I have this dream. I'm in this tube train racing through a long dark tunnel. Around me the passengers' faces resemble rigid masks. Each one gazes off into space lost in his own private hell. In spite of the rocking carriage and the train's vibration an eerie silence blankets the whole scene.
Then I feel it burrowing into my buttocks. Hard and insistent like a finger probing. I try to pull away, to free myself from its touch. But the unyielding bodies of the other passengers make a solid wall through which I can't escape.
The object presses against my behind, pursues its advantage and sidles between my thighs. Suddenly it no longer revolts me. Its hardness burrows along between my legs. Liquid waves of sensation ripple through my groin.
The thrills which shudder through my loins reach such an intensity that I must get at least one peek at the owner of the object clasped between my now wet thighs. I crane my neck to peer over my shoulder.
A sudden icy wind whips along the silent swaying carriage. For, dressed in a suit, topcoat and dark hat and pressed against my back, stands a grinning skeleton. A howl rises in my throat. I twist round to gaze at the long object forced between my legs. In abject terror I see for the first time what it is . . . .
I always wake at this moment. Perspiring and stuck to the sheets. Then I clamber out of bed and pace from room to room in my Hampstead flat trying to piece together the fragments of my shattered thoughts.
Ironically my dream always finishes at the same point. I can never make out the final outcome. But I have no illusions about its origin.
For to me a crowded tube train fulfills the same function as an 'ordinary' woman's marital bed. The pressure of a strange man's abdomen against my bottom in the anonymity of a throng of people saturates me with the same heart-pounding anticipation as the blushing virgin experiences during her first taste of foreplay.
I'm what academic sex manuals call a frotteur (or frotteuse in the case of a woman). The frotteur suffers from an irresistible impulse to touch the body of another. He gets his kicks from friction alone. Usually of his genitals against another person. Almost always in a crowded place where physical contact cannot be avoided.
People tend to think of frotting — or frottage as sexologists call it — as a game for men only. But women indulge too. In to-day's cramped public transport many a girl learns what a kinky thrill she can get from a quick rub against a stranger in a crowded place. But only a few become hardened full-timers like myself. The main difference is that my sexual encounters are intentional. I plan everything. And I've had nine years of solid experience doing so.
Whenever I'm feeling randy and am setting out on a journey I firstly make sure my body is untrammeled for action. In spite of the shifts in fashion over the past five years I wear a brief and taut mini. Tights, I found when they came in vogue, hinder rather than help. So I still wear stockings and suspenders and discard my panties. A girl can don a mini up to three inches below her pubis and provided she moves with a little care no one notices she's bare underneath. As I rarely sit down on such occasions no one ever guesses that beneath my skirt my thighs lie open to the touch.
Because of the very nature of her sexual needs the frotteuse usually acts as the aggressor. She has to take the initiative, for obvious reasons. To ensure her advances don't get repulsed (or better still, to entice any nearby male frotteur to start the ball rolling, she has to make herself as alluring as possible. In this one respect fortune has smiled on me. Though I've turned twenty-seven and my features are no more attractive than average I possess long dark hair, wide eyes and sensual lips. At an early age I developed what schoolteachers tactfully called a 'fuller figure.' I've kept it in trim ever since. I accentuate my curves with tight ribbed sweaters and high heels make my long legs look sexy and shapely.
In this outfit I know that any man in a crowd looking for a pliant body to press up against will quickly spot me as a willing 'victim.' All I have to do is wait.
Like yesterday for instance. On my way to the office. A mass of people surged into the compartment of my train thrusting me up against a burly red-faced city type with bowler and briefcase. Something hard prodded my pelvic bone; the briefcase, I assumed. It moved, as if seeking a more comfortable position. Inquisitively I pushed back with my groin which has by now acquired a built-in sensitivity. I soon identified the hardness as the city type's knuckles. A familiar light-headedness washed over me.
I slid my hips forward. Ever so delicately. I let a tiny smile hover round my mouth as I stared him straight in the eyes. Sudden sweat beaded his flushed cheeks. Slowly I poked out my tongue and flicked it round the rim of my lips until they glistened.
The back of his knuckles brushed against my lower belly. I widened the smile. I'd made contact!
Abruptly the hand withdrew. A beginner, I thought. I'll show him a thing or two. I tensed the muscles along my legs so that my pubis nudged his hand again. I could just hear his breath quicken. But he still didn't reciprocate.
