The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Hannah was soaked, completely soaked. The downpour unexpected: the result inevitable. She had looked wonderful, all poise and fashion; but now, merely a passable impression of a drowned rat. Her long fair hair hung in clumps; her short skirt dripped water down her strong bare legs and right into her long black boots zipped to the knee; her blouse a damp rag with her frilly bra no better beneath and, she knew, her areolae would be visible through the sodden cotton; even her nipples had shown their disapproval by rising to poke at the material from the coldness of her inundation.

Hannah had run, raced as fast as her legs would carry her to the railway station but she had been caught good and proper, right at the half way point between home and station. The sky had been grey but not threatening when she had closed the door at home but that had all changed with the first few large drops. She had not even brought an umbrella and when the rain and then the downpour had followed she had taken to her heels, but to no avail; she had reached the station, certainly achieved that object, but not in a fit state to be seen and, horror of horrors, she was going to London to meet influential people; people she hoped would take her on as an intern. She simply could not go like that... but what option was there?

Returning home would be such a defeat; she would miss the train; miss the interview and that was what her mother wanted. Her mother did not want her to go to London; did not want her to flee the nest; would be so happy if she simply came home with her tail between her legs to spend more time working at the local pub and living at home. Hannah was not going to do that... but she was soaked through and cold.

The rain hissed down outside the meagre shelter of the old Victorian station canopy. In reality the rain was only mostly outside, because it leaked in quite a few places. There was not even a waiting room with a nice warm cheery stove, or electric heater more likely these days; Hannah could see where a waiting room had been—but it was all boarded up. She shivered and thought things could not get much worse—unless her train was cancelled—it was so different from the excitement of the ‘big day’ that had woken her early that morning.

Through the rain she saw another traveller making his way towards the station, his black umbrella sent suddenly inside out by the gusting wind and affording him little or no protection from the driving rain. As he neared she could see he was almost as soaked as she was; his trouser legs flapping wetly at his ankles and his silk tie a discoloured mess. She opened her mouth to say something sympathetic when the Tannoy crackled with an announcement not that the train had actually been cancelled but had been delayed by floods—for at least an hour and a half.

“Fuck,” she ejaculated causing the man’s eyebrows to rise. “Sorry, I mean... bloody rain and now the soddin’ train’s been delayed.” The rephrasing was not much better.

“Beastly weather. Yes.” The man shook his umbrella and folded it. “Is there a warm waiting room do you think?”

“No. Boarded up. Nuthin’ like that.”

Another figure was making his way up the platform the other way dressed in bright orange work clothes; work clothes proof against all weathers. They watched him.

The new arrival looked them up and down. “Got caught then?” It was rhetorical. “There’s our hut just beyond the station. You shouldn’t trespass really but we won’t be back from our job for another few hours and its warm in there and you can dry a bit. The lads won’t mind if you borrow the tea and milk. Be sparing on the digestives mind!” He smiled, pointed back down the platform and headed off leaving them standing wet and bedraggled.

“Shall we?” asked the man.

The word ‘warm’ spoken by the railway employee was an attractive one and Hannah found herself stepping down off the end of the platform onto a cindered track leading to a small sectional concrete building. It was indeed warm inside, not from a glowing coke stove but an electric radiator screwed to one side of the hut. Various chairs and benches were set about the wall and at one end a table with an electric kettle, plentiful copies of ‘The Sun’ and not a few colour magazines that were not the sort girls chose to read. In short it was a workman’s hut of the most traditional sort which in their day must have numbered in their hundreds, if not thousands, around the country in yards, factories and railways.

Hannah stood dripping on the lino.

The man spoke, “I’ll make some tea. What a kind chap. I really thought we were stuck there for, what did the announcement say, at least an hour and a half. Cosy.”

It was, but it did not make her any less damp or, more accurately, wringing wet; it did not make the fact of her semi-transparent blouse and bra any less obvious. She had not caught him looking but he must have noticed. Men look at breasts.

“To where are you travelling?” He was making conversation as he made the tea and she was happy to unburden her unhappiness at both the rain ruining her clothes and the inevitable lateness of her unimpressive arrival.

The man made sympathetic noises.

It felt awful sitting in what was basically a puddle on her plastic chair. The room was warm but her clothes were soaked. If she looked she knew the plastic seat would not just be damp but would really have a puddle of water in it. The water was still dripping off her hair, still running down her legs from her wet skirt and, most uncomfortably, her wet panties. She looked longingly at the white radiator. If only she could hang her clothes on it to dry, if only she had been alone she could have done just that but she could hardly do that with a man in the hut. She could hardly strip down to her sodden underclothing—sodden semi-transparent underclothing—with him there.

The man, though, hung his jacket above the radiator and loosening his tie, hung that over the radiator. There was nothing she could take off except perhaps her boots without revealing more than her wet blouse already did. She unzipped them and took them across to the radiator. As she padded back to her seat she left wet footprints on the lino.

It was good to have a mug of hot tea in her hands but the sheer awfulness of what had happened to her day held her; her gaze returned to the radiator; the lovely hot radiator; it and a comb could be her friends and restore, somewhat, the image she had so carefully cultivated and been so pleased with in the mirror less than half an hour before. But there was embarrassment and risk in this. Could she really strip down to her underclothes with this man watching—as surely he would do, and might he seek to take advantage—more than advantage—in having her all alone in this railwayman’s hut? Hannah knew nothing about him—but he did seem very pleasant and safe. Appearances, though, could be deceptive but his suit was well cut—did that mean anything—and it was not as if he was young; perhaps mid sixties, tall with a slight stoop, but not going to seed, grey hair and rather amusing half rimmed glasses.

