that doesn’t seem to be holding you back. You put one arm round my waist and clutch me against you. Your other hand strokes my thigh, first the outside, then moving round to the tender inner thigh. I squeeze my legs together, trapping your hand, and you respond by pinching the soft flesh between your fingers, making me wince with pleasure. In the background, I can hear the laughter and chatter of late-night travellers actually talking to each other, their inhibitions loosened by alcohol too.
Your hand slides round over my crotch. Oh Vikka, what are you doing? Your fingers slowly pull down the zip of my jeans. You insinuate first one finger, then another, between the flaps of material.
“Vikka, don’t,” I whisper urgently. “What if someone sees us?”
“Who cares?” you whisper back.
“I do!” I reply, but I know I don’t. The combination of alcohol and arousal overrules my natural modesty and inhibitions, as they always do I’m afraid.
And god it does feel nice as your fingers rub against the thin material of my pink panties. You know where you’re going, and it doesn’t take you long to find the little nub of my clitoris at the top of my slit, and start to rub against it. You are pressing tight against me, keeping your hand hidden between our bodies so unless someone looks very closely they won’t see what you are doing.
I can feel my cheeks starting to flush, and I try to breathe steadily. I close my eyes and abandon myself to your fingers. The pressure of your circling finger against my clitoris is electrifying. Now beads of perspiration are breaking out on my forehead. I whisper in your ear, telling you to stop, but not meaning it. You stop the pressure on my clit. I am about to make you carry on, but I then feel the crotch of my panties being pulled to one side, and your fingers stroking directly over the soft mound of my freshly-shaved pubis. I can’t believe this is happening. Your fingers reach my vulva, and I feel one of them burrowing between the soft lips into my vagina, revolving round inside, finding my soft spongy walls and causing my secretions to dribble out over your hand. I bury my face in your shoulder, each breath coming as a short sharp gasp. My nose is pressed tightly into the hollow of your neck, and in my arousal I bite your shoulder through your t-shirt. You respond by curling your fingers upwards, pressing against my urethra from inside.
Oh Vikka, you shouldn’t have done that. In my arousal, I had temporarily forgotten my full bladder, but the pressure catches me by surprise, and I relax my muscles, releasing a little spurt of pee. I can’t tell where it has gone; I think it must have gone over your hand.
“I’m going to pee myself if you’re not careful, darling,” I whisper.
“Do it, Annie,” you whisper back.
“I can’t!”
“Why not?”
“We’re on a bloody train - there’s loads of people,” I whisper urgently. But I know what you’re like when you’re in this sort of mood - your inhibitions disappear and things get dangerous. And exciting. It’s at times like this, when you scare me and challenge me, that I realise why being with you is so special.