Waiting for the 20:29

It may have been her gaze, it may have been what the boy was seeing and thinking, it may have been the warmth of the room but all of a moment Jennie saw movement, the penis previously at rest was now growing, moving, rising upwards and, as she watched, like some strange exotic fruit the foreskin peeled back all by itself exposing the shiny knob within. The jerking progress did not stop until it had reared up to its full height and was standing with the glans naked, smooth and undoubtedly shaped for one particular purpose.

"Sorry," said the boy, "I can't help it."

"No, indeed," said the man and he continued to draw

Jennie kept to her pose, despite the sudden development, indeed she was quite happy to stare at the boy's very nice erection; it gave her a funny but not unfamiliar feeling. Despite the stillness of the sitters and the lack of any obvi­ous stimulation there was no abatement in the erection. Perhaps just watching Jennie staring at his penis was enough stimulation for the boy. Jennie for her part really wanted to touch not just look.

The clock ticked and the fire kept up its steady heat. Really, thought Jen­nie, there was absolutely no need for clothes in this waiting room; they would just make you too hot. She wondered about the old man still dressed in what looked like very heavy and thick suiting. The boy's penis, she noticed, was just slightly moving with his heartbeat; to have said it was throbbing would have been quite overstating the gentle movement. It really was a very nice penis, if the boy asked she would not be at all averse to sucking it. She doubted the old gentleman would mind, he clearly had a penchant for the naked form and had not been at all perturbed by the boy's erection any more than she had. Its head really was so very smooth; she could imagine her lips sliding over it.

"I believe it is finished, yes that is it."

Jennie looked up at the old man's words. The drawing now covered the whole page, line after curving line flowed to depict their nakedness; the skilful use of shading brought out the curves, mounding and shape of their skin over­laying the complex interplay of bone and muscle beneath. The picture was not quite a pure representation of the subjects. Jennie had already seen the velvet choker and the tidier hair but not the slight adaption of the pose. Instead of the hand resting lightly on her right shoulder it had been drawn lightly fingering her right breast, which it had not been doing, and instead of her left hand rest­ing on her thigh it was, instead, grasped firmly around the boy's erect penis, a penis, what is more, that was coming, actually in the process of ejaculating, the semen pouring out and running down and over her hand. It was rude, it was crude, if you like, but so well done, almost as if you could see the move­ment, see the flow—it was undeniably erotic.

Jennie could feel a wetness between her thighs, "I was not doing that," she said unnecessarily.

"No, my dear, indeed you were not: but don't you think you should?"

The question did not offend any more than the drawing had. The drawing captivated Jennie not simply because she was the subject but because of its sheer eroticism done with such masterful execution. The old man could draw. There was absolutely no question that he was a master of the lead pencil and the nude study. The boy, too, was fulsome in his praise saying he so wished he could draw so well.

Quite properly the old man had signed his work—the name 'Josiah Jar­row' was inscribed with a flourish at the bottom right.

Jennie was more than happy to follow the lead both of the drawing and the old man's suggestion; her hand reached out and closed. The boy smiled; she was happy to watch her hand at work. No longer was the penis at rest just faintly moving to the beating of the boy's heart; now Jennie was moving it, and she could watch the long foreskin slipping over the shiny head and down again. The boy's hand touched her naked thigh, the intention obvious.

Jennie now opened her thighs, opened them to the boy, opened them to per­mit his fingers to touch and to insert. It had been almost painful keeping them tight shut but she could no longer contain herself. The old man had stopped drawing now; he had rolled the drawing paper up and tied it around with a piece of red ribbon and placed it carefully beside him; he was sitting holding his cane and watching. Jennie could not but notice the slow sliding of his hand up and down the head of the cane mimicking her own actions.

The gas light fell between her thighs illuminating and revealing all; she knew the old man could see, see her most intimate places, see herself opening for the boy and she could see his close attention as the boy's hand moved across her thigh to touch the slippery wetness of her aroused sex, his fingers to curl and enter.

The actual touch right there was a delight, her hand tightened around the boy's penis as she felt his fingers walk, exploring her, entering her. Her hand sliding up and down his penis mimicked the action of a vagina, his fingers tight together and pushing into her, in turn, mimicked the action of a penis. Somehow such simulation did not seem sufficient, it would have to be the real thing, it would be intercourse. Across from her, on the other bench, the old man was watching, nodding in approval, his fingers sliding on the cane.

