Marching in March

Marching in March

- Thanks, again, to KenjiSato for editorial services.

- In this story, a lesbian is given a foot massage on a train, unlocking a new erogenous zone for her.

~ ~ ~ Sydney, 5th March, 2023 ~ ~ ~

Third time lucky. The train doors part and, thankfully, nobody is attempting to get off. The crowd on the platform shuffles forward, and this time, I'm close enough to the front to make it onboard. It's standing room only, but Sydney Central is only two stops away. And I'm amongst friends, perhaps more than I've ever been, even though I don't know any of them.

As the doors close, I find I can hold a stainless grab-rail with my left hand, by reaching between two older women - one butch, with piercings; the other quite mainstream. To my right is the hairy back of an even-older gay man. I notice the large metal ring centred there, joining the multiple leather straps of his harness. I smile, as I think of using that ring as my secondary support grip.

The women share a kiss over the top of my arm, just as the train begins to move - not passionate, just loving; they're obviously in a long-term relationship. In the swaying of the crowd, Butch's large breast presses against my forearm, but it's of no concern. After a day of dancing, hugging, and kissing strangers, we're all a bit desensitised to societal norms.

What a great day, I think to myself. Sydney Pride March 2023 - my first, as an out-and-proud lesbian. With sadness, I realise it's basically over now. When I transfer in Central, this LGBT community, my community, will disperse and dilute amongst the masses. I've never felt particularly welcomed by the masses, especially back home in rural New South Wales. I'd better be out of my rainbow T-shirt and face paint by the time I get back there, tonight.

About half the passengers disembark at Central, to head for other platforms. I watch the colourful rainbow of clothes, hats, headbands, wigs, and even feathery wings break into smaller groups. I'm in the smallest group, heading for the regional service; the diesel 'XPT' trains that go beyond the electrified lines of Sydney.

I walk past an empty bench seat on the platform. Fuck I need to sit down. I've been on my feet all day, but it's almost 4:00pm, and my train departs at 4:24pm, so I press on.

In the old part of Central Station, I check the departure board to see my train will be on platform six, and the service is 'on time'. I head straight there, then walk a further fifty metres to the first-class 'sleeper' carriage, up at the front. I doubt I'll get any sleep on the four-hour trip to Bathurst, but I splurged on a first-class ticket for some extra privacy and comfort. I knew I'd be tired after a day on my feet, and introverts like me need to withdraw for a bit, after a day of such intense socialising.

I board the carriage and find my cabin. For inter-state trips, each 'sleeper cabin' has a pair of bunk beds, but for this shorter service, they hold a row of three seats instead. I double-check my seat number before entering the cabin; seat seventeen, window. Opening the door, I find a grey-haired couple seated in eighteen and nineteen.

"Hi," I say, with a smile.

A "G'day," from him and "Hello," from her, in unison. He gives a smile, but she doesn't. Maybe it's my LGBT outfit? No, it's probably because I'm braless, I realise.

I drop my backpack and collapse into the seat, finally giving my aching legs and feet a rest.

Our three seats face towards the back of the train, window on my left. The adjacent cabins will be oriented the other way. Between every pair of cabins there's a combined toilet and shower. I'd love a shower, but that would require more standing, and I know the conductor will be coming to check tickets soon. Plus, as soon as I get wet, someone would start knocking on the door to use the toilet, so I stay put with my eyes closed, thinking about the sea of people today.

"You look like you've had a big day, dear," says Mrs Eighteen. "Were you part of that gay march, across the Harbour Bridge?"

Damn. She wants to talk. I muster up a smile for her, as I don't want to make a bad impression for my community. "Yes. Pride March. For the last day of World Pride Week. There will be more marches in June in the Northern Hemisphere summer. It's not just gays, but lesbians, bisexuals, transgender, queer, intersex, and more, all being represented"

"Oh, I find it so hard to keep up," she responds.

"Me, too," I say, just to humour her - it's really not that hard to grasp the ninety-nine-percent of us. The remaining fringe cases are mostly being highlighted just to stir up division.

The conductor comes by to check tickets, halting our exchange. As he's leaving, a passenger from the adjacent cabin enters the bathroom. Bugger, they were waiting for the ticket-check, too. They'd better not be using the shower.

There's some clacking sounds from the couplings, as the slack is taken up, and the carriage starts accelerating westward.

