Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. >Train Ride by Occasional Writer Copyright(C) 2021 by Occasional Writer Girl You hustle, stuck somewhere in that awkward gait between a frantic walk and a run. Your open strappy shoes are not the least practical in the world, especially in the current warmth, but there is enough height in them to put safe running just out of reach. Besides, at your natural height, you -(TM)re hardly going to tower over anyone due to the addition of a few centimetres. You -(TM)re not quite late for the train after the one you -(TM)d planned to catch, resigned now to battling your way through rush hour. You dodge and jink your way through the crowd with only the occasional brush or bump. A few even faster travellers-to-be pass you, hurrying to catch their own trains, or perhaps outpacing you to yours. -Did you see the fucking pins on that? - -Yeah mate and what about that arse? - You smile inside as the voices fade behind: two younger men, barely out of their teenage years, unable to stop themselves from checking you out as they passed. A little rude, perhaps, but you would have been disappointed if you hadn -(TM)t elicited some sort of reaction. Not with this outfit. If one could call it an outfit. A dress, that -(TM)s all it is; a sheer, white, stretchy, form fitting dress. It moulds to your form in a way you know oozes sex appeal and it is short, very short. The thin fabric barely covers your tight bottom and, whenever you wear it, you have to take great care when sitting or when tempted to bend over. Of course tempting the right person has sometimes tempted you into being the temptress. Apart from your shoes, you -(TM)re wearing nothing else: no t-shirt nor top nor cardigan nor coat; no bra to hide your erect nipples; no knickers shielding your bare pussy from the movements of the air, or from view. You brush past a man in a suit. Your nipples harden at the contact, pushing into the dress and surely making themselves visible. Another man looks you up and down with obvious approval as he passes; a third tries to look indifferent, and fails, furtive glances giving him away. You begin to feel that tingling itch: that need within you as you near the platform. The train is there, waiting with its doors open. You see the crowd within: standing room only. Today your tingling body will be touched and squeezed, hot and bothered. Your cheeks flush in anticipation; you only hope you have the willpower to hold yourself together until you get home. -When I get home -, you chant to yourself under your breath. -When I get home. - You step onto the train and make your way down the carriage. You were right: standing room only. In this outfit you would usually stand a chance of being offered a seat by a dumbstruck young man, but today a heavily pregnant lady is busily swapping with one gentlemanly soul. The chances of another swap seem remote. But you would have declined anyway. Today you -(TM)re horny; today you want to be part of the swaying, jostling, and, if you -(TM)re lucky, groping crowd. The seat swap reaches its laborious conclusion; as it does so the aisle fills up behind you, bumping you politely forward until you are wedged in place. You -(TM)re stuck now between a tall, blue suited man to your front and someone - someone unseen - to your back. Beepbeepbeepbeep. The rapid beeping heralds the closing of the doors. Departure time. The train lurches as the engine engages; everyone is jolted backwards. Your bottom bumps into the passenger behind, directly at crotch level. A man then, by the feel of what -(TM)s pressing into your bum. The man behind moves back slightly, politely extricating himself from any embarrassing predicament, surely thinking that you must be about to turn around and give him what for. But you don -(TM)t; what you do is move back a little bit more, planting your derri"re gently but firmly back in his groin. Your move mister. His move is to be hesitant. You feel his surprise at the renewed contact, the first tiny flinch as his societally imposed reactions make him automatically start to pull away. But now - now he pauses. It -(TM)s make or break time. Now he -(TM)ll either break contact, perhaps out of embarrassment or fear, or he will stay - maybe even push back. Still he hesitates, perhaps unsure if your intentions are real. But they are real - oh so real. You bite your lower lip and decide to sweeten the deal. You sway as the train sways, letting your hips exaggerate the motion imperceptibly. Imperceptibly to all, that is, except the groin behind you. You let your cheeks rub over his bulge - his ever increasing bulge - swaying and rubbing and positioning until you have teased him to what feels like full erection. A full erection that now sits comfortably