Smile If You Fancy A Shag

I only bought the T-shirt for a laugh. My mates and I were out on a pub crawl of Covent Garden, and we came across this market stall selling dozens of T-shirts. The one that caught our eye was hanging from the awning of the stall. It showed the soles of two pairs of feet, as if their owner were lying down. The large, male, pair were pointing downwards, and outside them the small, female, pair were pointing upwards. Between them were two hillocks, representing the bloke's bum. A couple of wavy lines above that indicated up and down movements. Above this image were the words 'Smile if you fancy a shag'. One of my mates peered closely at it and said, "Oi Chas, that looks like your bum."

That caused a lot of hilarity, with the others asking him how he knew what my bum looked like. I grinned, and replied, "Yeah, it was bloody hard work posing for that picture." Well, after that I had to buy the shirt. It was black, my favourite colour because it contrasts nicely with my looks. I'm Chas Butler, 26, a shade under six feet tall, with dirty-blond hair and a sunbed tan I've carefully nurtured to look natural. I work out at my local gym a couple of times a week, and when I tried the shirt on at home it stretched nicely across my well-toned pecs.

After that it sat undisturbed in a drawer for three weeks. Finally, I thought I'd bought the bloody thing, I had to either wear it or chuck it. So one day when I was going out I pulled it on, feeling like a complete berk. Normally I have no trouble finding female company, but I'd been going through a dry spell for a couple of months and I was a bit low on confidence. To be honest, I half expected women to slap me and blokes to threaten me when they saw the shirt, but generally reaction was surprisingly positive. Most people tended to do a double-take, read it carefully, then look up at me with a big grin. If they were female I normally responded with a return grin and a wink, which would often produce an embarrassed look and a sexy giggle. Of course, I got the odd dirty look or blank stare when people saw the shirt, but for the most part they took it in the right spirit: as a saucy joke intended to give them a brief laugh in their busy day.

Then one day I was caught slightly unawares on a tube journey. An American lady was sitting opposite me. She looked in her early 60s, and quite haughty, dressed in tweeds and sensible shoes, sort of a university professor type. I saw her eyeing the shirt, and when she leaned towards me I was half expecting to be told off. Instead, she asked, "Excuse me, but does 'shag' mean what I think it does?"

I gave her a wolfish grin and said, "Yes gorgeous, it means exactly that."

To my surprise she gave me an even filthier grin and, with a sigh, said, "Damn! If only I didn't have a plane to catch." Not surprisingly we got talking after that. She really was a professor, from Harvard, and she gave me her business card and told me to give her a call if I was ever in the States! That was the closest I came to getting propositioned from wearing the shirt. Until three weeks ago.

I was on the tube again, travelling home from a mate's house. I immediately noticed the girl when she got on. She was a big woman -- not tall, five-three maybe -- but probably double the weight that would be good for her. She was Afro-Caribbean, leaning towards the latter, about 22 I'd say, with skin the colour of caramel. She sat opposite me and started leafing through the newspaper that had been lying on her seat, while I quietly ogled her bare legs. She had sturdy round calves, almost like a dancer's, big dimpled knees, and absolutely massive thighs. They squeezed together, and stretched the material of her black skirt almost to breaking point. The skirt ended well above her knees, and by scrunching down a bit I found a could catch a glimpse of her white panties.

When I glanced up, I realised she'd stopped reading the paper -- and was giving me a huge grin. She had a round, fleshy face, quite pretty, big dark eyes with long lashes, a small nose, a dimpled chin, big red lips and perfect white teeth. Her hair was short and frizzy, cropped to within a couple of inches of her skull. Slightly embarrassed that she seemed to have caught me peeping at her knickers, I dropped my eyes to her statuesque bust, straining the material of an orange T-shirt.

When I looked up again she was still grinning hugely at me. She glanced down at my T-shirt, with its suggestive message, then looked meaningfully at my groin before her eyes returned to my face. Her grin was even wider than before, and she raised her eyebrows at me questioningly. I was stunned -- surely she couldn't be serious? Experimentally I gave her my cheeky grin and a wink. Her smile stretched so wide I thought the top of her head would drop back, as if it was on hinges. She widened her eyes at me, ran her tongue around her lips and shifted down a bit in her seat, causing her skirt to ride even higher up her magnificent thighs.

While I was still getting to grips with the situation the train reached my stop. Reluctantly I started to stand, wondering if she would do the same. She made a little sound and frowned momentarily. When I flopped back into my seat, not only did she start smiling again, she actually made a circle with her thumb and finger, and poked a finger of her other hand in and out of it a couple of times, leaving no possible doubt as to her meaning. To hell with getting off the train I thought, if there was any chance of getting off with that randy little bird. For another two stops our eyes remained locked on each other, and her grin stayed as constant as the Cheshire cat's. I would have liked to sit next to her and try my chat-up lines on her, but neither of us had a spare seat beside us. I noticed at some point that she was wearing what looked suspiciously like an engagement ring, but she didn't seem bothered by it so I didn't see why I should be.

