The Flying Scotsman

There are times when there is no time, when it isn't just the urgent need between my legs which is the imperative. When the only chance for satisfaction is fast shameless action. Move now or it is gone forever.

***

The Brits gave the world railways. Not just in the inventing sense - I studied enough economic history to know that it was Brit capital that financed most of the railways in the world. Including plenty in the US.

The pity is, when you get on a train in Britain today, it feels like there hasn't been a whole heap of investment since that mid-nineteenth century heyday. Cold dirty creaky carriages. Timetables but no sense of time. Shitty food. I could go on. There could be a whole sub-genre of bdsm stories headed "british railways".

So on the whole I choose to fly. Or drive. But not the train, please.

But like every rule, there is that golden exception. In England it's called the Great North Eastern Railway. I mean that even sounds like a proper railway, doesn't it? None of this Virgin or Waggon rubbish. And the trains even fit the image. (Well, First Class, anyway, I've never bothered with the cattle). Large comfortable seats. Waiters in uniforms, carrying limitless coffee. Even those little lights you see in Agatha Christie films. Heck, any moment you expect to see Hercule Poirot come sauntering down the corridor.

So when work took me to Newcastle (don't ask - it was as much of a waste of time as you'd expect. Nice city tho) I took the train. Three hundred miles, two and a half hours, England briefly felt like a First World country.

On the return journey I was dog tired, and I had every intention of keeping as much space to myself as possible. I don't exactly get off on being surrounded by large north English businessmen trying to impress me with their knowledge of swear words and female body parts. So the papers and the laptop were out (the same laptop I'm writing this on, btw, an old second hand thing which has become a sort of totem, like a battered old typewriter).

Leaving Newcastle it looked like I'd done it, all four seats to myself, but just a few minutes out we slowed down to stop at Durham. Now there's one of the great railway spectacles in the world. (Not on this particular journey - it was dark and foggy - but I've seen it a number of times so I guess you can call this literary license). The station is high up on the side of a hill, and as you look across you can see, half a mile away, atop another hill, the solid symmetrical shape of Durham Cathedral. A thousand years old but still looking impressive enough to put the fear of God into me.

Ok you've had railways and now cathedrals. This is a sex story. I'll get on with it.

The train was pulling out, I thought I'd got away with, when the door to the carriage hissed open automatically. I started to gather all my favorite weapons for repelling boarders. Then I realized - a girl. Tall(ish), brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail, twenty(ish), a slightly goofy smile but pretty and definitely nice looking. I quickly made as much space at my table as possible. There are few enough women in First Class, let alone anything young or attractive. The norm is a bespectacled dragon more masculine than the north English businessmen I mentioned earlier. It was a big question what the hell someone so young was doing in this compartment, but if it came to her being in the wrong place I was sure Sam could help her out. If only she sat down at my table.

She did.

Fuck, already my heart was pounding and I could feel the first little thrill between my legs. I didn't even need to look at my watch to know it was a little over two hours to London. I couldn't, could I?

She smiled as she sat down, a nice polite English girl, an English rose, and I smiled back, a nice polite American lady, a slavering pervert who wanted to do all sorts of nasty things to her new traveling companion.

To begin with the girl put her bag on the seat beside her, but I guess she quickly guessed that wasn't quite the done thing in First Class, and so she stood up to put it in the luggage rack. The move was entirely un-self conscious, but oh dear, the way her short black navy skirt rose up her bare legs (her clothes didn't need the tyranny of pantyhose) as she reached up left me with no choice. I was going to have her, or probably die trying.

She'd pulled a book out of her bag, for reading on the journey of course, and when I saw the cover my excitement instantly increased. Merlin by Robert Nye. A proper book. A literary book. Not Swords and Sorcery or S&M. But...sex scenes that wouldn't go amiss on this website. Written in a beautiful literary style. A wonderful description of buggery that always makes me long to grab the nearest man and urge him to ram his cock up my ass.

But also...a nun seduces a young teenage girl, thrashing her pretty pale bum while (unknown to the girl) a priest brings himself off over the girl's ass. Yes do go read the book.

And my goofy little rose was reading it. I think I smiled outwardly as well as inwardly.

I could see she was near the beginning, but that was cool because the nun bit was near the beginning too. I reckoned ten minutes would do it, and I felt sure I would be able to see the moment.

