My name is Martha; I’m just a little over seventeen and have a fascination with cameras, especially CCTV cameras. I’m a bit of an exhibitionist at heart and developed this fetish, for want of a better word, when I was sixteen. For some reason, unlike other girls of my age, my breasts didn’t stop growing. They only seemed satisfied when the buttons of every shirt I possessed were close to busting. Of course, their size focused numerous open stares from the boys at school and the leering glances of men in the street, parks and cafes. I don’t know which was worse in the beginning, but I soon got used to all of them. It made me excited to think that all those eyes, hands and dicks wanted to get close to me. Touch me. Feel me.

What sparked my imagination the most wasn’t the boys ogling my tits or the men on packed buses looking down my cleavage. For some reason, it was the stares I couldn’t see that turned me on the most. It was the men behind the cameras that had my juices flowing.

I wasn’t even sure whether anyone was watching, but that didn’t stop me from putting on a show. Even on buses, I’d deliberately choose to sit downstairs because that always filled up quicker. I’d always undo the top couple of buttons on my blouse, and I’d always sit upright in the seat near the front, close to the cameras that monitored the passengers. The road surface and the driver did the rest. Older men would gather around me. I could feel their eyes peering down into my cleavage, wishing the constant jiggling would cause one of my boobs to slip out. Sometimes I wished it would, too. I think I would have asked one of the lecherous men to give me a hand putting it back in, but they stayed put, held firmly by the strained buttons and armour-like bra. Getting off the bus always caused a snigger. I’d have to push past them, swivel, and push past the next, making sure that their elbows or arms felt plenty of tit flesh on the way.

I wonder to this day whether they knew I did it on purpose or not. I only know the way it made me feel. I was sure that what I was doing didn’t classify me as a slut because I loved it.

I had to catch the London Underground and a connecting bus to go to school; it’s only a short ride on the train, so there’s little chance to get up to anything salacious. But those CCTV cameras used to call to me as soon as I got on the platform. I couldn’t help but look at them. Stare at them. Wonder who was behind them.

Then I realised that someone, behind the lens, could be staring at me too. It made me feel hot and horny thinking that some bloke would be following me as I walked down the platform. More to the point, they’d be following my tits as they jiggled. That thought made me act wantonly. I'd often stop short of the platform, take off my tie and undo a few buttons before walking down the stairs. Heavy footfalls ensured my tits would bounce up and down and from side to side. I imagined the men or young teenagers manning them having to adjust their cocks in their trousers while leering at me. Or at least, that’s what I hoped they were doing.

I felt powerful, desirable, wanton. I’d often wet my panties just thinking of what they were doing. As soon as I got home, it would be upstairs, knickers off and a couple of fingers in my snatch to bring me off quickly. Mother thought I was being diligent and doing my homework early. If only she knew the truth of it.

I’d always leave the house with the intention of showing off to some cameras on my journey.

I first got a wicked idea when I missed my train one afternoon. The platform was half empty, and I could see cameras on the other side of the tracks, one of which pointed across to the bench I was sitting on. The next day, I missed two trains and found the platform practically empty. All the people had clambered onto the previous trains in their haste to get home. It was eerily silent, except for the announcements. I sat on the bench and looked up towards the CCTV camera opposite, wondering who was behind it and whether they had zoomed in on my cleavage. That musty smell you get in underground stations filled my nostrils, and yet I was pleasantly surprised that I liked it.

I missed the first two trains deliberately every day after that. From my satchel, I pulled out a card and held it towards the camera opposite: ‘If you're watching, then why not let me know? I could be a naughty girl.’ At the bottom was my email address in bold letters. I sat there and just held it steady until the train entered the station.

It took fifteen days before I received an email. I was thrilled to bits. It wasn’t as bold a reply as I would have liked, and it almost seemed as if the person was shy or scared to bits that they’d lose their job by doing so. Slowly, over time, we exchanged a few emails, and we discovered that he sits and watches that bench every Thursday at four thirty in the afternoon. You can imagine my state of mind knowing that. Knowing that he’d be watching my tits jiggle as I sat there, sometimes fingering my nipple through my blouse out of boredom, even pinching it. I used to imagine that the person was standing right in front of me while I performed for them.

I felt relieved that my efforts had paid off and randy as hell for what was about to occur, because I had decided to put on a show the following Thursday.

And so it was that I strolled to the bench practically naked underneath my top and skirt. I had removed my bra and knickers in school and strolled out bold as brass. Tits wobbling and a beautiful cold breeze wafting over my pussy with each step. There were only a few people on the platform, and they were at the other end. I sat on the bench, looked up at the camera and smiled. I squeezed my breast, pinched my nipple and bit my lip. I did this a few times.

I wondered what he would be doing, where his hand would be? Did he have his cock out? The only thing I hoped he hadn’t done was cum already. I felt excited, make that horny as fuck, and I didn’t care about how old this person was, whether they had a beard or hair, or whether they were married. Part of me wished they were married because that drove my fantasy onto a higher level, thinking it was some desperate guy who didn’t get sex at home and was taking his liberties with me on the station.

I stared at the camera and leaned back against the bench, knowing what I was about to do. I looked to my right just once to make sure nobody was close. And even if they were, so what?