Hannah looked wistfully at the radiator, at the man’s tie almost seeming to steam away. “I wonder,” she said, “do you think my, um, clothes would dry on that radiator?” She had said it, she had really said it. It was more to open the possibility to herself than a real question. Of course a hot radiator would dry clothes.

The man got up and walked across to the radiator and put his hand on it. “Like toast,” he said, “it is very hot. You’d certainly be better getting properly dry.”

It was one thing for her to suggest the idea: quite another for him to encourage her. What he said was true but when you got down to the basic point he was inviting her to take her clothes off. Hannah sat still for several minutes as the man took a newspaper from his briefcase and began to read. It was only slightly damp at the edges.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and felt her clothes. Really they were no better but she could at least feel her legs getting dry; dry anyway where the occasional rivulet of water did not run off her skirt and make them wet again. Perhaps she would risk her skirt. After all her blouse would mostly hide her panties. Quietly, so as not to disturb him she stood up and unbuttoned the side of her skirt. She had taken the step.

Without even looking at the man she slipped the skirt down to the floor and bent to pick them up. It was only when she was fully bent over did it occur to her that if the man was looking then her bottom cheeks would be almost visible through her clinging wet panties. Straightening she resisted the urge to see if he had, indeed, been looking and went over to the radiator and hung her skirt over its hot metal. Turning, she saw he actually appeared engrossed in his paper.

Feeling self conscious and not a little odd Hannah made her way back to her plastic seat. Sitting back down, the wet puddle was even more noticeable. There was no way she was going to dry by sitting on a wet seat. She moved to the adjacent seat opposite the man; he looked up briefly and nodded, “Good idea” and went back to his newspaper. Never had her knees been more tightly pressed together.

Hannah glanced at the magazines on the table. Smiling women with big naked boobs looked back at her. Naked women who were warm and dry.

Her blouse felt awful and she looked again at the radiator and thought how good it would be to see it steaming there and getting all toasty dry. Already the smell of warm but damp wool was in the hut; her skirt had started to dry—or at least warm up. She bit her lip. What was more important—her modesty or the internship? She began to undo the buttons of her blouse.

It felt far, far worse turning from the radiator with no blouse compared to being without her skirt. She felt nearly naked in just her little new white lacy bra and white panties. White they were meant to be but soaked with rainwater they had a pink tinge from the skin showing beneath and, worse, she could see the moulding, the very camel toe moulding, of her mons where the panties clung to her. If only she hadn’t shaved and there was her curly golden hair to hold the cotton safely away but she had shaved it all off, thinking how modern it looked in the mirror, and there was nothing holding the thin material back—even that half modesty of her golden curls keeping cotton from skin—denied her.

The man looked up, just as she turned from the radiator, just when she was most exposed. “Sensible,” he said and went back to his newspaper.

Had he noticed, had he seen through her panties?

Hannah watched the drying clothes. Would it really matter if her underclothes joined the rest? The idea of putting on warm dry panties instead of the wringing wet pair that felt so cold and clammy around her ‘bits’ was most attractive. Of course it mattered. One thing to be drying outer clothes and sitting there in her knickers and bra but quite another to be naked in the hut with the man.

But did she dare: should she? What would he say, what would he do? Would it just be a short ‘sensible?’ He seemed so gentlemanly, so safe.

She stood and did one of the bravest things she had ever done. Outwardly nonchalant she walked over to the radiator and unclipped her bra. Just as if she was in her bedroom at home, not in a workman’s hut with a man, she pulled it off and hung it over the radiator. Thinking ‘home’ she slipped her panties down. Was he looking, admiring the sudden appearance of her bottom, perhaps more as she raised one leg and then the other before bending to pick up the panties and lay them on the heat of the radiator. She turned.

“Well done,” said the man, “you’ll feel so much better on the train and at the interview. I didn’t want to suggest it, of course, but it is so much the right course of action. You’ve got to look your best.”

Reassuring, but he was looking right at her and she was completely naked. Her panties and bra were draped across the radiator behind her; she was wearing nothing at all and he could see, well, everything. There was not even a hint of furze covering her sex—it would have felt so much better had she not shaved it all off. And what did he mean by ‘your best?’ Was ‘her best’ as she was now – was that what he meant?

Hannah sat back down on her chair keeping her legs tightly together. Would he wank off later that night to his recollection of her in the hut? She could not imagine that he would not even at his age. Was the idea of this stranger wanking and thinking about her almost an assault?

His putting down of the paper alarmed her, and she became even more worried when he began unbuttoning his shirt.

“I think you have quite the right idea and, if you don’t object, I’ll do the same.”

Oh no! Not the same. Was he really going to take all his clothes off? The strangeness of it all came to her. Not even an hour from home and she was going to be sitting naked in a railwayman’s hut with a naked man she did not know—it would never have occurred to her such a thing could happen.

His touching and moving her underclothes to give room for his shirt unsettled her again. Had it been deliberate, an excuse to touch her little white things or simply a necessary moving along to make space?

In the event he stopped short at his green striped boxers and, nodding to her, he settled down again with a different newspaper.

“Do you think there is a toilet?” She asked. The cold and the tea had had its effect.

“Doubt it. I expect the men just pop around the back of the hut. It’s what I would do. A lavatory is unlikely.”

