Unlike many other city workers, I actually loved the afternoon commute. Admittedly, it was mid-afternoon before the rush hour and I was virtually guaranteed of getting a window seat. I would take out my tablet and sit down with my back angled into the corner between the seat and the window, thus guaranteeing my reading privacy, or so I believed. Although outwardly conservative, I am prurient by nature; my train ride afforded me the opportunity to indulge in my seemingly unlimited capacity for lascivious and lustful thoughts. In this personal bubble that I created, I felt able to read whatever my appetite demanded, from titillating tidbits in online magazines to salacious stories that set my heart racing.

Lesbian Sex 101 was a manual that fell somewhere in between. It documented one hundred and one positions, with beautiful photographs and a short explanation for each; the names ranged from Gilding the Lily, Toast Her Oven and Untangle Her Tingle, to Pussy Melt and Marianna’s Trench. What hot blooded woman wouldn’t be intrigued?

By the time I reached my stop, I was conscious of my own musky scent and most definitely felt flushed. I was relieved that I showed no other visible signs of untoward activity: my jeans were dry and I had left no marks on the seat. A stop at the station café was definitely in order while I collected my thoughts and composure and prepared to re-enter my most vanilla of lives.

The Café

“May I join you?”

She was a business woman; there was no doubt about it. Her outfit was elegant yet simple; a grey pencil skirt with a tailored blazer over a cream, silk blouse. A string of pearls, simple yet classy, hung around her elegant neck.

There was not much I could do to protect my private space at this stage; although her request was polite, she had a manner that showed she was not used to having suggestions turned down. By the time I had recovered my tongue, she had placed her cup of coffee on the small round table that now separated us, pulled up a chair, and was looking directly into my eyes.

A flicker of a smile seemed to dance across her lips; whether it was a sardonic grin or purely innocuous expression, I could not tell.

“I was sitting in the row behind you on the train,” she ventured.

Alarm bells should have gone off in my head, but they didn’t. Her eyes lowered momentarily to my handbag which hung off the back of my chair; I knew my tablet was peeking out, but it would have gone to sleep by now.

Her eyes travelled back up to meet mine.

“umm…I couldn’t help but notice the reflections of your tablet in the train window,” she continued.

I flushed; could this conversation really be happening. We both sipped our coffees, waiting for the other to make the next move. She was the first to break the silence. I vaguely heard the announcements drifting up from the platform, announcing arrivals and departures, saw the streams of commuters as they bustled to the ticket machine or escaped towards the station exit.

“There was one image that really caught my attention.”

I was still stunned by her audacity. I tried to keep my expression neutral, but to say that I was intrigued by her would be an understatement; she was clearly no wilting submissive; in fact perhaps she was the ticket to the game that I was looking for!

I considered my options for a few seconds, then reached back and withdraw the tablet from my bag and placed it on the table between us. A nonchalant swipe and the screen sprang to life. Usually, I close my reading material and try to maintain some semblance of propriety, but on this occasion, I had left the book open. There, in the brightly lit café, with commuters milling around us, was a photograph of the “Dutch Tulip” in vivid Technicolor. The description hardly did it justice: “In this sideways Doubleheader, the women go down on each other while lounging on their sides. Lower legs are extended to act as headrests for the intertwined lovers.”

At least she had the grace to blush. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her fingers as they danced their way across the screen, flipping the pages rapidly, desperately seeking the image that had captured her imagination. Her long tapered fingers and scarlet nails stood out in sharp contrast on the screen, elegant yet strong, assertive yet measured. They paused about twenty odd pages later, hanging in the air, motionless.

“This one; isn’t it striking?”

The pun wasn’t lost on me, yet I am sure it wasn’t intentional.

