Soaked To the Skin Pt. 01

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.