While I waited, I figured her out. A Durham University student, no doubt. Coming down to London for a job interview. Easy. And that would explain why she was traveling First Class. Must have been a classy outfit she was looking to join.

Yes. All of a sudden she was fidgeting. Her face was red. Although she was wearing a jacket I was pretty sure her nipples were poking at her pink blouse. Once again my smile was probably obvious.

And as I tapped away on my laptop, I noticed that although the pages were turning, they were turning back and forth. She was reading and re-reading the same few passages, where the pretty young girl gets so thoroughly fucked by the nun.

We were getting near York. No time to waste. "Good book?" I asked. It's okay, Americans are allowed to speak at inappropriate times in Europe. It's because we're viewed as crass, arrogant and ignorant, although I was possibly hoping for charming and interesting. Plus a little bit sexy.

"Er, yes." Entirely as I'd predicted she had a "proper" English accent. Think Fergie, think Di, think every lame American actress who tries to pass herself off as a brit. Except Heather Graham in From Hell.

"I read it a few years back," I continued, charming and sweetness. "Mr Nye has a remarkable imagination."

"Yes." Clearly she was a little uncertain how to go ahead. After all she now knew that I knew.

"Some very interesting ideas," I continued. In terms of literary technique? Or sexual possibilities? I hoped the ambiguity excited her.

"Yes." She paused, realizing that, if this was to be a proper conversation, monosyllables wouldn't do for very much longer. The question was, did she want a proper conversation? "It isn't quite what I expected."

"No. It's a long way from Tolkein or Harry Potter." She smiled. She had a nice smile. A nice face. Not beautiful, like I said before, but pretty in a pink and healthy sort of way. "Can't quite imagine Bilbo Baggins getting up to some of those tricks."

"No. I'm not sure I'd want him to, either." My turn to laugh. The girl had wit. "Bilbo Baggins the sex symbol - it's as likely as Chekhov the Cheerful Chappie, isn't it?" My this was turning into a literary conversation. Fine, so long as it didn't stay like that. York was approaching fast.

"You're reading English then?" I asked.

"Yes."

"What takes you to London?"

"I've got a job interview. Banastres. Second round. They're an investment bank." I could see she was uncertain how much to explain, how much to assume. She'd probably got it about right, for anyone other than me.

"Sure they are. Steve Pickens features number two on my all time list of Pains in the Ass. I'm at SPNO."

"Sorry, I didn't realize..."

"No reason you should. They must want you really badly" - almost as badly as I did - "to pay for you First Class."

She blushed. Mm. Pretty, clever, but modest too. And turned on by Robert Nye's nasty imagination. How much perfection could I take? "I hope so. What do you do at SPNO, if you don't mind me asking?"

I was about to answer, but the train was coming in to York, and I knew that the world of finance would be a slow route into her knickers. "Well I don't mind you asking, but I was actually enjoying talking about your book."

I smiled, and looked her in the eye.

She held my eyes, for a bit, then looked down, Di style. "Ok."

There were people coming down the corridor, threatening our privacy, but it seemed we were both keen to remain as we were, and she made no more move to let anyone sit down than I. As the train pulled out we were still alone. Next stop Doncaster, but you never seemed to get many First Class there.

"I'm Samantha, by the way," I said, offering my hand. She took it, every inch the wannabe trying to impress.

"Annabelle." Shit, even the name was classic English rose.

"I'm not convinced Nye is anything more than a dirty old man," I offered. "Nun seduces young teenage girl, it's hardly an original fantasy."

"No."

"I'll admit it's exciting," well that was something from me out in the open, but she didn't bat an eyelid, "but, well, ultimately it's all a bit male-centric. I mean the climax to that scene, literally, is the priest cumming on the young girl's ass." I got such a thrill saying something so raw.

"But isn't the priest watching through the hole a kind of reference to that? The reader as voyeur." I nodded. Clever girl.

"Well maybe I was a bit too distracted to analyze it too thoroughly." We both smiled. "There's real erotic power, the way he builds it up, don't you think?"

"It's exciting," she agreed, looking just the slightest bit nervous, "whatever your..." She tailed off, but I knew what she meant.

"Ever tried writing anything like that?" I asked.

She blushed. "No." She suddenly seemed quite young. Excitingly young. "Let me guess - you have." The girl had front, I'll say that. More front than Harrods, as some Londoners might say. But then she was heading for Banastres. She nodded at my laptop.

