Just a little voyeuristic tale for those so inclined. Apologies to Paula Hawkins... I couldn't think of a better title. I hope you enjoy it! ~ Lily
It was her face that drew him in first.
He loved to watch a woman read, and she clearly loved to read. She was completely engrossed as she turned the final pages of her novel, her legs crossed, her coat and a water bottle slung carelessly on the seat beside her.
The train was almost empty. The girl was in the middle of the car, he was in a backwards-facing seat at the end.
There was a sweet, grey-haired couple at the other end, and the elderly woman's head lolled rhythmically towards her husband's shoulder as she snoozed, rocked to sleep by the relentless thrum of the train.
Mark was only a visitor in this car. He had a comfortable private cabin at the other end of the train. But, as an observer of life, of people, a man who made his very living on the back of such observances, he was tired of the chatter and social climbing of the private dining car.
He had endured it for two nights already, and had three to go before he reached his final destination on the other side of the mountains. He didn't want to be approached by heavily-mascaraed women, choking in the fog their perfumes as they asked "and what do YOU do?" which was inevitably followed by the shriek "Oh, an AUTHOR! What have you written?"
That was the bore, then, of the pen name. You could introduce yourself by your real name, and never be recognized again. Or you could introduce yourself by your pen name and then be hounded by questions about your writing. The work was heaven, the public life a chore.
Mark sighed. This was better, this nearly empty car, with three companions, two near sleep and one immersed in her book.
He shifted his eyes back to the girl now. She had long, wavy auburn hair and hazel eyes with thick, dark lashes. She was dressed in soft, worn jeans and a cosy grey sweater. Her beauty was effortless, he thought, and her grace and casual warmth made one want to look and look and look.
She was on the final page of her book, her eyes glued to the page, her lips pressed together. After a few moments, she closed the book gently and ran her fingers over the cover, as if she could stroke and comfort it. Mark knew that feeling well, that pang of saying goodbye to a story and characters you have loved, and yet to to be fully satisfied with the conclusion.
The girl closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the headrest, holding the book in her lap.
Mark was touched. What a darling, he thought, to be so moved by words. She hadn't taken out her phone once since he had been watching her, and he was struck by how rare that was, these days, at least.
Finally, she opened her eyes, shifted in her seat. She reached down to the backpack at her feet and pulled it on to her lap, carefully tucking the book inside and pulling out another.
He couldn't help but smile. Clever girl, he thought. She packed for this long journey.
But her demeanour was different now, somehow furtive, a gentle pink flush appearing above her sweater.
She handled this book differently, not like a friend, but like a secret, grasping it more tightly, her eyes flicking around the car. Mark looked out the window for a count of five, and then back.
She was handling this book differently, curling the cover around so it would mask the information on the spine. But the book was new, stiff, and the cover slipped out of her hand for a brief moment and flipped towards Mark.
And that's when he saw his name on the cover. His pen name, of course, but his name, peeking out from between her fingers.
He felt a thrill flooding his chest.
She was reading his collection of short stories. His words. His erotica.
She was going to immerse herself in sensual, dripping, flowing words, while he watched her take them in.
Did she realise, sweet girl, the kinds of things he wrote? The line he walked between art and filth?
But she must, he thought, given her care to conceal the cover and title. The cover was innocuous, really, you wouldn't know that it was erotica to look at it.
She must have known.
Had she read his earlier volumes before this one?
She turned the first page, and he watched her body shift, relax into his words. There was something about watching a woman get pulled into a story, develop an interest in the characters, to find her way in. Her face relaxed, and she casually crossed one leg over the other, the rocking of the train making her breasts sway ever so slightly under her sweater.
Mark watched her meet his characters. The first story told the tale of a younger woman and an older man. Not on a train, but still.
What would be her first tell, he wondered?
Four minutes passed, then five. She must be close to that spot in the first story, where Amanda is overcome with her lust for David. Where she lies on her bed, alone, and runs her hands over her body, thinking about the mysterious older man who has filled her thoughts all day.
And there it was, the first hint of arousal. Not much, just two fingers reading up to pull and stroke a lock of hair. An unconscious movement, but hot and blatant in Mark's eyes.
He knew what it meant. And he knew what it meant when her fingers left her hair and dipped just into the soft neckline of her sweater, to stroke the ridge of her collarbone.
He felt his cock thicken as her colour rose in her cheeks. The tip of her tongue slipped across her upper lip.
She seemed to suddenly come to an awareness, and moved to uncross her legs. Mark knew that she would use her shifting body as an excuse to look around, to make sure no one was watching.
He turned his head to the window, to save her the embarrassment of his gaze.
Poor girl, maybe she didn't know what kind of book she had picked up after all.
It took all of his restraint to keep his eyes focused on the passing scenery in the deepening twilight. He slowed his breath and willed his cock to soften. She was probably putting the book away right now, straightening her top.
He wondered if her pussy was wet, if her arousal was beginning to dampen the gusset of her panties.
When he finally allowed himself to glance back at her, however, the book was still in her hand. All was the same except now, her jacket, previously thrown aside, was covering her lap.
Her lap and the lower half of her right arm.
A surging weight flowed into his cock, into his balls, and his abdominal muscles tightened involuntarily. Heat bloomed in his belly.
He struggled to keep his eyes from glazing, and focused on her right elbow.
It took a moment, but then he saw it, tiny, slow, almost imperceptible movement. The kind of movement that you'd see just from the smallest swipe of a middle finger over a hotly swollen clit.
His eyes darted to her face. Her colour had grown deeper. He watched her eyes move across the page. He thought he could tell when she had found a particular sentence or phrase that moved her.
The signs were tiny. First, she caught just the corner of her lower lip between her lips, and then released it with a long exhale. He couldn't hear it, but he could see her breasts lower as the air left her chest. Then the tongue, just darting out to the corner of her mouth.
And her elbow, moving constantly, the same slow, insistent pace, as she teased herself.
Time was standing still, and flying. He had no idea how long he watched her tiny flexes, the stutter of sudden breaths, the fluttering of eyelashes as she fucked herself with his words.
