Thangaiku Theriyaamal Amma Magalai Oothen
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Across The Tracks free porn video
It's almost three in the morning. The summer night air is warm, but comfortable. A gentle breeze stirs occasionally. Crickets drone steadily, and beneath that is the soft intermittent sighing of cars passing on the distant freeway. Moths flit fanatically against the grimy light bulbs over head. Other bulbs - street lights, house lights, security lights- form a constellation against the darkness of the far-off hills.
A new noise rudely disturbs the stillness - asphalt and small stones crunching beneath heavy luggage wheels. He rounds a brick corner of the southbound platform. He's twenty five years old, six feet, dressed in jeans, an open plaid long-sleeve shirt, and a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt underneath - all new, clean, and neat. There's a large pair of silver retro headphones around his collar. They're attached to the latest model iPhone in the breast pocket of his shirt. His hair is shaggy brown-blonde, wavy and parted on the left side.
He's dragging a blue suitcase wearily behind him. He makes his way several paces down the platform to a bench; wire mesh coated in brown plastic of some kind. The noise of his progress stops. The crickets carry on, regardless. He glances northward, beyond the last illuminated tree branches into the darkness, and beyond. There's nothing. The train is not due for another forty-five minutes. He sits, and takes in the night.
At the south end of the station a fox emerges. It looks around, sees him - looks straight at him, then trots across the tracks, and disappears into the bushes on the other side, leaving him again in solitude. He mounts his headphones over his ears, pulls the iPhone from his pocket, and selects Explosions in the Sky. Intricate dual guitar arpeggios twinkle and chime together reverberating into wide-open Texas spaces so far from the Clinton City train depot where he sits and waits now. Home.
He reaches inside of the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a pack of American Spirit cigarettes. He takes one, leaving only four. From the opposite pocket he produces a disposable Bic lighter. A flash, a flame, and the hot glow of burning tobacco leaves as he takes a long drag. He contemplates the dancing tendrils of smoke.
Explosions in the Sky are building towards a crescendo between his ears, distortion peddles stomped, eruption, euphoric catharsis, dulled slightly by familiarity and expectations. It will never be as great as the first time. Still pretty good, though.
He closes his eyes, trying to fully experience the majesty of the squalling feedback and crashing cymbals, hoping to relive that sense of discovery and uplift. All he discovers is what his Brazillian grandmother would call 'saudade'- a nostalgia for the halcyon days of his adolescence that he doubts ever really existed as he remembers them.
When he opens his eyes, he finds he is no longer alone. A woman has joined him on the opposite platform across the tracks. He hasn't heard her over the music. Her hair is golden-blonde and curly. She wears wire-framed glasses with oval lenses. Her dress is a simple floral pattern. He thinks they're purple lilies, but he's no flower expert. They droop as if in the process of swooning against a plain white background. There are four buttons on the front. The top two are undone, showing a modest amount of cleavage.
He watches her as she glances up and down the empty platform. She makes her way towards a bench just like his, mirrored directly across from him. A small black suitcase trundles along behind her, wobbling and threatening to overturn as it bounces over small pebbles in her path.
She's older, he judges, maybe in her thirties. Still in great shape, though, from the look of her, he thinks passingly. Nice round ass, good-sized breasts. What really catches his eye, however, are her boots. They're brown leather western style boots that come half-way up to her knees, so common back home, so uncommon up here in Clinton City. They seem like real quality boots with intricate stitching and tapered toes. He feels an instant soft-spot for this woman he's only laid eyes on just this moment.
She looks in his direction. He becomes aware that he's been staring. He looks away Northward again, as if checking for the approach of a train that is still not due for another thirty-five minutes. Self-consciously, he straightens up from his slouching position. He takes another drag on his cigarette before allowing himself a quick glance back in her direction. She's staring off southward.
He flicks the butt of his cigarette. It sails like a comet in an arc, sparks trailing out behind it. The sudden motion and light catch her eye. She watches as it lands in the stones between the two rails with a small spray of sparks. It smolders there for a minute longer. She looks at him. He looks away, fidgeting with his phone. He checks his e-mail, Facebook, Twitter. But of course no one is posting anything at this hour.
