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Please note that this content is sexually explicit. We recommend that you should not read this content if you are offended by sexually explicit material.


I saw a man on my way to work today.

Sat further up the carriage as I stood, pressed against the divider getting sweaty and misanthropic as the vortex of bodies swirled around me. He was sitting with a colleague, I assume. The conversation looked stilted. He yawned as the colleague made complex motions with his hands and glared expectantly at him. He looked back. Looked out of the window. Anywhere to relieve the boredom. He made whatever response was required, then looked straight up. Straight at me, I think. Looked away, and back again, and away. He swallowed.

Was he looking at me? He was sort of handsome, or maybe the suit and businessman’s haircut made him appear moreso. Dark. Two days’ stubble. I wondered how that stubble would feel, grazing my lips. When we stopped for a flow of old bodies to be swapped and replaced with new, I pulled my ipod out of it’s spot inside my bra and adjusted the volume level. Electro pounding in my ears. Showing off, of course. Drawing attention.

He looked again, I think he noticed. His eyes flickered down and seemed to approve. I twitched, he appeared to lean forward, towards me, his fingers resting on the seat in front, long and artistic, probably plays guitar in his spare time. I wonder how they’d feel inside me.

Objectively, they look as though they know their way around a cunt. And if I was sat next to him, and had to raise my skirts and allow my hips to widen as far as the narrow seats would allow, I’d do so, just so he could lean over, pretend to show me something out of the window and jam those fingers into me, his hand over my mouth so no one notices. He would cause me agony; one finger slipped in to the first knuckle, barely noticeable. I’d want more, of course. Lick and bite at his fingers until he pinched me, raising the skin red and almost bleeding. Two fingers, harder, faster. My cunt so wet he moves like the oiled motor of a car, our bodies shuddered along the tracks, threading through the city and its’ crowds.

And all the while hissing honey-drenched venom in my ears. ‘Fucking whore’,  ‘Fat little bitch’, ‘Slut Words that shouldn’t turn me on, shouldn’t make me wetter, but do. He’d take his hand from my mouth and reach round to pull at my flesh through my clothing, forcing his hand inside my blouse and fondling my breasts like a rampant teenager. After I’d come he’d wipe the mess over my skirt for all the world to see. Make me walk the final steps to work with my blouse undone and my lipstick smeared around my mouth. He wouldn’t know the reaction I’d get from my colleagues, slack-jawed and titillated.

God, I love office boys.

© Hannah Lockhardt 2013

Hannah Lockhardt is armed with a not unimpressive degree in Creative Writing as well as an undeniable kink for words and nothing better to do than muck about with them to her heart’s content. She harbours unnatural and complex desires towards men who make her laugh and channels this into her work as a coping mechanism.

For more than ten years, she has concentrated on crafting stories about sarcastic girls having blisteringly hot and completely satisfying fucks in as many different and debauched ways as possible. Her major influences are vintage underwear, deviant Victorians, dark irreverent comedy, freshly baked goods, Alan Bennett and the music of George Formby.



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