1. On A Train


    Date: 6/22/2017, Categories: Cuckold, Author: PervyStoryteller, Rating: 7, Source: LushStories

    Tuesday evening. A quarter past eight. It’s dark out. As the train eases out of the main station, the interior of the carriage reflects in the window. I’m right at the front of the train, my back to the driver’s cabin. There aren’t many people in this carriage, since most can’t be bothered to walk the full length of the platform. Nevertheless, I have two people in close proximity. On my left, next to the aisle, is a man dressed in a shirt and a jacket. He’s taken his overcoat off and laid it on the seat opposite. Opposite me is a woman. She too has removed her coat. I don’t look at her directly. Instead I regard her reflection in the window. I recognize her, or rather I half recognize her. I haven’t seen her face before, only images of her from other angles. She looks nice, a little preoccupied. Her dark hair would tumble down over her shoulders if it wasn’t pulled up and fastened with a bulldog clip. She’s sparing with her make-up; lip-gloss rather than lipstick, just a hint of drama about the eyes. If her cheeks look a little red, I doubt that it’s rouge. I imagine her as a receptionist or something, effortlessly efficient, always friendly. I don’t know, you see. Even though I half recognize the woman, I know very little about her. I’ve never met her, never seen her in the flesh. As we trundle further out from the metropolis, I turn away from the window to focus attention on the rest of her. A tight red sweater gives her boobs a nice shape. They’re not enormous, but they ...
    look just fine. Her legs are crossed; shapely legs, emerging from the black skirt that reaches half way down her thighs, black nylon accentuating their desirability, as do the heels that top (bottom?) things off. I make no attempt to hide the trajectory of my eyes, and the woman’s cheeks grow a little redder under my gaze. She averts her eyes, glancing instead at the man sitting next to me, as if for support. I sense an almost imperceptible nod from the man as I stare at the woman’s bosom, enjoying the way it moves as she breathes; breathing perhaps a little uneasier than she might. The woman turns her eyes back to me; half looking, half not, as I lower my gaze, admiring the fullness of what I can see of her nylon thighs. As the train picks up speed, the woman turns to stare out of the window, which really means she is staring at the reflection of the carriage, at the two men opposite her. A hand lands on her thigh; a slender hand with long, thin fingers and immaculate red varnish on her nails. Fingertips fiddle with the hem of her skirt. I watch her bosom rise and subside, watch as she nibbles nervously at her bottom lip. As she stares resolutely out of the window, her fingers slowly grip the hem of her skirt. She’s wearing her nerves on her sleeve as she inches the skirt higher up her thigh. Slowly, slowly the skirt rises. Agonisingly slowly, until deep black appears; the elasticated top of her hold-ups. Slowly, slowly the skirt rises a little more, until a slither of skin is ...
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