The train was busy.
It always is, at that time, packed with commuters making their way home, some sleeping with their heads against the window, more even standing, eyes downcast and unfocused.
Not her, though. No, she is sitting straight, feet tucked under her seat, eyes wide and alert as she reads something on her phone.
Not him, either. He is standing near the end of the carriage, tucked into the alcove by the internal doors, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed and eyes scanning the crowd.
Some people read, some people watch movies on their phone, most day dream – but his favourite train pastime was people watching. That middle aged woman, absent mindedly playing with her keys, from which dangles a frankly ugly string of large wooden beads, checking the time nervously on her phone more and more often as the inevitable delays between each stop accumulate… Clearly a mother on her way to pick up her kids. He scoffs internally – too easy.
What about that man? Youngish, wearing a plain black polo shirt with black trousers, standard hair cut, textbook on his lap and a highlighter in his hand… Slightly harder. Probably a university student, working as a barista or whatnot to make ends meet.
Then his eyes find her. Blonde hair tied in a high ponytail, a few wild strands escaping and creating a halo around her face in the sunlight streaming in through the window, pale blue eyes framed by eyebrows slightly frowned in concentration as she holds her phone up in one hand, reading. His eyes slide down her face to her chest, where he can see the outline of her breasts, held tight in a blue silk shirt, then down to her legs, clad in a black skirt. It’s not a straight pencil skirt like most professional women in the carriage are wearing, but loose, the fabric falling naturally around her knees. She reaches down without looking and tugs it down every now and then, but the hem in variably rides back up her leg, an endless game of cat and mouse which he watches, fascinated.
Her phone is tilted away from her neighbours, and he wonders what she could be so private about. He hopes it’s smut. He hopes that, for all her sage outward looks, she is secretly a bit of a pervert. He knows people like that are myths, but he can’t help but imagine. Imagine that she’s reading a hot steamy bit of erotica, imagine that she gets off on the danger of someone peeking over her shoulder and finding out, imagine that she loves keeping a calm exterior when inside, her heart is pounding and maybe, just maybe, she feels a little tingle between her legs. An itch she can’t wait to get home and attend to.
His rêverie is broken when the train stops, and a pregnant lady boards. The girl lifts her eyes from her phone and immediately offers up her seat, standing and putting her phone away.
Her eyes scan the carriage, probing the empty space between people, looking for the best spot to stand in. She finds it, near the back of the carriage, a surprising amount of space in this crowded train, and she hopes it’s not because someone is sitting cross legged on the floor, out of sight. She makes her way through the throng, her small frame easily finding a way through.
She has to walk past him, to settle in the same alcove, tucked behind a set of seats, big enough to hold two people but no more. No words are needed as she sneaks past him – it is a common understanding between travellers. She settles in and glances at her new travel companion – wearing slacks and a shirt with the top button open, and a messy mop of hair atop a pair of piercing gray eyes, she can’t help but find him cute.
At the next stop, yet more people join, and the spaces between each standing passenger become smaller and smaller, until someone does the unthinkable, and joins them in the alcove, forcing him to take a step closer to her with a mild tut of disapproval intended for the newcomer.
The train rumbles on, swaying this way and that, and she suddenly realises how close she is standing to him. She can feel her hip pressed against his leg, feel her breasts touch his chest, feel the heat emanating from his body. She glances up at him and sees him looking down, so she mouths an apology to him with a smile.
He stands motionless, not wanting to disturb her, enjoying the feeling of her body against his. It is the barest of touches, a hint of a curve here and a slight pressure there, but he enjoys it nonetheless. So when she looks up at him with that beautiful smile of hers, he feels… flustered. He smiles back, both because he truly does not think she need apologise, and also because he cannot remember the last time he’d felt flustered. It is a nice feeling.
A sudden lurch of the train sends her leaning into him, one hand going up, aiming to find the wall but finding his chest instead. His own hand comes up to catch her automatically, resting on her hip, naturally, as if one were made for the other. Instead of coming apart suddenly, with muttered apologies and stiff upper lips, they linger for a moment before letting their hands fall back. But neither takes a step back.
He notices the sudden movement has made the top button of her shirt come undone, and from his higher vantage point he can see the top of her breast, the curve diving into the darkness below, the pale skin smooth and inviting. He is transfixed. He’s seen breasts before, of all kinds and shapes, has held them and kissed them and even bitten a few, but at this very moment, hers is the most beautiful he’s ever seen. And he’s not even seeing all of it. With a widening of his eyes and a mild sense of shame, he can feel his blood rushing to his cock, feel it swell slightly, pressing against the fabric of his slacks, and more importantly… against her.
