The blonde couple were pressed against the wall at the end of the carriage. He against the window, she against his back, blank rear wall of the carriage against the right shoulder of each. Surrounding them were dusky men. Some in Dhotis, some in shorts, all in sandals. Most of the men faced the girl, some to press against her, some to merely look. She had a pretty, shapely, figure, and her brief floppy shorts and sleeveless T left little of her charms to be imagined. They were on honeymoon. Dave and Nicci Saunders were their names. They'd been to see the temple at Maracci, near Mumbai. Now they were trying to get back into town but hadn't been able to find a taxi, so had taken the train instead.
It was dusk. Light fading fast. The train was shuddering painfully from stop to start, to stop again, along an ancient line. The eyes of the men, all dark, were on hers, clear blue ... and on her face, plump lips, clear eyes, neat chin. They wandered over her straw-coloured hair drawn back in a pony-tail. Smooth neck, creamy skin. A very pretty thing. So it was perhaps unsurprising -- although it surprised Nicci at the time -- when one of those crammed around extended a hand and gently cupped her buttock. Nicci Saunders didn't know how to react. She couldn't turn, they were too tightly packed. She could hardly shout out, the noise was already too much, she'd never be heard.
Could she complain to her husband? Object about a hand? What would he do! It would not have a good outcome, she decided, figuring it best to ignore it. Besides, it might be accidental. Then it began to caress her butt, so she knew it wasn't accidental. But so what? What did that change? How did it harm her, really? Stoically taking the touch she stayed as she was, unobjecting.
This lack of action on her part appeared to embolden the owner of the hand. He was forty-three, a leather parts hawker from south Mumbai. He was married, had three scrawny kids and lived in a corrugated cardboard hut near the railway line. He'd only seen something as lovely as this on a poster for a Hollywood film. But this was real. He'd never touched a Westerner before. Of any age. And never dreamed of having his hands on one as pretty as this. The feel of her in the palm of his hand, did not disappoint. She was firm, exciting, warm. He began to fondle her gently. A firm and shapely buttock.
As the feeling and stroking continued Nicci reinforced, to herself, her original plan: that it was best to act as if nothing was happening. Nothing good could possible come of making a fuss. So she focussed on the back of her husband's neck, and the collar of his polo shirt, and the flickering countryside out the window beyond, dark with a few distant lights scudding past. She would not make a scene. She would not even acknowledged the feel of the hand, now making an attempt to sneak inside the elastic waistband of her cotton walk shorts. They weren't there, she repeated her mantra, these fingers of this person behind her, not at all. Besides, she told herself, he'd soon get bored.
But the tips of the stranger's fingers snuck inside the waistband of her shorts and gently, cautiously, started to stroke the skin of her lower back. Then marginally lower, onto the starting swell of buttocks. She gently took her lip between her teeth, but let it go. No fuss. No trouble. No scene. But the fingers began to grow bolder, touching and stroking her warmth, and skin, as she, uncomplaining, almost acquiescent, resisted the temptation to object.
As a precaution she had pressed her hip against the carriage wall, to prevent the hand from slipping round her front. This may have worked, she felt, for a little later, once the upper portion of her buttock nearest the wall had been extensively explored, the hand withdrew. Nicci breathed an inward sigh of relief. Relaxed a little. Allowed her eyes to wander back among the faces of the dusky men all angled towards her. Eyes she knew to be undressing her -- she'd seen these looks before. But then she rebuked herself for such an unworthy thought. On her honeymoon too! She tried a gentle smile at one or two who were nearest and one of them responded by mouthing a kiss. Must have been forty years old, but mouthed her a kiss!
She averted her eyes.
How could he do that? She much younger and clearly with the man in front.
The hand was back!
Back on her hip. Then easing round her waist.
But with her hip pressed hard against the carriage wall there was no way round. Or so she thought. No way round her hip, but her waist was toned and slender, and the fingers of the hand easily insinuated themselves into the space between the carriage wall and waist.
