by Kara Bryn
She sat down again, obviously satisfied by whatever she had been looking for on the map.
Should I ask her where she was going? Did she need help? How does one strike up a conversation with a naked girl? I had enough trouble talking to the clothed ones. I had never been this close to a bare breast before, or not so that I could remember.
But, she said nothing, and I said nothing. I just sat, rigid in my seat, rigid in my trousers, and out of the side of my eye watching her breasts rise and fall as he inhaled and exhaled. Her chest wobbled ever so slightly with the swaying of the train. I longed to touch her.
We passed through Hainault. I should have gotten off at Hainault, but I couldn't. For one, I wasn't sure I could stand, but mainly I didn't want this journey to end. We had another few minutes before we reached the end of the line.
Soon we were leaving Chigwell. She stood again. I found myself staring at her beautiful, smooth buttocks as she turned, bent at the knees and picked up her bag and her clothes. I watched the muscles of her legs as she walked carefully down the aisle towards the door. She stood there, one hand on the rail to steady herself, her leg muscles tense against the movement of the train.
We pulled slowly into the platform and I had eyes for nothing else. I still hadn't moved in my seat and I think my muscles were now locked in one position. As the doors slid open she turned her head towards me and smiled. I wish I could have understood what that smile meant, and I almost said something. Almost. But instead I watched as the most beautiful woman I had ever seen stepped naked from the tube carriage and was gone forever.
The Guy On The Tube
I still can't believe I went through with it. I have to admit, it wasn't entirely out of character: I've been known to prance about in my underwear with guys around, and even indulged in some topless sunbathing on the beach a couple of times… oh, and that time there was a hot guy whose attention I was trying to attract. And the skinny dipping last summer, but that was a one-off.
Anyway, I'd had a fantastic morning with a few girl friends at a Turkish bath, followed by an early lunch, or maybe a late brunch depending on how you looked at it. So perhaps it was the combination of having been sat around in the nude for half the morning already, and then a glass or two of wine, and somehow it just all came together.
So, I got onto the tube at Liverpool Street to head home. It wasn't crowded and as the train pulled in I could see that there were a few spare seats. I stepped through the doors and started heading towards an empty part of the carriage. Then I noticed this cute young guy with a spare seat to his right and I thought, hey, that seems like a good spot. I caught him looking at me, his eyes soft and unfocussed, and I couldn't help but smile. That seemed to put the fear of God into him and his head snapped forwards as if to emphasise that he hadn't been looking at me at all.
Now, I know I'm not bad looking at all. Okay, this is no time for false modesty, or any modesty: I'm pretty damn cute. And I was wearing some very short shorts, sandals and a tight vest top with a jacket over the top. In truth, I would have been offended if he hadn't noticed me.
It was swelteringly hot on the tube but I felt a bit too exposed without my jacket so, unfortunately, I was just going to put up with the heat. I was glad for the shorts, though: long trousers would have made it insufferable. And my legs are pretty nice too.
So I carried on towards him as if I was going to say something, but instead I stepped over his feet and sat down next to him. I could feel the tension in him as I sat. As I said, he was quite cute, and maybe a year or two older than me, but he just seemed so unsure of how to react. It wasn't like I was even talking to him; I was just sitting there. I wondered if he'd muster the courage to say something. I hoped he would. It would make the ride home a lot more interesting.
The tube emptied out over the next few stations and he still hadn't moved a muscle. The way he was so uncomfortable with me sitting next to him was almost funny enough for me to laugh out loud.
The two women sitting opposite us left and there was now a bit more space so, just because to make myself comfortable, I crossed my legs. I saw his head snap sideways and look right down at my thighs. I couldn't help but smile, and as he saw it he tried to make it look like he was paying attention to something down the other end of the carriage. I watched his face in the reflection. He had a gentle and naïve look to him, and dark, brooding eyebrows and the hint of a concentrated frown. If only he wasn't a bag of nerves he'd be yummy.
