since we met. And all these excuses from the wedding - just a child's desire to do something contrary to the insistence of the parents. But my friend is decisive. Place in the firm of the father of Philip she is guaranteed. And I suspect that if the candidate for bridegrooms does not change his mind in the near future, she herself will give up the idea of ​​this marriage. With a red diploma and attractive appearance - this is hardly her only prospect.

I took the things to Sergey, since there was one bag there. We spent the night together again. I liked him incredibly. It seemed we were acquainted all our life. He understood my every movement, word, gesture. I got so much pleasure from being close to him that it was even a little embarrassing. My moans he had to muffle kisses.

I had never had sex in a train before. As soon as the conductor left us, Sergey lifted the latch on the door and turned to me. He pulled his hand, forcing him to stand up. He turned his back to him and tilted above the table. The window was prudently curtained. His hands had already unzipped my pants and lowered them. Fingers slipped inside, checking my willingness to fuck.

I was ready. I think I was ready to accept him at any time when he was near. I felt the panties become wet even from a simple hand touch, not to mention kisses. He let me go for a while, then held me by the hips and entered immediately, completely. I arched back, moving away from the table, so as not to knock on it when it began to drive into me, immediately taking a high pace. A few minutes later I groaned from a sweet spasm, he finished almost immediately after me.

We hardly slept that night. Dozed off sometimes, when the train stopped for a long time in major cities. I was lying on a shelf, pressed into it with my whole body and this was not enough for me. His breath warmed his face, I stroked the tense muscles of my back, wrapped my legs around my hips, opened my hand to my hand, caressing between my legs.

Wrapped a hard dick. I liked to caress him. I liked the protruding head and velvety trunk, wreaths, slightly protruding along the entire length and tender skin, shifting under my palms, hardness and warmth, drops of lubricant.

Yes, I liked it all, from top to toe. I liked the skin. Liked the hair. I liked the smile. I liked the questioning look when he carefully looked at my reaction to his touch.

I took it as a gift of fate.

We talked a little. He worked under contract in one of the countries of South America. There and returned for another year. And in N-burg went to visit his mother. It seems, while Sergei was not, his grandfather died, and his mother married a second time and moved in with her husband. Sergei wanted to meet him before his return.

Early in the morning we stood at the station, saying goodbye. Of course, we exchanged phone numbers and addresses. Of course, they promised to call up and write. Of course, there is Skype.

I looked at the train leaving and felt tears streaming down my cheeks. That ended the tale. As the story began with tears, it seemed to end with them.

He did not call. Neither that day nor a week, nor a month.

Sergei.

I was happy for my mother. Her new husband was not a bad person. And most importantly, I saw how he looked at her. It's good that there is someone to take care of.

Three days later I already plunged into the usual working rhythm. Idiocy, but I could not get a little liar out of my head. Then, a month ago, buying tickets, I saw a stamp on marriage in her passport. And he waited all the time for her to say it herself. And she was silent. She looked at me with clouded eyes with passion, answered every touch, squeezed my cock inside, shuddering in her orgasm.

And did not say a word about her husband. I waited until the last, but did not dare to ask myself.

Hell, I was just jealous of him. The one who has the right to it. Who squeezes her in his arms every night, looks into his eyes, hears a heart rushing in a rhythm. Why he, not me?

He dialed her number several times and dropped it. She did not call. Yes, for the month that has passed since our meeting, probably already forgotten to think about it.

I survived five weeks. And he dialed the number, considering that he was ready to hear anything.

- Yes?

- Hi, it's me, Sergey.

She did not answer.

- Can you hear me? Elka?

- Yes. Why didn't you call?

It seemed to me, or she sobbed?

- And you waited?

- I waited. Why didn't you call?

- Ale, what are you crying? Something happened?

- Not. Everything is good. How are you? Are you working?

The tone has changed. But she definitely roars there.

- Elka. - I interrupted some of her question in mid-sentence. “Why didn't you say you're married?”

- I? - confused and some lost voice. - I was married. Long.

- A stamp? I saw a stamp in my passport.

- Just my husband died. Died Four years ago. And I did not change my passport.

Now it was my turn to be perplexedly silent, comprehending information.

- Elka, I'm a fool. Forgive me. Do not be angry. Elka, do you hear?

We talked for almost an hour.

Elka

Sergey returned a year later, at the beginning of the summer. Just on the day when my friend had a son, Victor Filippovich. Still, waiting and hoping for the best is not the worst tactic in this life.