She reaches into her purse, rummaging, until she finds her lipstick. He watches from the corner of his eye as she applies the pink tube to her bottom lip, then the top. The motion seems slow, sensuous. Her lips are full, soft, luscious. She purses them a couple of times. He wonders what it would be like to feel them against his own lips.
She glances again in his direction. He focuses on his phone, suddenly deciding he's had enough Explosions in the Sky for tonight. After searching for a couple of minutes, he settles on something more laid-back: Pavement with their lo-fi ramshackle grooves.
Malkmus is doing his stoned-country thing. It suits his present mood just fine, and makes him feel like everything's alright. His head begins to nod in time with music. When he looks at her again, she's watching him. Embarrassed, he gives her a sheepish smile. Her smile is uncertain, almost calling him a 'weirdo.' Maybe he is a weirdo, and now he's blown it.
Not that there was really an 'it' to blow. After all, they're just two strangers waiting for their trains. So what if she thinks he's weird for actually enjoying music? He stops bobbing his head. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and stares at the ground as if in deep contemplation.
After a few minutes, he stands. He stretches, and walks to the edge of the platform. He leans over and looks Northward. There's still nothing. Nothing southward either. Leisurely, he strolls a little way down the platform. He's trying to play it cool, hoping she'll see how unbothered he is.
He turns around. She doesn't seem to be paying him any attention. He yawns loudly and stretches his arms over his head. Still no notice. Fine. He walks back slowly, taking her figure fully into view. Her long slender legs are crossed, one boot dangling. He decides, she really is quite attractive for an older lady. And really, at most, she can't be more than seven or eight years older than him. Probably less. That's not really so old.
He sits, and checks his watch again. Still another twenty-nine minutes. He leans back, resting his arms on the back of the bench. She reaches up, moving the fabric of her dress slightly aside to gently scratch an itch on her left breast - maybe a bug. He can see the slightest hint of a bra. It's pink and lacy.
She looks up and notices him noticing her. 'Shit!' he thinks. 'Shit! Shit! Shit!' Embarrassed, he looks away for a minute. When he looks back again, she's still watching him. She doesn't seem angry. Rather she gives him a forgiving smile that all but says, 'Boys will be boys.' He returns her smile, sheepishly.
She reaches again into her purse and produces a paperback novel. He can't make out the title or author from here, but the cover features the image of a bare-chested muscular guy with long dark hair looking deep into the eyes of a red head with luxuriously flowing hair. The shoulder of the woman's blouse has fallen down her arm exposing quite a bit of her ample chest, stopping just short of the nipple. Her neck is long and shapely The man grasps the back of her head, tilting it upward towards him. They're pictured at sunset, with sailing ships in the distant background.
After a couple of minutes reading, her hand moves to her chest again. Another itch? No. This time it stays there, limply resting against her breast. She takes it away to turn the page, and then returns it to the spot above her heart. Slowly, subtly, her fingers begin to press and massage the fleshy mound.
He watches her, spellbound now, as she rubs her breast. The movement of her hand becomes less subtle. Her fingers begin to draw slow circles around her nipple, and then slide across her chest. Gradually, she begins to slouch in her seat. Her legs uncross. He can briefly see straight up her dress, and catches a glimpse of pink panties- same colour as her bra. Then her legs press together again, both boots on the ground.
He's becoming aroused. There's a definite stiffening in his jeans now. He looks up and down the platform. They're still alone. Amazingly, she undoes another button on the dress. Her eyes never leave the page. Her hand now slips inside the front of her dress. She continues to slouch, as if slowly melting off of the bench. The hem of her dress is riding up her thighs as her ass nears the edge of the seat. Her skin looks amazingly smooth and soft. Soon those pink panties are going to come into view again.
He can't look away. He's become quite hard now, his cock straining against his jeans. His right hand goes to his lap and gently strokes the outlined length of it through the blue fabric. It's nearly involuntary. He can't help himself.
She looks up and sees him staring lustfully at her. She places the novel down on the bench, parted in the middle. He looks back with a facial expression that pleads with her to continue. Instead, she suddenly stands up and walks away. She's left her book and her luggage behind.