His head turned and he stared straight at me in the reflection of the tube window opposite. I smiled at him again, as much in amusement as an invitation, but his body locked even tighter and his eyes stared dead ahead, fixed on his own reflection and determinedly not making contact with mine. I sat watching him as the carriage emptied. Surely, when we were sitting side-by-side with no-one else around he'd say something?
But nope: nothing. So I'd have to start us going. It wouldn't be the first time.
I twisted to face him. His head turned and his eyes met mine. I could see fear in them. I smiled again.
"Is this a Hainault train?" I asked. I knew that it was, but it was an easy opener.
"Erm, yes, I think so... I hope so. Woodford via Hainault, I think." His voice was thin and lacked confidence.
I smiled in thanks. Surely he'd ask where I was going or something? I'd virtually handed him the next part of a conversation on a plate, but, no, he said nothing.
"That'll do. Thank you," I said. He smiled back at me, or at least he sort of smiled. His expression was too nervous to form a smile properly.
I'd found out enough from that exchange: I just couldn't do much with a guy who was scared to talk to me about something as mundane as the destination of a train. I don’t think we'd have much fun together, which was disappointing, but then that too was nothing new. He was nice, and maybe in ten years there'd be something about him, but he was just too… young.
Somehow, even now we were mostly travelling above ground, the carriage was even hotter than before. When I'd set out this morning I'd needed my jacket, but I was feeling stuffy now. I walked to the end of the carriage and opened the window, which required a bit of effort as those windows always stick. The man I would want the cute boy to be would have offered to help, but the bundle of nerves sat there while I struggled. No matter, as I had the window open after a couple of attempts.
I carefully walked back to my seat – something that's not easy in small heels on a moving train – and decided, now there was no-one else around, it was time to ditch the jacket. The tube was empty and I thought about moving to somewhere I could stretch out a bit, but I was enjoying how uncomfortable the young guy was having me next to him. Yeah, I know, I'm a bit cruel sometimes. Anyway, I tossed my jacket and my bag on the free seat to my right and sat back down again.
I'm sure I saw the guy's whole body shake as I sat, and I could see goose bumps on his arms. I fidgeted slightly and my arm brushed against his and I could feel his hairs standing on end. I glanced at his eyes: they were still wide with terror and determinedly fixed dead ahead. I smiled again. Or maybe I smirked. I often have this reaction from men, but not usually so full-on, and not often from one who's cuter than he realises.
That was when a touch of madness came over me. Like I said: I blame the Turkish bath, and the wine, and… well, there's no excuse really: I'm just a bad girl, okay?
So I leant forwards a touch, wrapped my fingers around the bottom of my vest top, pulled it off over my head and dropped it into my bag. I glanced down at my black lace bra. I think if he'd looked carefully he probably could have made out my nipples through the material, but he wasn't going to dare to look closely. I sat back and made sure my arm brushed his again. I could feel his muscles tense, but still he didn't move an inch.
Surely now would be the time to say something. Something like: "Yeah, it is pretty damn hot in here, isn't it?" And the air coming in through the window wasn't doing much to cool me down anyway, even now it was on bare skin.
/> But nope, he still said nothing. I'd given this dude so many signals, and now I was sitting next to him in my bra, and apart from sneaking glances at my cleavage out of the side of his eye he couldn't bring himself to say anything.
So I unfastened my shorts, slid the zip down and, with a bit of a lift of the bum, pushed those down my legs and off my feet. I twisted around to put them in my bag with my top.
I felt the guy tense even more. Dude, I'm sitting next to you in my underwear, and you're still saying nothing. So instead of sitting back into the chair I stayed leant forwards, reached my hands behind my back and unfastened my bra. I rolled my shoulders, enjoying the freedom I felt as I slipped it off my arms. I folded it in half and stuffed it in with my shorts and top, and still he said nothing. To say his moment had passed would be an understatement.
