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Train Sex (It's possible!)
Train Sex (It's possible!)
Sex on a train
I got onto a Midland Mainline train at Sheffield at 10.27 a.m.; this is England - it had only two carriages. I wasn’t convinced that this could be heading for the capital, the station London St. Pancras; it was more like boarding a bus that was towing another than boarding a train in Tony Blair's 21st Century Angle-land. I had to check with the female trolley attendant who was blocking the doorway into the first carriage whilst dragging desperately on a cigarette that she wanted to finish before we set off. I’m good with accents but hearing a Canadian dance around the words wasn’t what I expected in the huddled urban centre of Yorkshire's industrial heartland - if you saw 'The Full Monty' this is where it took place and this is the town that corporate film celebrated during the introduction. The first carriage was packed; I got off and walked along the platform to the second carriage. It was busy too, but there were places.
I found myself looking for the most convenient place to park my arse and my bags.
‘She’ was sitting next to the first free space that I saw
There was something in the shape and configuration of her eyes, nose and mouth on a quaint face that attracted me to her; the French would call it ‘jolie laide’; I called it quirky.
There was more space across the aisle, what looked liked a trainee car salesman, keen in 'M&S' suit, a cheap shirt and obvious tie. He had spread himself out, a lumpen calculator and pages from a pad of lined paper were sprawled across the space as if he were saying, ‘this is my desk, piss off.’ I sat down with him, not opposite him, but diagonally across from him, this way we both retained leg room. He tucked his papers into ‘his’ end of the table; I noticed that he was paying particular attention to a typed on C.V, which explained the lack of lap-top and the sense that I got that he was feeling self-conscious in his suit; perhaps his Mum had bought it for him.
In those seconds in which my mind processed what I saw it was the young woman, the girl, that female across the aisle, with her peculiarities that attracted me: the tweak of the nose, the clothes and the good hair-cut that hadn’t been brushed out since the night before.
The train got up a head of diesel fumes, belched them noisily onto the platform and like a sticking plaster being stripped from a hairy knee managed with great reluctance to set off from Sheffield.
We're going in the wrong direction!
I was loath to ask; my destination was in a South-Easterly , we were heading West. I said nothing, I looked up instead at a board where electronically generated scroll of station names are produced to indicated where the train is headed and which station would be next; the thing was dead, unplugged or faulty. At the next stop we were apparently heading North-West and I began to worry, though when ‘Chesterfield’ was announced I deduced that we would at some stage be swinging round the hills to the south.
At Langley Mill, a young couple with a baby and pre-school child struggled to find seats. They split up to look for places, then I leapt up and gave up my place to them so that they could sit together; in so doing I climbed in next to ‘her’ and ‘he’ found ‘his’ table the setting for a pot of baby food and a plastic dinosaur.
She was fingering through typed notes, the word ‘Microscopy’ appeared in the headings; she had added hand written calculations in biro in the margins. She made no effort to move the magazine that was open beneath her notes or the opened can of Pepsi that could have been mine to reach out for and drink.
My first guess was that she was a nurse studying in order to specialise, then I thought perhaps she was a lab technician, or doing a course in medical engineering. She picked up a biro with her left hand. She twisted her wrist around as left-handed people do to add some further notes. I wondered if she had an exam coming up but wouldn’t ask. A few stops more and tired of her notes she sunk into the seat, slumped against her jacket and tried to sleep.
Further down the line the train emptied, the family on the other side of the aisle and the man-in-a-suit left as if together, leaving us side by side; she stirred to watch the train empty. I felt it was presumptuous of me to stay put in what had become an empty carriage, it wasn’t that I didn’t like sitting by her side, shoulder to shoulder, but we both could now exploit the freed up ‘desk’ space offered.
I clambered back to the other side of the carriage so that like her I could spread my work across the table. I couldn’t help noticing her though; wanting to assess her and understand her. She was pale, there was a coal dust darkness under her surface; she might have been second or even third generation Iranian or Turk. She looked tired, caught in sharp direct light shadows appeared beneath her eyes, the product of late nights, not party nights I suspected. Her hair was cut in a feathered bob about 16 inches long from the hairline; strands of different length hung around her face like ivy from a tree. Her lips were painted purple; they hinted of death, of someone who was losing blood. There was a stud in her nose, not chrome, but burnished, like a piece of loose snot she'd forgotten to wipe away, as if she didn’t want people to notice it was there. She wore a purple Iris necklace with pale purple, yellow and turquoise beads. She was slim, size 8 at guess. She wore a long-sleeved unisex Ben Sherman shirt with a Piccadilly stripe and turquoise highlights. Beneath her shirt, I could see a black camisole, nothing fancy, black cotton, often worn. She had stonewashed denim bag for her personal things and had a distressed brown leather jacket tucked in behind her shoulder.
She nodded off again and in so doing slouched into the seats like a long, partially filled feather pillow thrown at settee. She rested on her back not her bum, her legs straight out beneath the table, her legs slightly apart, her feet flat on the floor.