"Well it passes the time." I smiled, wondering if I possibly looked just the slightest bit wolfish. In fact the document open on my laptop was headed "TanCo - Investment Review" but Annabelle didn't need to know that. There was plenty of filth just a click away.

She didn't react. I never expected her to. Oh Samantha, that's so exciting, let me read your erotic porn and get all sexy. Per-lease.

"It's surprisingly easy," I continued, "to lapse into cliché. Heaving breasts, throbbing erections, that sort of thing." You'd struggle to find many penises in my writing but, again, Annabelle didn't need to know that. "And very difficult to...stop yourself from hurrying to the end. Although that's a bit like real life, sometimes, I suppose." She smiled. Clearly no virgin, and not too embarrassed about sex, either.

There was silence. I clicked idly at my keyboard, my eyes darting from the screen to Annabelle's face. Suddenly she grinned big time, and blushed a deeper red still. (There's seems to be no limit to just how red the human face can get). "You're not writing one now?" she said, clearly delighted by the depravity of the young American opposite her. I clicked up an old story, and raised an eyebrow. "On a train!" It seemed the best news she'd heard all day. "That's outrageous."

"No-one needed to know," I smirked.

"Yes, but you were..."

"So were you! I saw the way you kept flicking back to the juicy bits."

"I can't believe you were spying on me." Her tone remained happy as larry. The discovery that First Class train travel could be so interesting was evidently only a positive.

"Well if you will read pornography in public..."

"Literature."

"Pornographic literature."

The train was pulling out of Doncaster. As I'd anticipated, no-one had come into our carriage. No-one was going to disturb our little discussion. "Okay," I said, "if it will stop you making a scene, you can read one of my stories. Be kind. But I'd be interested to hear the critique of a Durham English Lit girl. Particularly one who has Steve Pickens and Banstres after her."

We were having fun, and my offer, however saucy and inappropriate, was one she could only refuse by ruining the mood. Not that she had any intention of doing that. Continuing our pretend theme she rolled her eyes saying "Oh well, if you insist."

I think she expected me to pass the laptop over to her, but I moved over to the window seat. She would have to come sit next to me to read my dirty stories.

Again she looked at me, pretending I was a silly disobedient little girl, but stood up and came around next to me. As her jacket moved I saw her nipples stiff under the material of her top. She wasn't just playing, then.

She looked intently at the screen, transformed slightly into a student again. I'd chosen something mild(ish), girl meets girl, girl seduces girl, girls eat each other's asses, but none of the more "dirty" descriptions I sometimes go for.

"I should have warned you it's girl-girl," I said nonchalantly. "It's kind of timeless, and seems to get everyone going."

"Oh absolutely," she replied, still pretending she was pretending. Fine by me, she'd still come on way quicker than I'd expected.

As she read I watched her long slim fingers on my keyboard, the ring on her finger, slightly ethnic, probably bought in India during that damn stupid gap year. Her face, pink and still flushed from before, the way her top teeth protruded ever so slightly over her bottom lip in a way that anyone but a madman would find sexy. The serious way the girl was reading my private thoughts.

"You have a very...modern style," she said eventually. She was still only half way through, where the narrator (Sam/me) is persuading the other girl to pull down her knickers and expose her ass.

"Dickens doesn't need to move over then?"

"No."

"No. But it works?"

"Yes." She said it very quickly.

"It works for you." She was still staring at the screen, slowly scrolling through the story.

"Yes. It's exciting."

"Meaning?"

She looked sideways at me, then back to the screen. I think it was her comfort zone. "You don't need me to tell you."

"But I'd like you to."

"I'm sure you would," Annabelle said, "just like the poor young girl in the story."

"Well go on then."

"I can't."

"Please."

"I'm sorry," I could see she was a little bit scared, "I really can't."

"Would you like me to tell you?" I asked.

"Yes." She was almost whispering. "Please."

"Your pussy's wet," I said. Her eyes closed and opened slowly, and she nodded. "You're reading my story about two girls having sex and it makes your pussy wet." She nodded again. "You're reading about a girl showing me her ass, Annabelle, and that makes your pussy so wet." Nod. "Do you want to hear about my pussy, Annabelle?" She nodded. "Tell me."

"Yes."

"No. Tell me."

She spoke slowly. "I want you to tell me about...your pussy."

