Measuring up: part 2 of a naughty story in four pithy portions

10 a.m. Tuesday morning, clipboard in hand, I was boarding the Tube at Belsize Park. How did they get me to agree to this? And what were they doing meanwhile, back in our snug little set up? Fucking on the cold glass desk? Using up the free samples? The way Pam had looked at Geoff over their first morning coffee, I was almost certain they had recently become lovers. I was only grateful I'd had it my mouth before she'd had it in her undoubtedly sweaty twat.

I cleared my throat.

'Excuse me?'

The young man lifted a headphone off his right ear. His black jeans were tight, his black leather jacket beaten-up but stylish, and his fucked-up hair and neat stubble just the right side of self-conscious.

'Me?'

I was standing before him, gazing down, clinging to a chrome upright as the train rattled unsteadily along its subterranean tracks. He was seated, had been engrossed in a dog-eared paperback that he now placed on the seat beside him. After a moment's grace, his eyes devoured me, licked their lips and came back for seconds. Though dressed professionally, I looked incredibly fucking hot, though I say it myself; I knew because, on the way there, I had employed every reflective surface to constantly confirm that fact to myself. Slender black heels. Black stockings. Tight arse-and-thigh-hugging black skirt. Crisp white blouse. Beautifully tailored black jacket. Sleek black hair. My make-up was perfect; eyes dark; cheeks subtly rouged; lips deep red. As I spoke, his eyes became fixed on my teeth, my perfectly imperfect teeth. Was he imagining - as I knew others before him had - that the slender gap between the central incisors was perhaps a promise of a slender gap elsewhere on my anatomy? Though always self-conscious of it, I had never had it fixed, had always understood it was inexorably linked to my self-image. My gap was me. It singled me out. Gave me an edge. As a psychologist, I had never dared examine its significance too closely in case I corrupted its intrinsic magic. I simply accepted that, whatever the psychology behind it, my gap drove men fucking wild.

'Yes. I'm conducting research and hoped you might be able to spare a few moments.'

'What sort of research?'

'It's of a...' I glanced around the almost empty carriage then back into his reluctant face, 'sexual nature. Would you be able to help?'

Reluctance turned to drooling obsequence.

'Yeah. Fire away.'

I instantly had him by the balls. As he quietly answered the increasingly intimate questions, freely revealing the frequency and audacity of his sex life, he fucked me in his head, stripped me naked and had me right there inside the carriage. He rammed it in my mouth, in both cunt and arse, then spunked on my pert young tits and licked it off. And it wasn't one sided. I was incredibly turned on and - without flexing a single sexual muscle - became his most willing virtual participant. The last question came way too soon.

'How often do you masturbate? Is it...' 

His answer was immediate and without the slightest hint of bravado.

'Every day. At least once. Sometimes as many as four or five, depending on how much time I have.'

I giggled conspiratorially.

'If you'd let me finish! It was multiple choice. I'll circle "Once per day".'

'But it's usually more than that.'

'Perhaps so, but that's the highest given option. The designer of the questionnaire obviously never imagined anyone with your sexual voracity.'

He sniffed.

'Really? That's rubbish! Who designed it?'

Eyes lowered, I bit my pencil then drawled.

'Me, Jake. It was me.'

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus - extremely generously, I feel - nine further stories in 'Measuring up', my latest collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.