tagGroup SexOld Friends, Good Times

Old Friends, Good Times


Unusually for me this is a one-off. I found it, three-quarters finished, in an old file while I was cleaning up my computer. It's about five years since I last looked at it. I hope you like it. Comments and support welcome as usual.


It was raining when I left the municipal building. The grey of the sky matched the concrete façade of the building; both reflected my mood. I dodged back inside the plate-glass doors as a squall of cold wind sent a near-wave of rain across the bare paved concourse.

'Forgotten something, love?'

George, customer relations. His badge told me all I needed or wanted to know about him. His beer belly stretched the buttons on a cheap white shirt, a stained tie with the municipality's logo covered some, but not all, of his exposed, white, hairy belly. A lecture on not patronising women, I decided, would be wasted. If the fact he had directed me to an interview for a senior executive position an hour ago was not indication enough that I deserved respect, nothing I could say to him would.

'No George. But you could direct me to a store where I could buy an umbrella, an off-license that sells decent wine and the nearest taxi rank.'

He looked me up and down ignoring my snippiness and then glanced at the rain through the glass. It was washing down in small rivulets as the near-gale pushed buckets of the stuff against the windows.

'Tell you what, sweet. You just park yourself there...'

He indicated a small sofa next to his desk with a nod of his oversized head..

'... I'll get our Maureen to watch the desk and I'll go out for your umbrella and booze. Can't have you getting those nice clothes wet, now can we darling?'

I was momentarily speechless. I hate men who call me 'love', 'sweet' or 'darling'. The decades have equipped me with a number of cutting ripostes which normally I do not hesitate to employ. But something about his generosity, I still could not bring myself to think 'gentlemanliness', touched me. I smoothed my well-cut silk suit over my thighs and hips as I did as I was told.

George struggled himself into a garish, authority-branded rain jacket as I reached into my bag for some cash.

'If its not too much to ask, could you go to the best wine merchants in town and ask the manager to pick out a bottle of red and another of white from their ten quid shelf?'

'Ten quid! I could get you three bottles for that... tell you what...'

'No. From the ten-pound shelf. I insist. And get another for yourself while you're there.'

I handed over two twenty pound notes and a ten with a stern look. George just opened and closed his mouth. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to decide what kind of idiot he was dealing with.

'Well I don't know,' was all he managed to say as he took a large golfing umbrella from a stand by his desk and made for the door. Maureen, his replacement, was in her early-twenties with the timid demeanour of someone who knew her place in the hierarchy. She tentatively handed me a mug bearing the legend Builders Always Get it Up. I managed a mouthful of the strong tea without grimacing; it had at least two sugars. I do not take any.

I sighed as I opened my phone and saw the twenty messages and emails which had arrived in the last couple of hours. It reminded me of one of the reasons I had come for the interview; the never ending stream of petty diktats from above and self-protecting arse-covering from below. As a middle manager in a busy local authority department I was used to getting it from both sides. It was the constant nagging pettiness of it all which was getting me down.

The interview had gone well. The all-male panel seemed impressed with my qualifications, experience and answers to their fairly straightforward questions. I knew from their web site that the authority had no women in senior positions. I guessed I was there for one of two reasons: either they wanted to drag themselves into the twenty-first century by addressing the gender imbalance; or, they had one of the boys lined up for the job and this was just a formality. Either way, I had decided, I was going to go for it.

The chief executive seemed particularly taken with my legs; I had rewarded his covert stares by crossing and uncrossing them frequently in the course of the cross-examination. The odd private smile, just this side of flirting, probably gave the old boy something to think about. I instinctively ran my hand along my thigh to check my suspenders were holding firmly the sheer stockings I had chosen that morning.

The quiet of the reception area, the lulling sound of the rain against the glass and the clicks from the phone as I deleted messages, or, occasionally, forwarded one to my office PC allowed my mind to wander. The touch of a hand against my thigh - albeit my own - brought thought of sex to the forefront. Again. As it had increasingly over the past few months since the final explosion of my relationship with Paul. I sighed rather too loudly as I mentally ran, once more, through the interminable rows and petty points scoring which characterised the end of the marriage. Maureen looked up and asked if everything was OK. I reassured her it was, smiling to myself as I enjoyed the feeling that any regrets I had about the end of our time together was in the past. I was definitely looking forward to the next chapter in my life.