Zipping on her boots she peered out of the door into the still falling rain and could see no one. It was a bit of a brave thing to do. She stepped through the door.

It was unbelievable; there she was outside, in the open, in broad daylight dressed in just her boots—absolutely nothing else. Imagine if the door stuck on her return!

It had not stopped raining and there was no one around; certainly not just behind the hut where she squatted and watched the hissing stream of her pee disappear into the granite chippings. Again she peered around the corner of the hut to check the coast was clear but the platform was deserted as she hurried back into the hut—to a shock.

No, the man was not standing there completely naked, waiting with an erection pointing at her: no, not that at all, for he was still seated and quietly reading his newspaper not even looking up at her return but there, unmistakeably there, on the radiator were his boxer shorts. He had taken the opportunity to remove them and set them drying whilst she was out. Perhaps to save him, or herself, embarrassment. Even so, the undeniable fact was that they were now both naked. Hannah Hall was naked in a hut, a warm hut, with a naked man reading a newspaper.

She walked over to the radiator and bent a little at the waist to feel her clothes: they were warm but nowhere near dry, indeed her blouse was still dripping. All the time she was so conscious that behind her was this naked man, a man she had not met before; oh yes, he seemed pleasant enough, practical and sensible; but was he actually staring at her bottom at that very moment and thinking all sorts of things—things men think. Under cover of his newspaper was his cock rising to an erection? Bent slightly forward, as she was, and touching her clothes like that might he now be sneaking across the room and the first she would know of it would be his hard penis pressed between her bottom cheeks? Her imagination was starting to run riot.

Hannah turned quickly but he was not looking at her: much less creeping up behind her with sexual intent. He turned a page of his newspaper and looked up.

“In Germany nudism is almost a national pastime. Freikörperkultur is the German name or Free Body Culture if you prefer. It suggests a naturistic approach to sports and community living. You see it’s a movement dating back to the nineteenth century.” He paused, “I’m not boring you?”

She shook her head. He smiled.

“Well, it shares the joy of experiencing nature both in being outside in the countryside and in being nude oneself, without any direct connection to sexuality. Really we should be out in the rain, perhaps running and dancing free, feeling the water falling and dripping off our skin.” He smiled. “Not really the day for it, I suppose?”

It was not the most obvious of conversations to reply to: or perhaps it was the most obvious given their present predicament. “No,” she said. She tried to be a bit jollier, a little more loquacious. “S’pose better on a hot and sunny day.”

But as soon as she had said it she regretted it. What was she implying, that she would not object to walking with him naked on a hot sunny day in the countryside? Running naked hand in hand over the downs? Dancing naked in the woods?

“Have you?” He seemed interested and happy to talk.

It came to her that she had not taken her boots off. What was and was not sexy, erotic perhaps, was a personal thing but it was true that nakedness per se was not as erotic as some partial clothing of the body. Suggestion and a little hiding added spice. The wisp of silk just covering a vital part or the little accessory adding a je ne se qua. The girl with the velvet choker or stockings, the man, perhaps a little laughable, in the black bow tie: but what was undoubtedly a sexual image was a naked girl dressed just in long black boots. She glanced down and quickly took them off. She did not want to encourage him; did not want to unwittingly arouse his interest. She needed to be asexual. She didn’t actually feel it.

“I, well, no.” It had not occurred to her; the idea had never come to her; why would it?

“But would you like to?”

What was he suggesting—or was he suggesting anything. Was he simply making conversation?

“Dunno,” that was not quite what she had meant to say. She had meant to say ‘no.’ “Depends, I suppose, but I think I’d be happier clothed.”

“Not free body culture, then?”

“No, not for me.” She said it quickly and with a smile. Should she ask him whether he engaged in naturism or should she try to let the topic drop. Not perhaps so easy given they seemed to be engaged in Freikörperkultur at that moment.

There was silence for a time as the man read his newspaper. She looked again at the table wondering if there was anything she could read. She was not going to touch ‘The Sun’ on principle: firstly she did not approve of the topless women on page 3 and secondly it was hardly what you would call a newspaper. If only there was a copy of ‘The Guardian’ or another serious paper like the man’s ‘The Times.’ Might there be an interesting article in one of the girlie magazines? Unlikely, just lots and lots of boobs... and other bits.

The man was engrossed and she risked standing up to look at the ‘literature.’ The strangeness of standing naked in the workmen’s hut leafing through their magazines came strongly to her. Wouldn’t they be surprised if they knew that instead of all their pictures of naked girls in their hut, and there were quite a few on the walls as well, there had been a real live naked girl in their hut drinking their tea?

“More tea do you think?”

Hannah had not heard him, had not seen him rise and there he was standing right by her, feet from her, moreover his naked penis inches from her. Without thinking, automatically, her eyes dropped downwards to check and as soon as she had done it she reddened in embarrassment. There was no way the man had not seen what she had done, known exactly what she had been looking at. Would he see it as an invitation? With him sitting before she had not actually seen it as it had dropped down between his thighs, safely and pleasingly out of sight. All she had seen was the curliness of his pubic hair below his stomach, the peppered—black and white—hairs rising up his stomach to his chest. She had not seen his penis before. But now, there it was, hanging not two feet from her, the package complete and, quite unlike her, he was not shaved down there at all.

“Err, I, yes that would be nice.”