Imperceptibly I raised myself on tiptoes. This slid my pelvis up along his hand until my crotch literally rested on his clenched fist. Only the material of my skirt now separated me from him. I sank down, wedging his hand between my thighs.
By now I felt quite tingly with excitement. The man's face had gone red. He shifted his eyes to and fro as if he didn't know where to look.
But he did know where to touch. Eager fingers started to tug the material of my already tiny skirt upwards. I closed my eyes imagining myself at his mercy. My knees went all trembly and weak.
I braced my legs to widen my thighs. A sweaty palm grazed my leg then groped upwards. When he reached the junction of stocking tops, suspender clips and bare flesh he emitted an audible sigh. Men, I discovered long ago, go berserk for the sight or feel of the contrast between white silky skin and stockings.
By this time I could feel myself dampening. When he touched the moistness he practically went wild to get his fingers inside me. Even if I'd wanted to I couldn't have resisted. I all but sucked the probing digits into me and before he could withdraw I crossed my legs trapping his hand.
In that position I brought myself to a long, lingering climax by rotating my hips so that his knuckle flicked against my clitoris with each twist. I had to bite into my lower lip to prevent myself crying out and attracting other passengers' attention. In the throes of pleasure I touched the front of his trousers but he jerked his body irritably away to indicate he'd gone as far as he was willing.
I've often tried to analyse the factors that have driven me to the life of a frotteuse. If I had to pinpoint the one which has contributed most of all to my particular sexual deviation I would unhesitatingly point to my overwhelming ambition to succeed financially. My parents drummed ambition into me as a child. My only brother died at birth so they tried to mould me into the image of what a successful boy should be. They kept me poring over books and brainwashed me with a burning need to get to the top. Until I broke away from them at eighteen they allowed no contact with the male sex. Apart from one significant interlude they probably didn't even suspect.
This occurred when I had just reached fourteen. Lars, a distant cousin from Sweden, visited us for his holidays. Presumably because of the family relationship my parents assumed I'd be safe with him.
A year older than myself, lean and muscular, Lars loved to assert his masculine superiority in tomboyish rough-and-tumbles by pinning me to the ground. Neither of us had yet awoken to our potential sexuality. This was back in 1960 before the Permissive Era.
One day, during a wrestling session, I got the upper hand. Lars ended up on his back with me straddling him. I held his hands behind his head by the wrists. He twisted and bucked but failed to dislodge me. In the heaving my skirt rucked up almost to my waist. Thinking back I can imagine what effect the sight of dark tan stocking tops, virginal white suspenders and tiny pink panties stretched across open thighs must have had on that fifteen year old boy. Abruptly he appeared to lose interest in the struggle and his eyes goggled at the wisps of pubic hair which poked out between my legs and the pantie elastic.
Sensing victory in our 'game' I raised my rump and pounded the weight of my bottom onto his tummy to knock the wind out of him. A quiver lanced through my groin right up to the navel. Inexplicably I wanted to repeat the movement. I did so but more gently. This time as I came down a hard ridge in his trouser front furrowed into the V of my thighs. My body twitched all over and a strange craving spiralled up inside me. I started breathing like mad.
Lars lay silent and unmoving. His breath rasped. His eyes rivetted my genital area like an alcoholic hypnotised by a full whisky bottle. Feeling very wanton I pumped my thighs and bottom up and down slowing down at the end of each stroke so that my loins caressed the bulge in Lars' trousers.
Thunder roared in my ears and suddenly I felt very wet around my bottom. Embarrassed by Lars' open stare and the hardness against my pelvis I edged up his body to hide the bulge from view and leaned forward to shield my loins from his gaze. But this only made my thighs gape even wider. Through the material of my panties I felt the thick ridge throb against my lower lips.
I realised I wanted more of this. Much more. I undulated against Lars' pelvis. Gauchely at first, not sure what I was doing. But gaining confidence as delicious waves shuddered across my abdomen. Then my whole body trembled, jerked and swayed backwards and forwards out of control. In my innocence I'd turned myself on for the first time in my life. An electric whip inside thrashed me into convulsions. Then with an explosion of ecstasy inside me I fell forward onto Lars with tears of joy drenching his face.
My rough-and-tumbles with Lars — and there were many of them — set the pattern for my sexual behaviour ever since. A boy for whom I had no emotional attachment had reduced my body to quivering helplessness merely by letting me rub myself against him. He never even tried to take advantage of my abandonment to go all the way. The characteristics of my relationship with Lars were to creep into and destroy every erotic encounter I've had since.