in the cleft between your toned buttocks. So it would seem that he is interested, and he hasn -(TM)t made any further attempts to pull himself away. In fact you feel his body lean in towards you slightly; his warmth radiates into your back. You catch his scent as you breathe: he -(TM)s wearing aftershave, mellow and intoxicating - it mixes well with the musky undertones of a man who has spent his day at work. At last you feel him move. The bulge of his cock rides up and down your bottom, always to the rhythm of the swaying carriage, disguising his motion. If anything he gets harder, belying your earlier assumption that he was fully erect. You inhale his scent again. Your pussy tingles and moistens as your body responds. He -(TM)s rubbing you - rubbing you obscenely but discreetly in this crowded space. Your shoulder and, occasionally, your aroused, sensitive nipples brush against the oblivious be-suited man in front. The train slows. -Next stop: Sumburgh. Next stop: Sumburgh. - A few people get off; more get on. Everyone shuffles up and squeezes tighter. The seats to either side of you now are back to back, creating little triangles where bins are placed. Your beau - your unseen beau - presses into you again, even before the train resumes its journey. Clickety clack, clickety clack. The sound of the rails worms its way into your brain. It -(TM)s hypnotic - drawing you in to a world of pressing bodies, of heady aftershave and warmth, of swaying and rubbing. And then you feel his hand upon you. His touch is light, landing on your hip and settling there. He squeezes gently and then his hand drifts. Slowly, slowly it inches its way down your dress, using the motion of the train to nudge closer and closer to the hem. You push your bottom back in to him, grinding it against the bulge of his cock, hoping he understands that you approve. He must do, for his hand drops still further; now the fingers rest on your bare thigh. The feel of his skin on yours is electric, sending ripples of sensation from your skin directly, it seems, to your pussy. His fingers trace circles on your thigh, drifting down still more until his palm is touching you too. You feel the moisture build in your pussy and you squirm - not in discomfort, but in need. He lifts your skirt a tiny fraction, tucking his fingers underneath. His skin touches your skin up high on your leg. Then you feel his other hand - on the other side. He has a grip on your hips now. If only - if only he could pull you back onto him and fuck you here, right now. But he can -(TM)t. Slowly, maddeningly, his hands move over you. First on your hips, then down to your thighs, tucking briefly under your dress to caress and feel your skin. His hips grind as his hands wander, mashing his cock into you through the barrier of two sets of clothing. He moves one hand behind your back, squeezing it between your bodies. Down, down it goes, until it is below the level of your dress, touching the very bottom of your arse cheek. Then he pushes. He can -(TM)t be going...? Surely not? But he is. After being so hesitant before, after taking so much convincing to play with you, he slides his hand between your thighs and works his fingers inwards - towards your slick pussy. You shouldn -(TM)t, he shouldn -(TM)t - but you can -(TM)t resist. You adjust your stance, opening your legs slightly and giving him better access. It -(TM)s slightly awkward for him but your manoeuvre has helped: he slides his hand over your inner thigh and up until... ... oh my fucking God! You grip hard onto the hand rail. You tense all your muscles to prevent yourself from shaking, clamp your mouth to stifle any sound. His fingers slip easily inside your soaking pussy. Just the tips, rubbing along the slippery, hyper-sensitive flesh at the entrance. His touch - so long anticipated - sends waves of pleasure through your body. Waves so strong you must use all of your willpower, all of your strength of mind and tensed body, to fight the urge to buck or to cry out. Fuck! That -(TM)s good! You bite your lip and sway - sway with the carriage as much as you dare. Your pussy slides over his fingers, sometimes slipping onto them, sometimes they slip into you. He twists and pushes them up. He strokes just inside your front wall - your g-spot. It -(TM)s clear that he knows what he -(TM)s doing, but the position is awkward; he can -(TM)t quite get the angle to give you the stimulation you need. Perhaps that -(TM)s just as well. The whole train would surely know what you were up to if you did get that stimulation. But you can -(TM)t help thinking, right now, that it would be so good to try to stay in control. If only you could just have that orgasm now. You continue that way for a few miles: the carriage swaying; his fingers