Anyway, I was unstoppable now, so, before I had a chance to question what I was doing, I slipped my fingers into the waistband of my knickers and, with a lift off the seat, I pushed them down my legs and unhooked them from my feet and, casually as you like, I dropped them into my bag with the rest of my clothes. I felt a thrill run through me at the thought of the rapid strip tease I'd just done.
I sat back into my chair and took a deep breath, as if travelling naked on the tube was the most natural thing in the world. Still he didn't move, and he certainly didn't speak, but I could tell his eyes were straining to look around at me. I lifted one leg and crossed it over the other. I turned my head a fraction and saw his eyes track from my sandals, up my legs, then up my body, across both breasts and then, finally, with a look of sheer panic, he looked into my eyes. I smiled. I thought that maybe I should say something.
"Do you know what stop that was?" I asked him.
"I, um, I'm not sure," he replied. I should hope not, I thought, not with me providing a distraction. Then his head turned to look out of the window as we pulled into another station.
"Erm, this is Fairlop," he said, stumbling over his words and turning bright red in the process.
I stood up to look at the map above the seat opposite. I knew exactly where this tube went but it would give him a chance to take a good look at me. And maybe he could ask where I was going. Or maybe he could ask why I was naked.
But still he said nothing. I sat back in my seat. I think the fun was mostly over by now and I enjoyed the feeling of the air washing over my skin. Maybe, sometime in the future, on a quiet day, I'd try this again.
We were pulling into my stop now. I stood up and picked up my bag. I shook my head: the guy was just a foot away from a naked girl, and he couldn't say a word. I walked over to the exit and stood waiting for the train to move into the platform.
The doors opened and I turned to look at the guy one last time. My smile was meant to say "One last chance. No matter where you're going, get off here and walk with me." But he just stared back at me with a blank expression on his face. From the way he was sitting I could tell he had a huge hard-on, so he was obviously interested in me, but he just wasn’t brave enough. I stepped out of the tube and realised I should putt my shorts and top back on before walked through the ticket hall.
Well, that was fun, and maybe next time, with the right guy, it might lead somewhere.
Dressed In Tattoos
When I first met Natasha I believe I experienced the same emotion that everyone does when first meeting her in the comfort of her own home; that emotion being surprise, or possibly shock, depending on one's disposition.
The party seemed to be going the way that parties often run for me, that of being introduced to new people, not really knowing what to say, and then being rescued by someone (or maybe whoever I was talking to was the one being rescued) and then I'd be introduced to a new unsuspecting victim of inanity. This was no different, although as it was my first visit to the States I was being introduced and rescued even more thoroughly than usual as everyone wanted to meet "the English girl", and then quickly realised that said meeting wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
But, as I said, this party was following a similar line to many, and I was running out of conversation with the quite charming and far too confident young American man I was talking to as, in the nick of time, I was tapped on the shoulder by my host for the week, Theresa, and a shout in my ear.
"Rupes! How ya doin' there Rupes!" It wasn't a question. "You must meet Natasha. You two just have to meet!" I rolled my eyes slightly as soon Natasha would discover, as many had already discovered that evening, that I was not the person anyone "had to meet".
I turned around, and found myself, rarely for someone of my small height, even in my two inch heels, looking straight into the eyes of Natasha.
Natasha was petite, she was blonde, and she was smiling and offering me her hand to shake. "Hi, I'm Natasha," she said, her eyes fixed on me all the time.
"I'm Rupa. Pleased to meet you," I replied, taking her delicate hand in my own and trying to appear confident as I shook it.
"Oooh, I love your English accent," Natasha said with a smile. I had heard that plenty of times tonight already and I wondered if Americans were taught to say that at school.