It was awful. Even with the embarrassment her eyes kept being drawn to it—to his cock. It was not as if it was erect or anything like it. What could—or should—she have done had it been? Grabbed it and tried to make it come before he did anything to her? But there was not the slightest indication of arousal. It just hung down and swung—and that was the problem—it did not keep still. As the man moved about filling the kettle, washing out the mugs and filling the teapot it swung with his movements; and not just the penis—evidently he had got warm in the hut and his scrotum had slackened so his balls, and she could not miss their egg shapes, swung with his penis in their wrinkled, rather hairy sack. Her eyes kept catching the movement and looking at it.

The tea was made.

“I think, whilst it is brewing I shall do the same as you and nip around the back. Back in a jiffy.”

Briefly the door was open letting in a cold draught and then it shut leaving Hannah alone for a moment or two. She breathed out slowly. What a predicament. Stuck with wet clothes, naked in a workman’s hut, naked with a gentleman, waiting for a train which would not get her to the interview on time. She felt her clothes and re-arranged them. She had hoped her panties would be dry—they were not. It would have been so good to have been able at least to put them on. She turned them over on the radiator and managed to knock the man’s green striped boxers onto the floor. Why had he chosen of all places to put them next to her panties? Bending she reached for them. The cotton was still very wet.

Just as her hand closed on the cotton the door behind her opened. “Noooo!” she thought as she jerked her body upright, but knowing it was too late, and whirled around. At least it was not the workmen returning but even so the man would have seen, would have been presented with the sight, as he opened the door, not simply of her naked behind but, bent over as she was, the sight of her exposed sex and probably even her bottom hole—all illuminated by the daylight coming in behind him from the doorway. “Fuck,” she thought, “he’s seen everything now.”

Certainly he looked surprised and then she realised she had his boxer shorts in one hand.

“I knocked them off... by mistake... I’ll put them back.” It did not come out well. But at least she had not, in her confusion, asked him whether he had had ‘a good leak.’

“It’s still raining hard and freezing. Wet again! But isn’t it so cosy in here. Warm as toast.”

Certainly the man was covered in rain drops and his scrotum had drawn up. She was cross with herself for noticing the detail.

“I should have taken my umbrella.”

The image was amusing and she laughed. His eyebrow rose.

“You standing there in the rain with nothing on, an umbrella in one hand and ...” She realised what she had been about to say.

“Not your everyday sight, I agree, but an umbrella would have been very practical! Do take it if you need to go out again.”

Such a strange casual conversation about micturition and umbrellas between two naked people of the opposite sex.

He busied himself pouring the tea and Hannah watched the fresh rain drops running down his back and between his bottom cheeks—that would be annoying. If only she had a towel but what was she thinking of—what would he think if she was suddenly drying his back and bottom?

It was good to be sitting down again, the two of them separately, with mugs of tea. Somehow it seemed less sexual, more ordinary like that; the safety of a mug of tea in their laps but best not spilt!

There was a strong gust of wind thrusting the rain hard against the concrete walls of the hut and all of a sudden the door to the hut banged open. Hannah almost had a heart attack as she expected a troop of day-glo orange clad workmen to come trooping in. But it was only the wind. The man got up and shut the door; shutting out the rain, the cold wind and the prospect of company.

Her breasts were rising and falling as her heart raced and she breathed again. “Oh, I thought... for an awful moment I thought the workmen had come back and would see me like this.”

“Would that matter? Perhaps they are also enthusiasts of the Freikörperkultur like us.” He was smiling. He did not really mean it. “Then we would all be sitting around drinking tea and eating chocolate digestives as warm as toast in the all together.”

“I wouldn’t feel at all comfortable.”

“You and six or seven naked men? Of course in Germany or Austria the naked sauna is not uncommon. Men and women, strangers to each other, sitting naked. It seems odd to us English people but not to them.”

“I’d be worried they would want to do... things.”

Immediately she had said that she regretted it. Why did she keep saying the wrong things? It was she who had first made the allusion to sex.

“No, that doesn’t happen. The automatic association of nudity and sex is very Anglo-Saxon. It is all so very innocent... like us.”

“Well, yes.”

“Just because we two happen to be sitting naked in this hut does not mean we automatically develop sexual feelings. We are not simply animals, ‘mere beasts’ as Shakespeare said. Mere nudity does not automatically result in the urge to rut.”

“No, of course not.”

I mean there has to be attraction and I might not find you attractive and I could not imagine you would find me attractive... in a sexual sense as opposed to being a pleasant sort of gentleman to talk to, of course!”

She laughed. “No indeed.” He was indeed entertaining.

“In Germany nudity is so much less a concern, rather it seems a national passion, whether it is sunbathing in the Tiergarten in Berlin or sitting in the often mixed sauna.”

“Mixed sauna?”

“Yes, very often mixed; even mixed changing rooms but not the swimming pool. Costumes are worn there. There is a whole etiquette around the sauna and when you do or not go covered up. Two towels for the sauna: one to sit on and one to dry with from the shower. You enter the sauna naked and sit on your towel; even your feet go on the towel so the oils from your body, apparently, do not damage the wood of the benches; and there you sit enjoying the heat with perhaps dozens of naked Germans of both sexes around you.”

“I don’t know that I could...”

“Little different from now really—just probably many more men around.”

“You’ve been?”

“Many times. So pleasant to sit quietly in the sauna—you don’t talk—it really is a place for contemplation. All taken very seriously by the Germans particularly when the Bademeister does the infusion, the Aufgas, pouring scented water on the coals. A ritual really. There is often a rush of people in before the Badameister enters, often naked himself, to pour the water and then waft the scent, it may be all sorts of different scents, around the sauna with a towel. Polite applause afterwards. You should try it.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’d be embarrassed, all those naked men, all those...” She left the word unsaid—she had almost said ‘penises.’ She did not want to draw attention to sexual ‘bits.’ Better to stick to nudity in the generality.