Mrs Couple is getting out a sudoku book, and Mr Smiley has his eyes closed. Excellent, she doesn't really want to talk, it was just her civic duty to be polite and say something. Or, maybe, she was confirming her suspicion of me, so she could report back to her church group later?

I stare out the window for a while, at the back yards of inner-Sydney. Then we enter a cutting, where there's only a blur of limestone rock to see, so I look down at my shirt, instead. It's mostly white, except for the two rainbow stripes emulating a seat belt strap, and "qlife.org.au" printed across the back. In the bright sunlight and sweaty heat today, my areolas were visible through the thin material - so thin, I had cover myself in sunscreen under my shirt, as well. It was the most appropriate shirt I own for the march, but not so suitable now, especially since my nipples are reacting to the air conditioning. How long will that guy take in the toilet?

I see a green smudge on my right breast and remember The Amazon on the bridge. She must have been over six feet tall, half-a-head above me. Probably around five years older than me, so mid- to late-twenties. Busty and bubbly, she came through the crowd in the opposite direction, acquiring her targets. Luckily, I was one of them. She was entirely covered in green body paint, wearing only a bum-bag and some gold-coloured short-shorts. Her tits were spectacular.

She danced up to me and said, "Hi, I'm Lizzie," then grabbed my head with both hands and kissed me hard, her tongue making a quick dive between my lips. And then, she was gone. I watched her dance off into the crowd. Her bum-bag had 'CTMB' printed on it. 'Come Touch My Bum' perhaps? I wish I had grabbed her and extended that kiss. I wish I'd gotten her number. I wish I could be that brave.

I hear the toilet flush, so I reach for my bag, ready to pounce when the door opens.

I'm on my feet as soon as I hear the latch on the door move. An awkward smile as I grab the opening door, holding it open for the departing woman (another grey-haired sudoku-solver), then the bathroom is mine; 'engaged' with a twist of the lock.

I do a quick scan for cleanliness. A few splatters of water from the basin, but nothing disgusting, so I hang my backpack on the hook and strip off my shirt. I go through a few paper towels, wetting them in the basin, then wiping the sunscreen, sweat, dirt, face paint, and even a few specs of glitter, from my face and body. I remember hugging Glitter-Girl today. Actually, more than one.

My nipples are hard and tingling, my breasts and arms covered in goosebumps. The tap water is chilled, the air conditioning colder here, and the metal surfaces wick away my body heat. What a contrast to the heat of the march. With a smile, I recall the heavily built woman with tattooed breasts, hitching them up with her forearm to wipe the sweat out from under them with her other hand, then flicking the wetness from her fingers to the ground.

I turn to admire my own breasts in the mirror - small, and pert enough, not to have any crease under them. I press and push them with my hands, just to see where the skin will fold when age catches up. The Amazon, Lizzy, had creases under her large tits, a good half-circle where the underwire of a bra would sit. What would they look like if she was lying down? I imagine her on a bed. My vagina is thinking about her, too.

I could pleasure myself right here in this bathroom, I consider, rub one off in this metal box. It's the most privacy I've had recently, after spending last night on the couch in my aunt's flat. Then it was all busses, trains, and crowds. All that flesh. All those smiling women. What's a girl to do? I press down on my crotch.

There's a sharp tap-tap-tap on the door. Fuck.

"Won't be long!" I call out, then start digging in my backpack for my travelling clothes; a denim skirt, a thicker pure-cotton tee, and a knitted shawl. I dress quickly, and then vacate the bathroom. Whoever it was that knocked must have gone off to find another bathroom. Fuck-fuck.

I return to my seat.

"Oh, that looks better," smiles Mrs Sudoku.

"Thanks," I say, as her smile evaporates into something less comfortable. Maybe she realised her compliment wasn't entirely complimentary... Oh, you looked worse before, dear.

The speaker overhead announces we're about to stop at Penrith. We're not even out of greater Sydney yet. I close my eyes, and return to thinking about The Amazon lying on a bed. My bed.

After an uncomfortable sleep last night, and a long day in the sun today, my body is exhausted. I must doze off a few times, while the train climbs out of the Sydney basin, into the Blue Mountains. I barely wake each time my face touches the cold inner pane of the double-glazed window.

The next time I begin to wake, I'm coming out of a dream. I'm on top of The Amazon, licking the green body paint off her. I've finished one arm, shoulder, and breast, and I'm making my way up her neck, to get to her face.