Uncomplainingly, yet disappointed she hadn't anticipated this, perhaps even taken defensive action -- though what that might have been she wasn't sure -- she felt the finger trace a feather light path beneath the overhanging top, around her waist, onto the side of her tummy, then further still, until a finger found the recess of her navel. She tensed. It angled out, and wormed its way inside. She bit her lip. She eased back from her husband lest he feel the intrusion and enquiringly turn, which she couldn't let happen. No good could come of Dave losing his temper. Which he would, if he knew a stranger was touching his wife this way. But moving her hips from her husband pushed her butt into the groin of the man behind. But what else could she do? He took it as response. Snuggled even closer. She shut it from her mind.
Think of other things! Their wedding night. Only four days ago.
Had Dave found her worth it?
There was a detachment to the feel of a strange man's fingers gently easing inside the waistband of her walk shorts. The way the fingertips moved. As if not wanting to be obvious, yet keen to get inside and feel her lower down. He'd already felt her skin. Already been inside the waistband. Knew what to expect.
There ... the tips of fingers were inside the band. Wriggling further in. Fingers angled downwards towards her pubis, legs, her private parts. She focussed on her husband's neck. She didn't want to look around her. Didn't want to risk another lewdly mouthed kiss from someone she was trying to be pleasant to. She wanted to float above this. These men. Their wants. Wants that so blatantly now involved her.
The fingertips moved towards the lower part of tummy. She found, as they wormed their secret way against her skin, that her knees had pressed together. Her spine had arched, and tensed. As if her mind had no idea what to do, but her body had. When the fingers hit the low-slung band of her Sluggies, they stopped. Mounted the miniscule rise of band that held the brief Sluggies on her hips. Felt to the right. Then back. Then the left. Then back again. Then the fingers curled and the tips retreated, a shade, then nudged their way under the band.
Hoping to signal her dislike of what was happening, Nicci was pushing her elbow back at the stranger behind her, the one who was feeling her, but couldn't seem to find him. She angled if off to the left, into the carriage, hit something, but what? She didn't know. But whatever it was it had no effect on the hand, though the hand was having an effect on her.
Fingers softly toying with her pubic hair. After an agonizingly sensitive period of treatment there ... they moved on. Found the hood, by now engorged, and hardening clitoris within. Her pelvis surged and pulsed and she experienced a sudden, violent, orgasm. He held her tight. His hand cupped round her mound. One finger between hotly pulsing labia lips -- Hers, for God's sake!
He let her ease down slowly from the orgasm that had just, quite clearly, swept through her -- much to his surprise, she guessed. And hers as well! And he'd be right. Nicci Saunders couldn't believe what had just happened. She couldn't credit it. That fingers from a none-too clean looking stranger the age of her father, a foreigner to boot -- although she liked their temples -- had done that. That she had let the hand creep into her panties, play with her pubis, locate then softly caress her clitoris in a way she wasn't used to. That such a thing had caused her -- the whole unlikely scenario, as well as the way the fingers had carefully manipulated her most sensitive place -- had made her have an orgasm as powerful as that. More like an erupting volcano than the mediocre shudder she was used to. It filled her with amazement.
She had simply never come so intensely before.
Nor so quickly. Usually she needed foreplay of almost half an hour before she'd be anything like ready to indulge in this sort of thing. Not that she'd had much experience. Before she was married she'd been almost chaste. (Her mother's biblical influence.) But her reaction to this ... this what? ... stolen intimacy? And from a complete stranger. Someone she'd never seen before. And would probably never see again. It was just ...
Shameful!
Sinful?
But ...Wow!
She was grateful he let her take time to cool down. Not pushing her at all, although his hand still had possession of her buzzing private parts. It didn't seem to matter. Almost as if it had its rights. Had produced the ZING, so now could protect it from harm. Or something. Then she started to wonder what others around them might think? She and the Indian behind her were so close to each other, they were practically one. She was leaning into him. He was standing firm, groin and chest tight against her buttocks and back. One arm slipped around her. A hand inside her shorts, the fingers in her panties. But the part that confused her the most, and the part that must have been noticed by those most close, was that SHE WAS ALLOWING IT!
