It was just one of those cold miserable days when there is nothing better than getting home and sitting by the heater with a bowl of soup .... but first it is the usual fight onto the train after work, bouncing off people, the occasional push in the back. But lucky days, a seat. Walking sideways between the people in the isle you find the window seat opposite me and claim it for yourself, bag full of work crap on the floor behind your heels, an exhale knowing that there is nothing you can do for the next 20 minutes except relax and let your mind wonder as you stare out the window. As the train jolts out of the station you feel the bump of my knee against yours and it is strange how the small things always frustrate us. The space between the seats is always tight, and even thought I am sitting up straight, there is still little room for our legs. It is like a dance, how can your legs be best positioned so as claim the maximum space without appearing rude or intrusive. The dance settles down again and your view returns to the window as the train picks up speed. As always, the opportunity exists to watch the others on the train in the reflection of the window and you scan the carriage for familiar faces - none! And then with the sway of the train you feel the pressure on the inside of your right knee again - a little more intense this time - a little out of rhythm with the sway of the train. And there it is again, but this time it is not removed and you look up to view the infringing knee resting against yours - and it is an interesting position. Both you and I are sitting with legs slightly apart, our legs aligned so that our knees alternate. The contact is now constant, innocent, but definately invading your space. You look up and straight at me and are surprised that I am sitting upright, hands in my lap and my eyes smiling straight at you ... and the pressure on your right knee increases and my lips form a gentle smile to match my eyes. Its strange, the contact seems natural, almost friendly, almost familiar - warming on what is otherwise a bleek evening ... and you let your leg be pushed a bit to the side, not much, just a couple of inches, but the new position creates an understanding between us that this willl not be a simple train trip home. Looking up again you notice that my eyes have dropped from your own to the top of your thigh, scanning the hem of your skirt, running over your legs - my smile remains. And you lower your own gaze to my hands and you notice my right hand cups my balls and my thumb looks like it is running up the base of my dick - my left hand sitting over the top hiding most of my other hand. If this type of blurb is of interest, please leave a simple comment and I will continue, else I will leave my writing career in search of more productive pastimes