My pussy twitched as I involuntarily pressed my thighs together. My fantasy life had been running on overdrive. What I could not work out was how to make the transition from day dreams to some real action. On the train journey up I had noticed the over-perfumed businessmen checking me out as I jolted down to the buffet for a coffee. It was flattering that I could still get second looks even though I am well into my forties. I mentally screwed half the carriage on my way back to the seat.

Masturbating in train toilets is not my usual habit. I was definitely blushing now and I stole a quick glance up to check Maureen had not noticed. She was too engrossed in a gossip magazine and was oblivious to everything. I hardly ever use trains any more. Not like when I was a student. Then almost every weekend we went off somewhere: gigs, demonstrations, festivals. I had been thinking of those days earlier on my way up to this bleak northern town.

I had been adjusting my makeup in the large mirror over the sink when for some reason I noticed how clean it was. The combination of the small strip light above it and the filtered sunlight through the frosted window made the whole vestibule glow with reflected light. That in turn brought back a flood of memories of the feeling of grubbier, colder glass against my face as my panting breath clouded my flushed reflection whilst someone fucked me from behind. In my memories it seemed every one of those journeys included me knocking someone off in the toilets, knickers round my ankles, fist in my mouth trying to suppress my groans or to stop myself laughing when I caught the reflection of the facial expression of whoever was screwing me. I had taken to wearing dresses or skirts on trains, I remembered, and always carried clean panties in my bag. Too many experiences of pulling on jeans damp from piss-soaked floors.

The morning memory of cooling cum slowly running down the inside of my thigh when we had finished was too much for me and I had had to straddle the toilet again and give myself a good seeing to. As I slipped my finger into my soaking slit another vision from those days came back to me. Eight of us had been going to some gig or another in a distant town. We had reached the station just in time to catch the train, but not soon enough to buy tickets. The journey was going well, things always did on a breakfast of crisps and bottled cider, and as we had a carriage to ourselves a certain amount of, well, naughtiness was already occurring. Things had changed when the guard arrived. He was clearly having a bad day.

Alan! God, I even remembered his name after nearly twenty-five years. OK, I told myself, twenty-five years and then some. Train guards, like today, were issued with a uniform and a rule book. But unlike today, they were encouraged in the view that passengers were an unavoidable irritant to an otherwise satisfactory career. Alan was not much older than we were, but the company clothes made him look middle aged. Given that tipsy students think they know it all, and, when it came to tickets - regulations for the issue of, Alan did know it all, or at least a lot more than we did - the situation deteriorated rapidly. There was a very real possibility that if things had continued much longer we would have found ourselves put off the train and quite possible arrested. Not that my friends seemed much daunted by the prospect.

I slipped another finger in my snatch as my mind's eye recaptured the scene as I stood.

'Alan, can I have a quiet word, do you think?'

I remembered pulling down my already tight T-shirt and stretching the material over my tits. I had spotted Alan ogling my nipples; no one wore bras back then and, well, it was a hot day. I brushed an imaginary speck off my left boob and felt a tingle as the nub grew even stiffer. I had Alan's attention.

'Let's talk over here.'

I took him by the hand and led him down the carriage away from the argument. He followed reluctantly. His palms were sweaty and his face stiff and red.

'I'm sure we can sort this out, don't you? It's a lovely day; much too nice for all these quarrels.'

'Yes, miss. But rules are rules...'

I put a finger up against his lips - I'm short, only just over five feet - and fell against him as the train lurched.

'Sorry about that.'

I pushed my chest against his as I righted myself. In those days there were only two types of aftershave in most chemists. Alan was a Brut man. I caught its sickly scent as I stepped away. I could see he was gathering himself for another explanation of the rules. I took his hand and moved further down the carriage.

'I noticed you on the platform before we got on the train.'

'You did?'

He looked flustered.

'Yes. And, well I know I should not say this, but I've been thinking about you ever since.'

