Graffiti

It's been cold lately. More coats; stockings and skirts, not just bare legs. We caught a midnight train back from the city and watched our reflections glitter in the rain-spattered windows. A couple of teenagers lurked in the next carriage; in ours just a few late traders snoozed and dozed, fitfully waking to peer at the station and nodding back to a minute oblivion.

His breath was hot in my ear, lapping beneath my weighty earlobe. Husband-given diamonds, and the post twisting through my flesh was the sweetest kind of reminder. One finger ran thoughtfully behind my ear, tapping and stroking tymphanically, and I uncrossed and recrossed my legs, letting my full skirt blouse up around my thighs a little more.

He kept his right hand playing around my neck, stroking the play of skin across my collarbones and toying with the short hair at the nape of my neck; I took his left hand up under my skirt so he could feel my thighs, smooth naked flesh above my stockings. He glisseed the pad of his fingers across the top of my thigh and I uncrossed my legs again to let him discern that my underwear, though present, was slickly damp.

The hand on my neck suddenly tightened, and he caught his breath - then a long, controlled exhale. I slouched a little and pushed into his waiting hand - felt his fingers slide under me and his thumb discern my pelvic bone; the subtle grind forced my labia to part and he must have felt my clitoris awaken. One stop to go.

It's possible that our proximity to others flicked not only the 'naughty' switch in my brain but unlocked another pair of floodgates; a few careful strokes later I clutched the roots of his hair tightly and shivered out a tightly sprung climax. Oops. Time to get off. The train, I mean.

edited to add:
Oh, see, you're being cheeky. Google tells me that twenty of you have read this, but no-one's feeling brave?! For shame! 

The thing is, I got back on the train. Just not with J. 

See, now you're wishing you'd left a comment.