slipping and sliding inside you; building higher and higher. But never there. And then his fingers slide out and withdraw. Noooo - we -(TM)re not there yet! You -(TM)re not there yet. As if to reassure you, he pulls your hips back onto his, planting his erection back in to its now familiar spot. He grinds with the movement of the train again, and his hands are behind you once more - doing ... something. You feel the hem of your dress being lifted behind you, presumably to give his fingers better access. You arch your back into him and widen your stance, opening your legs to accept those fingers. But it isn -(TM)t fingers that you feel behind you. Something fatter, warmer slides easily through the juices that now coat your thighs. Jesus! It -(TM)s his cock! The thought alone almost tips you over the edge. He pushes his member between your thighs and over your slippery pussy lips. The shaft glides past, rubbing your clit with warm, ridged skin as it goes. You squirm and bite your lip as his cock moves. You wiggle your your hips, smearing your juices on him. Back and forth, back and forth - the sensation is divine, maddening, ecstasy, agony. Your clitoris swells, becoming ever more sensitive; your cunt drips and aches for his cock inside you. But he isn -(TM)t complying - not yet. He rocks in time with the train, sliding his cock past your entrance; sometimes the head catches on the edge of your pussy, almost deflecting into your warm, wet, achingly needy hole, but each time he changes his angle to slide past. You -(TM)re not sure how much of this you can take, how much more you can bear before you just scream -fuck me! - in desperation. Your whole body is trying to quiver and shake in desire; your straining muscles and your even further stretched willpower are almost depleted. And then his cock head slips in to your cunt. Oh God, oh fuuuck! At first you think he must have made a mistake, that he will withdraw the delicious invading shaft and go back to his maddening, arousal building routine, but no - this time his cock stays. And moves. Every time the train judders or sways he pushes a little further in. Gradually his cock begins to fill you, pushing up into you with nudges and tiny jerks. Eventually he is seated all the way inside you. His cock bends up and strains against your front wall. Then he lets the bumps and sways and other motions do their thing. Both of you stand there, hips locked together, your pussy full of his cock, and you feel. You feel his cock jerk up slightly every time the wheels run over the gap between sections of track; you feel it move in little circles as the carriage sways; you feel it throb and swell with his pulse and desire. You are close now: struggling not to breath heavily or grunt or shout. Soon, soon, but: oh! It -(TM)s taking such a pussy achingly long time. You want him to thrust hard, to fuck into your pussy, to hammer your wanting, needing cunt. But he can -(TM)t - he must be controlled, and so must you. Sway, sway, bump, jiggle. And again, and again. Until your pussy begins to tremble uncontrollably. You clench your muscles, all of your muscles, for all you -(TM)re worth. You must stay in control, at least of your mouth and your body. You must! The wave flows over your body slowly, at first centred directly in the depths of your pussy. You clamp down on his cock as your muscles spasm, rippling over his embedded member and coating it with copious quantities of your cum. Tightness, rippling muscles and slickness combine to overcome whatever control he has kept in reserve: you feel his cock stiffen inside you and bulge large as it spurts its own load inside you. You feel the hot stickiness surge into your still spasming cunt and bite your lip. Your whole body tries to tremble and you fight for control. You succeed, but only just: the one visible sign the shaking of one of your legs and an erratic foot-tapping on the floor. He keeps his cock in you, spurting once, twice more. His hardness stays there, now squishing through your mixed cum as the train sways. Aftershocks ripple through your body each time his cock finds the right spot until, eventually, the orgasm is gone. -Next stop: Otherton. Next stop: Otherton. - He pulls back and his cock slips out. You feel a small gush of warm cum follow and begin to trickle down the inside of your leg. A few minutes later, the train comes to a halt. You feel him brush down your dress and move away. This must be his stop. The crowd moves and jostles as the people exchange happens. A stranger moves up to take the spot behind you. A different stranger from the one you -(TM)ve just had - or who had you. You wonder, as you shift to stop the cum from running below your hemline, if the new stranger has any inclination of what just happened.