Train of Tempted Thoughts

The first class diner car was less than half empty after the train crawled away from the station, emptied by commuters resigned to other forms of transport, but John remained. He knew he was going to be late but he had phoned ahead and been told 'as and when you arrive', and the Times crossword was as engrossing as ever so he welcomed the extra time.

Over the top of the paper he was aware of someone shuffling into the seat opposite him, on the other side of the table. He glanced casually over the top of the paper and got glimpses of dark reddish hair and green eyes, as the smartly dressed woman settled down. They exchanged a fleeting smile before John returned to the mysteries of six across and nine down.

The woman pulled out a book and started reading. With a furtive glance round she let one hand slip under the table, and hitched her knee-length suit skirt up as far as she dared, letting her finger trace a daring line up her thigh, over the tops of her hold-ups, and onto the black silk panties that hid her intimacies. As her other hand held the paperback flat on the table, expertly flicking the page over with practiced fingers, her other teased the sensually thin material aside, and slipped a finger into the damp darkness, caressing the warm wetness with equal consideration.

As she lost herself in the erotica of her novel, she eased her heels off and carelessly let a stockinged foot brush John's ankle. John frowned and, concentration momentarily lost, his pencil slipped from his hand to roll from the table onto the seat beside him. Expertly keeping his paper up as a shield, he reached for it, only to see it fall on the floor. With a 'tsk' of annoyance he reached down, casually glanced under the table, and saw the secretive play inside the woman's skirt. Stunned, he almost banged his head on the table as his fingers gripped the pencil, and unconsciously he thumbed its long hard length back and forth, as substitute for something else.

Slowly he erected himself back behind the paper, and peered over the top at the woman. Her eyes held the pages of the novel, which she flicked with slender finger one after the other with astonishing speed-reading, her hidden hand giving only the barest hint of its equal dexterity and increasing speed. Parted lips, tongue occasionally running over them in suppressed lust and desire, slow almost breathless pants. John was aware he now clenched the pencil tight, his thumb raw from rubbing its length hard and fast, as a bulging tightness began to betray itself in his trousers. And then it snapped in two.

The gunshot crack startled the woman, as John's paper dropped in front of him, and their eyes met. She snatched her hand back up and tried to look calm but she had been on the edge, the very verge of sensual satisfaction, as her literary heroine had been ravished in explicit detail, and she shared the vicarious lust, hanging on every word. She bit her lip indecisively, wondering how much he suspected. And he blushed, knowing what she was doing, but unsure if he should or could share in her secret. Both became aware of the subtle soft scent of her arousal, the heady musk her wet fingers had brought onto the table top. The secret was pretty much out.

John tried to break the brittle uncertainty both felt. "Good book?" he enquired. Throat tight with frustrated arousal, the woman just nodded all too quickly, a mixed expression of desperation and fear. He knew the look, the need, and his heart went out to her while his own arousal gave him rare opportunity. Glancing round it seemed unlikely they would be joined as the next station was some way off. He kicked a shoe off and eased the sock from his foot, and brought it up so the heel rested on the seat between her thighs. then he let his toes caress the stockinged skin and find their way past the tops to the fluffy wetness curtained by the silky panties. With skilled manipulation, his big toe pulled them over and dipped into her damp darkness. The woman's hands splayed in shocked but grateful expression, one over her book, the other still wet and glistening on her painted nails, the perfume of her pussy on them making John even more daring. He felt her hips begin to wriggle, her full folds grinding on his toes as he pushed just a little more deeply. She bit her lip, a blossoming blush on her cheeks and a gaze, locked on his, of such hunger in her eyes as she felt herself slipping into satisfaction. She widened her thighs, fingers grasping the table surface as the forgotten book flipped shut. He was her hero now, the savior of her story, the rugged rebel ravishing her to rawness.

John could feel the soft soaked squeezing on his toes, as the train brakes screeched for another stop on the line. The loudness obscured her own squeal as she trembled and quivered, fingers curled in pained pleasure, as his toes brought her to a shuddery satisfying climax. The fluttering on him as he foot-fucked her was almost more than he could bear. His own needs required indulgence too but undisturbed as they were, there was little privacy for what he would really have liked...

The woman composed herself from the craving of her climax, bringing tissues from her bag to wipe her fingers, and offered some to John as he withdrew his wet toes to back under him. He was now as frustrated as she had been, his sexual Samaritan gesture sacrificing his own calm. He longed to be fully between her thighs, not just dipping a toe in the rippling pond of her puss. And from the look in her eyes, the desire was matched if not exceeded.

Making sure no-one would see, she quickly darted under the table, and he felt her fingers undo his zip, tug the achingly stiff shaft of his cock out from his briefs to poke exposed in his lap. Then something soft being pulled over it... his discarded sock. "Don't want you to make a mess." he heard her whisper before she emerged on the other side, trying to look as innocent as a tainted angel could. Then as the train slowly moved on her stockinged feet, strangely muffled in sensation by the sock yet arousing in a different way, closed on it. Stroking and caressing it, soulfully with her soles. Toes teasing the tip, and heels holding him hard. It didn't take long...

The dry fluffiness of his sock was filled in moments as a tormented torrent of clinging climatic cum squirted into it. The woman hummed a smile of approval as she felt the wetness tween her toes, soaking her stockings, the warmth sensual and inviting. Their eyes met again, as they shared a secret sensuality no-one else in the carriage suspected. And as John pulled off the sodden sharp-scented sock, they decided maybe they should make the most of their London destination, and phoned their respective rendezvous to tell them they wouldn't be making it today...