May is Masturbation Month, which is a big deal in the sex blogging, erotica writing, sex positive community. I’d been thinking about writing a post for it when Tabitha Rayne, who is talented enough for five people, organized a blog hop to mark it. There are some first-rate writers participating in the Self-Love is in the Air blog hop, so click the badge below to read more. And please, enjoy yourself….
There’s something about traveling…. There’s a tension to it, as if you’re moving along the length of a taut thread. While you’re balanced on the thread, you’re in a space all your own. You aren’t home, but you also aren’t where you’re going either. For the length of your journey, you’re physically removed from your context, which also means that you’re temporarily freed from the identity you wear every day – good girl, rebel, parent, partner… For the length of that journey, you are simply you.
This is prime daydream time for me. That’s why, unsurprisingly, travel of often features in my fantasies. So, I’m going to share one with you…in story form, of course 😉
Mind the Gap
I know you’re watching me when I get on the tube. It’s crowded but not too crowded so I’m able to find a seat. Coincidentally, it’s right across from you. You’re attractive and you have the good grace to pretend that you aren’t still watching me, but you’re pretty terrible at it. Just because you watch a reflection, doesn’t mean you aren’t watching the person. But it’s fine. I let you think I don’t know.
I look at the book in your hand, a thriller I read last year and liked. You haven’t turned the page in five minutes. The window and the woman reflected in it (ie; me) keeps pulling your attention away. Which is good, because I’m suddenly very turned on.
It happens like that. One minute, I’m impassively watching you “not watch” me, the next I’m wet and humming. Luckily, I carry a very big bag. I put this very big bag on my lap and meet your eyes in the window. I smile. You almost smile. You’re embarrassed at being caught out. But then I slip my hand into my running pants and I have your full attention again.
I love the way your embarrassment narrows down and becomes a sharp, focused point. You’re focused on my shoulder – not on my face, though your eyes keep flicking back. You’re watching the rhythmic way my shoulder moves, just a little, as I stroke myself behind the bag.
The other passengers don’t know what’s going on. It’s not that I’m being all sneaky and subtle because I’m really not. It’s more that you can always rely on people being too interested in themselves to notice anything at all. Except you. You noticed me the minute I got on, just like you’re noticing my cheeks flush now.
I’ve gotten very good at this – coming quick and quiet in a public place, a moving, rocking public place between two static points. I use the rocking of the train to lull my body into drowsy softness while my mind stays sharp and quick.
My eyes are on yours. And then I come, a melting, delicious, buttery warmth. It fills me from my fingers to my toes. It feels so good that I nearly moan and tilt my head back. But I don’t You’re still watching me and I’m watching you, and the rocking and the rhythm and the woman reading her book and the guy three seats over glued to his phone, fill up my lungs and my skin and I come again.
And then it’s my stop. I pull my fingers out of my pants, loving how wet they are, like they’ve been dipped in clear honey. Suddenly, I want to touch your face. I want to mark you with it. But I don’t. The voice says mind the gap and I get off without looking back. There will be time for more when you get home.