The guy in the seat in front of us is listening. He's too scared to turn his head, not of what he might see, for I know he wants to look, but of scaring me, scaring us, into stopping.

We certainly are obvious. There are very few reasons that people get such strained, anguished, and anxious facial expressions, or breathe so irregularly, or turn so red. But people by and large pay little or no attention to other people on a train.

Don't they realize what they're missing?

The people on this evening commuter train running South out of Trenton, NJ are missing us, middle-class, middle-aged, settled, married, respectable coworkers on our way home from a technical conference, all dressed up in our presentation best, sitting in the last row in the half car, the seats with the backs against the divider, our coats on our laps and our hands beneath the coats between each others legs, my right hand up under her skirt on her naked sopping wet cunt rotating in small tight furious circles as her left palm quickly strokes the length of my raging erection through my pants.

They are missing the intensity of her beautiful, flushed, sweating, panting face, plastered with strands of her long dark hair as she leans back into the corner of the seat, her legs spread wide for my hand, watching the guy in the seat in front of us, grooving on our impending orgasms, completely lost in the fulfillment of her fantasy of coming on a crowded train, and her never ending joy of making me come in my pants.

Which I am about to do. I cannot stop it. I cannot save yet another pair of pants from her naughty, adulterous, wedding-ringed hand. My seed rising from my balls, the rush of endorphins, the crowded train, and her, my love, my sweet, crazed, gorgeous woman who I am about to blow away with the mind-bending intensity of my fast strong hand as she bites her lip, all push me together over the edge and I come, pumping spurting and gasping as she throws her head back, her eyes closed, screaming a barely stifled little scream, all pretense of middle-aged, middle-class, married respectability swept away in a tidal wave of pure pleasure, at yet another victory, another fantasy fulfilled, another taboo broken.

We reach our stop. I rise, shakily, careful to carry the coat in such a way that it hides the stain. She rises behind me and taps me on the shoulder, pointing at the guy in the seat in front of us who is still sitting, staring straight ahead, not moving a muscle. He paid attention. And he will never ever forget what he heard or forgive himself for not turning around to watch.