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From: Elena <silverlink@altavista.net>
Subject: {Elena}"Calling at Doncaster..."(MF, daydream)
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"Calling at Doncaster..."
Copyright 1999 Elena
silverlink@altavista.net
This story is rude. There is sex in it (well, almost!) Do not read
it if you're not supposed to.
You may distribute this story as you so desire, as long as you
attribute it to me and include the e-mail address above.
"Calling at Doncaster..."
-------------------------
By the time we were past Edinburgh, I'd eaten all my sandwiches and
read my newspaper and my magazine. There were a couple of tapes in
the bag, but somehow I didn't feel like listening. I found myself
huddling against the window, trying to get comfortable in the cramped
airline-style seat, stiffly rocking with the carriage down the East Coast Line.
By the time we pulled out of Newcastle, I had been to the buffet car
for a plastic cup of weak tea. I had completed the quick crossword
in my newspaper and had a futile attempt at the cryptic clues; I had
watched Durham Cathedral float by the window; I had swore under my
breath at the woman two seats away who seemed incapable of stopping
her unpleasant child from running around and screaming.
It was at York that he boarded the train. I could hear our train
being announced, echoing over the PA through the busy station
outside. "The train now standing at platform three is the 14:22 to
Kings Cross, calling at Doncaster, Peterborough, Stevenage..."
The only words he spoke to me were "Is there anyone sitting there?"
His accent was definitely Yorkshire, quite soft and deep. What
caught my attention as I looked up at him, though, was his sandy
blond hair and his fine features. Oh, and his height. He was at
least six foot two. I said no, there wasn't and moved my bag from
the seat to the floor. He stowed his rucksack on the shelf above us.
As the train pulled out, I saw that he had pulled a paperback book
from the inside pocket of his jacket and had started to read. He was
leaning away from me, so I could not see the front cover. I was not
sure I wanted to; he was so gorgeous, I didn't want to spoil things
by finding out he was reading some cliche-ridden blockbuster about
spies or ghosts or submarines. I wanted to think of him as clever,
witty and sexy all together. I wanted him to read philosophy. I
have always fancied intellectuals. Well, intellectuals with muscle
tone at least.
It was then, as the train speeded up out of the city that the thought
came to me. "I have never had sex on a train".
I turned to stare out of the window, embarassed that I was feeling a
surge of lust for this stranger. I was travelling to be with a man I
was certain that I loved, one who satisfied me in every way. But, he
had been away from me for some time and the combination of
expectation and boredom seemed to have got to me. I wondered how one
would do it.
Perhaps I would strike up a conversation with this stranger, and we
would spark. The obvious attraction between us would build, until we
would find each other touching each other, little touches.
Perhaps I would be bold, and say "Let's go into the toilets and fuck."
In the toilet, I imagined, he would kiss me. His lips would be
gentle, and his tongue would probe into my mouth without choking me.
His hands would roam over my body, slipping under my jumper to stroke
my breasts through the lace cups of my bra.
I imagined pushing the toilet seat down, and him sitting on it, his
jeans around his ankles. I imagined my skirt riding up and me riding
him. Fucking. Yes, and his cock would be lovely and wide, filling
me up. I imagined his lips upon my nipple...
I realised that I was sitting on a cramped train, leaning towards the
window, and that I was wet. The train rocked beneath me, and I
squeezed my thighs together as my nipple pressed against the window
frame. The juddering of the carriage ran through my body. I was
silent and surprised as I found myself coming. At least, I think I
came. At the time I could hardly believe it. I felt a rush of heat
through me and realised the muscles around my vagina were
rhythmically spasming.
The man next to me had not looked up from his book.
I sat silently, embarrassed, wondering if I had given myself away in
any way. Had I moaned? I could not remember it, and he didn't seem
to have noticed, but perhaps he too was embarrassed.
Thankfully, he left the train at Doncaster. The last I saw of him,
he was striding away down the platform, his rucksack over one
shoulder. He moved beautifully. I put my bag back on the chair
where he had sat.
It would be some time yet before we reached London Kings Cross.
The End
-------
Copyright 1999 Elena
silverlink@altavista.net
I'm not sure whether this will work for anyone else or not, but I
like it. Anyone who's ever made a really long journey by train will
know how desperate you can get to fill the time...
-Elena
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