Riding Coach

byCharles Petersunn©

Paul was now really enjoying this. Normally this person pressed against him would be some unattractive old man, crowding into his space to hold onto the steel bar, raising up his arm so that he could smell his body odor and his stale tobacco breath. Instead, this was a most pretty young lady with full breasts pressing into his chest and, rather than body odor, he had the distinct pleasure of an intoxicating blend of fresh morning perfume, delicate hair spray, and fresh morning body wash.

Paul so enjoyed a woman's perfume. Perhaps because it was so much in contrast with the stench of commuters, trains, and subway stations. But, it was also so nice to suddenly enter in the morning the trail, the cloud, of a woman's perfume. Perfumes can be so strong in the morning, as they were so recently applied, and many ladies would leave behind them a wonderful trace of their recent presence in the morning air. In this case, he was treated to a most intimate saturation of flowery feminine fragrance.

He suddenly realized though that his hand, his arm, had been around the waist of the woman longer than really necessary, longer than would be polite or appropriate. With her grasping of the bar, she didn't really need him to hold her up. Keeping his arm wrapped around her lovely thin waist at this point could only be interpreted as an embrace.

He reluctantly withdraw his arm and grasped hold of the bar himself. He considered laying his briefcase on the floor, and placing his right gently on her hip, just to be helpful, but there was really no place to put the briefcase without risking it falling onto someone's foot. There was hardly even enough space to place it down on the floor without resting it across a foot.

The woman gave him a quizzical look, and that was a bit confusing. He had expected her to smile politely, albeit somewhat embarrassingly, acknowledging that yes, indeed, his holding her against him had been very helpful but it was time to acknowledge that this close contact is really quite uncomfortable, at least psychologically, and they should minimize it as much as possible. He wondered if perhaps she hadn't actually realized that he had been holding onto her so tightly, and her expression suggested that with the removal of his arm, his hand, she was now just realizing that he had in fact been embracing her. In any case, he averted his eyes, feeling the close, intimate contact to be embarrassing for himself as well.

"Oh!" she suddenly exclaimed.

He returned his eyes to hers.

She again looked rather distraught and perplexed, even a bit shocked, and he didn't understand it. The train was now moving rather steadily. She appeared to be firmly implanted, albeit still pressed up closely against him. What was upsetting her?

"Oh my goodness," she whispered, leaning in, moving up, more tightly against him, if that was at all possible.

He certainly did not object to her snuggling up even closer against him, or at least it felt that way, and would appear that way if anyone was looking. But he could not understand what was troubling her.

"What's wrong?" He wondered if perhaps she was having some sort of gastrointestinal problem. He thought, 'Please don't fart, lady.' It was always the worst moment of a tight commuter ride to have someone actually fart on the train. Couldn't they at least wait until they got off the train? And, of course, nobody would admit to it. Nobody would apologize. All you could see would be grimaces, frowns, and scowls as passengers were hit with the toxic cloud. He imagined that even the perpetrator of this obnoxious onslaught would scowl, thereby avoiding being detected as the true culprit. It was at times rather obvious who the guilty party was though, particularly if he looked to be seemingly oblivious to the stench that was overwhelmingly disgusting to everyone around him (and it did always seemed to be a him).

Well, Paul surely hoped not. That would certainly end the morning spell that up until this moment had been so wonderful. Perhaps though her morning perfume would be powerful enough to overcome the fetid stink. In any case, he braced himself for the rising storm. This time when he said, 'No problem,' he wouldn't mean it.

But, that apparently wasn't it, not even close. She responded by simply repeating, "Oh my goodness."

He again asked, "What, what's wrong?"

She rested her head into his shoulder, apparently too embarrassed to say, to explain, what was troubling her. This was most strange indeed.

Perhaps it was some sort of feminine problem? Perhaps she was on her period and she forgot to put in a tampon? He could certainly understand her not wanting to explain that to him.

But, that wasn't it either.

She pulled her head away from his shoulder, looked up into his eyes, and whispered ever so quietly, "The man, behind me, his hand."

