Not in a harsh way, I mean; just that she was the one who got us out of the house, the one who kept up our friendships. On my own, I'd have done none of that. As my behavior since her passing showed, I guess.I thought about this and other things as we rode; I'd read the book so many times before that my attention could wander freely and come back easily to where I'd left off.When at last I looked up again, I was surprised. The train was emptier now, new faces. But that woman was still there, still sitting across from me. Still looking at me.I may have blushed a little. But that's all I did.I returned to my book, but every so often I'd keep peeking above it. Still there. The train ran to the end of the line and back twice. It was empty now except for her and me. Likely to remain that way, I knew, as it pulled its way through the wee hours. What was her story?The only clue I could find in my furtive glances was a small white circle on the ring finger of her left hand, a circle about. "I already am," she replied with her hands under the table. I moved my chair a little and she opened her legs. I watched as her fingers with red nails gently stroked the tiny tuft of manicured hair above her pink lips. My cock growing harder in my shorts now and I could feel the dampness in my cotton briefs. I continued to look around to be sure we were safe as did she. She leaned towards me and quietly stated she wanted to finger herself she was so aroused. "What's stopping you?" I asked. She thought about it for a second and I could see her get more aroused just thinking about doing it. She rested her left elbow on the table and put her chin in her hand to appear oh so casual. She slipped her right hand below the table and separated her wet lips. She rubbed up and down the length of her pussy, pressing slightly each time her fingers passed the opening. I watched intently, fighting the urge to take my cock out and slide my hand up and down the now very hard and very wet shaft. Her.
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