“Those magazines,” she indicated them strewn across the Formica of the table, “do men really like them?”

“Ah, well that crosses the divide between naturism, mere nudity, and the possibly erotic. Despite what I have said about nakedness being unremarkable, ordinary and not something to get all worked up about: it is of course something men, and women, do get worked up about. Men do find pictures of naked women erotic, particularly if the pose is suggestive—or, of course, downright pornographic. Do you like pictures of naked men? There are such magazines and not just for the gay at heart.”

She should not have asked. She had tipped the conversation from nudity to sex.

“I suppose...” What could she say? ‘No’ would be the easiest thing to say but it was simply not true. It was not as if she bought those sort of magazines but... “Yes, a good looking bloke is a good looking bloke naked as well as clothed.” She had said nothing really.

The man smiled and nodded. It was evident he expected more. “Yes, but your attitude is different from men no doubt. Men are more visual I suspect, more inclined to find pictures stimulating.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I could be turned on by a picture of a good looking man.” Had she said a little too much?

“But not enough to buy the magazines?”

“No,” she laughed, “certainly not. I remember finding my younger brother’s stash once and being quite shocked. But as you say boys will be boys and like to look at them and...” She was doing it again—saying what she shouldn’t.

“Wank.” He finished for her.

“Quite. Of course it’s not as if...” She was doing it again. Implying that she had masturbated. What was she doing talking of such things to a stranger and a man, a naked man as well?

“Girls are no doubt more cerebral—I mean I would not know—all in the mind I suppose rather than looking at pictures.” His eyes twinkled with amusement. “The mind being the real sexual organ, of course, and not something on display with Freikörperkultur. Your body may be on display, your genitalia on display, but one keeps ones fantasises to oneself.”

What he said was clearly true, even with pictures it was the mind that was aroused, or not, by them. “Yes, I suppose you are right. I think women are less interested in the visual—pictures as you say or seeing naked men in the flesh—and more interested by what is said and in touching.” The conversation was getting deep and going where she did not want to go.

“Ah, love and the tactile.”

“Yes, I think it is more about being in a relationship than simply sex for its own sake.” A thought came to her and she said it without thinking. “And you are wrong about the mind not being on display. I mean, particularly with men you can often enough see if they are thinking about sex—and with naked men, well, it’s very clear!”

Crikey. What had she done? She was talking about erections.

“Ah yes. Point taken—a very clear barometer.”

Had she imagined it or had his penis got a little bigger? It was still resting on his right thigh. Not that she was particularly looking but she could not help seeing it when she talked to him.

Hannah needed to keep the conversation off sex. She needed to change the subject. “That must be a problem with Freikörperkultur or at naturist camps.”

“Yes, on occasion, the done thing is to ignore the natural phenomenon and expect it to go away.”

“Well, something for the more visual girls anyway!” What a stupid thing to say.

“Yes, indeed, but not you.”

“Depends on the bloke. I did not say...”

“Ah ha!” He smiled. “So not totally cerebral then. You could give a more than cursory glance at a picture of the right naked bloke with an erection?”

What had she led him to? “Maybe.”

“And what of the pornographic film? Films of intercourse and so on? No, no I pry too deeply. Let us change the subject. What are your hobbies may I ask?”

Hannah was relieved. The conversation had been going into quite inappropriate areas—not that it had been anything but a proper discussion.

“I ride, I’m a keen horsewoman.”

“Gymkhanas, shows, hunting. That sort of thing?”

“Yeah, all of that. Since I was a li’l girl. I’ve always been around horses. Yeah the mucking out, plaiting the mane—all the girl things but unlike a lot of my friends I haven’t lost the passion. I love riding. Of course, you know, horses can be just as embarrassing as people. I mean when a stallion gets a stiffy you know about it!” Why had she said that? She was drawing the conversation back: not he.

“Oh yes, big lads!”

She coloured. But it was her who had mentioned the size of erections. She could not be sure but had his penis just lifted a little off his thigh?

“So does size matter?”

This was ridiculous. She was discussing penile size with a stranger, naked and alone in a hut and, if she was not careful, there was going to be an erection in the room with them. “Does to men I believe: I think the correct, and polite, comment is to say it is not the size but what you do with it that matters!”

It was a good response but... And his penis had moved, her eyes had followed it as it had got up from one thigh and swung across to the other. It was not erect but not as ‘soft’ as it had been.

“Ha! Yes, back to your ‘tactile’ point. Yes, indeed. So, no importance on size?”

“Well visually; it’s got to be more impressive the bigger it is. I don’t think I can deny that!”

“An unusual contest”

“What, judging a row of naked men on the size of their erections!”

“Yes, I am intrigued, would you enjoy wielding the tape measure?”

She gaped. What a question to ask!

“What, points for length, girth and overall appearance?”

His eyes twinkled again. He was clearly amused. “And perhaps for angle of stand as well.” His penis was not simply lying down and was definitely looking fatter.

She laughed. It was an amusing idea. “And sustainability—knowing men.” Oh no, she had revealed sexual experience as well.

“Well, perhaps enough of that conversation. More tea?”

“Please.”

He got up to make more tea. Hannah’s eyes dropped to his penis. It was not above the horizontal so was it really technically an erection? But there certainly was a lot more than there had been.