Shit. He can't help feeling rejected. He shouldn't have stared. He should have just played it cooler. Instead, he creeped her out, and now she's gone.
In his headphones, Pavement gives way to Radiohead. Thom York's paranoiac mumble-whine floating processed across a space-alien bed of colourful electric piano chords. Synchopated electro-jazz drumming skittering nervously along. As vibrant and surreal as a children's television program gone slightly wrong, slightly deranged. A fitting soundtrack.
He wonders if she's looking for a security guard to come deal with him. Will they arrest him? Can you even be arrested for staring at a woman? He doesn't think so, but maybe they'll kick him out, anyway. He mentally prepares his defense: 'She started it. She was reading her trashy novel and rubbing her tits.'
He's still preoccupied with these worries when she returns. She's still alone. He looks back down the platform, expecting security to come rushing towards him at any second. But no one comes. Instead, she walks back to her bench. There's something slightly sexier about the way she walks now. Her hips are rolling, her ass waving from side to side.
She sits, and picks up her book again. She gives him a long penetratingly direct look over top of it. He gazes back at her, trying to decipher her mood. Finally, she breaks eye contact and returns her attention to the book. He checks his watch once more. Still another eighteen minutes to arrival. Time seems to be moving impossibly slowly.
This Radiohead song isn't helping. He scans again through the playlists on his phone, and finally settles on Black Rebel Motorcylcle Club - loud, dirty, hazy, rock and roll. This is music he feels he can really get into right now.
He hazards a glance across the tracks again. Her hand has gone to her neck this time. Her golden hair is pulled back from her collarbone. It's an elegant neckline, he decides. She's wearing dangling silver earrings, not the obnoxiously large kind, but something modest and classy.
He wills himself to look away. He glances up and down the track, but still no sign of trains in either direction. Before long, his eyes are drawn back to her. Her hand has moved from her neck to in front of her chin, which she holds between her fingers like someone might hold a delicate egg. He watches as her index finger approaches her lips. It sensuously traces the delicious contours of her mouth, softly brushing first the bottom, then the top, then the bottom again.
Her lips part slightly. Her finger pulls gently at the bottom lip. He can see the white of her teeth, and behind them the reddish-pink of her tongue. She bites the finger softly. Her tongue flicks across the tip of it in playful circles. She allows her finger to explore her mouth, rubbing against her tongue, teeth and lips, simply enjoying the feeling. After a moment, her lips close around her finger, and she sucks at it. Slowly the finger probes further inside, from the first knuckle to the second, and then back to the first again.
He is completely mesmerized. The erection which had all but disappeared when she abruptly walked off, has now returned stronger than ever. He resists the urge to stroke it again, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself. Instead, he grips the bench.
Her hand comes away from her face, as she turns the page in her book. She hasn't looked at him once since she resumed her reading. She seems totally absorbed - either in her book, or in the feelings of her own body, it's hard for him to know.
Once again, her hand slips inside the front of her dress. He can see it working against the fabric of her dress, teasing her nipple and massaging her breast. Her chest has started to visibly rise and fall at her own stimulation. Her bra intermittently comes into view as her knuckles lift the dress away from her chest. It's as if she's daring him not to look, now- daring him to just play it cool.
Slowly, she begins to slouch down on the bench again. As he watches, her legs begin to part. At first, it's only a thin dark crack between her knees. But gradually, the crack widens, and allows the light to penetrate further between her smooth soft thighs.
He looks up and down the platform. There's no one else. Her legs continue to spread apart as she slides forward. He can no longer mistake it. This show is entirely for his benefit. And he can't believe it! She's no longer wearing the pink lacy panties he caught a glimpse of earlier. The pink he sees between her legs now is bare, hairless skin and pussy lips.
Her ass is now hanging off the bench, and she's resting on her lower back. The hem of her dress has risen up to her waist. Even from across the tracks, he can see the glisten of her wet pussy in the overhead lights.