Yuck! Licking paint! What sort of dream is that?

No! Don't wake up! It's chocolate. Make it chocolate. Dream it's chocolate syrup I'm licking off her...

The speaker crackles and drones the words, "Next station, Lithgow. Platform on the right. Lithgow station."

Fuck. I can still picture my chocolate-coated Amazon, but it's my conscious imagination doing all the work. The dream is gone. I'm awake.

Bonus! Mr Smiley and Mrs Suduko are sorting their bags. They must be getting off at Lithgow, meaning, I'll likely have the cabin to myself for the last hour. Just wait there in my mind Elizabeth - I'll come back to you later. Then we'll both get off, I promise.

The train stops, and the speaker reminds us, "Lithgow, platform right." There's a minimal serving of obligatory kindness from the couple as they depart.

Fingers crossed. Fingers crossed.

Fuck, someone's opening the cabin door. A guy in a business shirt, carrying some small, heavy bags. Clean-cut, probably about forty years old. Who wears a business shirt on a Sunday? I see he's wearing a wedding ring too, but that won't stop him from hitting on me. Why do they always try to chat-up the lesbian on the train?

"G'day," he says.

"Hi," I smile back.

He takes the far seat, where Smiley was, leaving an empty one between us. He closes his eyes, and nothing more is said.

Good start, fella. Keep that up, and I may not have to tell you to go fuck yourself.

No, I correct myself, I wouldn't say that. I'm 'too nice' to do things like swear at strangers. Or run through the crowd, kissing anyone who takes my fancy.

Hmm. I must have tickled Lizzy's fancy for her to choose me.

A few whistles, a toot, and a clack from the coupling, and the train is starting to move again. I close my eyes and go searching for Lizzy, my choc-coated Amazon.

It's just getting good - there are cherries on her nipples now - when someone opens the door.

Faaaaaarrrk.

"Ticket, please," says the conductor.

He doesn't remember me, since I've changed clothes and wiped off my face paint. So, I have to get my backpack out from under the seat, to extract it again.

Mr Married pulls his ticket from his laptop bag. I see its number eighteen - the middle seat - but he chose to sit in nineteen, furthest from me. That was nice of him. Don't fuck-it-all-up now mate - just keep your mouth shut.

"Big day?" he asks.

"Sorry?"

"I'm guessing you were at the Pride March today," he says.

"Uh, yeah. How did you know?"

"You've got a rainbow key-ring on your backpack zipper, and some face paint still on your temple," he replies.

"Oh. Thanks," I say, as I scratch at the dry, crusty paint.

"Are you in the community?" I ask.

"No. A supporter though," he smiles.

"How far are you travelling?" I ask.

What the fuck are you doing? Why are you making small talk when Miss Cherry-Nipples is waiting?

"Bathurst," he says.

"Yeah. Me too," I reply, curling my toes unconsciously.

Are we going to talk about the weather next?

"Do you need a foot rub?" he asks.

What the fuck? But my feet tingle at his words. My nipples tingle for some rubbing attention, too. What the hell is that about?

Is this guy a creep? He was looking harmless, until now.

He probably sees my thoughts being reflected on my face. "Sorry," he says. "My wife and I are both skiers - water and snow - she always wants a foot rub at the end of a big day. I just thought... Well, I didn't think... Sorry." He turns away to look at the door.

His face is worse than mine - a mixture of embarrassment and fear. He thinks I might scream for the conductor, or berate him with some lesbian rant, loud enough for the whole carriage to hear.

I nearly giggle. His distressed face tells me everything - he's harmless. Maybe socially inept, like my brother Jarod. Although, he seemed pretty astute before; his gaydar had me pegged the moment he sat down.

Why am I even considering this? 'Give him a chance!' my feet beg - and there's two of them, I'm being outvoted.

"My feet probably smell," I say. "I've been in open-shoes all day, but the leather straps still get a bit feral." My light-tan Jesus-sandals are sitting on the floor in front of me, Mr Observant surely would have seen them.

He looks relieved that I'm not yelling.

After the briefest moment, he says, "Oh, that'll be okay." His smile returns. "I've got a tube of hand sanitiser I can drown them with, if necessary."

