She didn't want to watch the woman approach, didn't dare look at her, just in case she changed her mind, stood elsewhere. And so the young redhead turned away, not out of fear, not out of embarrassment, but in hope. Hope that things would be the same as yesterday and the day before, hope that the woman would not change her mind... There was pressure and warmth on her back, hot breath on her neck. What was this? Was the grey haired woman turning the tables? No... the pressure eased, a shoulder brushed her back, then the hard points of shoulder blades pressed against her own.<i>So, not enough courage to actually retaliate yet?</i>Even as she thought this, she knew it was not what she wanted. To have the grey woman fondle the redhead? No, that wasn't what was ordained.<br/><br/>She turned and wrapped her arms around her middle-aged quarry as the train lurched forward out of the station.<i>For the next twenty six minutes, you are mine to play with! </i>She leant back against the partition, pulled the woman backwards to lean against her. hands went up, gripped the pendulous breasts firmly, squeezed hard, found the hard, erect nipples and took hold of them, twisted, through the shirt and the bra beneath it. Too many layers.<i>I want to feel your skin. </i>Her fingers fumbled inwards, found buttons, undid them. Not the one at the top, but the one under it and the next and the next, opening a hole large enough to get her hands in, continuing down, to untuck the shirt from the skirt, open all the way but at the collar. To grope at the front of the bra, pulling the cups down. Popping the nice soft, juicy mammary glands out of their imprisoning cloth.<br/><br/>Fingers on warm flesh now, squeezing, touching, teasing, pinching. Twisting nipples, lifting the mass of breast, cupping in the palm, bouncing it. A sadistic idea, release one breast, lift the other, and strike down on it with the free hand. The sound of the slap drowned by the noise of teh train and the general coughing and shuffling of people around them. Drop that breast, pick the other up and repeat. Then stroke both soft, slightly sagging mounds, tender caresses, gently tease the diamond-hard buds lewdly exposed to the foetid air in the carriage.<br/><br/>A glance out of the window. Half way, now. judging by the change in scenery and the light level outside. Leave the bra cups pulled down under the breasts, but do up two of the buttons.<i>Oh no, we aren't done yet. <br/>
</i><br/>Hands move down now, onto the belly, down further. Straps and buckles under the skirt? The woman is wearing suspenders? Well! Naught minx. Expecting this were you? Hoping for it, even? We aim to please! hands reach down as far as they can, grip the skirt, lift it, tuck the handfuls into the waistband. Repeat as necessary to lift the hem all the way up. Hands down again onto thighs covered in sheer silk, fingertips run up enjoying the snaggly feel of the material to find the tops of the stockings. Fingernils now trace the line of the stocking tops from the suspender clasps, inwards, above the stockings, on the bare flesh, until they reach the point where left meets right, where the thighs are pressed together, flesh against flesh an impassible barrier. Back again then, fingernails teasing, back to the suspenders. Then up. Up to the leg-hem of the panties.