It was funny seeing a man walking around doing normal things with almost an erection. He seemed unconcerned but he saw where her eyes were looking. Hannah reddened. She needed to explain herself.

“They don’t stay still do they? Must be so odd having something like that hanging around.” Why had she said that?

“Sorry about this,” he waved in the general direction of his penis. The man filled the kettle and walked back with his penis showing no sign of getting any smaller. In fact, and Hannah could not stop watching it, the thing was getting near to the horizontal.

“Not a problem you ladies have except, perhaps, if you don’t mind me mentioning it, for nipples which too can have a life of their own. Both respond to temperature, hiding away when it is cold and, of course, both respond to various other stimulae. The penis, as you say, does seem to change its shape or size a lot during the day—and that is ignoring full tumescence. It was a problem in the past for the ladies’ equivalent of lads’ magazines—but with naked men of course—as to what was or what was not an erection. Was the naked man simply warm and well endowered or was that an erection? The publishers could not show erections but...”

“I could suggest my, how can I put it—change of shape—was a need to go around the back of the hut again but, alas that would not be true. The rather stupid discussion I started had an effect; you see I have a thing about horse riding women. Had you not mentioned that and my subconscious not pictured you on a horse I would have been quite all right! Still let’s pretend it’s not really there and, as we said about Freikörperkultur, just ignore it and it will hopefully go away.”

It did not however go away. On the contrary it got bigger as the foreskin rolled fully back all on its own exposing the shiny purple head. There was something about the retraction which seemed dangerously sexual. Hannah told herself not to look: but it was difficult as its motion drew the eye and the way the foreskin peeled back all of itself had such a strong erotic imagery.

“Oh dear,” said the man, “the ancient Greeks would not have approved at all.”

It was a penis that would not disgrace the man in the contest they had been discussing earlier. It was now at full stand. There was no way Hannah could pretend it was not an erection. She was indeed in a workman’s hut by the railway with a naked man sporting a full erection – and, incidentally, making her a mug of tea.

Why would the ancient Greeks not have approved? He was standing in profile looking at the kettle, the head of his penis almost touching his stomach. Not only was the penis large but it would score highly in the ‘angle’ category. Hannah swallowed. What was she thinking and why were her nipples getting a little less flat? Surely she was not too responding to the stupid talk about erections and sex? Surely he would not notice her own little erections? She had to say something.

“What do you mean?”

He turned to her. His penis was pointing in her direction—all hard with its shiny bulbous purple head so prominent.

“Ah, you see the Greeks did not regard the naked body as something to be ashamed of or to be hidden as a matter of modesty. Yes a bit like the Freikörperkultur. Far from it, indeed their athletes ran and wrestled naked. That said what they did regard as I suppose obscene was a man’s glans, the bell end under the foreskin. Athletes used to tie a string or leather thong around the foreskin to stop it retracting and embarrassing them—the kynodesme. It kept that all hidden away. I am sorry but I am anything but hidden away!”

The man poured the water from the kettle. So strange to see a man doing this ordinary act with a full blown erection. It was not subsiding.

He walked towards her carrying the mug of tea. It was the most bizarre thing; a naked man with a really big erection bringing her a mug of tea in a workman’s hut. It was not as if it was in her face; sitting down it was a little below that; though probably the head was level with her chin, but it was close and her eyes flicked from it to the proffered mug of tea and back again. It was there in all its detail—up close and personal. She took the tea. Had she been inclined she could, with very little movement, have engulfed the thing with her mouth and fellated it as she played with his hanging testicles. The whole thing was ridiculous but she had been almost tempted. It certainly was a very attractive penis and she felt not a little turned on.

“Thank you.”

“I’m really sorry about this.”

Was he?

“I think I’ll go outside and see if walking around a bit has the cold shower effect.”

“Should you? I mean, don’t be seen like that. Should I come with you? No, I don’t suppose that will be much help at all.”

“A kind offer, but no point in you getting cold yourself.”

The door opened and closed. She was alone. Quickly Hannah put the tea down and went over to her clothes but her hope that they were now dry was dashed just as quickly. It was worth rearranging them and turning them over. Perhaps her blouse would not look too crumpled when it was dry. Slowly she walked back to her seat. What was she doing in this hut with this man? Had she been told that very morning she would be sitting naked in a workman’s hut with a naked, erect stranger and feeling aroused herself she would not for one moment have believed it. She was after all meant to be on the train to London. Her hand stole to her breasts—yes her nipples were hard like peas. She opened her thighs and dropped the other hand to touch—yes she was wet alright and the touch of her fingers on her clit made her bite her lip. Had she been alone then...?

And suddenly she was not alone; the door opened again and the man came back in dripping with rain to see her sitting there with one hand to her breast and the other very obviously touching her sex.

His erection had subsided somewhat but as she sat there like a rabbit caught in the headlights she could see it start to pump up again.

The man frowned, “Not you as well!”

What could she say? He could see her hard nipples as well as she could see his erection. Her legs clamped shut but he had seen where her hand was and, more than likely in the fluorescent light, seen the wet sheen of her aroused sex.

He sat back down on his bench. His erection as strong as before.

“Still raining, still horrible out there. Nobody around.”

“You didn’t walk up to the station?” She could not imagine he had—like that.

“What like this? No, I hung around the hut. It would have been nice on a sunny day. I thought it was working but then I came back into the hut and...”

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t be.”