Her hand leaves her breast, trails down her front, and dives between her legs. As her fingers find her clit, he sees her inhale sharply. Her eyes close and her head tilts back. He can't hear her over his music, but he thinks she's moaning loudly. She puts down the book, so she can concentrate on pleasuring herself. He can no longer help himself either. His hand goes to his cock, and begins to rub the head of it through his jeans. He feels it pressing warm and hard against his thigh.
She looks up at him. Their eyes lock. This time there's no shyness, no embarrassment. The cat and mouse game is over. She continues to rub herself as she watches him. He casts a quick glance in both directions to ensure they're still alone, then decides to take a chance. He unbuttons the fly of his jeans. His fingers reach inside, and pull out his desperately hard cock. Her blue eyes widen at the sight of it. He's been told that it's pretty big. She mouths 'wow' at him. He smiles back, and begins to stroke it.
He watches as her fingers dip inside herself. They come away slick with her creamy juices, which she smears around her hot swollen clit. Her hips are actually moving, rocking back and forth as she masturbates for him.
The pace of his hand running over his head and to the base, up and down his cock, picks up speed. His grip hardens. He is so fucking turned on right now. He can't believe that he's jerking off to a total stranger in public like this. At any moment, anyone could come around the corner of the depot and catch them, exposed and fucking themselves madly. The sense of danger is such a rush!
She pauses long enough to pull both of her tits out of the top of her dress. She pinches and pulls at her large, pink nipples. They look great, each standing erect at the summit of her beautiful breasts.
He fantasizes what it would be like take one of them in his mouth as he lets his hard meaty shaft dip into that hot juicy fucking pussy. He wishes he could feel it so warm and wet all around him, as she rides him, using him for her own desperate gratification.
He watches her. She has one boot heel on the ground, one up on the bench. She's frantically rubbing her pussy. She looks so fucking hot sitting over there. He's getting close to cumming, thinking about shooting his hot white sticky seed deep into her pussy, filling her up with his cum until it drips out of her, down her legs, leaving white splotches on the ground beneath, where hundreds of ordinary people may walk by during the day, never knowing-
OH... MY...
He becomes aware of a roaring sound that rises above the distorted guitar blur of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club in his headphones. A bright light has appeared at the end of the platform and it's getting closer.
Shit, the train!
He tries to stop it. He tries to hold it back. In a panic he's desperately trying to tuck his cock, back into his pants. But he's far past the point of no-return, beyond self control. Against his will, he explodes in his pants.
...FUCKING... GOD!!!
He feels spurts of hot semen spraying against the inside of his jeans. He's not able to even get his hand out of the way in time. When he withdraws it from inside his pants, it's dripping with his own cum. It soaks thick and dark into his jeans. His balls and cock and are covered with the sticky mess. There's not even time for him to clean himself up in the men's room.
Shit.
He looks back across the tracks. She's already tucked her breasts back in, and fixed her dress. She's watching him holding his hand limply away from himself, soaked in his own ejaculate. He flicks it, sending droplets flying backwards where they land and run down the brick wall behind the bench. Not knowing what else to do, he wipes the remaining excess on his jeans. She looks like she's giggling at him. Then the train passes between them.
Quickly, he finishes doing up his pants. He buttons his plaid shirt in front. He hunches over slightly so it (hopefully) hangs down enough to cover most of the mess. The train grinds to a halt. A porter steps out a few cars down the track - an older black gentleman in a blue and grey uniform. He grabs his suitcase and jogs over to the waiting man. Sheepishly, he hands the porter his ticket.
The porter looks at him for a moment. It's a look of exasperation, and exhaustion. He can't bear to make eye-contact with him. Finally, the porter hands back his ticket and nods towards the train car. Probably easier to just ignore it than having to deal with all the shit of refusing to let him on the train. He climbs aboard, leaving his luggage with the porter.
Inside the train, there are few people. Most of them seem to be asleep, heads up against the hard windows or tilted at awkward angles resting on the shoulders of loved ones. He takes a seat midway up the car, and looks out the window.
