Will He Look? Will He See?

It causes a rush, warmth running through my insides like the oncoming effect of a drug, the trickle of sweat down the back of my neck. My heartbeat starts to race and every one of my senses feels honed to adrenaline heights. The rush is added to, fed by that look, initially of disbelief, in their eyes; followed by the double take and the rise of confusion that this abnormality brings. So far outside the boxes that they surround themselves with that they are frequently prevented from accepting what they have seen with their own eyes. But what I get from my peccadillo is not all deep-seated, hot-flushed feelings ...oh, no. At skin level there's a bone freezing chill that accompanies the real fear of being caught. The humiliation of being publicly exposed as some kind of pervert, a chill that thrillingly sets fires in my libido. What would my mother and her friends say?

As I have grown older and reached into my second quarter-century, I find that more and more I manipulate the rest of my waking hours so that I might fit in opportunities to make my heart race and my mind whirl. The act of writing about it even now sparks my addiction; I desperately want to go out and ... and... just once more today? I know that I'd be being really very naughty, but once more? Maybe I'll spoil myself? Or maybe I'll let the thrill of self-denial this time add to the thrill tomorrow.

I have been the same all of my life, the bane of my mother's existence.

"You've always been like it: trouble from the word go," She used to say to just about anyone who'd listen. "Shedding clothes as if they were going out of fashion. I seemed to spend half of my life dressing the child."

But it's not as complicated as trying to find someone whom I can trust enough to be the real me with. Thinking about relationships brings memories of the anguish, bigotry and even violence that seem to have accompanied every foray of mine into those realms that others seem to find so consoling. So I think that I'll just stick with these games that I play for myself, using the unsuspecting, unwary and those busy with their own lives, as props to my little plays.

***

As usual I dress myself carefully: glasses of course... the one accessory that leads them most to deny the evidence of their own eyes. I tie my long hair back, a single auburn plait and put on a layer of light foundation, no eye shadow or mascara and a harsh dull lipstick, matt and anti-sexual. I look like a librarian or junior teacher at a catholic school, maybe. A ranking civil servant? The type of person who bathes in the dark to avoid temptation? A picture painted to tell a thousand lying words.

My plain skirt hangs pleated to my ankles and the matching jacket's only embellishments are fleur-de-lis, embroidered in matt black against a background of the same colour. My cream blouse is buttoned all the way to the un-collared neck. Hidden by the length of my skirt: boots to my mid-calf, laced, square toed, two inch chunky heels, polished black. Lattice patterned hold-ups in a purple so dark that they're almost black against the creamy colour of my legs... no knickers... never any knickers. A half cup bra in a flesh tone that helps me feel naughty inside - labia damping, delightfully naughty all day.

When I was younger, I always wore knickers, getting myself off by showing them, every time as if by accident, only doing it in the direction of those whom I knew were restrained by their position. Safety was my watchword; fear dogged my every trial, Lecturers, my friends' dads, members of our congregation at church, youth leaders, people who were proud of their respectability, those with too much to lose as my earliest sex toys.

Countless erections caused, observed and then masturbated over later in the privacy of my bedroom. Trouser tents that they always tried to keep hidden, sinful evidence of their humanity, as if this natural reaction could bring them tumbling down from any position of respectability that they thought they held.

Now it's not about them, they're the victims... I'm in charge, it's just about me.

I can take any one of eight different tube and bus combinations to get to my place of work and I'm employed under flexi-time so I can start my day anytime from six until eleven. I don't think that I've ever come across any of my playthings twice; they might try that same train at that same time for months without setting eyes on me. An entire year might pass before I repeat the same combination in my daily journey.

Each of my skirts has two Velcro darts hidden in their pleats; I can undo them individually by applying stress in the correct direction. Pressure on the back of the skirt against my seat with one calf and then crossing my legs is enough to show my boots and stockings. Re-crossing them in the other direction is adequate to my requirements that they see the trimmed tuft of pubic hair that points, arrow like, at my yoni. Usually there's just a chance for a second's glimpse before I resume a more respectable stance. But not always - I'm in charge, sometimes I want to mess with their entire day, I might pretend to be reading my morning paper held in one hand while the other scratches (as if subconsciously) at my naked lips, rubbing at the hood of my clit, once in a while even slipping a finger or two inside me before (seemingly subconsciously again) covering up once more without ever showing any sign of my cognisance of what has just passed. Coolly still reading the day's news, studiously unaware of the effect, I am in charge.

There are still a myriad of occasions when my victims have not noticed, ignorant enough of their surroundings to not see anything that they weren't expecting. I giggle to myself when this happens, wondering if they'd even notice if I was naked.

I work as a telephone pollster; my computer dials random people selected by it for a series of questions that I read from the script that is on my desk each day when I arrive, answer a, b, c, or d. A long time ago, at an earlier attempt at making a living, I had flashed a guy at work. Three days later the bastard had tried to rape me after he had dragged me into the stationary cupboard. He had forced me to realise that if I was going to do this... and there was no way that I was going to stop... I had better be prepared to deal with my victim trying to get involved in a crime of his own... I became so prepared. I knew that I couldn't rely on there being time for the injudicious application of a well placed rapidly accelerating knee, as there had been that first time.

Today on the tube there's a weedy looking guy with those half depth glasses sitting in the seat opposite; he's clean shaven and well enough dressed in an off the peg two piece charcoal grey suit, white shirt and plain mid-blue tie. But he's skinny; wire thin hairy arms protrude in an ungainly fashion from the end of his sleeves, his black ankle socks like elastic bands around a pencil. He's got a thick paperback held in both hands halfway down his chest. I tap one foot irregularly against the floor; this will generally distract them from whatever they're doing and once they look at my foot I expose my boots and then gradually the entire leg, and then it's time to cross my legs for the full flash.

He doesn't look down; the bastard starts to tap out a counter rhythm with one of his shiny brown brogues. I look at this new source of noise, as I do he starts to knock his knees together their clunk adding another slower beat to his tapping. His knees part then, and he shuffles forward slightly on the seat. There's a flash of blue-white fleshtones and again, it catches my attention but, for few seconds, I fail to realise that his trousers seem to have split just below the end of his zipper and a pair of green and lilac veined sparsely haired wrinkled balls are protruding beyond the tear. One of his hands reaches down and starts to scratch them. He crosses his legs and all is normal... or is it? No wait... there! Where his thighs cross, his cock has fallen through the split. It's skinny as well; as I watch it starts to harden but is held parallel to the seat by the position of his legs. It points at me flexing once or twice and keeps growing until it seems to me to be incongruously large compared to the rest of his miserable physique. Just as I thought it would go on growing forever he crosses his legs the other way and it is gone, precisely as the tube pulls into the next station. As I check out where we are he has upped and left, walking briskly away from the train and out of sight.

***

... May be continued... I might be swayed by feedback (lol)

Thanks a zillion to Hotti for her editing prowess