I often wonder if our personalities affect our perception of life and how we are perceived? Does the way we move telegraph our feelings? Do we give off subtle, or maybe not-so subtle indications of our needs and wants?
Take, for example, the simple act of wearing no panties. Several things happen. For a start, our vaginal secretions don’t merely stop, but unhampered by a layer or two,of cotton, they are free to evaporate on the air as nature intended. There’s the knowledge that, under your dress or skirt, you are naked. That certainly has an effect on me. There’s a possibility of flashing, whether intentionally or accidentally. I suppose it’s rather like being almost naked is far sexier than being naked. So is the thought that someone might have seen between my legs, as opposed to someone definitely having seen there.
There’s no doubt I am a highly sexual girl. I’ve been called a slut but some here, but it’s water off a duck’s back. I am, unashamedly, what I am. I have a rapacious sex drive, but I’m far from a ball-buster. (Hmm I wonder what the girl/girl equivalent of that expression I?) When I have sex with a man, I’m certainly not out to dominate him, or fuck him into oblivion. A single sexual act can be more than enough, and it doesn’t even have to be full-on fucking.
I’m thinking back to one of the most memorable and pleasurable sex acts of my life. I was 15, and walking home with a boy who I knew fancied me. He was being so…correct…so polite, but in the end, he couldn’t contain himself. And yes, I was flirting madly with him, which, looking back was grossly unfair of me. Anyway, he pushed me up against the weathered, flint wall of an old barn, kissed me and shoved his hand rather clumsily into my admittedly wet panties. He managed to get a finger in me, and purely by accident the heel of his Hand was just in the right place for my clit. A couple of frantic rubs and I came. When I unzipped him to return the compliment, I found he had already ejaculated into his pants. Still…kudos to him….he managed a second ejaculation as I wanked him. It was certainly a brief encounter, unsubtle as anything, and amateurish, yet it was off-the-chart sexy!
Nowadays, i’’m more sophisticated, but I do seem to run into, or, perhaps, identify more sexual situations and opportunities than most. Let me try to unpick why this might be.
For a start, I believe at heart we are all programmed to be sexual animals. Way back when, we were opportunistic with sex, taking it wherever and whenever we could. In the development of humankind, when we wore animal skins and way before any laws were thought up, men hunted and fucked suitable women and women spread their readiness by way of body shape, and scent. Nature does nothing by chance, and our vaginas are designed to attracted. The pheromones we give off are designed to excite men, and visa-versa.
We all have different levels of sex drive. I am at one end of the scale, and I know girls who are at the other.
These days we have decency laws…and sex laws. No sex before the age of consent, for example, but, and trust me on this, I knew…knew to the exact day when I was ‘ready’ both physically and psychologically. It certainly wasn’t a case of ‘the bad man talked me into it.’ I knew my body attracted, and when at school in my little panty-flashers club, the eroticism of deliberately exposing my crotch wasn’t lost on me. In fact, it made my head spin with pleasure….and when we decided to go commando….well…it wasn’t just the other girls’ vulvas I could see. All of us were visibly wet.
In a packed train, I’ve had men press up against me. (And the odd girl too sometimes) I’ve felt hard cocks through pants, and more than once, I’ve reached a hand around and given them a rub. No, it wasn’t sexual assault. Why, for example, did the men concerned push against me, and not the woman next to me? I must have been transmitting the readiness and willingness for such an action - especially these days, when men risk women screaming ‘rape’ at every opportunity.
When I think of the nuns, and the church’s attitude to sex (they are both obsessed by it and horrified by it) it seems to me that’s bled over into society as a whole. I hear some feminist groups now want the right to withdraw consent to sex after the event. They want to be able to change their minds a few days later, and have the man charged with rape. What ridiculous nonsense, but it has made men fearful. The feminists like this, but personally I think it speaks more of the women’s pathetic weakness.
“Oh but it’s disgusting to have a total stranger try to feel you up.” When someone says this to me, my first question is, “Has it happened to you?” The answer is always “Well, no.” So, let me tell you what it’s like.
Your standing room only on a ram-packed train. Everyone is swapping with the movement of the carriage, and truth to tell, we’re all making contact with someone. Ah, but then….then you notice the guy behind you is now pressing his hand firmly against your bum…more than that, he’s giving it a squeeze now and then. Two choices. Turn away from him, or stay put. I chose to stay put. Remember, he knows nothing about me. I could be on my period, I could have a can of pepper spray, or (as I am) I could be highly trained in martial arts. I could, should I so desire, render him in agony on the train floor with little more than a judiciously placed jab.
Instead, I am intrigued. How far will he go? I check where we are. He’s in the corner by the door, a partition on his left. I’m directly in front of him - no-one could see what he is doing. Even if it went much, much further. Which it does. I feel him lifting my skirt at the back, his fingers almost playing me like a piano. Then his hand is on the top of my thigh. I’m short, so he has to bend his knees, to everyone else, it merely looks like he’s bracing himself against the incessant rocking of the train, but I know he’s lowering himself for better access.
A hand groped between my thighs. And waits there. Now it’s for me to indicate ‘yay’ or ‘nay’. I spread my feet enough to indicate ‘yay’. He presses a finger on my panties, precisely where my hole is. He doesn’t, as some do, try to force my panties up my hole, oh no, he is more sophisticated than that. Just enough. To tease me. Then his hand moves back, up over the curve of my bum to the top of my panties. Was it pure chance that today I’m wearing low-cuts? His hand slips over my naked bum cheeks and finds it’s way to the wetness between my legs and keeps going until he finds my clit.
His arm must be aching. Somehow, I want to tell him I am capable of vaginal as well as clitoral orgasms. But now, I have to do something. I reach behind myself. Wow…he is hard! His left hand appears round my waist, and I see a flash of gold. Married, then? He turns slightly towards the door, and I unzip him. Boxers? Probably. Either way his cock is easily palpable. Did his wife suck this last night, or was it buried inside her? Or maybe, he hasn’t had any for ages?
Two of his fingers slip effortlessly inside me and I press back and down on them indicating ‘Yes…this will do nicely.” I realise, geometrically, that he could fuck me in this position…just. He could certainly bum-fuck me, ah, but that needs more lubrication than we have available to us here. I begin to wank him as he fingers me expertly. If his wife doesn’t like or want this, she doesn’t understand what she’s missing. This guy knows how to finger a girl. His left hand withdraws from my waist, but I feel the waistband of my panties tighten on my lower tummy. Instantly I know what’s going to happen. He is going to shoot his load into my panties. The thought brings me to the edge.
When I feel the rhythmic contractions of his cock and the warm splatter of his cum on my arse, I cum on his fingers. He is gentleman enough to wait long after my last contraction has ceased…he knows a woman’s orgasm isn’t over that quickly. Gently, he restores my panties, then my skirt. I feel some movement behind me as he zips himself back up. I bring my right hand to my face as if itching my nose, but what I’m really doing is allowing my super-sensitive sense of smell of analyse what’s on my hand. Semen and ‘maleness? Oh yes, in abundance, but is there any indication of sex with his wife? Even I’m not sure I can detect any. What a waste.
We arrive at a station and the door slides open. The train vomits hoards of people onto the platform and with them, my lover. I catch a brief glance of his face as he looks back. Late 40s, maybe? We exchange a smile of mutual gratitude. He gave me what I wanted and I returned the compliment.
Sexual assault? If so, I am as guilty as he, but no…this was purely mutual, utterly enjoyable, and exactly what we both needed.
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