I had to go to London last week from Wakefield Westgate. Arriving earlier than I planned at the station I bought a coffee and one of those rip-me-off sandwiches they sell. I settled down to read the morning paper with my back to the wall looking out over the platform and one or two tables in front of me. Reading the NoW fallout and all that nonsense I saw across the top of the paper a gorgeous pair of legs settling into a chair opposite on another table. Wow, these were nice. Without making it too obvious I gave the owner a glance taking in as much as I could. She was maybe early thirties, smartly, no, immaculately dressed. Camel hair type jacket with a belt swinging loose hanging to either side of her fawn skirt, not short, but well above the knee when sat. A crisp white blouse with a bob of blonde hair and nice looking facial features finished of what sat just a few feet away. I can recall the description so well as that image is locked in, she was to say the least, nice, very very nice. To my embarrassment, more than likely due to what I thought was a sly glance may actually have been a stare. Whatever it was, I had been caught. As I looked away I believed I saw a smile across her face as she looked at me. Looking back with a face that said sorry, but you look so delightful, I returned to reading about Murdoch, no contest really, but I had to read on not really taking in the well placed foam pie. After a couple of minutes I risked one eye, she was now putting on her make-up, companion case in one hand with the all-important mirror applying the various elements that go to make up a make-over, as if it was needed. She looked across and saw me and smiled as she dabbed her cheeks with the faintest touch of blusher. I put the paper down and sipped my at my drink now making no apology of watching her, she was I believed simply putting on a small show that was so delicate, but o so sensual. As she continued with the make-up routine, her legs uncrossed, my eyes shot at lightening speed to see if I could catch a glimpse of pantie, no, must have been close, but nothing. I was starting to feel like a perv, like I should be sat there with a mucky raincoat. This was unreal. She completed her make-up with blood red lipstick that would make a million woman look slutty, but not her, it completed the appearance akin to the back cover of Vogue or some other flashy glossy. She was truly delightful. As she picked up her coffee and drank again she crossed her legs a manoeuvre I swear felt like minutes to complete, but was probably only three seconds, I got a further chance to spot the panties, I swear my breathing was getting deeper as she completed the action and put her paper cup on the table to get a white hanky from her bag to wipe the white froth from her top lip. Those delightful legs again uncrossed, this time looking directly at me, she smiled, I looked at her face, and dropped my gaze again trying to catch what I had convinced myself now would be the silkiest of white panties covering her womanhood. Her feet settled on the floor, her legs slightly parted, I can’t see, I looked up at her and she smiled and let her legs drift open, as if subconsciously telling me to keep looking, again back to her legs they parted, I could see her thighs, no stockings, no tights, just a sun-bronzed hue, she let her legs open, no-one else could see with her back to the platform. It was there, there was no whiteness, there was no panties, I could see her, I could see her lucius lips, shaved completely bare, the small pimples on her flesh evidence of just shaving, I looked up to her face she pouted her lips, I was now hard without even knowing I had risen to the occasion, I looked at her, she stood walked off leaving me there as hard as I can ever remember being, certainly harder than I have ever been without even touching or speaking . A memory I will forever treasure……