She's still standing there on her platform, looking back at him. She smiles and waves to him. In the glow of the overhead light outside, he can see the shine of her juices still coating her fingers. Seductively, one by one, she sucks them clean. The train lurches, and the scene begins to slide backwards from his view. She sweetly blows him a kiss. Then she's gone, as the train carries him away towards home.
A new noise rudely disturbs the stillness - asphalt and small stones crunching beneath heavy luggage wheels. He rounds a brick corner of the southbound platform. He's twenty five years old, six feet, dressed in jeans, an open plaid long-sleeve shirt, and a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt underneath - all new, clean, and neat. There's a large pair of silver retro headphones around his collar. They're attached to the latest model iPhone in the breast pocket of his shirt. His hair is shaggy brown-blonde, wavy and parted on the left side.
He's dragging a blue suitcase wearily behind him. He makes his way several paces down the platform to a bench; wire mesh coated in brown plastic of some kind. The noise of his progress stops. The crickets carry on, regardless. He glances northward, beyond the last illuminated tree branches into the darkness, and beyond. There's nothing. The train is not due for another forty-five minutes. He sits, and takes in the night.
At the south end of the station a fox emerges. It looks around, sees him - looks straight at him, then trots across the tracks, and disappears into the bushes on the other side, leaving him again in solitude. He mounts his headphones over his ears, pulls the iPhone from his pocket, and selects Explosions in the Sky. Intricate dual guitar arpeggios twinkle and chime together reverberating into wide-open Texas spaces so far from the Clinton City train depot where he sits and waits now. Home.
He reaches inside of the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a pack of American Spirit cigarettes. He takes one, leaving only four. From the opposite pocket he produces a disposable Bic lighter. A flash, a flame, and the hot glow of burning tobacco leaves as he takes a long drag. He contemplates the dancing tendrils of smoke.
Explosions in the Sky are building towards a crescendo between his ears, distortion peddles stomped, eruption, euphoric catharsis, dulled slightly by familiarity and expectations. It will never be as great as the first time. Still pretty good, though.
He closes his eyes, trying to fully experience the majesty of the squalling feedback and crashing cymbals, hoping to relive that sense of discovery and uplift. All he discovers is what his Brazillian grandmother would call 'saudade'- a nostalgia for the halcyon days of his adolescence that he doubts ever really existed as he remembers them.
When he opens his eyes, he finds he is no longer alone. A woman has joined him on the opposite platform across the tracks. He hasn't heard her over the music. Her hair is golden-blonde and curly. She wears wire-framed glasses with oval lenses. Her dress is a simple floral pattern. He thinks they're purple lilies, but he's no flower expert. They droop as if in the process of swooning against a plain white background. There are four buttons on the front. The top two are undone, showing a modest amount of cleavage.
He watches her as she glances up and down the empty platform. She makes her way towards a bench just like his, mirrored directly across from him. A small black suitcase trundles along behind her, wobbling and threatening to overturn as it bounces over small pebbles in her path.
She's older, he judges, maybe in her thirties. Still in great shape, though, from the look of her, he thinks passingly. Nice round ass, good-sized breasts. What really catches his eye, however, are her boots. They're brown leather western style boots that come half-way up to her knees, so common back home, so uncommon up here in Clinton City. They seem like real quality boots with intricate stitching and tapered toes. He feels an instant soft-spot for this woman he's only laid eyes on just this moment.
She looks in his direction. He becomes aware that he's been staring. He looks away Northward again, as if checking for the approach of a train that is still not due for another thirty-five minutes. Self-consciously, he straightens up from his slouching position. He takes another drag on his cigarette before allowing himself a quick glance back in her direction. She's staring off southward.
He flicks the butt of his cigarette. It sails like a comet in an arc, sparks trailing out behind it. The sudden motion and light catch her eye. She watches as it lands in the stones between the two rails with a small spray of sparks. It smolders there for a minute longer. She looks at him. He looks away, fidgeting with his phone. He checks his e-mail, Facebook, Twitter. But of course no one is posting anything at this hour.
She reaches into her purse, rummaging, until she finds her lipstick. He watches from the corner of his eye as she applies the pink tube to her bottom lip, then the top. The motion seems slow, sensuous. Her lips are full, soft, luscious. She purses them a couple of times. He wonders what it would be like to feel them against his own lips.