What if her husband turned, right now, and saw what they were doing?
Saw what she was allowing this stranger to do!
To her.
She studied his protective back. Behind which she was firmly lodged. Being protected. Except for the hand that had somehow breached the defence -- his defence -- her defences.
It was dusk. Light fading fast. The train was shuddering painfully from stop to start, to stop again, along an ancient line. The eyes of the men, all dark, were on hers, clear blue ... and on her face, plump lips, clear eyes, neat chin. They wandered over her straw-coloured hair drawn back in a pony-tail. Smooth neck, creamy skin. A very pretty thing. So it was perhaps unsurprising -- although it surprised Nicci at the time -- when one of those crammed around extended a hand and gently cupped her buttock. Nicci Saunders didn't know how to react. She couldn't turn, they were too tightly packed. She could hardly shout out, the noise was already too much, she'd never be heard.
Could she complain to her husband? Object about a hand? What would he do! It would not have a good outcome, she decided, figuring it best to ignore it. Besides, it might be accidental. Then it began to caress her butt, so she knew it wasn't accidental. But so what? What did that change? How did it harm her, really? Stoically taking the touch she stayed as she was, unobjecting.
This lack of action on her part appeared to embolden the owner of the hand. He was forty-three, a leather parts hawker from south Mumbai. He was married, had three scrawny kids and lived in a corrugated cardboard hut near the railway line. He'd only seen something as lovely as this on a poster for a Hollywood film. But this was real. He'd never touched a Westerner before. Of any age. And never dreamed of having his hands on one as pretty as this. The feel of her in the palm of his hand, did not disappoint. She was firm, exciting, warm. He began to fondle her gently. A firm and shapely buttock.
As the feeling and stroking continued Nicci reinforced, to herself, her original plan: that it was best to act as if nothing was happening. Nothing good could possible come of making a fuss. So she focussed on the back of her husband's neck, and the collar of his polo shirt, and the flickering countryside out the window beyond, dark with a few distant lights scudding past. She would not make a scene. She would not even acknowledged the feel of the hand, now making an attempt to sneak inside the elastic waistband of her cotton walk shorts. They weren't there, she repeated her mantra, these fingers of this person behind her, not at all. Besides, she told herself, he'd soon get bored.
But the tips of the stranger's fingers snuck inside the waistband of her shorts and gently, cautiously, started to stroke the skin of her lower back. Then marginally lower, onto the starting swell of buttocks. She gently took her lip between her teeth, but let it go. No fuss. No trouble. No scene. But the fingers began to grow bolder, touching and stroking her warmth, and skin, as she, uncomplaining, almost acquiescent, resisted the temptation to object.
As a precaution she had pressed her hip against the carriage wall, to prevent the hand from slipping round her front. This may have worked, she felt, for a little later, once the upper portion of her buttock nearest the wall had been extensively explored, the hand withdrew. Nicci breathed an inward sigh of relief. Relaxed a little. Allowed her eyes to wander back among the faces of the dusky men all angled towards her. Eyes she knew to be undressing her -- she'd seen these looks before. But then she rebuked herself for such an unworthy thought. On her honeymoon too! She tried a gentle smile at one or two who were nearest and one of them responded by mouthing a kiss. Must have been forty years old, but mouthed her a kiss!
She averted her eyes.
How could he do that? She much younger and clearly with the man in front.
The hand was back!
Back on her hip. Then easing round her waist.
But with her hip pressed hard against the carriage wall there was no way round. Or so she thought. No way round her hip, but her waist was toned and slender, and the fingers of the hand easily insinuated themselves into the space between the carriage wall and waist.
Uncomplainingly, yet disappointed she hadn't anticipated this, perhaps even taken defensive action -- though what that might have been she wasn't sure -- she felt the finger trace a feather light path beneath the overhanging top, around her waist, onto the side of her tummy, then further still, until a finger found the recess of her navel. She tensed. It angled out, and wormed its way inside. She bit her lip. She eased back from her husband lest he feel the intrusion and enquiringly turn, which she couldn't let happen. No good could come of Dave losing his temper. Which he would, if he knew a stranger was touching his wife this way. But moving her hips from her husband pushed her butt into the groin of the man behind. But what else could she do? He took it as response. Snuggled even closer. She shut it from her mind.