No creepy vibes. I'll be just a scream away from half-a-dozen fellow passengers... Okay - I'm up for this. Maybe I'll just close my eyes and pretend its Choc-Cherry-Tits rubbing my feet?

"So, how do you want to do this?" I ask, committing myself.

"Ahh. I can put my tool box on the middle seat to elevate your feet. How's that sound?"

"Yeah, good," I reply. He won't be grovelling on the carpet trying to look up my skirt. I'll still have to keep my legs together for modesty, but otherwise, it'll just be a friendly, passengerly, foot massage... Happens every day on the yellow line.

He heaves his hard case onto the middle seat, then pushes both centre armrests up and out of the way.

While he's retrieving the sanitiser from his laptop bag, I straighten my skirt, then hold it tight to my legs as I turn in my seat, raising my calves onto the slightly cold toolbox.

The first touch. His elbow brushes my toes as he sits up again, little tube of sanitiser in hand.

He gives me a nervous smile, as he squeezes a good dollop into his palm, before rubbing his hands together to spread the gel around.

As he reaches for my left foot, I figure we should do introductions - I don't even know his name. I open my mouth to speak but it's too late. The first firm squeeze from his hands has my hoof shooting happy-juice straight into my brain.

"Ooooh. Mmmm," is all I can get out of my mouth.

He does a few more firm two-handed squeezes from heel to toe, gently twisting my foot one way, then the other. My eyes close, and the back of my head makes a clunk against the window behind me. Instant heaven. The coolness of the evaporating sanitiser contrasts with his warm hands, working their magic. Lucky, lucky wife.

"Mmmmmm," again. Are you still moaning? Pull yourself together girl - it's just a foot rub.

Mr Magic-Fingers moves on to rubbing my arch. His left hand cradles the top of my foot, while his right rubs his thumb firmly up the underside, from heel to ball; occasionally swapping over to use his knuckles instead.

"So good..." I whisper.

The gentle rocking of the train is still there, but there's a sharper vibration now, from the metal wheels on rails at a hundred kilometres per hour. It's coming up through the window frame that's pressing into my neck. Damn, I need a pillow. I think about using my backpack, but that's too fiddly to achieve, it might break the spell.

I could use my shawl. Yeah - but that's covering your tits... Remember how your nipples seem to be cross-wired to your feet today? They're hard as diamonds right now, you don't even have to touch them to figure that out.

He moves on to a spreading motion, both hands stretching my foot sideways, out to its full width.

Fuck it. Why should my neck be uncomfortable, when everything else is perfect. I reach up and grab the shawl that's draped over my shoulders, quickly rolling it into a ball that I can stuff behind my neck. He can stare at my tits if he wants - that's a fair trade, I figure.

"All goo-?" he half asks.

Ha! He must have just seen my nipples.

"Yeah. Fine now," I answer, with a smile, keeping my eyes closed.

He does a few more foot squeezes, alternating hands wrapping thumb and fingers around my foot, then sliding down the length and off, over the toes.

He's stopped touching me. I'm about to look when I hear the last of the sanitiser sputtering out of the little tube. It must be right-foot time. Ms Amazon is going to do this one, I decide.

Mr Masseur goes through the same sequence with my right foot. Except this time, it's the firm hands of The Amazon working their magic, while we stare at each other's tits. Lean forward Lizzy, let me feel your nipple tickle my toes... But she never does.

More full length squeezes, tapering off the toes. And then, it comes to an end.

I open my eyes. His gaze springs up from my tits to meet mine.

"Stopping?" I ask.

"Yeah, sorry, the gel doesn't go very far, and I've run out," he says.

"Easily solved," I say, as I reach down to drag my backpack out from under the seat.

I grab a squeeze container from the side pocket; 'Body Moisturising Sunscreen, SPF30+.'

"This'll work," I say.

I don't ask if he wants to continue. He's going to continue, even if I have to flash my tits to make it happen.

"Okay, thanks," he says, as he takes the moisturiser.

It's even better. The slippery cream allows for easier motion with his hands. Firm thumb pressure, running circles on my heel. Pressure points on the top of my foot. The base of the thumb running down my instep. And my new favourite...

After a generous squeeze of moisturiser, Lizzy lifts my left foot off the tool case, with her palm under my heel. Her other hand runs up under my leg, the palm spreading cream from my Achilles to my calf a few times. On the fourth downward stroke, the palm changes into four clawing fingers pressing into my aching muscle.