1. On A Train


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

    revealed above her stocking-tops. Still the woman stares out of the window, but I know she can see me staring as I lick my lips. I grope her with my eyes, enjoying the way she hurriedly avoids my eyes as she turns to look at the man next to me. When he gives another nod, the woman turns back to the window. The same agonizing slowness repeats as she uncrosses her legs, once again using fingers with red nails to arrange her skirt, making sure that both stocking-tops are visible with tiny slithers of naked flesh above them, but keeping her legs tightly pushed together. Now she looks directly at me, with eyes full of question marks. I nod, keeping my eyes glued to those little slithers of flesh. I adore the doubt, the nervousness in her eyes, but more than that I enjoy the long, slow, painful unfolding of events. I enjoy holding myself back, groping her with my eyes when every fibre of my body wants to grope her with my hands; contenting myself with looking when I’m aching to do more. The woman sits like that a little longer, her cheeks hot and flushed, her eyes nervous but fixed on me. Then slowly, slowly her legs part. Slowly, slowly I see more of her milky white thighs. Slowly, slowly she opens up, putting more of herself on show. I slide my eyes along those milky white thighs, searching, scanning, and then finally, as the woman’s legs part in tiny increments, I catch sight of the dark at the top of her legs, the fabric guarding her private entrance – intriguingly just as the ...
    train itself plunges into a tunnel. The woman’s cheeks redden. I read the question in her eyes and nod. Her hands rest just above her knees as I gaze upon the black nylon, the white flesh above stocking tops, and the black of her knickers just about visible inside her skirt. We sit like that for an age, or what feels like an age. The woman looks at the man sitting next to me, then back to me, then out of the window. She gnaws at her lip, and then finally she rises from her seat. She turns. I stare at the window, seeing the reflection of her profile there, making out how insecure she looks. It seems to take forever before she moves. It’s only when a shake of the train, darting through dark countryside, causes her to stumble that her hands move to her skirt. Her fingers grip the dark fabric, and slowly, slowly the skirt is pulled up. Stocking tops, white milky thighs, and now silky black knickers covering her nicely rounded buttocks. She pulls the skirt up to her waist, then turns, even redder now as she resumes her seat. Her legs are pushed tightly together again as she looks at me. There are real question-marks now, betraying how unsure she is of how to proceed. So far my instructions have been carried out to the letter; the ones I e-mailed her husband, the man sitting next to me, beforehand. Now we’re entering new territory; territory where neither husband nor wife knows what is coming. Neither do I. A little bit of planning goes a long way, but at some point improvisation ...
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