Paul's brow furrowed in confusion, and then quickly he felt he understood. The reason she was pressing so hard against him must be because she was being equally pressed, and likely as indelicately, by the man behind her. And, it wasn't just his body, it included his hand, apparently in a rather sensitive place. Apparently the hand of a man behind her was touching her bottom, or something. Paul would have to admit that there were times that the back of his hand would briefly rest against a soft, round, curvey tush, and he might even leave it there for awhile, not too long though. He would remove it before it became apparent that there was in fact motive and intention behind the accidental touch. Although, in fact, that also wasn't really true. Sometimes he would just leave it there, particularly if the train was especially crowded, and it could be considered simply an innocent, inadvertent accident, one that was in fact entirely outside of his awareness, his consciousness, which is why the hand continued to rest against the soft, round, curved bottom. But, if the woman made any gesture of annoyance, of awareness, he would obviously quickly move it away, and even apologize for the unintended, accidental indiscretion.

"Here, he said, "I'll move back a bit, give you more room." It was a risky gesture, as it revealed that he could have done this earlier, if not for the pleasure of her breasts pressed against him, although in actual fact, he had no place to move to. At best he gave her just another inch, and that would require him to stand in a more awkward manner. The things a man will do to be a gentleman. He shifted about an inch.

But, it didn't help. In fact, the woman moved even more tightly against him, and apparently the man behind her shifted as well, perhaps even pressing his hand more firmly against her tush.

"No, no," she whispered, "it's still there, his hand." She added, more quietly, "it's touching my bottom."

Paul's cock twitched in response, and he didn't know quite what to do. You really do hate to make a scene on a train, confronting someone about violating your personal space. Who knows how the person will react, and perhaps it was indeed an innocent mistake. He tried to reassure her. "It is a little crowded. He probably doesn't know what he's doing. The ride will be over soon."

"No, no, you don't understand," she implored, again resting her pretty head into his shoulder as she confessed, "He's holding my bottom."

Paul having his hand around her waist had been inappropriate, at least keeping it there beyond the point of necessity had been inappropriate. But, this man was actually holding her bottom? What kind of gall, audacity, effrontery, was this?

He looked past the woman to see who would do such a thing, hoping it was not some sort of street thug or something.

It was that same man: the stately older gentleman! He was very easily recognizable, with his distinguished clothes, his sharp, well-trimmed moustache, the streaks of gray in his neatly groomed, straight back hair. Yes, it was him, and this time this was certainly not his girlfriend. Unless, of course, he had two girlfriends. He was indeed quite good looking and, by the way he dressed, he must have a pretty darned good income. He could easily afford two women, and could very well have a mistress, along with a wife. No, wait, this woman obviously doesn't know him. He was apparently boldly fondling the bottom of a complete stranger!

Paul felt the manly instinct to leap to this girl's defense. "Tell him to back off," he suggested.

Well, he obviously didn't leap to her defense. He instead just suggested that she defend herself. He would perhaps back her up.

"No, no, I can't do that."

He wasn't too sure why not. She certainly had the right to tell him to back off. But, then again, maybe it was difficult for her, as a woman, to confront bigger and stronger men. That was certainly understandable. It was obviously his duty, his responsibility, to step up to the plate and be a man. "I'll do it," he forcefully asserted, sounding more confident than he really was. Still, he would be quite willing to have the security service become involved in this, perhaps even the police. He had witnessed him doing this before. He could testify as to that. Although, he would hate to be late for work, and he certainly wouldn't want to take time off to testify in some court case.

"No, no!" She asserted, even more forcefully than he had spoken. "Don't do that. I don't want any trouble."

It seemed like that there was already some trouble, at least for her, but he was ashamed to admit that he felt some degree of relief. He really did hate to confront persons, and this man did look like he could be a powerful adversary, at least financially, if it came to something involving legal matters.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no," she softly whimpered.

"What is it?"

She let go of the bar above him, clenched his side, and whispered. "I think he's reaching underneath my skirt."

Unbelievable! This really had to be the most brazen man he had ever known. Paul again looked back over her shoulder to give the man his most assertive, forceful scowl. He would let him know that he knew full well what he was doing and that he did not approve of it!