'You have?'

I turned towards him. His back was towards my group. I caught a glimpse of their confused faces as they grinned at us. I placed a hand on Alan's chest. I felt him flinch.

'I have. What do you say you and I go into the toilet and I give you a blow job and we forget about the tickets just this once?'

'A what?'

I had slowly let my hand trail down his chest. I lowered my hand over his belt and down along his cock. It was gratifyingly hard.

'You know, Alan. You're a man of the world. God you're big.'

I smiled up at him.

'But the rules.'

'I know. Yours is a very hard job.'

I paused after the word 'hard' and squeezed gently for added emphasis.

'You're so big, I do not know whether I will be able to get it all in my mouth. But I'd be so grateful if you'd let me try.'

He was now following me eagerly as I moved towards the conveniences between the seating areas.

'I want to suck you until you spurt your cum into my mouth. Then I'll swallow it all. Is that OK with you?'

He virtually pushed me into the toilet. As I sat on my morning train frigging my stiff clit harder and harder, I could almost remember the scent of stale urine and the old industrial toilet blocks British Rail used to try and suppress it. Alan grabbed at my tits and squeezed so hard I thought he might twist one off.

'Ow. Easy big boy. Wow you are big.'

I smiled up at him as I rubbed a hand against the front of his trousers. I was lying of course, but I have yet to meet a man who does not stand taller when you praise his dick. I found the zip on his flies and tugged at it making appreciative noises.

'I cannot wait. Those boys are nice and all, but it's good to have a real man's prick every now and then.'

I found his cock and managed to disentangle it from the chain store Y-fronts which all blokes wore in those days. It almost hit me in the eye when I tugged it free. I left one hand in there to squeeze his balls and slid my mouth over the tip of the engorged member. We then enjoyed a series of firsts.

The train jolted again and I inadvertently managed my first deep throat as Alan's cock slammed all the way in to the top of my throat. He then orgasmed on the first thrust. Luckily the rocking of the train had pulled him out a fraction or I may well have drowned. The thick sticky come filled my mouth and I could feel it trickling down the back of my throat.

'That was my first time, you know, being sucked off. My girlfriend says it's disgusting.'

I smiled primly. Well as primly as you can with a mouth full of jism. I used a finger to scoop an escaping rivulet back into my mouth.

'Next time you go down on her...'

There was a pause while I licked my lips to make sure there was no trace of his recent eruption. I could tell from the expression on Alan's face he had not yet reached the chapter on cunnilingus in the railway regulations.

'... tell her to smear a little honey on your prick: protein and carbohydrates. Take it from me.'

I kissed him on the cheek and stepped into the corridor. Alan, never the gentleman, rushed away in the opposite direction muttering something about almost being at the next station. After a cider mouth wash and suffering interminable ribbing, my mates and I were back on track for what turned out to be one of the best gigs ever.

I sighed at the memory and released the pressure my thighs had been putting on my pussy as I daydreamed. On the train that morning I had brought myself to orgasm in two minutes flat. The rocking of the train helped my frantic probing and overheated imagination.

'Don't worry, miss,' said Maureen obviously taking it for a sign of concern or irritation. 'He'll be back soon.'

As she finished the sentence the door flew open and as I looked up George was already inside, a small puddle forming at his feet as he shook himself; I was going to say 'like a dog', but on reflection 'oversized jelly' might be more accurate. The garish rain jacket sparkled in the bright lights of the foyer.

'Bloody hell, it's coming down in buckets out there. Oh, pardon my language, miss.'

'Don't worry about it George. I'm really grateful. I can see I'm going to get soaked out there. Did you manage to get the wine?'

'I did.'

A look of triumph spread over his face.

'The bloke in the shop said he imports the red special like. Are you sure its OK for me to keep a bottle?'

'I am. You've saved me a drenching and I'm sure I would never have found the shop.'

'Well, I'm very grateful. Thank you. I'll save my bottle for Xmas if you don't mind. My missus would assume I've been playing away if I just turned up with it on a Friday.'

His laugh erupted like a volcano. Maureen and I swapped shy smiles both unsure what exactly the joke was. I waited for his outburst to subside to a a giggle before speaking.

