Marching in March

"Aaaaghhh... Hmmm." I respond with pleasure, my upper body squirming like a snake.

Steady-on girl, you know it's not really The Amazon at your feet.

Yeah, but I can imagine. I won't go too far.

Sure!... If you keep wriggling like that, your nipples are gonna slice their way out of your shirt.

Lizzy is running her hands down my calf in alternating strokes, supporting the weight of my leg as they do so. The aches of the day are being kneaded out of my muscles, a little bit with each stroke.

I can imagine her vividly now, wearing her little gold shorts and lathered-up in moisturising cream, diligently working over my perfumed, perfectly manicured feet.

After another squeeze of moisturiser, Luscious Lizzy moves to repeat the treatment on my right calf.

I shuffle closer, trying to touch her breasts with my toes. My stupefied left leg flopping outwards towards the bathroom wall.

I hear a gasp from Lizzy - no, it's Mr Married - a quick peek shows my skirt rode up when I slid forwards. Damn, girl - you were supposed to keep your legs together. I give the front of my skirt a quick jab to push some material down between my legs. That'll have to do.

I groan a bit and curl my toes, before spreading them wide. Give me more, my foot demands. Lizzy returns to her task, working on my toes one at a time. Oh, fuck yeah!

The heat spreads out from my feet and nipples. Up my legs and across my chest, from neck down to pussy. Bliss.

A finger starts penetrating the gap between my toes, repeatedly, insistently. My face is hot, my body trembling. I'm grasping at the hem of my shirt now, pulling at the material so that it rubs my nipples. Oh, God. I'm gonna come.

A gurgle comes from my throat. The finger stops. No!

"Keep going, Lizzy!" I snap.

The finger violates me again. No, not a finger, her clitoris, invading the fissures between my toes. She's getting herself off on my toes.

My abdominals contract, lifting me off the window. I can't breathe. My body starts slow convulsions, my movements overlaid with the rocking of the train. I press my face into the cushion of the backrest, seeking out the darkness of the blue material. Trying to hide my shame as my orgasm hits.

If I could touch my own clitoris this would be over quickly - but this footgasm is something else. A slow-motion train wreck hitting me.

I still can't breathe as I count my vaginal contractions. One... two... three... then the big one.

"AAAARGGGH!" I roar, as my lungs start working again. My head is back on the window frame somehow, my legs spread wide, thrusting my hips at the ceiling with each new wave of ecstasy. Carriage after carriage of my dignity being derailed in this crash of joy and depravity.

A good half-minute of aftershocks follow. The wreckage of my decorum now aflame.

~ ~ ~

"You can stop rubbing now," I say, meekly.

His hands stop, but he doesn't let go of my foot.

You're going to have to open your eyes and face him sometime.

I consider my options. Can I make it off the train, and out of the station, without opening my eyes? Can I just crawl into my backpack and zip it closed?

I open my eyes. He's looking at me with disgust.

No, wait, maybe it's something else. Astonishment? Awe?

I glance down. Shit, my underwear is fully exposed. I sit up quickly straightening my skirt, feet on the floor, back against the backrest, hands in lap. I'm a good girl.

"I, umm..."

Dammit. Try to think of something to say before you open your mouth.

Wait, did I see an erection in his pants?

I look across at my cabin mate.

"I, ahh... I need to wash my hands," he says, before launching from his seat. Crikey, he got into that bathroom quicker than I did earlier.

I take stock of the situation. We're about twenty minutes away from Bathurst. My underwear is sluiced. Even my skirt has a wet spot at the back. My dignity disembarked at Lithgow. And if I try to run away, I'll probably slip and break a leg, due to my greased-up feet.

Well, I can change into yesterday's underwear and wrap my shawl around my waist, that'll address my pussy problem. And it's probably not worth going back for my dignity; by now, it'll be doling out ten-dollar blowjobs in some sleazy Lithgow alleyway.

I'd better be ready to jump in the bathroom as soon as he leaves. Give us both a bit more time to come to terms with my depravity.

Why can't I hear the faucet running?