But, it was a pointless gesture, or expression, as the man was not actually looking in his direction. In fact, he appeared to be pretending to be reading some book, using his left hand to hold onto that while his right hand was exploring beneath the lady's skirt. Perhaps he was maintaining his balance by lodging a leg against the back of the seat in front of him. Paul did at times see rather experienced, or athletic, train riders managing to maintain their balance simply by their stance. He at times tried that, but usually wound up grabbing onto something once the train lurched. In any case, his strident scowl fell on blind eyes.

He looked around to see if anyone else perhaps was noticing this outrageous act. Perhaps someone else could catch his eye. But, everyone seemed to be engrossed in a newspaper, a magazine, a novel, or just staring off in some other direction. It was like the three of them didn't even exist, at least in their world.

Avoiding eye contact was one way to deal with encroachments on personal space. It makes the crowding feel less evident, less real. Everyone winds up staring off in different directions, nobody seems to notice each other's existence, let alone engage in a conversation. The more impersonal it becomes, the less personal the space violation is experienced. Paul was though surprised that at least one of the few persons who was also closely packed within their little area, such as the woman sitting to his left, or the man standing to his right, hadn't even just at least noticed the gentleman fondling the lady's bottom and, if they had, how could they simply ignore it? "We'll talk to security at the next stop," he suggested, although he knew that the next stop would not be for some time. They were now on a particularly long stretch of the track.

The young lady sank her head into his chest, whimpered, and said, "He's feeling my panties. He has his hand on my bottom, on my panties."

Paul felt quite guilty, but still he could not help as well feeling his penis stiffen and swell at the thought of being able to fondle this woman's soft, round, firm tush as her breasts were pressed against him. Is there a better way to ride a train?

Perhaps he could deter the man by placing his own hand there? It was a bold suggestion, but it might indeed work. He quietly, respectfully suggested, "Maybe if I put my hand there, he would notice it, and then back off. You know, thinking that maybe you're my girlfriend, or wife, or something."

She looked up at him expectantly, hopefully. "You would really do that?"

It was not the reaction he had expected. He naturally assumed that she would cringe at the thought. She was already being molested by one hand, why add another, particularly one from the guy upon whom she is mashing her breasts. He responded, "If you think it would help."

"You're so sweet," she replied, smiling up at him, "and I hardly even know you."

"It's fine, really. No problem," he said, and began to work his left hand around her waist, heading toward her bottom. His dick swelled rapidly in his pants. Fortunately he was wearing loose boxers, although he did fear that she might in fact notice his hardness if he became fully erect, and he certainly would once he got beneath her skirt and onto her panty clad fanny.

She suddenly exclaimed, "No, no, wait!"

His had paused on her right cheek, outside her skirt.

"I can't, I can't. It's just too embarrassing. I'm sorry, really, please, stop."

She didn't really have to apologize. It had seemed a bit surreal to even consider slipping his hand under skirt. He gave her bottom cheek a couple of little understanding pats before retreating his hand. But, he didn't fully withdraw. He returned it to her waist, holding her against him, for reassurance and comfort.

"Oh!" She gasped, and clutched his body, pulling herself closer, tighter, against him. He could feel her gasping breaths through the rising and falling of her breasts pressing against him. "He's sticking his finger under my panties. He's going to touch me.....there."

She didn't say exactly where, but he could imagine.

He never had a woman describe to him what's it like for her to have sex, to describe to him what she was feeling as he was nibbling on her nipple, squeezing her bottom, or slipping his cock up her hole. In fact, none of his girlfriends had ever said much of anything when they had sex. They would moan, gasp, sigh, and whimper, but they didn't actually say anything. They certainly didn't provide a running commentary, and he now realized that doing so was actually rather erotic, hearing a woman describe to him what is happening, what she is feeling, while she is being fondled, and perhaps even fingered.

"Oh my, oh my," she gasped. "His finger is on my, my, well," she paused, "you know."

"No, no, I don't," he lied. "What is he doing?" He really wanted to hear her say it.

"Oh please, don't make me say it, it's so embarrassing."

"I understand," he whispered, giving her a comforting squeeze. "You don't have to tell me."

