Wednesday, 1 November 2017

Fabric

It was 9:30pm and I was on the late bus home from work. I chanced a look at the clock as we mounted the crest of the hill with the church at the top, near where Einstein lives. I'd missed Only Connect and Have I Got News For You, again. I'd have to mainline iPlayer when I got home.

My BlackBerry was out of battery; my iPod, I'd left at home. I'd also packed all of my books for our impending house move, and had forgotten to put one in my work bag. I'd decided to entertain myself by watching the cars out of the window, and following the trails of the raindrops as they spattered against the glass.

I was freezing.

I hadn't put a jumper on when I left for work earlier that day. I'd just decided upon a cotton shirt and a thin, waterproof macintosh, reasoning that that would be enough. I even had the fan on at work, the room being full of warm bodies. But here I was, only three or so hours later, sitting on the bus and feeling colder and colder...

...and that's when my nipples, erect with the cold, made contact with the cotton of my shirt. I yawned, stretched, and felt the thin fabric dragging against my chest.

My libido sprang to life and wouldn't stop hitting me in the head until I did it some more.

I spent the rest of the journey in a sort of exquisite torture, making small movements with my body so my nipples could brush against my shirt. As time went on, the friction made them grow harder and firmer, and my penis began to stir too, with nothing but the haze in my head and the physical sensation growling through my thorax to prompt it. Though, admittedly, such a small sensation as it was, it was enough. I had no distractions - nothing else to concentrate on.

With just my heartbeat, laboured breathing and the continuous rustle of cotton on skin, I sat on that cold, dark bus, and turned myself on without so much as touching myself.

I stopped the bus near my house, disembarked along with rock-hard nipples and a pulsing, firm erection, and met with a wall of rain as I started to stomp home. Three steps, maybe four, and I certainly wasn't hard any more.

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