“Perhaps, after all, seeing such a large erection....”

“Oh, a compliment, thank you.”

“Well, it is.”

“I haven’t a tape measure.”

They laughed. It eased the situation.

“I truly am sorry, I thought the rain... you see I’ve always had a problem with erections. Once I am ‘up’ I tend to stay that way until... well... until.”

“Good for the ladies. No erectile dysfunction or going soft on them then?” She was at it again but she didn’t care.

“No, not that.”

“The magazines are there. Why don’t you?”

“I couldn’t. No!”

“I could look away.”

“No, really it’ll go down of its own accord. I’d be embarrassed.”

But it didn’t and she could not stop looking at it.

“If I joined you...” What was she doing? “You know if I did it here and you did it there. We wouldn’t need the magazines.”

The man looked at her quizzically. “You are suggesting that we each sit here and masturbate watching each other; effectively to save my own embarrassment at having this stubborn erection?”

“I sort of thought it might help.” She could not really be suggesting this.

“It’s a bit more than Freikörperkultur. People don’t do that in the saunas.”

“It must happen somewhere.”

“Well, of course there are saunas and saunas; and with those men do go there for, how shall I put it, relief. But it would cause great consternation in a normal sauna. Nakedness does not equal sex. But I suppose you could imagine a country might have a rule about no copulation, no touching but bringing yourself off just by looking at others might be regarded as natural and acceptable. A group of young girls out with their friends watching the boys and the boys watching the girls. A bit much, perhaps, for the solitary girl in the sauna alone with all those men wanking away around her!”

“Oh, I don’t know. She’d have lots to see after all!”

Despite what she had suggested the conversation was easy and amusing; moreover his suggestion of being alone in a sauna of erect men had excited her further.

“You mentioned the Kyno whatsit...”

“The kynodesme?”

“Yes. If you were circumcised then it wouldn’t work?”

“No. But the Greeks regarded circumcision as barbaric because it resulted in the permanent exposure of the glans; the knob end.”

“So a cultural thing?”

“Yes as so much is—like Freikörperkultur.”

“The kynodesme must be uncomfortable if you get, um, well, hard.

“Probably but it would depend on the length of the foreskin; whether the expansion could be easily accommodated. It must have happened. Spontaneous erections in the exertion of wrestling.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Not uncommon—all that friction!”

“Amusing to watch.”

“You’d like that?”

“What naked guys—good looking guys wrestling naked. Yeah, please. A wet dream! Not if they were gay though.”

Hannah was even more surprised at herself. Talking about what her sexual fantasies might be. It was warm, hot even in the hut and the man easy to talk to. The talk had not helped his cock. It looked almost painfully swollen.

“Shall we?” she said. She wanted to.

“What, wrestle?” He was smiling—he knew what she meant.

“No!” Her hands touched her breasts. It was deliberately sexual. Her fingers toyed with a nipple. She was giving him licence to touch himself, to give himself relief from his ‘problem.’ The nipple was already swollen and sensitive. Her other hand moved to her lap, touching her thighs where they were soft and tingly close to her sex.

“I’ve never done this before—I mean not with someone else.”

The man did not answer. Did that mean that he had? He was staring, watching her moving hands. He had not yet touched himself. Hannah wondered if her actions were sexy enough could she cause a spontaneous ejaculation, the man just coming by seeing what she did; a tribute to her sexuality. Of course when boyfriends had come too soon, what was called a premature ejaculation, she had not been flattered. It had been a nuisance and a disappointment but she had learnt to be patient and how to make them hard again.

Hannah’s finger moved to trace the little vertical valley of her hairless mons. She was suddenly worried he thought her a little girl.

“I shave,” Hannah said, “I’m not usually like this.”

“I can see! Your preference?”

Who else? And then Hannah realised it was a subtle question about a boyfriend. “Yes mine, I was tidying for a beach holiday and got carried away! It made me laugh when I saw myself in a mirror.” Her finger was sliding up and down her slit. “What do you like?”

“Oh well, I am of course easy. You look charming like that. If I was to express a preference then it would be for the natural look.”

He was still not stroking. Hannah looked down at him. It really was a big cock. She did not think she had seen one so big. He, of course, did not shave. Men did not, she supposed, well there anyway, but if he did it would probably make the cock seem even bigger. She wanted to see him stroke it.

Hannah’s fingers slipped lower but she realised her hand was hiding her sex from him. Carefully she lifted first one foot, then the other up onto the seat so her thighs splayed and her sex was open and visible to him. He had, after all, in the hut seen pretty much everything of her and he might as well see it in detail. Her fingers ran down the smooth rounded hairless edge of her sex—the labia major—it had been a careful shaving there! Her wetness was leaking out onto the smooth skin making it slippery enough even for a razor!

At last the man began to stroke. Hannah watched as his hand moved from his hairy thigh onto his cock. Thumb on the top, fingers below and then he began sliding the foreskin up almost to cover the head and then right down again exposing it. A man masturbating.

Hannah’s fingers moved further. So strange to be watching him: and he watching her. His fingers sliding; her fingers stroking; her fingers entering and seemingly making him move a little faster; so strange to be so exposed and doing such an intimate act – with a stranger.

“I wonder if there’s a tissue.” It was so matter of fact. There they were facing each other and masturbating together, which was such a weird thing to be doing, and yet the man was being so practical. Of course his ‘stuff’ would need to go somewhere. For a moment Hannah thought of offering to swallow it for him, suck his penis and save the mess. Her fingers moved a little faster. She would not mind at all doing that, it would be good to feel that big shiny head in her mouth, roll her tongue around and feel the hot pulsing come. Her fingers slipped inside herself again—very easily. Was she turned on or was she turned on? It was no use pretending to herself. She knew what she wanted.