"I love your, er," I said as I looked her up and down, desperate to pay a compliment in return. "I love your tattoos." Natasha had a magnificent set of multi-coloured tattoos: on her arms, on her shoulders, on the tops of her feet and her ankles, spiralling up her leg and thigh and across her stomach. Oh yes, now I remember the important part of describing Natasha, and why I was surprised, or even shocked, at meeting her. I'm able to describe Natasha's tattoos in such detail because Natasha was entirely naked.
"Why, thank you," she said, looking down at herself. I joined her in staring at the young naked body in front of me and wondered whether I was dreaming. "I've been collecting them for years. I started with a few small ones like this." She twisted around and pointed to an owl tattooed on her shoulder before turning back quickly as I tried to tear my eyes away from the way her tiny breasts wobbled as she spun around. "And this was next," she said as she twisted her leg outwards and pointed to a small butterfly at the top of her inner thigh, although all I could think of was that I was staring directly at her immaculately shaved vagina. "That one was for an old boyfriend, who wanted something that only he would see." She shrugged and her breasts wobbled again. "I guess everyone gets to see it now."
I think that was my opportunity to ask her why she was naked, but that seemed far too obvious a question, much as I'm always asked where I'm from, because of my dark skin, and see that "London" is not the answer the questioner was looking for. People are always expecting something like "India" or "Pakistan" instead. I hated that question anyway, and always tried to avoid the obvious. So instead, I opted for a weak joke.
"Well, I've been working on my accent for a while too," I said with a smile that I hoped would indicate to Natasha that she should laugh now. Instead, she tilted her head in a quizzical manner.
"Oh, are you not really English then? Do you take lessons?"
I let out a small sigh: way to kill the conversation, Rupa! "No, I was just joking, I just mean I've had the accent for a long time."
Natasha paused and then, with the welcoming and encouraging nature that just seems to be bred into so many Americans, she let out a not entirely forced laugh that lit her eyes up. "Oh, I see. I didn't get it. I love English humour but us Americans don't always get it over here." That hadn't seemed very true to me, but oh how I'd love to be an exemplary example of English humour rather than a purveyor of poor puns and jokes that raise more confusion than laughs.
I wasn't sure what to say next. Naked Natasha was still smiling at me, seemingly full of confidence. I'm sure she should be the one who's off-guard out of the two of us. I noticed Theresa was watching me, loving just how uncomfortable this was making me.
"Well," Theresa said, "I'll leave you two to talk. I need to find myself another drink." She waved her empty shot glass to emphasise the point and then turned towards the table at the end of the room tha
t was acting as an impromptu bar for the night.
Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, I looked down at the floor, perhaps hoping that something interesting would be written on it that I would say. Why do I suck so badly at parties?
My eyes fell on a tattoo on the top of Natasha's bare foot and actually thought of something to say. "Hey, I was tempted by a space invader tattoo once. Either that or a Pac-Man, but I don't think the colour would work on my skin, unfortunately."
I looked up at Natasha and she smiled at me again. I felt like I was being studied to see how I'd react: how long could the shy English girl who can't hold a conversation last against the smiling, friendly, open, naked Natasha and her tattoo collection?
"A Pac-Man would be totally awesome," Natasha said as if she meant it, "But you're probably right about the colouring. But it's a shame as there's too many kids getting these space invaders nowadays, and most of them won't even have heard of Tomohiro Nishikado or Taito." She knew the name of the guy who designed Space Invaders? Maybe we did have something in common. "And half of them, their idea of retro is Sonic." I had to laugh; she must have only been the same age as me and the original 1991 Sonic was a year or two older than either of us.
"I know what you mean," I said, hoping to dive further into this common area, "I went to this comic con a few years ago and I was cosplaying Wolverine in this orange and blue outfit and this kid was trying to tell me I looked nothing like Hugh Jackman. I can't imagine what would have happened if I'd turned up as a grey Hulk!"
Natasha laughed, and this time it wasn't forced. She looked me up and down. "Well," she said, "The kid had a point. You don't look a lot like Hugh Jackman. And definitely not the Hulk. And there definitely wasn't ever a brown Hulk."
