Slave to the Train

Whirr, zip; the barrier took and gave back her ticket; Zoe stepped through and hurried towards the platform with her waiting train: it would not do to miss it. She hurried up the stairs and onto the bridge that went right over the railway lines, towards where she could see her train standing; waiting, as it did every evening, to take her and the busy workers home towards the coast

Zoe was just in time, with a small jump she was in, the doors closing smoothly behind her with just the faintest hiss. Before she was even seated the train was moving, rolling slightly as it left the railway station out into the night. She had been worried she was going to be too late and not catch her train. It was not as if there were no other trains - indeed there was one thirty-five minutes later - but this was the one she caught. It had not been like that in the past; it was not like that in the mornings; at one time she had not been at all worried which train she caught; had not always been quite sure of the times; did not even now worry too much in the morning; but in the evenings this was the train she caught.

It was odd; she knew it was odd and, what was even odder; it was not just the particular train but also the same carriage that she liked to travel in each evening.

Explaining her obsession, if that was what it was, would not have been easy for her. She was not an obsessive person. She did not, when she left her flat, double try the door to make sure it was closed; did not check her bag on the way to the station to make sure she had really put her laptop in it; did not look behind her as she left the train to make sure she had left nothing on the seat but there was no getting away from it there was one train she caught in the evening and one carriage she sat in preferably at the same set of seats - a bank of three facing a bank of three - and that was how it was.

It had started no more than a fortnight ago, though Zoe could not be sure about that any more than she was quite sure she did deliberately actually catch that particular train each day and not just by coincidence. Leastways she seemed to find herself leaving the office and getting to the station early or a bit late but in time to catch it. She would have said the carriage she sat in was the closest to the stairs but if you looked at the layout of the platform and the position of the train objectively this simply was not true.

Zoe pulled her book out of her bag and began to read. As always there were a lot of people on her train. It was busy and there was some conversation underway but mostly people were reading their newspapers or even dozing. Stations came and stations went. It was a commuter line heading out into the country from the city dropping people off to go to their homes for the evening. After a time reading, Zoe too dozed, the regular sound of the wheels soporific, the busy day catching up on her. Her dream was peculiar

She awoke with a start, her eyes opening all at once. The man opposite her was looking at her, leaning towards her as if examining her, as if he had been watching her closely asleep. Expressionless he leant back in his seat and turned to look out of the window. Zoe blinked as she collected her thoughts. Had he really been looking at her? Where was she on her journey now? What did the dream mean?

The man stood at the next stop and got off without a word. Zoe watched him as he stepped along the platform; twill trousers, tweed jacket, sandy hair, large moustache, all rather military really. Had he really been looking at her?

It was the stop before her own and she began to gather her things together ready to get off. The train trundled the last few miles to the sea and Zoe's attention returned to her book.

As the train drew into her station, the terminus, she stood and looked down the carriage. It was empty. It always was for the last few stations on her line and that day had been no exception - not one passenger in her carriage. There were other passengers for her station but they were in the other carriages nearest to the exit. She followed them out into the night and walked on to her flat. Lentil Lasagne and salad for supper but first a hot cup of tea.

Another busy day, another rush to the station but she caught her train; this time with a few minutes to spare. Zoe sat in her accustomed seat and took her book from her bag, the bookmark still where she had left it that morning. A man she did not recognise got in and sat opposite her, a military looking man with a moustache. Zoe paid him little attention as she got on with her book; she was getting to an exciting bit. She paid little attention to the other passengers, to their comings and mostly goings or really to the stopping and starting of the train at all the stations it stopped at: her book engrossed her. It was only towards the penultimate station, when she had looked up and caught the military looking gentleman seemingly staring at her, had she realised he and she were the only two people left in the carriage. It was a bit scary for a moment but then he got up and walked down the aisle to the door ready to leave at his station. Zoe was relieved, it was not nice to suddenly find yourself alone with a man staring at you, though, probably, there were lots of other people elsewhere on the train.

With a lurch the train set off on the final leg of the journey and Zoe went back to her book.