I stand up to put my ear against the bathroom wall. I can hear grunting and gasping. Fuck me! He's having a wank! Probably going to blow his load into the metal basin - no wonder I do cleanliness checks.

I collapse in my seat in a crying fit of giggles. That Amazon Bitch is to blame for all this. If I ever find her she's gonna get a spanking.

I can hear the water running now. Mr Wanker must be washing his hands. No, Wanker isn't the right label for him, although it's literally true, but that word is reserved for, well, wankers... Mr Owner-Operator seems to be finishing up now. I hope he wipes everything down.

We avoid eye contact, as we swap rooms. Fine by me.

A few minutes and a few more paper towels, and I've done everything I can to make myself appear respectable again. Time to resume my humiliation.

I return to my seat, still avoiding eye contact by staring at my 'perfumed, perfectly manicured' feet. Reality hits. The nail polish on my toes is chipped, there's tan lines and grime marks from the sandal straps, they're slimy with moisturiser, and I bet they still smell.

I grab my moisturised and stuff it in my backpack. Then push my bag further under the seat, trying to conceal my feet under there, also.

He pushes down the armrest, re-instating the barrier between us. I do likewise with my armrest, my eyes fixated on the wall in front of me.

I glance down as he's turning his hard case on the centre seat, to get the handle in the right location for lifting. He's hiding the evidence, too. I notice one of the many stickers on the case; 'CTMB' in the same font as Lizzy's bum-bag.

"What's that?" I ask.

"My tool box," he replies.

"No. That sticker. CTMB," I clarify.

He thinks for a second. "Err... Central Tablelands Mercantile Bank, I think. They're an investment bank for small businesses, farmers, and stuff."

"Never heard of them," I say.

"Yeah. They're commercial, not retail, so they don't advertise on TV. Why do you ask?"

"I know someone who might work there," I reply. "Elizabeth," I add.

"Lizzy?"

"You know her?" I ask, perking up a bit too much.

"No. You called me Lizzy back when... ahh... rubbing your feet," he responds. "My name is Shane."

"Oh... Sorry." My face is blushing yet again. "My name is Jennifer."

Shit. Why did you tell him that? You'll be the talk of the town by next weekend.

"Why do you think she works at CTMB?" he asks.

"I saw it on her bag," I reply.

"Probably a promotional thing they give away to customers," he says, disappointing me.

"...But let's have a look," he says, pulling out his laptop.

After powering it up, he starts clattering on the keyboard. Search engines, business socials, CTMB Press Releases, and such. Fuck. This guy is a good detective. I shouldn't have given him my real name. Then again, a simple search for 'shameless hussy' would probably find me at the top of the results - a picture, too; me, thrusting my pussy at random strangers on the train. Oh, God. I did that.

After only a few minutes, "How about this woman? Liz Kersten, Structured Finance Team," he says, showing me a page from the bank's newsletter.

There's a picture of a dozen people in the team. She's there! Standing at the centre of the back row, where the tall girls stand. She doesn't have naturally green skin, and apparently wears clothes when at work, but she still looks smoking hot in a business suit - up until the point where my eyes glaze over. I'm crying, too many emotions today. I didn't think I'd ever find her, but Shane the Stalker made it look easy.

"Do you want me to write it down?" Shane asks.

"No. I won't forget her," I reply. I've got a name and office address now. I owe her a kiss. And a spanking.

The speaker comes to life. "Next stop, Bathurst. Platform on the left. Bathurst Station."

"Um, about that foot massage," he begins. "I'd prefer not to tell anyone about that. I'm not sure my wife would approve."

As if I'm going to tell anyone about that!

"Sure," I respond. "Let's make it our little secret. Although, you were the perfect gentleman." And an adequate Amazon stand-in, apparently.

I smile to myself. My battered emotional pendulum has somehow swung to another high point today.

The train pulls up at our platform with a jolt. We start grabbing our things.

"Shane," I say, waiting for him to look at me. "Thanks..." I continue, with a shy smile, "for everything tonight."

"Yeah. No worries," he responds, then quickly makes his escape out the cabin door. Back to his wife, I guess. Or, to flog-off in another public toilet. Whatever floats his boat.