I heard the notification of an incoming email on my phone but ignored it. I was hoping it was him, watching me. I opened my legs, pulled my skirt up a little and left him in no doubt that my pussy was on full display. I let my finger slip down between my labia and stroked it with a leering smile on my face. Fuck, it felt so good to be playing with myself.

‘Look at me. Look at what I’m doing. Fingering my twat for you.’ Those words formed in my head, and I practically yelled them at the camera. But was I doing it for him or for me?

I played with my pussy, gathering up some juice that was already leaking out and smearing it over my clit. I heard another notification on my phone and just loved it when they kept arriving as I kept fingering myself. My breathing caused my breasts to heave, and I nearly lost it when a finger slipped inside.

Fortunately, I stopped myself, because I had prepared a few notices and pulled the first from my satchel and held it in front of me.

‘I’m so fucking wet right now.’ It said.

I left it in place for a few minutes, enough time for him to read it.  My fingers tapped my pussy, and I ended up putting one foot on the bench before slipping a finger right inside up to my knuckle. I pushed my fingers in and out. I hadn’t prepared the notice that said, ‘I wish it were your cock.’ But, secretly, I wished that.

My other hand had found my nipple and was pulling on it, stretching it, making it throb and hurt. I had to release it to get the next notice out of my satchel.

‘I’m fucking cumming.’ It said.

And I was, with my fingers back on my nipple and my other two fingers swirling like the flames of a hot fire over my clit, I found myself in the throes of orgasm on platform two. My cunt was throbbing with convulsions that caused my body to jerk and my pussy to gush all over my hand. My legs clasped together uncontrollably, and I found myself panting and sitting upright on the bench. My body, leaning forward, swaying and thoroughly sated.

More notifications poured onto my phone, and I couldn’t wait to read them. Hopefully, there would be messages to say how much he’d enjoyed seeing me masturbate and cum, and maybe an image of his cock with his hand running over it. In my wildest dreams, I wished for a small video of this dirty older man spurting his thick cum all over his hand. I know that if I had received one, I would have spent the whole week masturbating to it.

I blew out a long breath. Sucked in more air, looked up at the camera and smiled. I leaned back into the bench. The electronic noticeboard informed me that the next train would arrive in one minute.

I quickly got my phone from my satchel, opened it and started reading the emails from him. I wanted him to see me read them.

‘You look gorgeous. I love your big tits.’

‘Oh my God, you’re so hot, and your pussy is gorgeous! I’m zooming in.’

‘Fuck! I can’t believe you’re doing this. I think I’m going to have to join you. Would you mind if I masturbated too?

That was just the response I needed to read; that was what it was all for, and a huge smile appeared on my face. I immediately looked up at the camera and smiled.

The next email had an attachment. I couldn’t wait to open it. I was slightly disappointed to find it was a picture from his camera showing me gushing all over the platform. I felt a huge sense of gratification at seeing it, but I really wanted to see him spurt. I wanted to see his cock with his hand around it, poking through his company-supplied trousers.

Another email arrived, with another attachment. I was beside myself. Please let this be a picture of his big cock. I clicked on the attachment and opened it.

FUCK! My eyes opened wide. Far wider than they were used to. My lower lip dropped to the floor, but then I started to recover my senses, and the subterfuge made me smile. It was my own fault. I found myself biting my lip but didn’t know what to do next.

The signing name was Ronnie. Uh-oh. It suddenly dawned on me that I had a friend called Ronnie – short for Veronica. I’d presumed it was a he.

I stared at the picture of a woman, maybe twice my age, with trousers and knickers hanging off one leg that was perched on the desk and with her fingers inside her pussy. Her tits were nearly as big as mine, but not quite. She had the most adorable and prominent nipples that were aching to be sucked. Her pussy was dripping wet, and I mean dripping. You could see rivers of cum pooling on the seat and dripping off it onto the floor.

I would have to admit that I felt a little disappointed at first, but then, having looked at the image for almost a minute, I found that I was attracted to her. To her body, her tits, her pussy, and her gorgeous smile. It was the smile to die for, the smile that said, ‘two can play this game.’

If you had asked me whether I had lesbian tendencies, I would have had to say a resounding no. This image changed me. In an instant, it changed who I was and how I thought about myself. It wasn’t the image that did it, per se. It was actually what we did together, and unknowingly so, at least from my perspective.

Another email reached my inbox as the train pulled into the station.

‘You’re shocked, aren’t you? Weren’t expecting to see me? Thought it was some bloke!’ It said.

I thought I had hidden my shocked look so well. Obviously not. Normally, I would have got on the train and that would have been that, but this woman had my full attention. I felt it would have been wrong to run away onto public transport and hide. I stayed, rooted to the bench. I prepared my reply and watched as the train pulled away, revealing the camera. I pressed send.

‘Yes, I did think you’d be a bloke. Can we meet up in person? I want to suck on your tits.’

My reply shocked me, and I honestly couldn't tell why or what made me write it. It just reflected perfectly how I felt at the time. I watched as the camera bounced up and down in three quick motions. I licked my lips, waiting for her response, only to read that she was about six miles away in some purpose-built office and didn’t finish work until eight that evening.

‘What are you doing Saturday?’ I responded. Not quite believing that I had sent that previous message or that I wanted to see her, and I mean, see her, in all her glorious flesh.

The next train announced itself in seven minutes. I had that long to wait. I wondered what I could possibly get up to in seven minutes.