“I’m sorry. Would you mind if we did this properly?” She had no sooner said it than she was walking across the floor to him; she wanted to feel what that big erection would be like in her; wanted to feel full and sliding on something a little more substantial than her own fingers. The fact of his age seemed to make it acceptable.

His hand stopped moving as she stood before him. Slowly he rose. They were very close. They had not been so close before; he had not touched her before, not even their fingers had touched as he had handed her the mugs of tea: but now the very end of his engorged penis just lightly touched her tummy. It was damp at the end. It marked a change.

“You wish to copulate?

It was a funny, seemingly old fashioned expression but yes that was it precisely. Hannah nodded.

“Well, I’d hardly wish to refuse if you are sure?”

She reached out and touched his erection near the end and with pursed fingers pulled his foreskin right over his head.

“There you are. Not rude at all now!”

It would have been unfortunate if that had set him off, a sudden bubbling up of white semen from the wrinkled folds of his puckered foreskin, warm dollops of cum splashing into her hand. A big disappointment to her.

Hannah let go and the foreskin retracted all on its own. Revealing, once more, the big shiny head, all smooth and rounded—just the right shape, of course, to penetrate a woman.

Hannah got up on the bench, a knee either side of the man’s lap and hovered over his cock, her sex splayed, wet and ready to receive him.

“Ready? Here I come!”

Hannah held him and slowly let herself down, her eyes closed as she felt the knob touch her, savouring that delicious feeling of being penetrated, of being opened. She could feel it was big.

Her breath eased out of her with a sigh.

“Big, big, big,” she breathed as she let herself down. The man, this stranger, a man over twice, probably three times her age, this naked man in a hut just sat there as she slid his big penis up into her, ever so slowly. She could feel it opening her as it rose up inside her. “Oh lovely, you’re so big in me.”

Hannah paused; the penis lodged deep inside her, and opened her eyes to look at the man. “Oh, that’s nice, oh, not rude at all now, all hidden!” Hannah bit her lip as she moved back up the penis, sliding easily on her own wetness.

The man smiled at her, “No, not rude at all now.” His hands went to her breasts. Men like breasts. “Slowly, Hannah, not too fast. Let’s make this last.”

Hannah did not notice he knew her name.

The clothes side by side, together on the radiator, the man and woman joined, he sitting, she sitting astride his legs and bouncing up and down on his cock; the hut warm and comfortable: the weather outside atrocious.

Hannah managed to come first. It would have been such a disappointment, such a letdown had the man ejaculated and she found herself trying to bring herself off on an in increasingly insubstantial cock until with one desperate unsuccessful bounce it slipped from her, There was, though, none of that. The cock was as hard and big as she could wish as she felt her orgasm building; she slipped a hand between them and played with her clit as the orgasm hit her. Her eyes squeezed tight shut and her mouth open and panting. It was good—very good.

Hannah rested and then opened her eyes. “You haven’t come.” It was a statement really.

“No, whilst my erection persists almost too much I find coming, ejaculating, takes a bit more effort these days. A problem of age I suppose.”

Hannah began to bounce. She liked to be helpful. It felt as firm as ever.

“I wonder if a different position would be possible. I think it would do the trick.”

Lifting herself off, Hannah stood. “How?”

The man’s penis was as hard as before but now it was simply dripping with her wetness—almost, Hannah thought, as if it had been rained upon!

“There’s no bed for the missionary position, so could you perhaps... kneel and I could come in behind?”

And so Hannah found herself kneeling on the bench, legs splayed, her face to the wall and bottom raised so the man could approach her from the rear. She knew her bottom hole would be exposed as clear as anything in the fluorescent light—perhaps he liked that, not that she would let him try anything! It was perhaps a little undignified, but when was sex dignified? It was perhaps a little animalistic, but her desire had indeed been just that – the desire to rut.

Beneath her, Hannah felt the smooth head of the stranger’s penis once more at her entrance and then sliding easily within until the man’s thighs were tight against her bottom, his hands grasped her hips and then he began to fuck. It had been her doing the fucking whilst seated: it was now him doing the fucking, steady purposeful fucking with long regular thrusts. With one hand Hannah reached under herself and cupped his swinging balls. She knew men liked that and, to be fair, so did she. His hand reached under her and held a breast and then she felt him coming, a hard thrust at each spurt, each thrust pushing her against the wall and him against her bottom.

There were a lot of thrusts, there were a lot of spurts, there was an awful lot of semen.

The train pulled out of the station. Hannah’s clothes were all dry on her and she looked almost presentable. She smoothed down the material of her skirt. It was so pleasant to have on dry underclothes. Her new white bra and lacy panties had been as warm as toast from the radiator when she had put them on. They had felt lovely. The only dampness now came from a slightly spreading wetness in her warm panties; the sort of spreading wetness that comes from recent intercourse; a mixture of her own lubrication and a man’s semen seeping from her – quite a lot actually. She was not quite sure why she had done that with him, the stranger—had he somehow, perhaps, hypnotised her? She was unsure of her reasons: it did not seem like her at all to have engaged like that with a stranger.

Nor was she quite sure why she had agreed to meet him again the next day at his home perhaps, no probably, for some more Freikörperkultur and, no doubt, ficken.