The bag hangs off her right shoulder. It is small and light, considering it's for a four day stay, but it is still of considerable size. He's waiting for her when she comes out of the gate, and runs to her a moment later. They embrace, for the first time in years, each squeezing the other as if to crush. He takes the satchel, over her protestations, and they walk through the station. At the other end, they take the escalator, and go through the doors, to the subway. He brought an extra pass, and they quickly go through. They're speaking about the city, their recent lives, successes, and troubles, but their eyes are wandering lower.
They wait three minutes for the train, and board. There are a few scattered other passengers, mostly boarding from that same station. The train is otherwise nigh deserted. They're sitting together, her resting her tired head on his shoulder--she is still waking from the train, even as they talk.
Three stops later they disembark, and walk down the stairs to their transfer platform. They wait a few minutes more, and yet another train arrives. They get on the last car. It is the late evening, on a Thursday, on a disused line on the rearmost car, and they are the lone passengers. Still, though the car is empty, they sit in the rear alcove of the car. They sit next to each other again, though by now is she fully revived. His arm is around her waist, and, as they talk, he playfully tickles her side.
She laughs, and tickles his, and kisses his lips lightly. He returns the favor, then kisses her more deeply, sensually, with just a hint of tongue. Even as the smooch reaches its height, he tickles her again, and it ends in a sputtered giggle from both sides.
Her eyes quietly survey the train again, before she quickly unzips his fly, unbuttons his boxers [though not his jeans], and pulls out his penis, already partially erect from their tense play. She nibbles his earlobe, and whispers "See? You're ticklish, too."
Her cool hand still wrapped around his phallus, she kisses him again deeply, with tongue. As their lips part, she sticks out her tongue, and licks her right hand, then brings it down on his head. She feels it expand fully beneath her palm, in that familiar inflation she finds strangely satisfying, as she begins to stroke it lovingly. She brings her hands up and down on it, her fingers playfully running across its underside, and she revels in the subtle throbbing of his excitement.
She kisses him again, thrusting her tongue deeply down his throat, as though to dominate his mouth as fully as she now did his loins, in an embrace of lips more passionate than any either had yet felt, perhaps because of the adrenaline each took from the risk of exposure. As the kiss heightened to a fevered pitch, and as her rubbing grew faster and harder, he undid her zipper, and unbuttoned her jeans. He slid his fingers down, and felt her hair beneath.
She broke the kiss for a moment to breathe "Just like you asked," heavily, "Nothing under the denim, dear."
His fingers slid down, stroking her labia, and deliberately avoiding her clitoris. They reached the bottom of her slit, then pushed between her lower lips. Then, just as her stroking reached its low point on his shaft, he began to stroke up, over her hole. She shivered lightly, and just as her fingers tickled the top of his penis, his half-stroked, half-pinched her clitoris. Her hand dropped down his shaft, and his stroked down her slit, their mouths locked in a sensuous embrace. Up and down, their pulses quickened. Up and down, their passion built. The fifth synchronous stroke was too much denial to bear.
She swung on leg over his, straddling him, her knees at the back of his chair's seat, her hips sitting halfway up his thighs, since he was sitting forward in his seat. Her hands dropped to the base of his hard shaft, holding it like a knife pointed at herself, and she thrust her pelvis forward. Even as she did so, he sunk his fingers into her, and used his palm to cover the rest of her quivering, wet vulva. His penis was harmlessly deflected by the back of his palm.
She thrust down harder, pressing his hand into his hers, still gripped at the base of his shaft, and pushing her cleavage into his chin. "Please," she whispered, undulating her famished hips. His fingers began to move inside her and she arched her back and neck. As she did, her shirt caught on his chin, buried between her breasts, and he pulled it off the right one.
He began to move his fingers faster within her, and now her hands were not distracting him. With his teeth, he carefully pulled her bra from off her right breast, to reveal the swollen nipple beneath. He moved his lips to it, and sucked gently. She began, against her will, to moan softly as her pleasure built.
Keeping one hand wrapped around his shaft, she sunk the other one into his boxers, and began to tickle his sack, gently stroking it, even as his fingers bent and twisted inside her. They touched every inch they could find, probing, seeking, tickling and enticing her wet, tight, hot core. His tongue danced across her nipple, and ecstasy began to overtake her.
Desperately, she turned her face down, and whispered "Please, make love to me." His fingers pushed in harder, moving yet faster. His sucking grew more intense. She could feel her pussy begin to contract on the two welcome, yet torturous, probes. "Please," she continued, biting back orgasm, "I want you inside me."
He gently placed his teeth around her nipple's bulbous head. "No," he said, then sucked down hard. Her wetness drenched his hand, as he pushed it as deeply as he could inside her.
Every muscle in her body clenched to hold back the onrushing wave. "Why not?" she moaned, as the dam began to crack. He took his mouth off her nipple. With his free hand, he brushed her two arms off his groin. She was too paralyzed and distracted by her own gathering storm to resist.