My parents bunged me into a boarding school after Lars returned to Sweden. I then had no male contact for four years and had to relieve myself by masturbating. Friction again! I'd taken a ride on an erotic track from which I could never escape.
On leaving the boarding school I fled to London. But my parents' influence still ruled me in the shape of the obsessive ambition they'd drilled into me. I looked for a job with plenty of opportunity for advancement. I finally found a post as dicta-typist with a large public company. Not trained for anything better I swore I'd make myself indispensable. This soon drew resentment from the other girls in the office. It also dampened any romantic inclinations on the part of the men.
Not that I lacked a sex life. Quite to the contrary. But it always took second place to my ambition.
My loss of virginity, for example, represented little more than a first rung up the promotional ladder. I'd worked in the typing pool about six weeks and was keeping my eyes open ready to grab at the first chance of getting on. I'd been trying to ignore a nagging urge that welled up in the centre of my womanhood. Today I can identify it as sexual frustration but at the time it bewildered and frightened me. To sublimate my sensations I threw myself entirely into my work. I always arrived early and left the office last. Perhaps I hoped I'd get noticed by the management.
One evening after the others had gone a young executive whom I knew as Sydney stalked into the typist's room. A tall nervous individual with a permanent five o'clock shadow, he had a way of staring fixedly at the female staff which had drawn quite a few comments. He held a bundle of papers in his hand.
"Anything I can do sir?" I whispered, seizing the opportunity. His gaze flickered over me. "These letters must go tonight. I don't suppose you'd want to work overtime . . ."
My heart jumped. "I'll get started right away, sir."
It took over an hour but I made a perfect job of the letters. Then I took them to his office. He sat at his desk with just a reading light on. A small pool of light in a roomful of darkness. He scanned the letters. "How long have you been with us?"
"Just over six weeks," I replied.
"You're ambitious, aren't you?" he murmured assessing me shrewdly. "I recognise the symptoms." His hand had somehow found its way onto my bare arm and his fingers wove a delicate design which made my skin tingle. My body twanged like a harp.
"How ambitious?" he mused as I stood transfixed. The hand fell to my leg and brushed against the inside of my thigh.
Why not, I thought wildly, I know enough not to get pregnant. And I may never get a chance like this again.
I closed my eyes. "Very," I breathed. I pushed my hips towards him. My stockings rasped. "We'll talk about your ambition afterwards," he grunted.
You can pick up a hell of a knowledge about sex at a girls' boarding school. The other girls had brothers and boyfriends outside and listening to them I learnt all the theory. Now, I decided, I'd put it into practice. The loss of my virginity didn't bother me in the slightest. My mind and emotions seemed to stand apart from me, detached, uninvolved.
In the books on sexual deviations I've read the doctors refer to the close relationship between exhibitionism and frottage. I was about to find out for myself how close that connection was.
Casually I unbuttoned my blouse as Sydney's palm slithered up the suspender strap between my legs to stop at the chiffon of my panties. The blood pulsed more rapidly through my temples.
My blouse fell open and Sydney had a close-up of my breasts which bulged out over the top of my bra. His eyes widened. Enjoying this new experience of having a man ogle my body I tugged the bra cup down over one breast which exploded from its confines. The nipple, aroused, twitched upwards. The hand wedged in my groin played with me through the material of my panties until they saturated with moisture.
Feeling thoroughly shameless I leaned forward and teased his lips and cheeks with the silky skin of my breast. I gritted my teeth as the nipple went as hard as a nail. Sydney squeezed a forefinger inside my panty leg and wriggled it. "Wait," I gasped. I wanted to expose myself more and more.
I adjusted the spotlight of the desk lamp so that its rays fell upon my short skirt under which his hand writhed like a small trapped creature. To tantalize him I raised the hem inch by inch.
The nylons on my long legs glistened in the light which picked out the sharp contrast between the darker stocking tops and my white flesh. By the time Sydney's hand came into view he'd worked two fingers inside me and these pistoned in and out like a couple of sea creatures burrowing a wet mossy shell.
Sydney fumbled with his trouser zip and for the first time a male organ sprang to life before my eyes. I almost withdrew in horror at its size. But it was too late to pull back. He grasped me by the buttocks and dragged me towards him. His knees drove a wedge between mine forcing them apart. With a thumb he held the crotch of my panties to one side.