Jennie got up without in any way releasing her hold of the penis and turned to face the boy, his hand fell away and she mounted him sitting astride his thighs guiding him with her hand. There was no difficulty, the entry was smooth, penetration was deep and they began to move together, the boy, in­evitably and pleasingly, suckling her breasts

The intercourse was good, the coupling pleasing to both, the motion easy and in tune. Over her shoulder Jennie glanced back at the old man. He was no longer fingering his cane, instead he had opened his fly and his fingers were now working his own penis. It was pleasingly large.

Of a moment Jennie was minded to watch, feeling both the boy's own penis working within her whilst at the same time observing the old man at work. Perhaps he might like her help; she liked the prospect of working one penis with her sex and another by hand.

To the boy's surprise Jennie did not stop on the rise, the rise of the piston like motion of their working sex, but kept going, lifting herself right off his penis leaving it wet and exposed in the cosy warmth of the waiting room. But it was not left uncovered for long, Jennie swivelled herself around and guided him back into her so that she was facing away from him, her bottom pushed into his stomach. Rather than suckle on her breasts he now clasped them in his hands, moving the nipples with his thumbs.

Jennie, for her part was able to watch the old man. Across the way he smiled at her, clearly enjoying the change of view, the working of penis be­neath curly hair rather than rounded bottom and the sight of the now re­strained breasts. With his free hand he got out a large spotted blue handker­chief. He made no move to stand and offer his penis to Jennie or hold it out for her to suck. Instead he sat there on the bench gently stroking as he watched the energetic bouncing of Jennie and the boy.

Jennie glanced at the clock, at last it seemed to be moving towards the time for her train but there was as yet no urgency, no need to conclude inter­course in a hurry. Not something she wished to do. She slowed; it would not do to make the boy come too soon. Jennie rested, fully impaled enjoying the squeezing of her breasts, the manipulation of her nipples, the feeling of being filled. Careful leisurely strokes were the better idea. Jennie smiled at the old man and let her tongue run across her lips in a slow 'come hither' fashion. The old man nodded in reply but did not stir, his hand, though, continued to stroke.

"I am most happy to sit here watching you join giblets whilst I toss off. I have a penchant for observation, for watching the conjoining of crinkum-crankum and plug-tail in such a delicious manner."

The slow movement continued, Jennie finding she was unconsciously mov­ing to the beat of the clock.

A hand left her breast and found its way between her thighs to play on her little button. Jennie began to move faster again, a slapping sound of flesh on flesh vying with the ticking of the clock; a moist sucking sound adding more as the special feeling built within Jennie and then she was coming, push­ing hard against the boy, both his penis and fingers.

She rested, panting, the sweat running down her in the heat of the waiting room betraying the effort of her exertions. Opening her eyes she could see the old man had not yet come. "Have you come?" She whispered back to the boy.

"Almost," he said.

Jennie began moving, the boy's hands again on her sensitive breasts.

"Take his whirlygigs in hand," advised the old man, his attention focused on the coupling.

"His what?"

"His ballocks, my dear."

Jennie did just that, her hand slipped between her thighs and massaged the boy's scrotum as she rode again, moving the egg shapes within. The result was soon in coming. There was a groan behind her and Jennie could feel the boy spurting inside her, she did not let up on her movement and as she bounced she saw the old man smile a little wider and lay his large spotted handkerchief across his lap before he too released his semen, it dripped steadi­ly from the penis down onto the handkerchief as his hand moved up and down. Jennie was sorry she had not helped him.

The pushing of Jennie's thighs ceased, there was no longer movement in the room, just the sound of the clock and breathing.

The time stood then at eight eighteen on the clock, less than a quarter of an hour to her train at 20:29. It was pleasant, though, in the aftermath and the glow of a recent orgasm to just rest; feel the shrinking of the penis she had so enjoyed within her, the feel of strong hands still holding her breasts and the touch of skin to skin. But inevitably there came that odd feeling, one which al­ways made her shudder, when the penis is removed or, in this case, because of her position, fell away from her; she could feel she was dripping.

"The lobcock!" The old man spoke but rather quietly, as if to himself, as he began to tidy himself away into his trousers.