Zoe was in two minds about reaching the final station - it was good to be home but she had been quite happy sitting in the warm carriage reading her book particularly as she had got to another exciting piece. As the train finally stopped Zoe looked up and put her book away. There was no one else in the carriage. She smiled to herself, she had been so engrossed in her book that she had not seen any of the passengers leave, hadn't paid the carriage any attention since she had got on: really anything could have happened and she wouldn't have noticed. Bean Paella for supper after a nice cup of tea.

The trouble with good books is that they finish. Even 'The Lord of the Rings' comes to an end and that is three books if you don't count 'The Hobbit' and related writings: though it would be a bit foolish to read 'The Lord of the Rings' without reading 'The Hobbit' first. Zoe had finished her book in the morning by the time she had reached the city and that meant she had nothing to read on the train all the way home. Strolling down the platform that evening with plenty of time to spare she thought she would probably have a sleep. That was one of the advantages of getting off at the end of the line - you couldn't overshoot and find yourself further down the line because there wasn't any further down the line. She settled into her usual seat by the window and looked out at the bustling railway station.

A military looking man got on and sat opposite her, she looked up briefly but went back to looking out of the window. He was not someone she recognised.

'Punctuality is the Politeness of Princes' and Zoe was not disappointed in the train. With its usual lurch it set off, the regular drumming of the wheels having a predictably soporific effect upon her. It is quite delightful to slip into a doze after a hard day at work particularly on a train; to let the world slip away and dream. Zoe's dreams came, peculiar and disjointed but often there was a whispering on the edge of the dream telling her what to do - as if someone was speaking softly into her ear.

It was probably a slight tickling on her ear lobe as if a fly, perhaps a mosquito, had been brushing it which woke her. She blinked and opened her eyes, a return to consciousness. The man who had got on after her was standing above her, retrieving his bag from the luggage rack; Zoe looked up at him but he did not catch her eye. She noticed he had a large sandy moustache, very military she thought and probably really tickly if it got close to you. She watched him walk down the carriage and sit at another seat rather than getting off at the next stop. Was it something she had done? Had she been snoring? She hoped not.

Zoe went back to looking out of the window. At the stop before hers the last other person in the carriage got off. Zoe watched him: probably a military or ex military type, she thought, his bearing and large sandy moustache suggested as much. Not a usual commuter. She did not recall seeing him before.

The cold of February gave way to the hopefulness of March with Daffodils and the promise of spring. The evenings were lightening and Zoe was getting on the train in the daylight which was so much better than the gloomy, often wet, darkness of winter. By May spring had more than arrived and Zoe's spirits were even more uplifted. She was still catching the same train in the evening, regular as clockwork as if she was a slave to the timetable. The mornings did not seem to worry her, but as the afternoon wore on, she found herself glancing more and more frequently at her wrist, or the office wall clock, or her computer screen (bottom right).

It had become a bit of a joke in the office but not an unkind one; quite a few staff were creatures of habit or circumstance.

Zoe stepped lightly into her carriage and put her magazine on the seat before lifting her bag onto the overhead rack. She had no overcoat now, not even raincoat as the days were warm enough, though jacket or cardigan was still retained. As she picked up her magazine a voice asked if the seat opposite "was taken." It wasn't and she replied to the gentlemen who had asked her, a military sort of man with a crisp, clipped way of talking. She vaguely remembered seeing him before but paid little attention to him as she settled into reading her magazine. It was unsurprising to find her eyelids drooping and not finishing reading the magazine on the journey.

It was, no doubt, the movement of the man as he got off at the penultimate stop that awoke Zoe. She had been dreaming, rather a nice sort of romantic or a 'bit more' dream but she couldn't quite remember it.

Picking up her magazine she went back to the article she was reading. She wriggled her shoulders because her bra felt a bit uncomfortable. After taking a quick look around and seeing no one else on the train, she adjusted herself easing everything into a comfortable position; looking down she was surprised to see she had somehow done the buttons of her blouse up wrongly - a funny mistake to make. She hoped no one had noticed they were wrong though she thought someone had been sitting opposite her but could not recall whom. Hopefully he or she had not noticed and smiled.

