Train of Thought Turns to Action

About this time last year I was coming back to London on the train from Manchester. I sat in my reserved seat and hoped that somebody attractive, interesting or both would sit at the same table. Unfortunately I was soon joined by three women probably in their sixties with nothing funny, bitchy or even philosophical to say to one another. They just chatted about nothing, complete with all kinds of mild prejudice.

We'd gone past Macclesfield I think before I noticed somebody sit down in one of the seats on the other side of the aisle facing me. Actually, the first thing that caught my eye was the straight, almost black hair, just past her shoulders; then I took in the small, pretty face, the plain, tailored black jacket and the cerise turtle neck; then, oh God, the legs. Sitting down, her sharp black skirt rode well past the middle of her thighs, and the creamy colour beneath that skirt, ending in ankle-length, tall-heeled, shiny black boots, was already too much for me.

I immediately turned away for fear of having stared too long, but I couldn't help glancing back frequently. None of the women on my table showed any signs of noticing my looking across them, but the object of my looks pretty soon did. And that's when I began to get very excited. She caught my eye momentarily, leant forward and removed her jacket, making sure her breasts were pushed out as far as possible. I couldn't help but keep my eyes on her, but when she looked at me again she appeared almost shocked at my interest.

I tried to ease off for a bit to avoid the one-track-mind assumption - but it wasn't long before I got drawn back, and, it seemed, so did she. After I'd glanced at her a few times, she angled herself towards me, outstretched her perfect legs, considered them, and began rubbing a forefinger up and down from her knees to the top of her skirt, even pulling back the bottom of the skirt a fraction to examine her thighs more closely. This continued for long enough to send a pretty direct signal, especially as the only times she interrupted herself were to check whether I was watching.

I felt wild. I kind of presumed she wanted nothing more than to be admired, but I still felt wild. I didn't want to bring the show to an end but after a twenty minutes or so of this I was burning up and needed to provoke something extra, or perhaps pause and replace some of my intensity with a bit more honest enjoyment.

With a quick, "Excuse me," to my immediate neighbour, I moved out to the aisle, fixed the eye of the woman opposite and smiled for what I hoped was just long to encourage her. I turned and walked to the end of the carriage, where the automatic door opened and I walked through, deliberately looking left and right for the toilet in the corridor, even though I knew where it was. As I turned around she was there. I could hardly believe it when she opened the toilet door. I followed her in, locking it behind us.

I made to kiss her but she put her hand on my chest and held me away. The toilet seat was down completely and she sat on it. Slowly and deliberately she put her hands on the sides of her skirt and dragged it up, smiling all the time. "Cum all over my thighs..."

Just as slowly I unbutonned my trousers and pushed them down. I still felt so intense but so relaxed now, too, and I couldn't stop smiling back at her. I started to rub my cock through my briefs even though they were already pulled so far out of shape by my hardness. I took them down and, even more slowly, began to move my fingers from the top of my cock all the way to its base and back again.

Her smile got bigger, too. "Watching you wank that lovely fat thing is making me wet." She giggled and lent right back, exposing her black panties, which she quickly pulled to one side. "This is so rude," she said, still smiling at me but touching herself, gently at first and then much faster.

"Yeah," I breathed, as the sight of her lips and her fingers in them took me even further; and I moved up and down my cock, more quickly now, feeling on fire all over and like I was full of more spunk than I could ever remember shooting. "You think I'm a filthy bitch, don't you?" she said, suddenly straightfaced. I grinned. "Don't smile at me: look at my bare thighs, look at me play with my pussy. You can feast your eyes now. And what about these?" She rubbed her free hand across her breasts, all perky and straining at her tight sweater. Then she giggled again. "God, I'm so horny. I really want to see you spurt."

"I will," I said; and as I did so she took her hand from her breasts, leant forward and grabbed my cock. "I want you to finish yourself, but I've got to join in!" Her fingers felt so delicate, even though she was wanking me as fast as I was. She was still playing with herself, too, but I couldn't see her pussy now, and when she relaxed her grip on my cock I pushed her back. "Open your legs again."

"You'd better shoot for me, then." We worked on ourselves for I don't how long, devouring the sight of the other's sex exposed and on the verge of cumming; and when I did cum I struggled to move backwards and direct my unbelievably hard cock down to her thighs, spurting endless hot and sticky shots of sperm all over the tops of her legs, which made her squeal with delight, and she rubbed herself quicker than ever. I moved forward and shoved my still-hard cock in her face which she gobbled up greedily, licking cum till there was none left to lick and wanking herself to release.

I wanted to lick her out, but as I was working out how to maneouvre myself into position, she took some tissue, dabbed at herself, and pulled her panties back across her pussy as she stood up. "I really want to go back out there with your cum all over my thighs, but I don't think I can." She laughed, grabbed some more some tissue and put it under the tap. I slowly ran my hands up and down her thighs from behind, then moved them around the front and slipped my right hand beneath her panties. "Don't," she said. "I want to remember this as a real one-off." I pulled my hand away. She wiped her thighs, giggling. "You've indelibly marked me, I think. Are you going to London?" I nodded. "Don't talk to me when we get off," she said, still wiping. "Just walk behind me and stare at my legs."

"Okay," I grinned.

And that's exactly what I did, watching her hips sway and her skirt hug her and her legs all the way down to those boots. She glanced back once to check I was still enjoying her; and although I've enjoyed many encounters on public transport that didn't involve that kind of contact (I love those times when, having mad eye contact, a woman hitches her skirt up a fraction, or crosses and uncrosses her legs a few times, or leans forward to display her cleavage), like her, I remember it as a real one-off.