‘Why don’t we go down to the station on Saturday’, My friend Suzanne said to me.
Now, ‘Going down to the station‘, had a special meaning for us. Very special. We had been going down there every couple of weeks for a few months now. It was our shared secret, our indulgence. Perhaps even our obsession.
What was different about the coming Saturday? It was my sixteenth birthday.
So, what better way to ‘celebrate’?
‘Yes’, I replied. ‘Why not?’
Suzanne was my very best friend, and our mothers were best friends. They both had attended the same local comprehensive school that we did.
Naturally, the week d-r-a-g-g-e-d. Days passed sluggishly, the clock would do anything but cooperate. It seemed like the day would never arrive. Was I never to turn sixteen? Frustration always built up in the days before our ‘special trips.’
But at long last arrive it did. And, with more than my usual sense of anticipation, we dressed in our station ‘uniform’; loose fitting t-shirts and short(ish) skirts, over bra and knickers.
Once in the station, we went straight into the toilets. There we took our t-shirts off, removed our bras (C-cup for Suzanne, and a more modest B-cup for me), then replaced the t-shirts.
Then we were all ready. Nipples catching fire. Poking out. Hello world, here we are!
On the station itself, we immediately turned left and threaded our way through our soon-to-be audience. Just beyond the very end of the platform were some thick bushes running parallel to the track lines just in front of the adjacent carpark. They were thick enough to afford some privacy but not too far away that the train would have built up any real speed. For our purpose we needed the train to pass slowly…the slower the better really.
And then we waited. We didn’t talk; we just looked at each other and waited. Anticipation building.
We didn’t have to wait long. It was a busy station.
I swallowed hard. This was it. It was coming.
As I heard the train approaching I felt the familiar lurch in my stomach. It was like fear mixed with excitement. What was this strange that need I had? Why did I force myself to do this?
Just as the front of the train drew level with us we did it.
We very slowly, very deliberately lifted our t-shirts, exposing our naked breasts to the passengers. To strangers. We used the hem to cover our faces to just below our eyes and so we could watch them watching us. Watch them looking. Watch them looking at our tits. Right at that moment, it was the ultimate adrenaline rush. I loved it. Loved it!
Nothing. Nothing was more exciting than this.
But what did I love exactly?
I couldn’t have said at the time. All of it perhaps? The daring, the show, the physical pleasure of our bodies exposed to the elements, be it sun, rain, wind or snow. My tits would tingle like they were being fondled. It felt electric.
The men? Some of them tried to look nonchalant like they saw girls flashing every day. Others just stared, leaning forward, wide-eyed and eager for every detail. Desperate. The women? Some looked like they couldn’t quite believe their eyes; others looked disapproving. Daggers. The ones I liked best were the out and out starers. The ones who didn’t try to hide their interest. They wanted to imprint every detail on their memory. If anything, I liked them to be a little bit creepy, Pervy even. I wanted my breasts to be in their heads, to stay there, to be memorable; enjoyed. Part of me was repulsed, but that was the thing that made it so compulsive. That is what made the whole thing so intoxicating.
But in the end, it didn’t really it didn’t matter who or what had a look. Or why. The point was that it could just be anybody.
It came down to this. The feeling of rapture boiled down to the fact of making my breasts into public property, instead of dishing them up here and there to various selected viewers. There was such a feeling of liberation in making that decision. To just let strangers have a look. Anyone. Why not?
Anybody at all.
I didn’t care who.
And I still don’t.
Please do read ’My Exhibitionism – Part 2‘ HERE.
I’m just a woman with an exceptionally ‘grimy’ mind, who loves turning my Immoral thoughts, lewd fantasies and deeply-felt desires into words and stories. Life is just too short to keep them all to myself.
Born and live in Oxford. Divorced. Hobby…..exercising my luring imagination! 🙂