The Impenetrable Blackness of Windows

As if echoing her thought the man said, as he worked her, "It's such a pleasure to examine and enjoy you with all five senses - sight, touch, scent, taste and now our ears can catch the sound of your intimate, moist flesh. I wonder - will the sound change if you clasp me a little tightly with your vaginal muscles?"

So peculiar but Sarah complied and, yes, the sound did change!

"Ah, interesting. We can learn much by experiment."

The train trundled on, the regularity of the wheels on the track matched by the steady motion of intercourse. Diddly dum, diddly dum, diddly dum. In, out, in, out, in, out.

The intercourse carried on. Like everything else there was going to be no hurry about that; Sarah did not expect a few quick thrusts and a grunt: rather she expected, and got, a leisurely session. He talked, he paused, he varied the rhythm and on occasion held himself very still. Any woman would have been delighted by the length of time he took in coming, would have been delighted by the way he held off emission, would have enjoyed the lengthy intercourse had, of course, the whole thing been voluntary between consenting adults. Her nod had been one of acceptance not invitation.

There was nothing Sarah could do, no protest she could make as the man finally came. It had been inevitable since he had first stroked her lapels. Sarah could feel it: knew exactly when the first spurt came as deep within her as it was possible to go, knew what and where he was coating with his semen, felt every spasm as it came and there were many.

She had taken quite a battering; it had not been quite enough to make her come a third time but it had been close. Finally the man slowed and stopped tight up against her. There was a pause and Sarah could feel the fullness within her begin to abate.

"I don't believe I know your name. How remiss of me." He stepped back from her, looked closely at her still widely splayed sex and smiled.

He had just had sexual intercourse with her, had slipped his penis into her and released his semen without asking or even finding out her name and now, with drooping penis, he was opening her handbag - her private handbag - and looking through it. It had personal things in it - women's things - photographs, her diary and all sorts of details about her.

"No, I..."

"Ah, yes here it is, Sarah. A pretty name. Be a good girl now and sit up and look at the window. I have finished my inspection and it has been satisfactory. It has been a long journey and I expect you are feeling sleepy."

Sarah certainly was. She sat up naked on the table, her naked bottom on the Formica and her breasts so very visible in the yellow light of the carriage. Outside the world was so black but perhaps, yes, there was just a point of light out there - maybe the bedroom window of a cottage where someone like her was just going to sleep, perhaps after a tumble between the sheets, and...

Sarah was at the terminus. There was light on the platforms coming through the window, there was noise from the platforms but a stillness on the train. She seemed to have been sleeping. Opposite her, the man, the very ordinary man, was getting his coat and bag from the rack. Her eyes dropped to her body -- she was fully clothed. Had she been dreaming or had she been part of his dream?

The experience seemed so vivid, the memory of her orgasms so strong. It could not be, it must have been a dream: but, if it was a dream, it had been a very real one. A girl's wet dream for, undoubtedly, it had been sexual and very wet: she could not deny that her panties felt soaking from her wetness. It could not really be that the wetness was anything other than of her own making; it could not be that the ordinary man now walking down the aisle had really contributed to it. That would be simply awful and, if so, she would have to do something about it. The police or something of the sort.

Sarah glanced around - there was no one there. Her hand slipped under her skirt and into her panties beneath the hose; she winced as her fingers touched her clitoris - it was almost sore from being so sensitive, and then slipped them inside herself - so easily done. Removing her hand she held it before her face. Her relief was palpable, there was not a hint of semen - but of course there would not be - it had all been just a dream. Her fingers, though, revealed just how wet she was. She hoped the man had not scented her arousal whilst she slept, hoped her face had not betrayed what she was dreaming and, even more, hoped she had not moaned in her sleep. She waggled her fingers in the air to dry them and thought of her hotel; a long hot bath and then to bed perhaps to masturbate to thoughts of wild hairy Scotsmen, their kilts and what lay beneath.

Another day, another week, another month found Sarah travelling northwards once more by train on business. She kept to the well occupied and lit carriages - still unnerved by her dream -- and kept hard at work on her laptop. There was no repetition, no trundling through darkness, no unwanted examination of the very fine new suit she had bought from Selfridges only the day before and no interference with her person. Alighting at Waverley Station Sarah walked out, turned right and made her way through the streets of the New Town to her hotel. A well remembered route through the elegant streets. Only, when she got there and stood at the door, she realised it was not her hotel; not even a hotel at all but a private house. The door was slightly ajar. She was puzzled and pushed against the door and it swung easily, opening on well oiled hinges.

"Ah Sarah, my dear, and what are you wearing for me today?"

It was the ordinary man of her dream, the man on the train, the man of the blackness dressed in full Highland dress; face smiling a greeting; hand outstretched to take her coat - at least as a preliminary courtesy.