Through all this part of my mind remained detached. It's just another job, I told myself, if you want to succeed you'll have to follow whatever path is necessary. But what an undignified path to success all the same! Squatting over my employer, outlandishly exposed to his popping eyes. Abruptly he jerked me towards him with a desperate moan.
Agony tore through my loins. I let out a roar of pain.
"You . . . you're a virgin!" Sydney gasped. But he continued to pound at the door of my womanhood. Something snapped. As if a razor had sliced through my innards. I sank down onto him until my Mound of Venus ground against him. Half forgotten memories of Lars revived. Hungrily I rotated my pelvis.
"No, up and down," Sydney protested and lifted me forcibly by the buttocks. Skin, like velvet, slipped up and down inside me. I hissed in despair and tried to resume the pelvic pressure. To my dismay a warm wetness showered my groin as if someone had poured yogurt onto my thighs.
Sydney sank back gasping like a fish. The lovely hardness against my pelvis disappeared.
"You're wasted in the typing pool," he murmured finally, "And I need a personal secretary. It'll mean some overtime like tonight. About twice a week, say?"
He remained true to his word. Within a month I occupied the secretarial desk — not to say the couch — in his office. This arrangement lasted two years. Neither of us asked for or got any emotional committment from the other. I learnt all there was to know about the business and soon the higher management heard about me and my varied skills.
But that first night when I left Sydney I burned with a flame I desperately needed to quench. He'd aroused me all right, but left me totally unsatisfied. I spent a restless night consumed by this feverish fire I could neither stoke nor extinguish.
Next morning I awoke late, exhausted. Not knowing whether Sydney would keep to his promise and terrified I might lose my job if I showed signs of slacking, I raced to the tube station in an almighty flap. Once on the train I realised I hadn't put any panties on. Luckily I wore a knee length skirt.
Morning commuters packed the compartment to capacity. I couldn't even reach a straphanger so tightly wedged in were the passengers. Unable to move I closed my eyes and relaxed.
After a while I became aware of a coolness on the back of my leg. As if a breeze was blowing up it. I assumed my skirt had got rucked up behind.
Then unmistakably a soft hand caressed my leg, just below my bottom. I started to protest but something held me back. I felt quite breathy and my knees wobbled.
Fingers tried to squeeze between my lower cheeks. I stiffened them angrily but by now a delicious langour was creeping over me. Unwillingly I relaxed my thighs and the inquisitive digits edged forward until the tips brushed the bottom of my labia.
I completely forgot myself then and raised up on tiptoe parting my legs to offer my bottom completely to the questing fingers. The whole hand now came through between my legs from behind. Though I couldn't see who tantalized me I caught a whiff of pipe tobacco and after-shave.
In spite of myself I wanted those fingers to go futher and further. My breasts tingled as if they'd explode. But unexpectedly the hand withdrew. Before I could gather my thoughts he brought both his hands round the front of my thighs and held them apart. Experienced fingertips frictioned the little mound of flesh in the cleft of my sex until I moaned aloud.
I thought I was going to die in paradise. Suddenly I knew this was what I really wanted. I leaned back against the man and let him work me to a fever pitch.
But now another object had insinuated itself between my buttocks and worked its way along my perenium. It came out between my legs in front.
I'd met my male counterpart — a frotteur!
He began to push back and forth. I bit my lips as the tip twanged against my nether lips. My labia fluttered frantically. Brazenly I arched my back. The angle of friction altered so that with each thrust he flicked against my clitoris.
It was absolutely marvellous. I felt abused, defiled. And loved every minute of it. When my climax came I squeezed my legs together in a gesture of ecstatic gratitude.
I can't remember leaving the train or getting to the office. All I knew was that my unseen assailant had opened the floodgates. I longed to repeat the experience.
And I did. Again and again. From that point onwards my life followed two routes, like trains running on parallel tracks. My career raced forward on one set of rails, my secret and real sex life on the other. Within two years I outgrew Sydney and his boss in turn. The head of the West End Department of the firm heard about my 'talents' and promotion followed quickly. After that more company directors sampled — and rewarded — my skills. I now hold the position of personal assistant to the managing director of the whole organisation.
Obviously I didn't earn my promotion in bed alone. It took hard graft in the office and many hours' study of company management and business practice. I had to cut myself off from romantic entanglements which might interfere with my advancement.
Gradually, without realising it, I painted myself into an emotional corner. I had eliminated intimate relationships but I still needed sexual relief. I found none in my casting-couch sessions with the company executives. But each time I rubbed up against a strange male body in the anonymity of a crowd I could work myself up to a shattering orgasm.
