On the Edge of the Abyss

With hardly a backward glance, John climbed onto the train at York station and slumped into an empty seat. In the back of his mind he had known it was going to be a bad idea to go and revisit Katrina six months after, and the sullen weekend together had just confirmed that. He was glad to be back on the train heading south, back to his empty college room. From his bag he pulled out "The Road to Oxiana" and picked up where he had left off on Friday evening, smiling to himself at the author's droll descriptions of 1930's travel around Persia. Soon he was lost in the book, not noticing the daylight fading outside, or the passing of the journey once so familiar and once so eagerly anticipated: Doncaster, the slow crawl up the Don valley to Sheffield, Derby, Chesterfield with its crooked spire, Burton with the huge brewery warehouses ...

At Birmingham, he had to change trains for Oxford. The new train was already in the platform. John checked his seat reservation and looked along the train. One carriage was dark with its lights faulty; sure enough that was his carriage. Still, he didn't mind a dark journey home, it would give him time to think. Climbing into the carriage, he saw it was empty except for one person, sitting in - his seat!

"I think you're in my seat," he said, oblivious to the array of empty seats all around.

"No," she replied, in a California drawl, "I got a reservation – here look, seat 21B."

John looked again at his ticket – seat 21F. Facing the engine. Rather than backing... He took his proper seat opposite her, a little abashed at his apparent ungallant attitude, and started to get out his book.

"They sure make life complex," she said. John looked up with a start. Until that moment he hadn't really looked at the girl opposite him.

"Hi! I'm Lauren," she continued. She was quite slight, with dark features and long wavy hair that fell in an uncontrolled mass over her shoulders. In the half-dark carriage, her eyes sparkled with the reflected station lights. Her bare arm stretched across the table between them, her slim hands and long fingers casually toying with the pages of her book in front of her.

"I... I... I'm John," he stammered. "Look, er, sorry about my comment earlier. My mind's elsewhere at the moment, I didn't mean to be rude."

"Not at all," Lauren replied. "What's that you're reading – something by Byron?"

"The Road to Oxiana - Robert Byron. Not the poet – a distant relative I think," John replied. "It's sort of about the author's quest for the roots of Islamic architecture – but in between also a very funny travel book. A bit of light relief from physics, in any case."

Lauren looked slightly quizzical. "I'm doing a doctorate in physics," John added quickly. "I'm just going home after a weekend visiting a girlfr.. ... er.. an old friend." Inexorably John found himself being drawn into conversation with this chatty young American.

"That's so like weird," said Lauren. "I'm right there too – Worcester college. I'm reading for a DPhil in English. 'English romantic poets and the notion of the Abyss' ." John smiled at the thought of the future of the English language in the hands of someone who used "like" every fourth word. Precision in English - precision in everything – normally mattered to him. Strangely, he found himself letting it pass; he was just intoxicated at the sound of Lauren's voice.

Leamington, Banbury, the canal, Port Meadow ... The familiar landmarks sped past in the gathering gloom, but John didn't notice any of them, captivated as he was by the witty, erudite Californian in front of him. Their conversation ranged widely and easily, from gossip about dons and porters to history and literature. John meandered down little alleyways about the philosophy of science; Lauren explained her studies. The notion that the greatest pleasure occurs on the edge of disaster: just one step from the abyss. Soon, too soon, the train drew to a halt at Oxford station. John got up and slung his light rucksack over his shoulder, then helped Lauren off the train with her bag.

"Let me carry this back for you," he said, suddenly emboldened. "I'm going that way in any case" – a lie, but a white one. Lauren didn't stop him, and together they walked the short distance back to gates of Worcester college. John hesitated, unsure about going any further, but not wanting to leave just yet.

"We should, er, meet, ... er.. look, if you want a coffee or anything you can get me through pigeon post. I'm at New College." He put her bag down onto the pavement: as he did so his hand brushed hers. For a fleeting second she squeezed his fingers.

"Sure," she said, "That sounds kinda cool." And with that she turned and disappeared into the forbidding walls of her college.

John walked back through the warm night air, his mind a tumult of conflicting emotions and signals. Was she for real? Had she really laughed at his jokes, hung on his every word? Had she really agreed to meet up? Had she really held his hand for that fleeting instant?

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For four days John could think of no-one else. He woke up thinking of Lauren's dark eyes; ate breakfast imagining her tumbling hair; carried out experiments whilst really thinking of caressing her cheek; sat in the library failing to read journals whilst the feel of her slim hand against his ran through his mind. For four days he heard nothing.

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On Friday there was a note in his pigeon hole. "Meet for lunch – Worcester lodge, 1pm. Lauren x" John's heart rose, what was the time now? Nine a.m. Four hours ... He considered the implication of that solitary "x", but soon put it from his mind. Just a girly affectation. But she didn't seem exactly a girly kind of girl ...

The morning dragged on impossibly slowly. Finally at 12:40 he could cope no longer; he walked the few minutes to Worcester and stood by the lodge, trying to look as casual as possible even as his heart raced uncontrollably. At a few minutes to one, Lauren appeared. She was dressed casually in a loose black skirt and white T-shirt. But there was no mistaking those dark eyes, the floppy hair, the slim arms, the elegant fingers ...