There was better luck with the magazine the next day though she still drifted off. It was a slightly unsafe thing for a young girl to do, she thought, with a man sitting opposite her but he had a military, trustworthy look and she thought she had seen him on the train once or twice before and, anyway; there were other people in the carriage. The other people were no longer there when she woke up, they had got off at their various stops and the only one left was the military looking man with his sandy hair and big moustache looking out of the window. She looked at him and smiled to herself. He looked safe enough, not the sort of man to rifle a girl's handbag or steal her magazine.

It was only after the man got off that she felt some discomfort about her nipples and, as there was no one else on the train, she slipped her hand into her blouse and bra to check. They felt tender and a little inflamed. Perhaps they had been rubbing against her bra material. Some cream on them before bed would probably do the trick, she thought, but they did feel a little sore rather as if they had been chewed by an over enthusiastic boyfriend or baby, she supposed. Yes, probably some cream would sort things out.

May gave way to June which was mostly sunny as it often is, deluding the optimist into thinking it will be a glorious summer. A short break had taken Zoe away visiting friends in the South but now she was back in the routine of work and the, strangely missed, journey home to the coast by train. It had puzzled her in Brighton why she had felt strange just at her normal leaving work time, as if there was something amiss in not catching her train. Peculiar given how lovely it was to be free of the office for a few days.

The light and warmth of spring cum summer is so hoped for in the dark and wet of winter yet seems so normal when one reaches it. The warmth was pleasant to Zoe as her shoes clipped along the pavement to the big station and through the doors into the concourse. She had plenty of time and even popped into one of the shops to buy a few things she needed before going through the barriers and up and over the lines to her platform. The train was waiting.

Sitting in her seat, the seat she always sat in, she was suddenly furious with herself. How could she have gone into 'Boots' and not bought a drink, how could she have forgotten she was thirsty? She had intended to do buy something as she had walked to the station. A fruit juice would have done or she could have had a takeaway 'tea' from one of the coffee chains. The water bottle she kept in her handbag was empty. It was annoying and the train was not the sort to have a buffet or a trolley service. It was too late to go back now, the carriage was starting to fill up and the train would be moving soon. A military looking gentleman, she vaguely recalled sometimes got on her train, sat down opposite her. He nodded and she nodded back.

The train trundled on its way stopping at this station and that. Zoe tried to read but her mind kept going back to her thirst. Her tongue slipped over her lips, she really felt parched. Why hadn't she bought even a small carton of juice?

Zoe was half asleep when the military man asked, very politely, if she was thirsty. Perhaps he had seen her tongue running over her parched lips, she knew she had done that several times. If so, he might just have something in his pocket. Zoe felt quite fuzzy, perhaps it was the thirst, and it occurred to her that this particular man had been kind to her that way before in offering her refreshment. She couldn't quite remember when or what he had offered but she was grateful to accept this time. Her head was spinning a little as he explained the container was a little odd, one of those new fangled things, something you had to suck on to make them work rather like a large teat really.

All she would have to do was to suck on the end for a little while and the refreshment would flow. Gently he eased her head forward and down towards the drink container; she was more than half asleep by now, her mind feeling blurred, her eyes closed, as her opening lips found and she sucked greedily; it seemed warm in her mouth, smooth, yes very much like a large teat but it did seem to take such a long time to produce any liquid. All rather odd and not very sensible really but it was actually quite nice, quite comforting, just to quietly suck waiting for the refreshment to rise.

With just a gentle application of the brakes Zoe's train coasted to a stop in her station by the sea. Opening her eyes she looked around her feeling really rather confused for a moment; surprised that she was already home. Standing, she got her bag and walked a little unsteadily down the aisle to get off. She must have fallen asleep; she paused and frowned, she couldn't quite remember, but hadn't she been a bit thirsty when she got on the train and hadn't some man offered her a drink? She shook her head trying to clear it sending her hair flying; it was difficult to remember but the taste on her lips seemed more salty than sweet. It was not orange juice but what was it? Had it refreshed her?

