She never saw his face…

…not directly, anyway. She wasn't even sure where he boarded the train. She suspected it was at Central, where the bulk of the passengers had hopped on, where the space she inhabited suddenly became cramped, both arms raised and holding the support loops above as she swayed with the movement of the carriage. 

Prior to Central her swaying had been unobstructed, but now she bumped gently into bodies on all sides. This used to bother her, a few years back when she first started to commute, newly graduated from university and working in the city. Back when the commute to work was characterised by nervous planning for the day ahead, and the way back with exhausted rumination about the day. Now there were less nerves, and less rumination, but still the end-of-day exhaustion remained. 

Today was no different, and as she gently bumped those around her she realised that this sensation had simply become part of her world. She had habituated to it just like she had habituated to the blare of car horns in the city, or the smell of coffee upon entering stepping onto the platform.

It was only once another handful of commuters got on and the crush became even tighter that she became aware of his presence, behind her and slightly to the left. At first she wasn't sure what it was that drew her awareness, then she realised. Usually, everyone would sway together. Instead, she got the distinct impression that he was pushing towards her as the train's movement swayed her his way. She only knew it was a 'he' at first because of the faint reflection in the window opposite. If it had been winter, at this hour the light outside would have faded, and she was sure she would have seen his face in detail, lit up by the internal lighting of the train. At this time of year, though, the light outside and the relative lack of internal lighting meant only a ghostly reflection could be seen. 

He was taller than her by about half a foot, with greying hair and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. The only other visual clue she had was his hand, holding the overhead bar just above and immediately next to the loop her left hand was hanging from. She glanced up, taking in a large, masculine hand. Cuffs of white shirt and dark grey suit. An expensive looking watch. A gold wedding band on his ring finger, darker in skin tone than her slender, bone-white, fingers. An olive complexion - perhaps Italian? The other point of contrast was with her thin, silver, diamond-topped engagement ring.

Taking off from the next station with a jolt, she felt herself swaying back towards him. Again, he leant into her rather than away, and with a soft gasp she realised that she felt rigidity there. Not bone or muscle, but what felt like the firmness of arousal. Once more she swayed into him, holding herself against him momentarily without thinking, something in her tired brain wanting to check. Her suspicion was confirmed by a gentle twitch from something unmistakably cylindrical against the soft flesh of her left buttock, she realised, feeling her pulse quicken. Swaying away again, she realised as an afterthought that she had held herself there for an unnaturally long time. 

Her exhausted mind swam, wondering whether he had noticed, but as she pondered this she swayed back towards him, and a moment later her question became moot. Bumping back into him, she once again felt his hardness press against her buttock. Was he even harder now? Before she could consider this, her mind registered a sudden sensation at her right hip. It took her a moment to become clear, but then her mind made sudden sense of the feeling. His right hand was holding her hip, pulling her gently into him. Involuntarily, she took in a sharp breath, holding it there.

Her eyes fixing on the man's faint reflection in the window, she saw him lower his head slightly, his mouth just behind her left ear.

"Is this ok?" he asked, his voice a rich baritone despite being barely audible.

She swallowed, letting her breath out slowly. Usually even the hint of inappropriate attention from a fellow commuter would have her screaming bloody murder, but something about the way in which he asked - polite yet with authority - made her stomach flutter. Breathing in again, she caught a waft of woody aftershave, adding to the man's presence. She could feel him watching her, his hand still holding her against him as they rocked with the carriage, waiting for her response.

Sensing that he was about to pull away from her lack of response, she quickly found herself giving a small nod, something in her craving the contact. At this, she felt him twitch against her again and he let out a sigh.

"Tell me to stop whenever you like," he spoke with a soft assurance.

Again she nodded, this time without pause, finding herself pressing back into him. At this, she felt him shuffle closer to her, one foot slipping between her feet and nudging them apart a little. He was now pushed firmly up against her, so no longer needed to hold her hip, and she felt his large hand snake around to her front as he slowly started to gyrate against her. The movements would likely be indistinguishable from those of the train to anyone glancing their way. This thought filtered through her tired mind as her exhaustion shifted subtly into a relaxed lust under his focused attention, much like tight muscles relax into the aching pleasure of massaging hands.

Glancing around with sexually-charged nervous excitement, she realised that the train was full enough that no one had a direct line of sight to their hips, especially given that the people directly in front of her faced away. This did nothing to diminish the feeling of being publicly exposed, however, as she felt the man's slightly cool hand slip into the tight gap between the waist-band of her work pants and her now-quivering belly. Holding her breath, she felt her slit moisten as his fingers slowly made their way into her panties and over her lightly-haired mound. She knew he was going slowly to give her a chance to object, but it felt like the ultimate tease. Her loins ached deeply, and when she finally felt the pad of one finger brush against her already swollen clit she found her hips rocking back against his hardon as she let out a stifled groan. A passenger close by turned to look at her face. With all her willpower, she stared straight ahead, managing the hardest poker face she'd ever had to pull as the stranger's finger slid down between her puffy lips. Keeping his palm pressed against her mons, he maintained contact with her clit as the length of his finger slid over it tantalisingly.

"Still ok?" the man asked as the other passenger turned away again, his voice now breathy.

Again she nodded, rocking her hips gently in the tight space between cock and hand, feeling his finger reach the opening to her sex.

"I thought so," he taunted quietly, "you're soaking."

With that, she felt a thick finger push up into her, making her eyes flutter closed. Her breathing, still silent, quickened as her hips began to rock with more urgency.

"Do you want to cum," the man now whispered, "in front of all these people? Do you want me to fuck you with my fingers?"

She had never been one for pillow talk, but this had the effect of spurring her on, finding herself nodding as she rocked her hips back and forth more and more desperately.

She felt the man's hand shift and a second finger push up into her, causing her to grind down, her throbbing clit brushing up against his palm. Slowly at first, he slid both digits in and out, feeling her stretch around him, the ache building inside her making her push down rhythmically. Quickly his pace built, and soon his fingers were pumping in and out of her, his palm crushing her clit over and over. Burying her face in her own shoulder, she bit the exposed flesh there as the waves of orgasm washed over her, her body shuddering against him and the juices of her pussy flooding out over his palm.

He held her like that for a few moments before slowly withdrawing his fingers first from her pussy and then from her pants, just as the faint squeal of brakes heralded the next platform approaching.

"My stop," he whispered into her ear, adding "have a lovely evening," in a teasing tone.

With that, she felt him pull away, turning just in time to see the back of his head as he alighted the train, neatly cut greying hair and broad, suit-covered shoulders quickly swallowed by the crowd.

Pulling her feet back together, she adjusted her pants, glancing around to check no-one was looking her way. No-one was. The next stop was hers, and as she disembarked and walked the two blocks home on somewhat shaky legs she hoped that the damp patch on her grey pants wouldn't be too noticeable.