As the train pulled into a particular station my little sexpot stood up to get off, glancing over her shoulder at me. Naturally, I followed like a hound on the scent of a fox, my cock stiffening in response to what was going on in my head. To my surprise she walked past the exit to the escalators from the platform to the street, and started up the emergency stairs. It was a winding staircase, and I noticed a sign warning that it had over 100 steps. People hardly ever use those stairs in underground stations, and I couldn't understand why she would, especially as she wasn't exactly athletically built.

I followed a few steps behind her, assuming she must have a phobia about escalators. However, as I got about a third of the way up the staircase I discovered what she was up to. I rounded the steps onto a small intermediate landing. There, in the semi-darkness, stood my girl, leaning on the balustrade with her back to me. The hem of her skirt was tucked into the waistband, her tiny white pants lay on the grimy floor beside her, and staring me in the face was a huge naked black arse. If my cock had been stiff before, it threatened to burst the zip of my jeans at that point. Unable to help myself, I breathed, "Fuck!"

She giggled and murmured "Mmmm" at me over her shoulder, wiggling her bum. It was absolutely crazy. She wanted me to fuck her right there in the middle of the tube station. Though most people would use the escalator, at any moment someone could have come up or down the stairs and caught us at it. If I'm honest, I think the danger probably acted as an aphrodisiac for us -- I know it did for me. I'd never had a black girl before, or a really hefty one, and despite the risk of getting caught I couldn't resist copping a feel of that gorgeous big arse. I stepped close behind her, dropped my jeans and Y-fronts, and stroked my rampant cock across her smooth warm flesh. She shivered and gave a little moan at that. Then I took a buttock in each hand and had a really good squeeze, kneading her big doughy mounds with my fingers. Judging by the way she pushed back at me and groaned, she enjoyed that as much as I did.

After a moment I felt a rush of warm air on my bare bum as another train entered the station below. I didn't hear anyone enter the staircase, but it reminded me that we were in a dodgy situation. I slipped my hands onto her generously upholstered hips and worked my cock between those meaty thighs, causing her to sigh in anticipation. For a moment my prick caught between her thighs, short of the goal; but she shuffled her legs wider apart and I slipped straight into her cunt.

God, she was burning inside, and sopping wet, clearly good and ready for it. Her pussy was lovely and tight too -- if she wasn't a virgin I reckoned she wasn't far off. I pushed deep into her and just held it there for a moment, relishing the sensation of a warm, squishy pussy wrapped round my dick for the first time in months. Then I started slamming my length into her, hard as I could, my balls slapping against her and my fingers digging deep into her beautiful, velvety hips. She was gripping the balustrade so hard her knuckles turned white. She panted and moaned as I fucked her, and on each forward stroke she pushed her lovely great bum back at me, rubbing it against me in a little circle.

I reached a hand round her and felt short, prickly pubic hair. Moving downwards I found her large clit and began rubbing a finger across it, She went wild at that, pushing back at me even harder and whimpering, over and over. Suddenly, with no warning, her pussy walls clamped tight on my cock, I felt a surge inside her and she began roaring like a lioness. Anyone on the platform probably heard her, but by then I couldn't have cared less if half the population of London had come marching up the stairs.

Having cum like a volcano, sexpot slumped forward onto the balustrade, slightly changing the angle at which I was screwing her. I took my hand back to her hips and concentrated entirely on my own pleasure, stroking her hip and bum as I pounded into her sweet, tight cunt. I lasted probably another minute before, unable to hold off any longer, I buried my cock in her to the hilt and shot a gallon of spunk up her.

I kept my cock insider her while I recovered my breath, gently stroking her hair and one buttock. I assumed that I was going to get an invite home, or at least that we'd exchange names and telephone numbers, but I was wrong. After about 30 seconds she disengaged from my prick, turned round, took my face between small powerful hands and gave me a big wet kiss, her tongue raking round my mouth. Then she scooped u[ her pants and, with surprising agility for a big girl, hopped round me and hurtled back down the stairs, not up as I'd expected. By the time I got my jeans back up and followed her the platform was empty, and I could hear the rumble of a recently departed train.

Since then, when I've got a bit of time to spare, I often spend a few hours randomly travelling the tube lines in my T-shirt. I haven't seen sexpot again, although I've looked. Last week though, I got another pull. She was in her 40s, maybe 50, a skinny bottle blonde who looked a bit washed out by life. To be honest I didn't really fancy her as such but, as my old dad would say, you don't look at the mantelpiece when you're stoking the fire, and one warm, juicy pussy is as good as another. She followed me off the train into my local park, and, without a word passing between us, gave me a nice suck to get me good and hard. Then I fucked her on all fours in the rose bushes, her knees digging into the soft earth, her thin white bum pointing skywards as I rammed my cock up her and she gasped obscene encouragement at me over her shoulder.

So, if you're a young lady -- or a more mature one, I don't discriminate -- travelling the London Underground one day and you fancy a quickie, look around and, you never know, you just might see me -- a big blond geek with an encouraging grin and what I've come to think of as my lucky T-shirt.