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My husband Graeme and I watched, fascinated, as the astoundingly pretty girl sitting opposite us on the train to Tirano nestled into her boyfriend’s shoulder, her tongue delicately probing the little plastic carton, chasing the last of the Nutella from her travel snack of apple slices and individual portion of chocolate spread. In and out and around and around her little pink tongue went, as unhurriedly and with obvious enjoyment, she licked the sticky sweetness from its recepticle. Finally, its tip collected a last dab of chocolate from a corner of her mouth before withdrawing between her lovely lips, and she gave a little smile to herself as she deposited the now spotless piece of packaging into the carrier bag on her lap from which she had originally taken her provisions.
Graeme coughed slightly and shuffled his legs, tugging at the thighs and waistband of his trousers. While I, and doubtless he, were inescapably reminded of our holiday sixtynine from earlier that morning, Beauty’s boyfriend appeared not to notice her display of oral suggestion, merely leaning to her once during the episode to place a light kiss on the top of her head, before turning back to the mountain scenery scrolling past the train window. The landscape was certainly spectacular, though it was somewhat debatable whether it was quite as spectacular as the sight of his girlfriend tonguing Nutella.
Even prior to the events of the last few minutes, my husband had been covertly looking at the girl, ever since the young couple had sat down after boarding the train a few stops back. I wasn’t threatened by this; I am not jealous in that way. In any case, being probably only around twenty, she wasn’t likely to have any interest in a man almost old enough to be her grandfather, so it was hardly as if she was serious competition. I’d been looking too—not with ual interest, but simply because she was just so gorgeous, all tumbling treacly tresses and peachy skin and youthful luminous freshness—that I found I couldn’t take my eyes off her. The few sparse dark hairs on her bare legs, likely from a partially grownout wax job, somehow made her even more appealing, in the way that a little imperfection can on someone otherwise flawless.
I exchanged a glance with Graeme and gave him a halfsmirk, and was rewarded by his cheeks reddening. His arousal and his apparent embarrassment about it both amused me and moistened my gusset. Unlike on most British trains, there was no table between the facing pairs of seats, so I transferred our own bag of travel necessities from my lap to his to provide a screen and began lightly stroking his cock through his trousers, running the tip of my finger along its familiar and now expanding length, as he went from semi to full hardness.
‘Stop it, not here,’ he hissed. He can be quite prim at times, not always sharing my taste for risky play in public places. I ignored him and kept my hand where it was, my middle finger moving over the cottonclad bulge, along its shaft and swirling over the head and back towards his stomach. Alongandswirlandback, alongandswirlandback. He shifted in his seat again and grimaced, but after a couple of minutes had still made no significant attempt to prevent me from continuing.
Pretending to be interested in the mountains outside the window, I opened his fly button and worked the zipper down, then slid my hand into the waistband of his boxers. My fingers located the impossibly smooth velvety head of his cock, which was now standing upright, having been freed from the prison of his trousers. He folded the loose top of the cloth tote bag to form a sort of sheilding tent over his erection and my hand, which I took as an indication of his desire for me to continue. I cupped the head in my palm, slowly stroking the shaft with my fingertips, up and down, up and down, up and down. The way his breath caught slightly now and again and his fixed gaze into the middle distance told me I was having the maddening effect I intended.
The train pulled into a station, and the seats adjacent to us on the other side of the aisle emptied. I took the opportunity to intensify things by wrapping my hand around his shaft to stroke, still keeping to the slow pace. I was fairly certain that what I was up to couldn’t be seen by the couple opposite, although it could perhaps be guessed at, but noticed no signs of discomfort from the girl, who appeared absorbed in her phone, while her boyfriend had nodded off, his head lolling against the wall of the carrige. This situation went on for some minutes, the train meanwhile stopping at another little station, but the seats alongside ours luckily not becoming reoccupied.