"I'm soaking," I said. "My cunt is soaking for you, Annabelle." She flinched slightly at the use of the word but I could see she was still excited beyond measure. "I bet you're thinking - how hot it would be to show Sam my ass. Like the girl in the story. It turns you on, doesn't it?" She nodded. "You want to show me your ass, Annabelle, tell me you do."

She swallowed. "I do. Want to."

"So if I was to suggest we head for the bathroom, right now, you'd come with me?" She nodded, just about whispering "yes". "To show me your ass?" Nod.

We probably looked like we were heading for the dining car, and fortunately there was no-one hanging around the end of the carriage where the toilet was. Not that we would have cared by then.

I locked the door behind us. Not spacious, or comfortable. Sordid even. But at least it was clean.

"Bend forward over the lavatory, Annabelle." I knelt behind her. The rocking of the train seemed to intensify the heavy sensuality in that small room. "Now lift up your skirt. Yes." Like the sensible girl she was, Annabelle was wearing plain navy cotton knickers. "Pull them down. Show me your ass. Fuck yes." Annabelle had a pretty little bum, nothing exceptional but on this occasion it was the girl not the behind that really excited me.

She was pressed up against the wall, not comfortable I knew, but I suspected the humiliating nature of her situation increased Annabelle's excitement. Her lips were dripping honey, I could see that.

"Now, open up properly. Show me your pretty little asshole, Annabelle. Yes. Wider. That's it. Stretch your tight little hole for me. I'm moving in closer. You like that? I bet you can feel my breath on your hole. Mm, smell you too. Who's a dirty little girl? I could poke my tongue out, less than an inch, and it would be pressed against your tight smelly asshole. Nnnnn. Ooh, you liked that. Pushed back. And I could taste you too. Taste your dirty ass. Tell me. Nnnnn."

So quietly - "Lick my bum, Samantha, lick my dirty bum."

"You want to come now, Annabelle?Nnnnn. With Sam's tongue pressed against your asshole? Like this - nnnnn. You want to come while I eat your ass?"

"Yes."

And with that all I needed was just a couple of delicate strokes with my fingers across Annabelle's clit and she was howling, no thought for where we were, shoving her little hole repeatedly back against my face.

She turned and slumped down onto the seat of the toilet. She was exhausted, but sexy exhausted, I could see that. The way her eyes lingered on my chest was proof of that.

"Me?" She nodded. I turned around and backed towards her, hitching my skirt as I went. Not ladylike, but I was a girl in need of a tongue. Pantyhose and knickers were down to my knees in one quick maneuver, and then I was opening my butt for this young English rose to see and eat.

She almost had no choice, anyway, as I backed even closer in, forcing my ass on her, and then I could feel it, the warm liquid probing of Annabelle's tongue on my asshole.

The mirror above the sink said it all, our flushed faces, creased clothes, and sheer desperate sexual need written on every expression.

It was too much. Just a few strokes with my own fingers was enough. Annabelle nearly choked the way I bucked my ass onto her face.

I caught my breath, but still wanted more. Seeing the way her eyes still burned, so did Annabelle.

"You know what the girl in the story did next?" I asked. She shook her head. "Peed her panties for me."

Annabelle smiled, a languorous look that seemed far more grown up than the way she appeared just an hour ago. "Liar."

"But you want to."

She shrugged. "I will if you will." Fuck she was hot. I'd never expected her to go for it.

"I asked first." We were playing at kids again.

"But you promise?"

I nodded.

"You want me to in my knickers?"

"Yes."

She pulled her knickers back up, odd but very erotic in the current context. I did the same. Both our skirts were hitched way up around our waists.

She lifted the toilet cover and sat there, for all the world a normal young English girl peeing except she'd mysteriously and very sexily forgotten to take her panties down. Her eyes didn't leave my face, and my eyes didn't leave her panties. She even opened her legs wider, so I could see. How thoughtful.

It took ages. Literally minutes. Then there was a slight hiss and a trickling sound and Annabelle's eyes closed lightly as she experienced the deliciously wicked sensation of filling her knickers with her own pee.

I couldn't wait. I squatted quickly over her waist, my panties just above her panties, and let go, and she was fingering my cunt through the wet cotton of my pissy knickers and I was running my fingers through her stream and playing with her soaking material and we were kissing, for the first time, locking tongues that only minutes before had been probing each others' assholes.