Strangers On A Train - Revisited - Sex Stories

Strangers On A Train - Revisited

I boarded the train at Hastings, as I do three days a week, heading back from class. Backpack slung over my shoulder, Tweed sports coat, complete with leather elbow patches and worn but not ratty looking jeans completing my ensemble. Such is the life of this twenty-something part time collegian. As I entered the car, a smile crossed my face as I scanned the interior for a seat. There she was! Auburn hair in a short, tight do, looking prim and proper, fitting in with the rest of the commuter crowd. I reminisced for a moment, remembering the last time we met. There was something about this woman that made me bolder than I thought of myself. I remembered sitting next to her, chatting idly, as my hand snaked up under her skirt. I remembered her scent, her taste, her willingness to let me do as I pleased. I remembered telling her, “Next time, no panties.” wondering if there would be a next time. When was that? Three months ago? I walked down the aisle, stopping at her seat. “Is this seat taken?” I innocently asked. She looked up as she answered, “No!” There was no smile on her face, but I could tell, she recognized me, a look of slight discomfort crossing her face. “It’s, it’s available,” she added. Looking at the book in her lap, I asked, smiling, “That’s not the same steamy novel, is it?” She blushed. “Oh, no! But you wouldn’t know that by looking. They’re all the same. I really should find something better to read.” “Never apologize for your reading habits,” I said. “At least ...

... you read! And there are complete words in these books, not text speak.” She smiled, relaxing a bit. “So, how have you been?” she said, looking for small talk to fill the silence. “Good! Busy! Between classes and work I don’t have a lot of spare time. You?” I asked the last question, looking in her eyes. Hazel. Matching up well with her hair. Irish, I’m thinking, at least somewhere in her lineage. Then my gaze dropped to her hands. No ring! Returning my gaze to her face, I awaited an answer. “I’m good too! Returning from a visit to my sister’s place in Manhattan,” she said. “Just like last time.” She smiled. “Only last time we didn’t talk much, if my memory serves me correctly,” I replied, smiling back, the awkwardness of the meeting fading into the background. “No we didn’t. You kept shushing me,” she said, reaching for my hand and placing it on her knee. There was a definite twinkle in her eye as she let go of my hand, opening her legs ever so slightly. “Do you remember your last words to me?” Still gazing into her face, I nodded in the affirmative, my hand sliding up her thigh, feeling the rising heat. My fingers brushed against the wiry hairs standing sentinel at the gates of her virtue. I smiled. “Good girl,” I whispered as my middle finger sank into her wetness. She let out a sigh as she scrunched down in the seat, wanting as much of me inside her as possible. “I don’t want you to think that I do this for every young hunk I meet on a train,” she said, leaning her head ...