It actually was a hot summer that year and Zoe often found her water bottle empty particularly on her evening train. She would look at it wistfully before dabbing her forehead with a hanky from her handbag. Even wearing a thin cotton dress she felt hot, the soft material sticking to her skin, and she looked forward to being home and pulling off her clothes and standing under the shower. Some evenings she would even go down to the sea to bathe.

On the train one hot evening she was pulling a little at her dress, just easing it away from her skin when she thought she caught a man sitting opposite looking at her. He was a rather military looking gentleman with a big sandy moustache, dressed in fawn drill trousers and a linen jacket. He had laid a Panama hat and cane on the seat beside him, a hat no doubt needed during the day because he was going a little bald on top. Too much Testosterone thought Zoe to herself with some amusement, that is why they say some men go bald - and look at young ladies in their sticky-damp dresses. She crossed her legs conscious of his glance. He looked away just as if he had not really been watching her. But he had, she thought.

Despite or perhaps because of the heat Zoe dozed and, as she often did on the train, she dreamt; a funny muddled sort of dream, full of oddness, and when she awoke, just as the train pulled into the station before hers, she could still remember some of it. She had the most rude recollection of dreaming she had been having sex with the military man, not normal intercourse but giving him a 'blow job' whilst his hands roamed free beneath her dress; it was so vivid, a full senses dream, one of colour, sound and even taste so that she could even still taste semen on her tongue when she awoke. Not the sort of dream she would have expected particularly on the train. She stared at the retreating linen clad back as the man got off the train; surprisingly he turned and raised his Panama to her before he stepped off.

Zoe blinked and shook her head both in denial of the idea and to clear her fuzzy head. As the train pulled out of the station she turned to stare back at the man walking down the platform, walking firmly with long strides, his stick swinging as he walked. Had she seen him before? And then, why was she looking at him?

Another day and, later than she could ever remember, Zoe's bare legs leapt up the stairs to the bridge across the platforms as she raced for her train. A sprint across the bridge and then a hurried, but careful, descent before she leapt onto her train just as the doors closed - not a second to spare; they had been closing as she leapt. She flopped into a free seat and sat panting with the exertion, the sweat running down her 'in buckets.' Recovering her breath she took a large swig from her water bottle and looked around her. Despite having caught her train, the train she needed to catch - why did she have to catch this train - something felt wrong.

Then she had it, she was not in her usual carriage. Still breathing heavily she got up and walked through to 'her' carriage and settled herself down in her seat. It was free, indeed there was only one other person in her bank of six seats, a gentleman looking rather military in his upright posture, perfectly creased trousers and slightly crumpled (but when had linen not looked like that) cream jacket. Next to him on the seat was a Panama hat and walking stick.

He nodded to Zoe as if he knew her. Zoe had a vague recollection of seeing him on her train before; it might have been him who had once offered her a drink when she was really thirsty. He looked a kindly sort of person. She took another gulp from her water bottle; it really was far too hot to run and just because she had stopped running did not mean she stopped sweating, the perspiration was pouring out of her making her dress really quite wet, indeed quite immodest if the military man across from her was to look too closely; she finished her water bottle.

He looked at her, "Very warm today," he said.

She could not but agree.

The train rattled along the viaduct leading from the town out into the hills; hills that looked deceptively cool and green despite the heat. Zoe would have liked to be out in the hills just then, walking in a cooling breeze, letting it blow her dress around a bit, allowing the breeze to dry it and her; or, instead, lie down in the cool grass perhaps even without the dress, letting it dry on a fence, or wall, or hedge or something. Not that she would ever do such a thing as lie naked in the green grass of a hill on a summer's evening: well perhaps not alone anyway. Her thoughts drifted as she slipped into a doze and then to sleep. Not a dreamless sleep but one of quiet whisperings and sexual rudeness. She dreamt she was bouncing up and down in the train, bouncing up and down on the lap of the military looking man, not just bouncing but sitting astride him, her naked legs either side of his thighs and riding him in the act of sexual intercourse as the train made its way through the countryside. The action energetic, the connection enjoyable, the sexual excitement palpable.