She feels it too, of course. She doesn’t react, doesn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable – it’s just a natural reaction, after all. It does make her heart beat just a little faster, though, and she can feel a slight flush coming over her, which she rationalises away as the heat from a crowded train car. Still, she shifts her hips just a little – a fraction of an inch, no more – so that his cock lies in the crease at the top of her thigh, and she takes a deep breath, trying her best to look natural, but secretely delighted at the impression she thinks – hopes – she is making.
He sees the flush come over her chest, and feels the shift in her hips – at any other moment he would not have noticed a thing, but every one of his senses is focused on her, and his cock swells just a little more when she sighs, her breasts rising up and out, pressing into his chest more. He is acutely aware of his hand lying by his side, barely millimeters away from the skin of her thigh, just at the edge of her skirt. Almost involuntarily – he honestly could not tell if he willed it or not – his fingers twitch and brush her skin, the tip of his finger sliding under the hem and meeting the soft skin underneath before retreating.
Her breath catches when she feels his touch. She wonders if she has imagined it, but no, the echo of his skin on hers is there, burning like a hot iron brand. Keeping her eyes resolutely locked on the wall behind him, not daring to look up, she shifts her leg, reaching out to meet his hand.
No words are needed and he responds, his fingers once again brushing against her thigh, lifting the hem of her skirt and settling against her. Slowly, gently, like one approaches a skittish animal, he drags his finger tips across, then back, testing the waters. She doesn’t pull away. If anything she presses herself into him more, her own hand finding its way to his leg for reassurance. He keeps exploring her, his fingers making a brazen move towards the inside of her thigh, rewarded with her leg shifting, opening out, inviting him in.
He keeps exploring, feeling the softer skin inside her leg and slowly making his way up, the hem of her skirt now resting over his wrist. His body and the back of the seats in front of them shield them from view, not that either of them are thinking about that right now. He reaches the top of her leg, and she can feel him, so close to her panties, hovering, the barest of touches feeling as intense as anything she’s felt before. He stays there, not wanting to break the spell, his palm coming to join his fingers until his hand covers her inner thigh, and he can feel the blood pulsing through a blood vessel underneath. Her heart is beating fast, so fast, and she can feel the blood pounding – not just under his hand, but also a little higher, where she craves for him to go.
She eventually brings herself to look up at him, and finds his eyes already locked on hers, lust burning inside them, the only sign of emotion in an otherwise impassive face. He skips a breath when she finally lifts those beautiful eyes to him, and he sees his passion reflected in her. Without looking away, she moves her hand up his leg, following much of the same path he took, reaching the now undeniably hard cock encased in its prison of fabric. Her hand slides over it and settles there, feeling the shape of the head against her palm as her fingers wrap around it.
He represses a gasp and feels his cock twitch gently against her hand, which brings a ghost of a smile to her lips as she gently starts rubbing, softly, just enough pressure to be felt through his trousers. His own hand moves again, his fingers finding the edge of her panties and following the seam, up and down the crease in her thigh, before venturing over, to the soft, plump and oh so warm pussy between her legs. She bites the inside her lip when he brushes over her clit, and he circles it a few times, teasing her, so she responds in kind, her hand closing around his cock as much as she can and working her way up and down his shaft, fingers teasing the soft spot underneath the tip.
A finger finds its way to the edge of her panties again, and she freezes as it slips underneath, pulling the fabric aside to reveal her damp pussy to the air. An echo of a smirk brushes over his face as his finger tips part her lips and find the wetness inside, sliding no more than a knuckle into her. He slides up to find her swollen clit to give it a gentle nudge before making his way back down, drawing small circles inside her. Her shock passed, she resumes rubbing his cock, her movements more desperate, faster and stronger, almost in danger of being noticeable should anyone glance over and wonder at the unusual movement of her body. At this very moment, she does not care, and she cares even less when his finger slides further into her, feeling the walls of her pussy respond and contract around him, inviting him in.
The train rumbles to a stop, a name announced over the loud speaker. Her stop. She takes a step back, his finger sliding out of her and the hem of her skirt falling back into place, bends down to grab her bag from the floor, then turns around and pushes her way through the crowd. She looks back towards him once, a brief glance where their eyes meet for one last time, before stepping off the train.
No words are needed between travellers.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/8llpbk/no_words_are_needed_between_travellers_mf_public