She glances again in his direction. He focuses on his phone, suddenly deciding he's had enough Explosions in the Sky for tonight. After searching for a couple of minutes, he settles on something more laid-back: Pavement with their lo-fi ramshackle grooves.
Malkmus is doing his stoned-country thing. It suits his present mood just fine, and makes him feel like everything's alright. His head begins to nod in time with music. When he looks at her again, she's watching him. Embarrassed, he gives her a sheepish smile. Her smile is uncertain, almost calling him a 'weirdo.' Maybe he is a weirdo, and now he's blown it.
Not that there was really an 'it' to blow. After all, they're just two strangers waiting for their trains. So what if she thinks he's weird for actually enjoying music? He stops bobbing his head. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and stares at the ground as if in deep contemplation.
After a few minutes, he stands. He stretches, and walks to the edge of the platform. He leans over and looks Northward. There's still nothing. Nothing southward either. Leisurely, he strolls a little way down the platform. He's trying to play it cool, hoping she'll see how unbothered he is.
He turns around. She doesn't seem to be paying him any attention. He yawns loudly and stretches his arms over his head. Still no notice. Fine. He walks back slowly, taking her figure fully into view. Her long slender legs are crossed, one boot dangling. He decides, she really is quite attractive for an older lady. And really, at most, she can't be more than seven or eight years older than him. Probably less. That's not really so old.
He sits, and checks his watch again. Still another twenty-nine minutes. He leans back, resting his arms on the back of the bench. She reaches up, moving the fabric of her dress slightly aside to gently scratch an itch on her left breast - maybe a bug. He can see the slightest hint of a bra. It's pink and lacy.
She looks up and notices him noticing her. 'Shit!' he thinks. 'Shit! Shit! Shit!' Embarrassed, he looks away for a minute. When he looks back again, she's still watching him. She doesn't seem angry. Rather she gives him a forgiving smile that all but says, 'Boys will be boys.' He returns her smile, sheepishly.
She reaches again into her purse and produces a paperback novel. He can't make out the title or author from here, but the cover features the image of a bare-chested muscular guy with long dark hair looking deep into the eyes of a red head with luxuriously flowing hair. The shoulder of the woman's blouse has fallen down her arm exposing quite a bit of her ample chest, stopping just short of the nipple. Her neck is long and shapely The man grasps the back of her head, tilting it upward towards him. They're pictured at sunset, with sailing ships in the distant background.
After a couple of minutes reading, her hand moves to her chest again. Another itch? No. This time it stays there, limply resting against her breast. She takes it away to turn the page, and then returns it to the spot above her heart. Slowly, subtly, her fingers begin to press and massage the fleshy mound.
He watches her, spellbound now, as she rubs her breast. The movement of her hand becomes less subtle. Her fingers begin to draw slow circles around her nipple, and then slide across her chest. Gradually, she begins to slouch in her seat. Her legs uncross. He can briefly see straight up her dress, and catches a glimpse of pink panties- same colour as her bra. Then her legs press together again, both boots on the ground.
He's becoming aroused. There's a definite stiffening in his jeans now. He looks up and down the platform. They're still alone. Amazingly, she undoes another button on the dress. Her eyes never leave the page. Her hand now slips inside the front of her dress. She continues to slouch, as if slowly melting off of the bench. The hem of her dress is riding up her thighs as her ass nears the edge of the seat. Her skin looks amazingly smooth and soft. Soon those pink panties are going to come into view again.
He can't look away. He's become quite hard now, his cock straining against his jeans. His right hand goes to his lap and gently strokes the outlined length of it through the blue fabric. It's nearly involuntary. He can't help himself.
She looks up and sees him staring lustfully at her. She places the novel down on the bench, parted in the middle. He looks back with a facial expression that pleads with her to continue. Instead, she suddenly stands up and walks away. She's left her book and her luggage behind.
Shit. He can't help feeling rejected. He shouldn't have stared. He should have just played it cooler. Instead, he creeped her out, and now she's gone.