And so, although I earned enough to run a car I deliberately travelled by tube. Somewhere, I knew would lurk a willing male, all hot and ready for a quick frot. I hated racing and football. But I planned my weekends far ahead so that I could squeeze into packed stadiums, especially at night. I rarely failed to locate a prowling male.
Over the past nine years I've picked up an incredible variety of frotting variations. I've gone through a whole range of dress styles too. The male, I find, co-operates more readily if he thinks bare flesh lies at his disposal. I tried going naked under raincoats for a while but found them messy and uncomfortable. Minis gave a great boost to frotting females. Tights proved a problem which I solved by donning the open crotch type. But I still prefer hold-up stockings or garter belts.
It's staggering how many positions you can adopt in a crowd without anyone bussing. In many encounters men get so carried away by the sheer lasciviousness of the situation they somehow manage to go the whole hog. If a man wears an overcoat and faces me, for example, I only need to lift one knee to his hip and he's inside. As a precaution I always carry a supply of paper hankies for a quick mop-up.
Normally the male frotteur approaches from behind, though, and I've worked out quite a few techniques to get my own pleasure.
Several months ago I met William, an executive with another company. Somehow we clicked — right from the start. With him I reached a climax for the first time in bed. Nothing as spine shattering as I had on my frottage jaunts but reassuring nevertheless. By the time he asked me to marry him I'd fallen in love with him and agreed, delighted. Even though he still left me slightly unsatisfied I resisted the temptation to frot for some months and had begun to feel I'd never need to do so again.
I moved into his bungalow out in the suburbs on a main line rail route. I was glad not to travel by tube any more.
Each evening at King's Cross I'd catch a train which would whip me out through the green fields that lie to the north of London. Usually I managed to grab a seat in an eight-seater compartment. But one night a couple of weeks before our wedding I climbed on board loaded with parcels, only to find all the seats taken. The throng of passengers behind me pushed me up against the opposite door.
I stood facing a corner seat in which slouched a small, ugly, unshaven man in a shabby raincoat. The forward jerk of the train threw me off balance so that my stomach bumped against his fist which held open a newspaper. I righted myself. But as I eased away his hand followed as if clamped to the front of my skirt.
Panic rose in my throat. Not now, something whispered inside me, that part of my life is over and done with.
But the little man had chosen his victim well. His knuckles glided down over my belly and then grated against my pubis. He continued to stare impassively at his newspaper.
I could not edge back any further because of the people behind me. So I firmed my jaw, determined to ignore the rotating movements against my pelvis. But months of incomplete orgasms with William had only stoked a suppressed fire which now started to break through the shell I'd built round my sexual needs. Choking with self-disgust, I squirmed in response to the voracious knuckles. The parcels I carried effectively screened off the little man's manoeuvres from the other passengers.
My memories of that nightmare journey blur then leapt into relief. Like a film wavering in and out of focus. Somewhere along the route the other passengers disembarked leaving me alone with 'shabby raincoat.' I remained transfixed, awaiting his command.
Casually he drew back his raincoat to reveal a rampant erection. Without warning he reached up and seized my hair, then jerked my head down until my face hovered only inches from his manhood. Then he threw himself at me, rubbed himself into my nose and eyes, gyrated against my lips until, forced to gulp in air, I opened my mouth. Before I could close it he had jabbed the swollen head between my lips.
Nausea welled up in my throat. His pungent smell sickened me. As he spasmed he pulled away and showered my lips, nostrils and cheeks.
I threw up in the corner of the carriage, sobbing with self-hatred. But it was not the debasement and humiliation which drove stinging tears down my cheeks. It was the knowledge that deep down in some twisted and perverted cavern of my soul I had loved every second of the degradation and abuse. My thighs were drenched with the secretions of a climax I couldn't avoid.
Much later when I finally dragged myself to William's bungalow I told him in a dead voice that I could not marry him. That night I slept in a hotel. Next day I removed my belongings from the bungalow and moved into my present Hampstead flat. I never saw William again.
I now frott regularly, like a drug addict feeding himself regular doses. Bleak years stretch ahead. I will never marry now. As wrinkles begin to line my face and my figure sags I know I'll have to resort to more desperate tactics to get the participation of the only sort of men who can satisfy me. I know too with absolute certainty that one day when my overwhelming need for sex drives me behind the limits of caution I will approach the wrong man. And get caught.