But, apparently she did. "It's just that, it's so, so personal, I mean, well, it's on my thing, my womanhood. Oh my," she sighed, and shivered against his chest.

"Are you okay?" He didn't know too much else what to say. She didn't want him to interfere, but he could hardly stand there and do nothing, plus he didn't want to be left out. He wanted to hear every detail.

She shifted her left hand from his side, squeezed it in between their bodies, and gripped his masculine chest. "It's so embarrassing," she confessed. She whispered, "He knows I'm wet."

Paul's cock surged with the confession. She was actually enjoying it? He had to wonder if perhaps that was why she didn't want him to interfere. Could that really be true?

"He's fingering me now. He's sticking a finger in and out of my, my..." She hesitated to complete her sentence, and then added, "my pussy. He's doing it to my pussy with his finger. Oh my goodness!" Her breathing was becoming deeper, and faster, and he could detect some movement of her hips.

He shifted his pelvis to try to give her more wiggle room, quite literally so, but also positioning his own hardness so that it received more direct, intimate contact.

The elder gentleman appeared to consider this to be an opportunity to escalate his game. Paul saw him lower his hand that was holding the book, his full attention shifting directly to the lady's bottom.

"Hmmm," she moaned. "I think he's stopped." But, she then suddenly broke from his chest and looked up into his eyes, her eyes flush with arousal but expressing as well shock and dismay. "Oh no! He's pulled my panties down! He's got my panties down off my bottom." She buried her face back into his chest and said, "I just so hope that nobody can see this, that nobody can see my bare bottom."

Paul had the thought that perhaps he should check, just to be certain. She might want to know if the panties were also down in the front as well. He could politely reach under her skirt to see if he could feel her open, bare naked cunt. It might in fact be helpful to have a third party confirm that her panties were in fact down, just in case she did want to take this to court. But, he also appreciated that she could very well interpret his gesture as an effort to finger her from the front as the gentleman was fingering her from behind. And, frankly, she would be right.

Once the gentleman had pulled her panties down far enough to gain easier access, he brought the book back up to read, and he resumed his fondling and fingering as he pretended to read the book.

Paul again looked around them. It was hard to imagine that nobody was seeing this, but it was true that only the man to his right and the woman to his left, and a couple of other men pressed in back of her and the gentlemen, could really see anything, and none appeared to be at all aware or, if they had noticed, they were certainly acting like they were completely disinterested.

The panties had not been pulled down so far that they could be seen beneath the hem of the woman's skirt. It was a rather short skirt, which facilitated the gentleman's effort to slip his hand up inside, but it was long enough so that the panties were not at all visible, bunched up just below her bottom cheeks. Still, as his hand worked its way back up her skirt, any person within the immediate vicinity would be able to see what was happening. It's a little obvious what is going on when a hand disappears beneath a skirt, with quite obviously meaningful and suggestive movements. Paul was surprised at the risk this gentleman was taking. Although, he was also being well rewarded for the effort. It would be rather nice, to say the least, to fondle and finger a pretty lady with a cute tush.

"He's got his hand on my bottom again," she whispered up to him.

The train took a sudden lurch.

"Oh!" She squealed, as she almost lost her footing.

Paul almost fell as well, as she was relying on him to hold her balance, and his hands were no longer braced against any part of the train. Perhaps though she should in fact give thanks to the gentleman behind her, for just as the train lurched he plunged two fingers up inside her cunt, effectively lodging, impaling, her onto his fingers, thereby providing a supportive spike upon which to help maintain her balance.

The gentleman's fingers stuck up her cunt were probably not the key factor in keeping her from losing her footing, and she was unlikely, in any case, to thank him for his help even it they were helpful. In fact, she felt more like she was skewered on his fingers, rather than steadied.

Once everyone's balance was restored, the gentleman began his fingering in more earnest, sliding the two fingers in and out of what was now a well-heated and voluptuously moist cunt. Fortunately, the noises of the train were sufficiently loud that one could not hear the slurping and slushing noises of her slit as his fingers slipped in and out. And, being the gentleman that he was, he also helped her enjoy his game by bringing his thumb into play on her clit as well.

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byCharles Petersunn© 14 comments/ 127411 views/ 35 favorites

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