'Do you think you could call me a taxi? I really don't fancy trekking to the stand unless I have to.'

'Of course. Wouldn't dream of sending you out in this. Maureen do the honours.'

The young woman seemed more relaxed as she chatted with her fellow receptionist at the taxi firm. She looked towards me as she spoke.

'Station is it?'

'No. I'm staying with friends tonight.'

I flicked at my phone to bring up Joe and Jane's address.

'They're at Garden Villas in...'

I frowned at the name of the district. It was an unpronounceable jumble of syllables. I passed the phone to Maureen blushing.

'I've no idea how to pronounce that. You'd better do it.'

Maureen joined George's laughter. I got redder.

'Don't worry, miss, you'll get used to our funny ways if you take the job.'

'Thanks for the vote of confidence, George, but I've got a feeling the panel will want a local boy.'

George's jovial face suddenly became serious; his tone a conspiratorial whisper.

'You take if from me. You're a shoo in. I've seen 'em all in and I've seen 'em all out. You're the only one who didn't look like they had a carrot stuck up their bums.'

I joined his laughter. Maureen looked shocked and covered her mouth.

'And besides, the boys at the top have been getting a lot of stick from the local rag about the lack of women and ethnic minorities in senior positions.'

'So the local paper is quite progressive, is it?'

'Nah. Don't be silly. The owner just hates the council and the editor's pissed off because they won't give his mates at the golf club planning permission whenever they ask for it.'

George had the look of a man who was settling in for a long exposition on the local power brokers. He was glancing round furtively to make sure no one could hear him. Fortunately Maureen broke his flow.

'Taxi'll be five minutes.'

I busied myself gathering my things into my bag. My raincoat, perfect for London showers, looked like it would melt under the tumult beating the front of the building. It seemed to have gathered strength if anything. George must have interpreted my look.

'I'll take you outside under the umbrella. With any luck your friends will have a short path. You'll hardly get damp, love.'

He was right about the first part at least. When a beaten up saloon pulled up outside he held the umbrella in such a way that above the knees not a drop touched me. My posh interview shoes gave up at the fist puddle and my ankles and calves were soaked as the water climbed the fine mesh of my stockings.

'Take good care of this one, Mo. Next time you see her she'll be my boss.'

George held the door and smiled down at me as I flopped into the front seat. The middle-aged driver also smiled as he held a brief conversation about family and mutual friends with George whilst I wrestled the seat belt into position.

'Thanks for all your help George. And thank Maureen for the tea.'

'See you soon, darling. I'll try and remember to call you ma'am when you start.'

He slammed the car door shut before I had a chance to question his assessment of my prospects.

'So you're the new director. Hope you're better than the last bugger.'

Muhammad clearly came from the same school of diplomacy as George. He was a plump, greying man who handled his cab with the subtlety of a steam roller driver. He smiled at me as he turned off the Asian language station on the radio.

'No. I've just been for an interview. I expect they'll make the decision in the next few days.'

'Pash. If George reckons you've got it, you've got it. I don't know why they don't just let him pick the staff; he's never wrong. Local betting shop won't give him odds any more.'

I thought for the first time about what I would do if they did indeed offer me the post. Not that I had space to think much; 'call me Mo' brooked no obstacle as he arrowed through the late-afternoon traffic. I could have sworn I saw at least two pedestrians leap for their lives as we veered by. He seemed to treat driving laws as helpful suggestions rather than hard-and-fast instructions. At the same time as terrorising the local populace, Mo kept up a non-stop commentary on the state of his family, the world and a number of individuals I had never heard of but who I guessed were either his neighbours or reality TV stars.

By the time we had sped out of the city centre I had learned that the local football manager, most members of parliament, Islamic State and the BBC weather team should all be shot; preferably in that order. Mo was a man of firm opinions.

I received a potted history of the districts we passed through; mostly a story of decline like so many places in Britain which had been based around manufacturing. The shops which were still open tended to be of the everything-for-a-pound variety. I had never seen one specialising in gardening supplies before; there were two within a mile of each other on one road.

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