I got my first inkling then that I found her sexy
My dick stirred, like someone waking up on a campsite curious to know what the couple in the next tent were talking about. I imagined myself on my knees, between her legs, my face thrust between her legs, her hands wresting on my head. She wore embroidered jeans that stretched over bony hips that lifted the waistline away from her lower belly, the easier for me to slip my hand in.
She could have been dreaming about cunnilingus
As if to support my view she thrust both her hands down between her legs and folded one leg over the other tucking herself into the carriage furniture. I looked at her feet. She wore hiking socks with trainers; white wool socks with and grey, blue and yellow flecks in them worn with Nikes - it wasn’t a fashion statement, it was practical, or forgetful. Behind her feet, tucked away and protected, I could see a black laptop bag.
My station came up, but I don’t get off
I committed myself to making an attempt to make something of our ‘chance encounter.’
She spoke to me first by asking me to keep an eye on her bags. I was happy to do so. I took my turn when she returned, using the lavatory she’d just left.
The loo on the Midlands Central Service from Liverpool Limestreet to Norwich was a good sized box with ample places to hold on; it was an old design but clean with room to move about whilst adequately confining so there was something to press against. There was a stench of toilet cleaner, it bubbled up from the lavatory bowl wiping out any smell of urine, whether male or female, on the floor or in an unflushed bowl. ‘Recently cleaned’ is better that several layers of unflushed shit and toilet paper floating about in a bowl that has been dowsed with neat bleach; I wondered if the toilet was used much, most travellers got on for only two stops or so. The sink in the loo was made of white fireclay with traditional cross-head chrome taps; it could have come from a salvage job, but I know the sink was the must original feature on the train; it must once have stood on a plinth but had been encased in green of cuts of Formica. There was a hand rail but not enough to please anyone lobbying for the disabled, it looked as if it was there to help men who were standing over the urinal from pissing all over the walls as well as the floor as the train shunted down the line. Above there was a clothes hook, the kind that hangs in school changing rooms; I gave it a tug to see if it was well secured; I’ve known them to come out of the wall in my hand as the train stops, tearing through the painted chipboard.
‘Are you at med school?’ I asked when I came out. She liked the complement, smiled effortlessly showing a neat row of pristine teeth, like white bathroom tiles. Like me she had a slight gap in her front teeth, we noticed this in each other, looking away from the eyes into and around each other’s mouths. It was enough to make us feel we had something in common, even if we didn’t.
She laughed. She was in her second year of a four year course studying for a Masters in Midwifery. The need to get her head round microscopy was to do with linking research with medical practice.
Her grunginess I suspected was a consequence of long hours and low pay. I once went out with a nurse, but I didn’t tell her.
I sat diagonally across from her and we made the table our own; when the train filled up again at Nottingham we were left in ‘our’ space. Half an hour later, I shuffled over again so that I could be opposite her. We shared the puzzles in her magazine. I tried to do them upside down, it made it harder for me to read and write, but as she was left handed the back of my hand brushed against hers as we competed to fill in a clue; as I tried to write our fingers touched. It brought out the giggles in both of us and as we sat up, sat back and shifted the weight on our legs. She said doing puzzles like this was like watching an Australian Soap, a good way to let go, clear her head of anything that mattered.
Her name was Sophie
The sun was bright, we leant closer to see each other, squinting against low rays of early Spring sunshine that shot between the humps and low hills that we passed through. We seemed to like each other; I liked her. I don't yet know what she saw in me, but anything was something.
I asked about the nose stud. I asked about her family. I asked where she was going. I asked about her ambitions. I asked about her life. I asked about her hopes. I asked if she was single.
I had to pay a supplement on my ticket to travel; I did so.
I made a point of saying I’d planned to break my journey at Nottingham but had changed my mind.
It was then that I asked what she was doing for the rest of the day. She accepted it as an invitation to do something together and for the next hour we picked scales off each other, exposing the flesh of our existence and in so doing finding we had much in common.
She knew my sister. This can happen in England, it's a small place, about the size of California ???
I had been in the class below her and knew of me and my reputation ‒ I had been three years her senior at the boy’s school across the road from her. I recognised her too, though didn’t remind her when we had met, it had been at the School Disco, she had been dressed as a Twenties Flapper. I’d gone an enormous papier-mâché breast. It had a wire-frame work and at some stage, she’d been dared to climb in with me.
I got an erection with her being in there with me
Without my knowing who it was, I’d taken her hand and wrapped it around my stiffness hoping that she’d at least jerk me off. Instead she’d bolted, tipping the tit up with such ferocity that I feel over and ripped the skin at the base of my penis on some of the metal superstructure. I was dashed to the Emergency Department of the Royal Victoria Hospital where I learnt, having had six stitches put into the skin, that I’d won the fancy dress prize. The joke around school for my last year in the Sixth Form was that I was looking for girls on whom I could try out my dick, the worry being that it might come off.