“Patty in the Sky” was definitely striking; it was in fact one image that I had lingered on for ages. I recalled the moment vividly; it was after the Lawrence Station stop. I had desperately been squeezing my thighs together, trying to get some purchase on the seam of my jeans. I dared not rock or clench rhythmically because I had a youngster sitting on the bench across the aisle from me. To be realistic, I doubt whether he would have been aware of anything; his eyes were closed and his ear buds were blaring some rhythmic beats into his head which was bobbing along in time. I may be prurient, but I am not an exhibitionist!

The manual’s write-up simply didn’t do it justice: “Patty stands reversed on a chair, holding the back for support as she bends at the waist. Her seated lover cups Patty’s pussy or inserts her fingers inside her moist vagina and spanks Patty’s bottom with her other hand.”

To be more precise than the formal description, the photograph depicts a nubile model standing on the seat of a chair, similar to one of the stackable chairs that one might expect to find in a school hall. She is bent over at the waist, her back horizontal and her bottom perfectly offered. Her front arms hang down at right angles to grasp the top of the backrest.

Patty’s lover is seated in a similar char right behind her. Willowy and lithe, her thighs are parted and she is sitting well forward. Her left hand has disappeared into the space between Patty’s thighs and her right is raised high, ready to spank Patty’s bottom.

My coffee partner stared down at the image, consumed and focused.

I had to break the silence that had once again engulfed us.

“Which one of the two do you see yourself as?” I prompted.

She looked up at me slowly, re-assessing me, trying to judge whether she had made the right move.

“Not Patty…the one sitting down.”

I smiled at her.

“Now isn’t that fortunate?” I responded. “You can call me Patty…and you are?”

She paused for a moment, considering her response.

“For today, I will be Dominique,” was her reply.

Patty in the Sky

The local Hilton provided an appropriate venue for our tryst; it allowed us to retain our anonymity and protect our identities until we were ready to divulge. Dominique paid for the room; she was after all the initiator of this clandestine assignation. It was at the end of the corridor; I am sure that she arranged that too in order to minimize the chance of our disturbing any neighbors with our gamboling.

We stopped at an electronics shop on our way to the hotel where she purchased a cable. I soon discovered it was an HDMI cable which allowed us to project my tablet’s display on to the flat panel TV. Oh my, didn’t we just work our way through a number of those positions?! We started with Lilith and Eve, but studiously moved our way through The Daily Grind, Saturn’s Rings and Honey Bun. By the time we got to Lickety Spit, we were starting to ignore the images on the TV and focus solely on each other. I vaguely recall seeing Cherry Picker and Opening Pandora’s Box, before she took a belt from one of the hotel gowns and we did our own variation of The Velvet Rope.

All of our inhibitions were now cast aside and it was time for Patty In The Sky. I believe I mentioned earlier that I was not an exhibitionist; well, I can tell you that standing on a chair, bent over, thighs spread, your bum and privates at eye level for your partner who is sitting behind you, is a humbling experience. Dominique used my own belt on me. It was searing and despite my high level of arousal, the pain was indescribable. Yet the high was unbelievable; imagine being spanked by a lovely stranger in an anonymous hotel room, your bottom on perfect display for her, your arousal right in front of her, being finger-frigged by her, as she whips your bottom into a scarlet hue fit to match the polish on her nails.

My orgasm from her finger-frigging was mind-blowing; I simply felt compelled to return the compliment. Dominique lay down again, her thighs spread, and, as the manual suggested, we finished off with me performing the Gilded Lily: ”After an exemplary orgasm, lick her warm, wet silken labia.”

Afterwards, we stood in front of the bathroom mirror and she showed me the affects of my strapping, walking those long fingers of her across my skin, tracing my stripes and welts, letting her cool palms lightly massage the pain away. We dressed and hugged, then went our separate ways, our identities intact, or anonymity secure. She also travels that same line on occasion so perhaps we will meet up again. I am more circumspect with my reflections these days; I flaunt them when I am hopeful, obscure them when someone less desirable sits behind me, yet, to-date no one has propositioned me in that way again.

Note: Positions referenced and the accompanying descriptions are from : “Lesbian Sex: 101 Lovemaking Positions” Author: Jude Schell


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