Knowing

When I sat down in the carriage I had only hopes that the compartment would be free of others, it's one of my hatreds of public transport - the public. Yes, you can strike up some interesting conversations, yes there are occasions when you meet someone who makes the journey pass more quickly and whom you regret never meeting again, but more often than not your companions are squealing children with vacant spaces for parents, or weird people in jogging bottoms eating cheese and onion crisps, or those public ranters who inveigle their way into your book, history or job and proceed to tell you exactly what their prejudices would do to solve whatever perceived problem you have. I dreaded the sight of buggy, Nike logo or fastidious man with a Co-op bag. The train began to leave and with relief I leant forward and took my book from my bag, looked my last on London, settled back and opened my book.

Before we'd even pulled clear of the station though, the door to my compartment slid open with a grumble and a slim young woman squeezed through the gap without fully opening it. I kept my gaze on the book, only glancing her way briefly, hoping she wasn't an overly gregarious type. She half smiled, tossed her bag on the seat and sat down beside the window quietly as the door slid slowly closed.

I took the occasional glance at her across the top of my book, appreciating her reticence as well as her slender prettiness. I'd seen her on the platform earlier, when I was having a coffee and tea cake in the station café, seen her and enjoyed watching her lithe stroll down the concourse, bare legs and strappy dress; I'd wondered as I'd sipped whether she was wearing a bra, I couldn't see any straps when I perused the pale skin of her shoulders, and there didn't appear to be any lines suggesting such, but I was too far away to tell properly. I was intrigued, continuing my study whilst feigning reading.

A gentle swell. You just couldn't tell, although certainly no straps, and no tell-tale ridges beneath that thin summer dress, but I couldn't empirically decide, so I decided she didn't and returned to the pages before me, comfortable in my little fantasy.

Some while later, with the train passing northwards at speed, I put the book down, brushed my trousers smooth and stood, a quick trip to bathroom and buffet car. She was asleep now, her head leant against the window, hair draping in sleepy loops across those bare shoulders. I slid the door open only a fraction and slowly, being careful not to wake her, and slipped away for relief and sustenance.

Returning, I leant to the little table beneath the window, placed my coffee down and stretched before sitting down. As I eased the tension my eyes fell on her again, still snoozing comfortably. Her dress gaped where she was curled against the carriage side, and now there was no doubt whatsoever: no bra.

I stood immobile, breath in inverse proportion to heartbeat, knowing I should move away, look away, but I didn't, who really would? I stood motionless for an age, soaking in every aspect of the revelation, the gentle swell, the dark pink of her nipple, delicate and small, the tip protruding, waiting to be licked, sucked. I appreciated the firm arc against her dress and the beautiful smoothness of her skin. I rearranged myself, looked again. Drinking the sight of her deeply, wishing there was any possibility of more, knowing there wasn't, one delicious breast was my lot. She stirred slightly, sighing, and I softly moved back to my seat, picked my book up again.

Just past Grantham she awoke, smiled at me, stretched and looked out of the window for a while before she left for a short while, returning a little later with a drink and a Twix. There was another brief acknowledgement as she stepped over my feet and we withdrew again into our respective thoughts.

Either my book was better than I thought, or it dozed for a while, because we were pulling out of York when next I looked out of the window. Someone, a someone with an entourage of children, peered in through the door, but moved on thankfully. My companion was sleeping once more, her feet resting on the seat opposite her, and I admired her slender ankles as my gaze returned from the departing station.

Admired her ankles, barefoot as she'd kicked her sandals off onto the floor, and ran my eyes along her lithe legs stretched across the gap between seats. It wasn't intentional, simply a natural movement, one thing to the next. Her legs were as pale and petite as the rest of her, smooth and shapely, firm calves and the swell of the thigh's strength disappearing beneath the looped drapery of her summer frock some way above her knees. I inclined my head without thinking, following the shadowy line from pale lower thigh along her shaded inside leg, appreciating the grace of her legs. A little further I leant, starting to wonder and thrill at this opportunity, she was very lovely. I wondered just how far I would be able to see, imagined the swell of her underwear's secrets, and looked harder, straightening myself again as I did so.

The temptation drew me on; I coughed, she didn't stir whatever, so I leant forward carefully, my arm tiptoeing forward toward the hem of her skirt, heart racing, as the moors' beauty passed by outside unheeded. I took the fabric in quiet fingers and lifted it, barely, slowly, trying to avoid even the brush of cotton on thigh as I tented the cloth. My angled gaze again followed those delightful thighs, looking for the swell of underwear, hoping perhaps for the snug fitted hint of her lips' outlined shape. I didn't see either.

She still didn't stir, but there were no hints, no pale, coloured or patterned knickers, beneath that loose summer skirt with its musical motifs, she was bare. No underwear. I drank in instead the sight of her mound, adorned with a blush of close dark hair, the shadow temptingly deeper running clearly down between her slender lips. I paused, gazing intently, silent and hard.

Quite as lovely as the rest of her, her sex was smooth and shapely, the hair fanning out in delicate strands from that central focal line, lifting across the gentle swell, the flesh of her lips softly visible between her parted legs, offering hints but nothing more of the intricate delicacies I could imagine lay there. I pause a moment, relishing the moment. Leaning forward further, I took her skirt in two hands now, carefully lifting the loose cotton toward her and laying it bunched across her lap, I sat back to watch, relish every inch of her, the swell of my lust almost uncomfortable.

Heart in my mouth, knowing I couldn't explain if she stirred, I leant forward again, perching on the seat edge, reaching for her and I slipped my fingers gentle across her bare sex, fingertip soft over the hair's rise, feeling the fleshy softness beneath my careful movement, slowly looking with my fingers, until one eased between those wonderful lips easily and felt the swell of her hidden ridges, felt the slipperiness of moisture within those delicate folds. He caressed, stroked, delved and pressed briefly, his fingers sliding along her wetness three or four times before he withdrew, fearful of waking her.

Sitting back, he watched her, noting almost everything about her, tasted her moisture from his fingers, before easing himself quietly from his skinny jeans and beginning to stroke. He did so quickly, urgently, sliding his hand firmly along his shaft, needing to come soon, desperate to do so before she awoke, before anyone walked by. It didn't take him long, never taking his eyes from her delectable body as he did, never easing his gaze as he thrust his hips upwards, once, twice and again, coming in rich spasms that struck the compartment floor some way away. Sated, he tucked himself away, rubbed the glistening pools into invisibility and straightened her clothing before returning to his book without noting her fluttering eyelids.

At Newcastle she disembarked, leaving her empty sandwich packet on the little table, tidying her bag before she rose. As she left him alone for his journey to Scotland, she smiled at him, "lovely to have met you," she said, her first words to him, and the door slid to behind her. On the window she'd left a heart in the condensation of her parting breath.