In his headphones, Pavement gives way to Radiohead. Thom York's paranoiac mumble-whine floating processed across a space-alien bed of colourful electric piano chords. Synchopated electro-jazz drumming skittering nervously along. As vibrant and surreal as a children's television program gone slightly wrong, slightly deranged. A fitting soundtrack.
He wonders if she's looking for a security guard to come deal with him. Will they arrest him? Can you even be arrested for staring at a woman? He doesn't think so, but maybe they'll kick him out, anyway. He mentally prepares his defense: 'She started it. She was reading her trashy novel and rubbing her tits.'
He's still preoccupied with these worries when she returns. She's still alone. He looks back down the platform, expecting security to come rushing towards him at any second. But no one comes. Instead, she walks back to her bench. There's something slightly sexier about the way she walks now. Her hips are rolling, her ass waving from side to side.
She sits, and picks up her book again. She gives him a long penetratingly direct look over top of it. He gazes back at her, trying to decipher her mood. Finally, she breaks eye contact and returns her attention to the book. He checks his watch once more. Still another eighteen minutes to arrival. Time seems to be moving impossibly slowly.
This Radiohead song isn't helping. He scans again through the playlists on his phone, and finally settles on Black Rebel Motorcylcle Club - loud, dirty, hazy, rock and roll. This is music he feels he can really get into right now.
He hazards a glance across the tracks again. Her hand has gone to her neck this time. Her golden hair is pulled back from her collarbone. It's an elegant neckline, he decides. She's wearing dangling silver earrings, not the obnoxiously large kind, but something modest and classy.
He wills himself to look away. He glances up and down the track, but still no sign of trains in either direction. Before long, his eyes are drawn back to her. Her hand has moved from her neck to in front of her chin, which she holds between her fingers like someone might hold a delicate egg. He watches as her index finger approaches her lips. It sensuously traces the delicious contours of her mouth, softly brushing first the bottom, then the top, then the bottom again.
Her lips part slightly. Her finger pulls gently at the bottom lip. He can see the white of her teeth, and behind them the reddish-pink of her tongue. She bites the finger softly. Her tongue flicks across the tip of it in playful circles. She allows her finger to explore her mouth, rubbing against her tongue, teeth and lips, simply enjoying the feeling. After a moment, her lips close around her finger, and she sucks at it. Slowly the finger probes further inside, from the first knuckle to the second, and then back to the first again.
He is completely mesmerized. The erection which had all but disappeared when she abruptly walked off, has now returned stronger than ever. He resists the urge to stroke it again, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself. Instead, he grips the bench.
Her hand comes away from her face, as she turns the page in her book. She hasn't looked at him once since she resumed her reading. She seems totally absorbed - either in her book, or in the feelings of her own body, it's hard for him to know.
Once again, her hand slips inside the front of her dress. He can see it working against the fabric of her dress, teasing her nipple and massaging her breast. Her chest has started to visibly rise and fall at her own stimulation. Her bra intermittently comes into view as her knuckles lift the dress away from her chest. It's as if she's daring him not to look, now- daring him to just play it cool.
Slowly, she begins to slouch down on the bench again. As he watches, her legs begin to part. At first, it's only a thin dark crack between her knees. But gradually, the crack widens, and allows the light to penetrate further between her smooth soft thighs.
He looks up and down the platform. There's no one else. Her legs continue to spread apart as she slides forward. He can no longer mistake it. This show is entirely for his benefit. And he can't believe it! She's no longer wearing the pink lacy panties he caught a glimpse of earlier. The pink he sees between her legs now is bare, hairless skin and pussy lips.
Her ass is now hanging off the bench, and she's resting on her lower back. The hem of her dress has risen up to her waist. Even from across the tracks, he can see the glisten of her wet pussy in the overhead lights.
Her hand leaves her breast, trails down her front, and dives between her legs. As her fingers find her clit, he sees her inhale sharply. Her eyes close and her head tilts back. He can't hear her over his music, but he thinks she's moaning loudly. She puts down the book, so she can concentrate on pleasuring herself. He can no longer help himself either. His hand goes to his cock, and begins to rub the head of it through his jeans. He feels it pressing warm and hard against his thigh.