Then, as we pulled away from the halt, the girl rummaged in her bag again and pulled out a banana. How absolutely perfect to accompany my activity: this vision of utter loveliness was about to eat a banana. I wondered if she was being deliberately provocative, but thought not. I had the impression that any salaciousness was entirely in the beholding eyes of my husband and I, and that the girl herself was not yet aware of her powers. For all its suggestiveness, the incident with the Nutella had seemed entirely innocent. I wondered idly what the couple’s life was like. Somehow, despite their youth and the girl’s beauty, I couldn’t really imagine them engaged in anything much beyond some rather chaste missionaryposition fumbling. Maybe not even that. The girl wore a gold cross around her neck, and Italy was still a Catholic country, after all.
What happened next made me change my mind completely.
Now, the girl looked straight at us. Giving a wicked grin directed first at me and then at my poor husband, who flushed almost beetroot red in response, she started to slowly peel the fruit, her dark brown eyes flashing with mischief. She opened her mouth as if to take a bite, but instead stuck out her tongue and licked the pale yellow shaft from where it emerged from its skin to its tip.
‘Mmmmmm’, she said, then placed the tip of the banana gently between her lips, sliding it in and out a few times before taking a bite and chewing slowly.
‘Unnghhh’, croaked Graeme. I had about expired on the spot myself, so I could only imagine how he was feeling. Recovering from the shock, I sped up my hand action to a very particular rhythm and pressure, honed over nearly thirty years of marriage. Clearly, in spite of the tote bagmodesty tent, the girl knew exactly what was going on, and furthermore wanted to involve herself in it, so there was no point in trying to be discreet any more. My goal shifted from winding Grae up as a prelude to an afternoon of action in the Tirano hotel to an overwhelming lust to make him cum right there on the train. I could always see to myself later while remembering it.
Having swallowed the first mouthful, more sucking and licking and another ‘mmmmmm’ ensued before a second bite was taken.
‘Uhh,’ whimpered my husband. I increased the pressure and speed a fraction. I knew he was getting close. Possibly also realising that the matter was rapidly coming to a head and that any further input from her would be redundant, the girl didn’t repeat the fruit fellatio routine, and simply peeled the banana to near its base and took another bite, eating this and then the remainder of the flesh in a normal manner, though all the while continuing to watch us with those flashing, laughing eyes.
Graeme raised his eyes to the ceiling, his breath jagged. I squeezed even harder for a few more short, quick strokes, and then he spasmed, uttered a stifled groan, and covered my hand, the travel bag, and the crotch of his trousers in spunk.
Our new friend smiled at us broadly, looking extremely pleased with herself, then stowed her banana skin in her snack bag and picked up her phone from her lap and started scrolling again as if nothing had happened. We just sat there, deflating cock in sticky hand. Neither of us spoke. I thought Graeme might get up and head to the toilet to try and clean himself up, but he didn’t, and I didn’t feel like I could just abandon him to go myself, so after a while I just tucked his damp, limp appendage back into his trousers and pulled the fly zipper back up, and tried to wipe my hand on a bit of the bag that hadn’t already got jism on it.
After what felt like an age, but in fact probably only about another ten minutes, the tannoy announced we were nearing Tirano. Graeme leapt up, clutching the tote bag against his crotch, and stood by the doors. The girl nudged her boyfriend awake and said something to him in Italian and giggled, but he didn’t look up at me, so presumably she hadn’t disclosed what had just occurred. As the train drew to a stop, I could see Graeme frantically pressing the button for the agonising few seconds until the doors opened, whereupon he was off and scooting up the platform at double speed.
The girl stood up, and I felt I must say something, but my Italian was almost nonexistent. I managed to get out ‘grazie,’ a word I knew that seemed the least inappropriate in the circumstances. I smiled at her, hoping my expression would convey everything that I would have struggled to say in English, never mind Italian.
‘We women, we must help each other, no?’ the girl said, in accented but perfect English. She flashed her lovely, naughty grin again before turning to go. Her boyfriend gave me a puzzled look, and I wondered how much she would tell him of what had happened.
As they disappeared out of view up the platform, I fished in my handbag for a wet wipe to clean the spunk off my hand, then retrieved our suitcases from the overhead rack before disembarking to go and locate my beloved and secure his forgiveness, and quite likely, once he’d got over the embarrassment, his gratitude.