Jennie turned and for the first time kissed the boy. "I enjoyed that, but I think we should dress. We have a train coming. I'm relieved no one came—well apart from we three—of course!" They laughed, a shared joke, feeling com­fortable with each other.

The old man made no move but watched the dressing.

The clock ticked and the hands moved towards the half hour.

"Might I keep the drawing?" Jennie asked picking up the rolled paper and looking at it again. The old man now seemed distracted as if only half aware of what she was saying, no doubt fatigued by, or lost in the remembrance of his recent orgasm. He half seemed to nod his head but certainly made no effort to stop her taking the roll of paper and dropping it into her bag. She was in a hurry to leave, the hands of the clock showing the time for her train and in­deed could now hear it approaching. The boy opened the door, Jennie waved at the seated old man and they were out into the startling cold of the platform, away from the cosy warmth of the old stove, its ruby coals and the company of the old man, and back into the night.

The diesel train slowed as it coasted into the station, its carriage windows casting a yellow light on the platform. A door slid open and the conductor stepped out onto the platform seeming almost surprised by the presence of passengers. Nobody else got off and there was nobody else to get on. Jennie asked first if it was indeed her train. It was. Then, thinking of the old man, she asked when was the last train for Ponderton under Nettleham. Why was it so late?

The conductor looked at her with a sideways smile. "About 1959 I should think."

"But that was half an hour ago. I didn't hear it and I was here in the sta­tion waiting room. There's an old gentleman waiting."

The conductor was laughing now, "No, I don't mean 19:59, just before eight o'clock at night, the last train to Ponderton under Nettleham was back in 1959, the line was pulled up then even before the Beeching cuts. And what wait­ing room? There has not been one here, at this station, as long as I can remem­ber. In you get please."

As one, Jennie and the boy looked back at the station building, back to where they had been but, just as the conductor had said, there was no redly glowing window with the acid etched legend, 'waiting room', no welcoming door into cosy warmth: just two crudely bricked up openings in a very sad and dilapidated old building. A very cold chill ran all the way down Jennie's back.

They slumped speechless into seats and stared back at the cold empty building as the train began to move and gather speed, until it was lost to sight.

In the swaying, brightly lit train Jennie turned to the boy. He was white as a sheet.

"That did happen, didn't it?" He said hoarsely.

Between her legs there was the undoubted sticky wetness of recent inter­course. That was real enough.

It was only later that Jennie remembered the drawing but, as she feared, it was not there, there was no rolled parchment in her bag, nothing at all. A disap­pointment, it would have been a confirmation that she had not been dreaming though both she, and her new found friend, knew it had not been a dream and, in any case, it had been a wonderful drawing. She was puzzled about the identi­ty of whatsoever the apparition had been. Could she find anything? A Google search led to Wikipedia and thence to an entry all about Josiah Jarrow.

And that led her to an exhibition of his work. Her breath was quite taken away, not by the works which were impressive in themselves, but by the style and quality of the drawing particularly the nudes. "I understand," she said rather quietly to the organiser, "that Jarrow did a number of more," she hunt­ed for a phrase, "racy drawings. I wondered if you had..."

The man looked at her rather oddly and took her across to a locked cabi­net. Carefully he brought out a portfolio, "I think you mean these."

'Racy' was not perhaps a sufficient description. Jennie was, to say the least, embarrassed to be looking at them with the exhibition organiser present but that was forgotten when she turned over the tenth sheet. It was, unbeliev­ably, the very drawing she had sat for; there was no mistaking the location or what was portrayed. It was as well drawn as she remembered and there was no denying she was one of the two subjects or pretending it was other than very erotic—the whole scene reeked of sex. The organiser looked from her to the drawing and back again. It was obvious what he was thinking.

"My grandmother," explained Jennie rather improbably.

"Hmm, well she modelled more than once," the statement was enigmatic, but as he turned over further sheets Jennie saw herself once more clearly de­picted in a place she did not recognise and with people she did not know.

But what really got to her was that her drawing was now dated and clearly so by the artist under his name. Oh yes it was the right day, the right month but the year was quite another matter—1897. It was unnerving, inexplicable and worrying for the future—did this mean she would meet this apparition, meet Josiah Jarrow again? Had she really seen a ghost or had it been rather the other way around?