As Sophie realised who I was and as I realised she was recalling the details of our last encounter our mouths dropped.
‘Are you all right? Is it alright I mean?’ She asked.
‘It’s not come off yet, ‘ I said, deciding that I could be candid with a nurse, even if she were a virtual stranger.
There was a long pause during which time we did nothing else but look at each other, she then asked if she could see. I wondered when and where and she nodded her head towards the toilets.
‘Professional curiosity,’ she said.
I didn’t believe her. She knew I didn’t believe her.
‘Please. It’s been on my mind for years. No one ever found out, did they?’
‘I’ve had three years at university too, you know, I’m not a virgin!’
I had an erection by now, but would show her anyway.
I opened the doors into the next carriage, invited her to join me and she got up too, checking to see if anyone could see us leaving together, could have any inkling of what we had in mind. They hadn't.
I opened the door to the toilet cubicle for her and she squeezed in; I locked the door, and checked no one could get in.
I braced myself against the sink, undid my flies and pulled out my dick. Sophie got down to look, the train lurched and she grabbed it with her hand. I moaned, giving her the message that I had an ache that she could deal with. She stood and kissed me.
‘We should have done this a long time ago,’ she said, and we kissed with more passion.
By wedging ourselves hard against the plastic walls, like climbers in a fissure, we could stop ourselves stumbling over, once we had embraced, her hands around mine, or tongues together, our hips grinding our legs entwined we found it was hard to get our hands tucked into places we might like to have them, to fiddle.
Her trousers were held up with a black crochet belt. She had to release one leg to get her trousers down. I couldn’t get the bottom of her trousers over her trainers so I took one off: Women’s Nike Air Max Bambino. We kissed again; I waned to reassure it for despite this fumbling about I was still up for it. I then got on my knees and pushed my mouth against her black panties; she wore a thong. I slipped my fingers into them feeling a twitch of excitement as the back of my knuckles rubbed her pubic hair. I pressed my open mouth against her laying the flat of my tongue against the head of her clitoris while gently pulling back the hood with my thumb. Twice she was thrown off balance, the first time crushing my nose, the second pressing my teeth into my lower lip. I tried something else; like a climber trying to figure out how to make a move over a tricky overhang I turned about, got on my knees, lay back over the toilet seat and offered my mouth to her. She stepped out of her panties and as her pert buttocks pointed in my direction, I reached around her hips and brought her down on me. She leant forward over the washbasin. She sat on me, as good as, pressed her crack into my face. As the train jostled eagerly forward my nose disappeared between her lips. By pulling down on the small of her back and reaching up I was able to dip the tip of my tongue into the hood that wrapped her clitoris like a cagoule over the head of a small boy caught in a Pennine rainstorm. I gave her clit a twaddle. By wresting on her elbow in the washbasin, she was able to lean down with her free hand and undo my flies.
I couldn't hope for a blowjob, but at least she could toy with me, cling tom my joystick.
I got cramp and struggled to get up, like a contortionist who has held the same position for too long.
Twisting round and with her help, I was able to get my erection inside her. There hadn’t been a knock at the door; we hadn’t been disturbed until now; we didn’t expect to get disturbed at all.
The train did it for us, as it jostled and pushed, buckled and backed, sped up and bucked; all we had to do was hold on, keep me inside, my mons pubis rubbing against the head of her clitoris, exciting her while our bodies touched and twisted.
If birds can copulate whilst flapping, jumping and poking as they do, balanced on branches on the edge of buildings then we too could manage on a train
We did. She was keen for me to cum and to cum with me. I kept her informed, a gentle mutter to let her know where I was, not to urge her on, but to let her time it to suit her own needs. When she started to come she bucked and twitched, groaned then yelled while I worried and blushed at the thought of being overheard. It rather spoilt the sensation of release that came with ejaculation, as I felt certain there’d be a load thump on the door at any moment.
Sophie let me go flaccid inside her
She had herself wrapped around me, exhausted. Eventually she got down and looked for a tissue, I pulled a cotton hanky from my pocket; she asked if that would be all right. She mopped up between her legs then handed me the damp cloth that I pushed into my pocket. I helped her gather up her things and in so doing we leant down to the floor simultaneously and cracked our heads together. It really hurt and made her cry. She sat on the rim of the lavatory for a moment, it wasn’t comfortable.
She asked if I was all right. I said I was. She asked if my penis was all right. I told her it was, there had never been a problem and I was delighted that she could now feel assured that her tipping me out of a giant-sized, wire frame papier-mâché at the school disco none years previously had not caused me permanent harm, indeed there was every reason to believe I’d go on a sire a handful of healthy children.
Back in our seats I asked Sophie about her trainers, they seemed an odd thing to wear; she said she was competing in the London Marathon. I asked her if she thought it was good to have sex before a race. She said it was even better to have sex after a race; perhaps I could put her up somewhere.