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London Underground Rush-Hour Erotica - Part One

As you know, I like to write erotica - about a variety of topics and themes. If you are interested in having some personalised erotica written for you, let me know.

In the meantime here is a little bit of London Underground erotica if you fancy a bit of a 'pick me up' during your commute



It was a moist atmosphere on the 6.23am Cockfosters Westbound Piccadilly train - Tube carriage 413. 1973 stock. Wallace, a man, sat on a seat reading the Metro, with his tremendously big electricians hands.

Suddenly, he looked across and spotted her - his light, his love, his Phillus. A giant rocket set off in his trousers. She was so sexy, she was like a cake.

Spacious, glowing and prompt, Phillus, in the eyes of Wallace was as marvelous as one of the newly updated S stock carriages on the District line... with skin texture akin to the Moquette fabric which dons all seats on the London Underground - famous for it’s distinctive texture, particular versatility when dyed, and it’s hard wearing material.

Also, like an S Stock carriage. She wasn’t fussy and very easy to get on.

‘Wow’ he said ‘Are we on the Metropolitan line? Because my heart is pumping as if it were going at an average speed of 60mph!’

The way he said it oozed with sexual tension, (And it was a funny joke. Because the Piccadilly line can only go at speeds at up to 40 mph due to the close distance between the stations.)

She smiled. And put down the Metro. In a manner resembling how she normally did - stroking the quilt moquette fabric sexually.

The sat in silence, at a Red Signal, waiting to see who would step over the yellow line into the metaphorical tube carriage taking them both into the unknown....

“Wallace", she fondled his name like it was flour in a bowl “I’m getting off at Arnos Grove!”

“No, you’re not!’ he coughed- pulling the emergency lever - “I’m taking you to a sexual final destination within zones 1 and 4.”

Wallace’s tree trunk forelegs were iron prison bars - trapping her in this erotic fantasy against that weird bit of glass which separates the standing area from the seated bit.

Phillus's body was like Mount Everest. You could die on her.

‘Touch my bits’ she begged.

His mighty totem thrust into her, as long and thick as Gurter - the number three Drilling machine on the Mayor of London’s Cross Rail project.

He rammed his face into her chest, and began to nobble her nipples as if they were Rowntrees fruit pastels.

She whispered in his ear ‘MIND THE GAP' as Wallace rhythmically banged into her with the robotic efficiency of a driverless DLR train.

Wallace loved getting Phillus’s rocks off, her orgasm was nice but not mandatory.

If only all commutes where like this he thought, as he Hammersmith&City-Lined Her.


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