Think of other things! Their wedding night. Only four days ago.
Had Dave found her worth it?
There was a detachment to the feel of a strange man's fingers gently easing inside the waistband of her walk shorts. The way the fingertips moved. As if not wanting to be obvious, yet keen to get inside and feel her lower down. He'd already felt her skin. Already been inside the waistband. Knew what to expect.
There ... the tips of fingers were inside the band. Wriggling further in. Fingers angled downwards towards her pubis, legs, her private parts. She focussed on her husband's neck. She didn't want to look around her. Didn't want to risk another lewdly mouthed kiss from someone she was trying to be pleasant to. She wanted to float above this. These men. Their wants. Wants that so blatantly now involved her.
The fingertips moved towards the lower part of tummy. She found, as they wormed their secret way against her skin, that her knees had pressed together. Her spine had arched, and tensed. As if her mind had no idea what to do, but her body had. When the fingers hit the low-slung band of her Sluggies, they stopped. Mounted the miniscule rise of band that held the brief Sluggies on her hips. Felt to the right. Then back. Then the left. Then back again. Then the fingers curled and the tips retreated, a shade, then nudged their way under the band.
Hoping to signal her dislike of what was happening, Nicci was pushing her elbow back at the stranger behind her, the one who was feeling her, but couldn't seem to find him. She angled if off to the left, into the carriage, hit something, but what? She didn't know. But whatever it was it had no effect on the hand, though the hand was having an effect on her.
Fingers softly toying with her pubic hair. After an agonizingly sensitive period of treatment there ... they moved on. Found the hood, by now engorged, and hardening clitoris within. Her pelvis surged and pulsed and she experienced a sudden, violent, orgasm. He held her tight. His hand cupped round her mound. One finger between hotly pulsing labia lips -- Hers, for God's sake!
He let her ease down slowly from the orgasm that had just, quite clearly, swept through her -- much to his surprise, she guessed. And hers as well! And he'd be right. Nicci Saunders couldn't believe what had just happened. She couldn't credit it. That fingers from a none-too clean looking stranger the age of her father, a foreigner to boot -- although she liked their temples -- had done that. That she had let the hand creep into her panties, play with her pubis, locate then softly caress her clitoris in a way she wasn't used to. That such a thing had caused her -- the whole unlikely scenario, as well as the way the fingers had carefully manipulated her most sensitive place -- had made her have an orgasm as powerful as that. More like an erupting volcano than the mediocre shudder she was used to. It filled her with amazement.
She had simply never come so intensely before.
Nor so quickly. Usually she needed foreplay of almost half an hour before she'd be anything like ready to indulge in this sort of thing. Not that she'd had much experience. Before she was married she'd been almost chaste. (Her mother's biblical influence.) But her reaction to this ... this what? ... stolen intimacy? And from a complete stranger. Someone she'd never seen before. And would probably never see again. It was just ...
Shameful!
Sinful?
But ...Wow!
She was grateful he let her take time to cool down. Not pushing her at all, although his hand still had possession of her buzzing private parts. It didn't seem to matter. Almost as if it had its rights. Had produced the ZING, so now could protect it from harm. Or something. Then she started to wonder what others around them might think? She and the Indian behind her were so close to each other, they were practically one. She was leaning into him. He was standing firm, groin and chest tight against her buttocks and back. One arm slipped around her. A hand inside her shorts, the fingers in her panties. But the part that confused her the most, and the part that must have been noticed by those most close, was that SHE WAS ALLOWING IT!
What if her husband turned, right now, and saw what they were doing?
Saw what she was allowing this stranger to do!
To her.
She studied his protective back. Behind which she was firmly lodged. Being protected. Except for the hand that had somehow breached the defence -- his defence -- her defences.