"Look, I need to go the library after lunch," she started. "Do you mind just coming up while I fetch my books." And before John could answer, she was racing away across the quad and up the staircase to her attic room. John hesitated outside while she raced in, but in a moment she called out "It's like, OK, you can come in. I don't bite."

John walked in. It was pretty standard student fare: bed, wash basin, wardrobe, a few clothes draped over the back of the only chair in the room. The posters on the wall told of life in California. Lauren sat back on the chair. "Sit down," she said, motioning towards the bed. John sat, and as he did Lauren moved over to be by his side. For a several moments they sat together in silence. John's mind raced chaotically. Was she trying to seduce him? Of course not! He banished the thought from his mind. All the same, he put his hand down on the bed between them, feeling for her fingers, seeing if her hand would follow. Softly he felt her long fingers glance against his hand, then suddenly withdraw, as if Lauren too was wrestling with her own thoughts.

Suddenly she bent forward and kissed him fully on the lips. John was startled, but almost involuntarily he opened his lips, letting her tongue explore his mouth. His hand moved down to her thigh. The cotton fabric of her skirt felt soft under his fingers; he started to push it up playfully, revealing just an inch or two above her knee.

Lauren grasped his wrist: had he gone to far? John was momentarily mortified, but an instant later he found himself thrown back onto the bed with Lauren astride him. Not hesitating she tore her T-shirt over her head; beneath was a lacy white bra holding her small breasts. John reached up and pulled the straps over her shoulders; then pulled the bra down around her waist. Her breasts were small but beautifully shaped; the nipples pale brown and erect. He reached out to stroke them but Lauren pinned him back to the bed; then expertly undid the buttons on his own shirt. Her hair fell in front of her face in a mass of tangled curls. Falling forward, she kissed him again, then moved down his slim body, kissing his neck and chest, then his belly. As she reached his jeans, John could feel his cock swelling, hungering for her tongue.

He didn't have to wait too long: quickly she undid his trousers and half wriggling, half tugging, he pulled them and his pants down, letting them fall on the floor. Shutting his eyes, he felt her tongue work its way around his now hard cock, running up the back in teasing strokes, licking around its head. Soon he felt the tight grip of her fingers around his shaft, and the warmth of her mouth as she started to swallow him. His cock twitched in her mouth; he shivered as he felt the beginnings of an orgasm at the base of his cock.

Ripples of pleasure ran through John's body as Lauren's expert tongue caressed his cock. But his self control held; almost at the last moment he pushed her away and rolled her over. His eyes drank in her small breasts now flattened against her chest. Her skin was pale olive and glistened slightly with the sweat of the hot August afternoon. John knelt before her and pushed her skirt up to her waist, revealing her white panties. His hand lingered briefly, then slipped inside to feel her warm pussy. To his surprise it was completely wet already; without effort he slipped first one, then two fingers inside her. Lauren gasped. "I want you to fuck me now," she said directly. "Take me to the edge ..."

John grasped her panties and pulled them down her legs. Her pussy was moist before him, covered with soft downy hair. John marvelled at her naturalness. Kneeling before her, he moved his cock towards her pussy. Without effort he felt the warmth around its tip, then along its length as he slipped inside. Lauren squealed as she felt herself fill up with the full length of his cock. John drew back, then thrust in again, savouring the tightness of her pussy around him. He pulled her legs up, opening her cunt as he knelt above her, fucking her with rhythmic strokes. Her tits bounced up and down with each stroke, her body glistening in the heat.

"Fuck me harder," she shouted. "Fuck me. Take me to the abyss." Lauren shut her eyes and reached up to grab John, pulling her down onto her body and kissing him hard. John thrust into her more roughly, turned on by her shouts of pleasure. "Oh my god!" she screamed. "Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod! The edge." Suddenly she relaxed dreamily. Over the edge and into the abyss... "Cum on me," she whispered.

John thrust another time, then felt once again the cum welling up through his cock. Quickly he pulled out, and grasping his cock, he felt himself cumming. He watched his milky spunk arc across her face and chest. The thick white liquid dripped down her cheek and onto the pillow beside her. Casually she scooped some up with her finger and put it to her mouth, tasting his saltiness again. Reminding her of the abyss...

After what seemed an eternity, Lauren opened her eyes. "Look, I've like really gotta go," she said, pulling her bra back over her breasts and slipping her arms back through the straps. She pulled her T-shirt back on and wiggled back into her panties. John too dressed hurriedly, buttoning his flies over his still half-hard cock. Lauren flew around the room, grabbing books and papers and pens, then bolted for the door. John followed involuntarily as Lauren half ran down the stairs from her garret. At the bottom of the stairs, Lauren greeted another student who was bounding up towards them. "Hi Aaron," she said. "Look, I can't make it this lunchtime. Why don't you come round tonight?"

"My boyfr ... er ... that's my friend Aaron, he's another English grad," she said hurriedly. And with that she was gone, running across the quad, leaving John alone to puzzle over what had just happened. How close had they been to getting caught, he wondered. What was it she had said - "the greatest pleasure occurs on the edge of disaster." So was that the meaning of the Abyss?

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Six month's later, Lauren finished typing the final words in the acknowledgements of her thesis. It was mostly standard stuff: thanks to the Rhodes trust for her scholarship; to her supervisor for inspiration, to friends for companionship. But the final line was enigmatic to all but two people: "Finally, I'd like to thank John, who truly showed me the meaning of the Abyss."