She took the Class 158 Express Sprinter train going anywhere…

When the offer to register interest to deliver a reading as part of a session organised by Zak Jane Keir for Eroticon 2017 appeared on an email newsletter to delegates, I felt a twinge in my stomach. As an incredibly new blogger, still unsure of my niche or direction, who has never read her work to her friends, let alone a room full of eloquent, beautiful, inspirational sex writers, I was not best pleased with this feeling- as it suggested for a second that this was something I was interested in doing. But I was travelling to attend Eroticon for the first time, and surely this was going to be the best occasion to do this- and plus, what a privilege!

Needless to say I knew I was in the company of some pretty fucking hot sex writers. And of course, as Girl On The Net made the audience howl which laughter at her incredible poem (featured in the Eroticon anthology), and the other readers nervously worried about having to follow such an act, I already knew it was going to be me.

So now was probably the worst time to be standing with a fist of hand scribbled notes retelling a story I told at the social the evening before. This was a story I’d written for the first time two hours ago, which mentions the word cock a grand total of 0 times and where the word train appears a fair few more…

All aboard.

 

I recently read an article titled 10 Train Journeys You Must Do Before You Die. Now, in my head, that title reads 10 Train Journeys You Will Probably Have To Do Twice Incase You Miss The Good Bits Whilst You Are Being Fucked In The Toilet. I’m not referring to those spacious toilets where you worry that if you press the wrong combination of buttons you will be the victim of a grand reveal, not unlike a game show prize, mid urination (I appreciate this may well be a prompt for certain fantasies for many of you). I mean those tiny, cramped cubicles, more closely resembling the chokey from Matilda; those toilets with ‘that smell’, where you are forever unsure what you are stepping in. If you are familiar with the Class 158 Express Sprinter, you’ll know exactly what I am talking about!

I’d been on this journey every day for a week, and everyday the guard checked my ticket there, and checked my ticket back. We were now at the stage of ‘oh not you again, do you live on this train’ chuckles and eye rolls.

Today was different, he seemed to be taking a long time with my ticket. Now I, being a ball of uncontrollable anxiety, flooded with images about being thrown off the train, in a remote railway station and made to find my way home. Think that scene from Trainspotting, and just how shite it is to be Scottish.However, the ticket was returned, with a telephone number scribbled with the biro residing in his shirt pocket.

Now, I love going out for food and wine as much as the next person, but I really fucking love trains and I must capitalise on this opportunity. Skipping the negotiations (which resulted in a further scribble of ‘toilet…5mins?‘) I found myself bent over the sink, in that cramped toilet, with a hand grabbing the hair at the nape of my neck, and yanking my head back to watch myself in the dirty mirror.

But that wasn’t the best bit… On the train floor, by my left foot, was the guards portable ticket machine. At this stage I thought, you know, in for a penny…. in for a pound(ing) so I asked the question I probably will never have the good fortune of repeating again.

May I please wear your ticket box around my neck…?’

(God, I’m polite for a filthy slut being fucked in a train toilet)

I understand this was not a request he was likely expecting, but he obliged- I imagine he didn’t know quite was else to do, and he hung it around my neck.

Now for the real best bit- and by this point I’m being fucked from behind in a dirty train toilet of a 158 Express Sprinter so I don’t use the words best bit lightly. I braced myself against the wall with one hand, and took the box in the other. I felt him change his movements, his rhythm quicken, and his fingers grip that little bit harder. As I felt the groan in the back of his throat rise through me, I pressed the Print Blank button and heard the machine as it ejected a pristine new ticket.

I pulled up my tights, hung the box around his next, took the pen from his pocket and checked his (no longer blank) ticket. I slipped it into his pocket and made my exit.

The ticket simply read:

Thanks

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