She looks up at him. Their eyes lock. This time there's no shyness, no embarrassment. The cat and mouse game is over. She continues to rub herself as she watches him. He casts a quick glance in both directions to ensure they're still alone, then decides to take a chance. He unbuttons the fly of his jeans. His fingers reach inside, and pull out his desperately hard cock. Her blue eyes widen at the sight of it. He's been told that it's pretty big. She mouths 'wow' at him. He smiles back, and begins to stroke it.
He watches as her fingers dip inside herself. They come away slick with her creamy juices, which she smears around her hot swollen clit. Her hips are actually moving, rocking back and forth as she masturbates for him.
The pace of his hand running over his head and to the base, up and down his cock, picks up speed. His grip hardens. He is so fucking turned on right now. He can't believe that he's jerking off to a total stranger in public like this. At any moment, anyone could come around the corner of the depot and catch them, exposed and fucking themselves madly. The sense of danger is such a rush!
She pauses long enough to pull both of her tits out of the top of her dress. She pinches and pulls at her large, pink nipples. They look great, each standing erect at the summit of her beautiful breasts.
He fantasizes what it would be like take one of them in his mouth as he lets his hard meaty shaft dip into that hot juicy fucking pussy. He wishes he could feel it so warm and wet all around him, as she rides him, using him for her own desperate gratification.
He watches her. She has one boot heel on the ground, one up on the bench. She's frantically rubbing her pussy. She looks so fucking hot sitting over there. He's getting close to cumming, thinking about shooting his hot white sticky seed deep into her pussy, filling her up with his cum until it drips out of her, down her legs, leaving white splotches on the ground beneath, where hundreds of ordinary people may walk by during the day, never knowing-
OH... MY...
He becomes aware of a roaring sound that rises above the distorted guitar blur of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club in his headphones. A bright light has appeared at the end of the platform and it's getting closer.
Shit, the train!
He tries to stop it. He tries to hold it back. In a panic he's desperately trying to tuck his cock, back into his pants. But he's far past the point of no-return, beyond self control. Against his will, he explodes in his pants.
...FUCKING... GOD!!!
He feels spurts of hot semen spraying against the inside of his jeans. He's not able to even get his hand out of the way in time. When he withdraws it from inside his pants, it's dripping with his own cum. It soaks thick and dark into his jeans. His balls and cock and are covered with the sticky mess. There's not even time for him to clean himself up in the men's room.
Shit.
He looks back across the tracks. She's already tucked her breasts back in, and fixed her dress. She's watching him holding his hand limply away from himself, soaked in his own ejaculate. He flicks it, sending droplets flying backwards where they land and run down the brick wall behind the bench. Not knowing what else to do, he wipes the remaining excess on his jeans. She looks like she's giggling at him. Then the train passes between them.
Quickly, he finishes doing up his pants. He buttons his plaid shirt in front. He hunches over slightly so it (hopefully) hangs down enough to cover most of the mess. The train grinds to a halt. A porter steps out a few cars down the track - an older black gentleman in a blue and grey uniform. He grabs his suitcase and jogs over to the waiting man. Sheepishly, he hands the porter his ticket.
The porter looks at him for a moment. It's a look of exasperation, and exhaustion. He can't bear to make eye-contact with him. Finally, the porter hands back his ticket and nods towards the train car. Probably easier to just ignore it than having to deal with all the shit of refusing to let him on the train. He climbs aboard, leaving his luggage with the porter.
Inside the train, there are few people. Most of them seem to be asleep, heads up against the hard windows or tilted at awkward angles resting on the shoulders of loved ones. He takes a seat midway up the car, and looks out the window.
She's still standing there on her platform, looking back at him. She smiles and waves to him. In the glow of the overhead light outside, he can see the shine of her juices still coating her fingers. Seductively, one by one, she sucks them clean. The train lurches, and the scene begins to slide backwards from his view. She sweetly blows him a kiss. Then she's gone, as the train carries him away towards home.
Cheryl
- 16.04.2021
- 15
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- Category:
- Exhibitionism
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