The Privacy of a Crowded Train

I am a social deviant. When riding on the train each morning I always examine the faces of those traveling with me, sometimes making eye contact. I am searching for a hint of recognition, for a sign that they remember, that they know who I am.

I live in Newark and commute to New York every morning on the 6:40 train. I always catch the same train and after a while you get to recognize the faces of the other regulars. The train is always over full in the mornings and it's not uncommon to be crammed in with pressed right against the others around you.

A few months ago in August I was on the train as usual. It had been over 90 degrees all week and I was wearing a low cut skirt and a thin blouse. Shortly after Harrison station I felt a hand push against my thigh which in itself wasn't unusual but instead of immediately pulling back, as one usually would, the hand remained on my thigh. I wondered what I should do. At first I wasn't sure if it was intentional, but it was too long and too firm to just be the result of the tight quarters. Should I move away? I thought. But, why should I move away? I was here first.

I was still thinking this as the hand slowly moved up my thigh. I could feel the individual fingers pressing into my skin through the fabric of my skirt.

At this point I wanted to move away but I was mesmerized by the audacity of his touch. I stood motionless and for a minute or so the hand remained firmly on my thigh as the train continued its journey. After a little bit though, I felt the hand start to wander again across my skirt in the direction of my inner thigh.

The owner of the hand was obviously behind me on my left. I could feel someone pressing against my back and thought that it could be them, but I couldn't be sure. There were so many people in the small train car.

Two fingers started to creep up my thigh toward my private area. It bothered me and excited me at the same time. I unconsciously moved slightly, turning my hips towards the hand but remained facing the way I was. I somehow wanted this hand to touch me between my legs but I was afraid at the same time. Who was this? Was this one of the regular commuters who ride this way everyday?

The train came to the stop at Journal Square and the hand stopped moving. As more people crammed in, the crowd moved us further against the train wall, where the doors open on the other side. My side was against the glass window and I was facing the doors. The train started again. I tried to see who it was in the reflection of the glass panel, but all I could see were two men in well tailored suits and an old Asian woman. I couldn't see a face.

The hand moved up and pressed into my pussy through my skirt. I could feel the moisture in my pussy starting to flow in anticipation of this mystery hand making direct contact. I wanted to open my legs and put the hand right up my skirt.

The hand stroked my pussy through my skirt. The middle finger pressed in deep, parting my lips and following the contours of my pussy from the bottom up to my clit. It then released its hold on me and dropped down to the bottom hem of my skirt. It gathered up the fabric with its fingers and the hand slipped in between my legs. I could feel the finger tips on my naked inner thigh and then almost immediately on the wet lips of my pussy.

The fingers moved over my pussy lips, pushing my thong out of the way and feeling their way blindly, sometimes bouncing and bumping as the train rumbled down the tracks. The fingers pressed against my tight slit, I opened my legs slowly and slightly. Teasing the fingers of the hand to enter my dripping little pussy.

The train stopped and my heart seemed to stop, I didn't want the fingers to stop but I didn't want anyone to see a hand up my dress either. I pressed myself closer to the hand. The doors behind me closed, and the train started off once again. The fingers opened my slit and a thick middle finger slide up inside my aching pussy. The fingers gently circled my clit, which by this time was swollen with excitement The finger started to penetrate my pussy slowly, rubbing and pressing my clit as it did. Twice more the train stopped but the hand continued to stroke me. Each time I worried that the doors in front of me would open exposing my situation to a new group of commuters. At the same time I feared that when we stopped the hand would disappear and I would be left with an open and unsatisfied pussy.

When my orgasm finally came, I had to bite my lip to hold back the release. Behind me I could hear a soft sigh, almost like a deep soft intake of breath. The thick middle finger now slippery with my natural lubricant buried inside me, feeling me contract and tighten as I came. Slowly the hand released my pussy and in a fragment of a moment it was no longer there.

Two stops later I had to get off, so I had time to compose myself. My legs were wobbly. My panties were soaked and sticky and the walk to my office was uncomfortable. When I arrived I went straight into the restroom. I removed my panties and dropped them in my purse. I washed myself with some cool water, and dried off with a paper towel. I went to my desk, but I couldn't focus on anything all day. I kept thinking of that hand and those fingers.

Each morning now though I look to see if I will ever meet my travel companion again.