~  Strangers On A Train  ~

London. The big city. The centre of the world, or so we were raised to believe. I'm just a little boy from a seaside town of which you've probably never heard, in a country far away. I'm just a little boy flying the nest for the first time and open-eyed in this wide, wild world.

This place is huge. There are people everywhere, walking fast and keeping a close watch on the pavement. Nobody lifts their heads, nobody makes eye contact or, if they do, nobody smiles. There's no human interaction. Nobody has the time. Or the wit.

Perhaps it's just an automated self-defence mechanism against the crushing throng of strangers everywhere you turn? This place - the West End - must be even denser than the black hole of Calcutta. Actually, I wouldn't know. But I can't imagine more people per square foot than this. It's suffocating. Teach me to come here on a Saturday morning.

Nobody is looking at me. This is bizarre. I'm in the middle of a million people and nobody knows I'm here. I bet I could jerk off right here on Oxford Street and nobody in this crowd would say a damn thing.

I step into a coffee bar and request a latte. I smile nicely at the pretty girl behind the till as I speak, but she either doesn't recognise smiles, or plain doesn't like my face. She sends my order to the guy at the espresso machine and then looks emotionlessly at the next customer. I retrieve my coffee from the wordless barista and take a seat at the window, watching all the wordless passers-by passing each other wordlessly by. A young woman takes the seat next to me. She looks to be in my age bracket, so "Hi" I say casually. "Hi" she returns awkwardly, before quickly ferreting her mobile phone from her handbag. She starts texting someone. Perfect: the new age of non-human interaction is dawning. Soundbite communication for a society that has forgotten how to talk.

I can't take much more of this, this impersonalness. Surely all Londoners aren't like this? I pick up my coffee and leave the soulless franchise bar behind, wandering unhurriedly towards the tube. A thousand-and-one people squeeze past me over the course of twenty metres. In the race of our lives to get to Tottenham Court Road, IÕve come stone last.

The escalator descent to the platform is like stepping into a mine shaft. The atmosphere gets hotter, and denser, and people retreat even further into themselves. We're like worms disappearing into the earth. When we reach the platform, it's even more crowded. The train is delayed, apparently. Now I'm getting uncomfortably hot. It's the middle of winter and I'm sweating whilst standing still. The warm latte in my hand is rapidly losing its appeal. I'm fed up. What a shit day.

The train arrives and I'm almost prevented from boarding by the push forward. Thankfully there's room in the carriage for all those who wish to ride. I ignore the two remaining vacant seats, having spotted an elderly couple boarding next to me. A pair of punk kids push past them and sit down. That's just the limit. I grab one roughly by the nape of his neck, which I know from experience hurts like hell, and drag him up and away from the seat. The pimply little runt gets indignant, but my grim glare says "Shut up" and I squeeze his neck even harder, causing him to wince in spite of his bravado. I look at his friend, who gets the hint and stands up. The elderly couple sit down gratefully and thank me. I smile wanly and retire to the end of the carriage to half-sit on the hip-high cushion at the door. I'm pretty tired. London life better get better quickly, or I'm gone. Nobody talks to one another, and apparently nobody has any manners either. Amazingly, this is England.

The day must have gotten to me because it's a while before I register the woman watching me. I snap out of my pitiful train of thought, and I realise she's looking at me with more than just an idle glance. There's the ghost of a smile, something challenging, on her lips. Instinct leads me to mimic it, and I'm instantly feeling better about myself. The smile spreads to her eyes. She shifts in her seat, uncrosses her legs and then recrosses them the other way, shifting her weight from one hip to the other so that she's tilted towards me. In ten seconds my whole day has been immeasurably improved. She's smiling more fully now, still looking at me and idly twirling the ring on her finger. I smile back, wondering how to approach her. In this crowded carriage our little flirtation is going unnoticed by all except the elderly woman I ushered unconventionally to her seat. She's noticed.

I want to say hello to the flirtatious brunette, but the noise of the train precludes any conversation. So I don't talk, in spite of myself. My social ineptitude is rescued by the woman. She extracts a paperback from her handbag and pretends to read it. I know she's feigning - she looks knowingly at me now and then, and never turns a page. I sense what my future holds with her, and my imagination runs wild.

A couple of moments later the train pulls into Lancaster Gate and she stands up, throwing me a meaningful glance. We step off the train at different doors, she in the middle of the carriage, me at the end. Passengers variously embarking or disembarking the train quickly vacate the platform, and once the train pulls off, we are alone. I walk over to her, trying to keep cool.

We're conversing but I don't register a damn thing either of us says. I'm utterly intoxicated with this confident woman before me. She's tall, only about three inches shorter than me, just the way I like them. Her dark hair is wavy, shoulder length, and her green eyes are glinting. I reckon she's about six or seven years older than me. The heady promise of her life experience, and what she could teach me, is getting me hot. She's physically beautiful anyway; her self-confidence and self-awareness only serve to make her even more beautiful in my eyes. And totally sexy. She is the apex of evolution, a top sexual predator, perfectly adapted to her environment.

We're leaving the station now, striding rather quickly round the corner to her apartment block. Inside the elevator now, and she won't wait any longer. She attacks me brutally, grabbing the collars of my jacket and locking her lips on mine. Her scent is lust, laced with mandarin and jasmine, flooding me with pheromones. I'm becoming rock hard. She thrusts a thigh between my legs to verify this fact.

The elevator halts and the doors open. There's nobody waiting for the car, nobody to witness this elegant huntress-whore leading me wide-eyed into her sex lair. We step across the corridor into Apartment 32. She shuts the door behind me, and we kiss again. This time I can nearly initiate the action, meeting her as an almost-equal. We blindly remove our jackets. She rips off my shirt, buttons popping with abandon onto her lush carpet. She runs her fingers through the hair on my chest, and then stoops to trace a path with her tongue down to my navel. She sinks to her knees, undoes my belt and the button of my jeans, and looks up at me with the fierce intent of a goal-driven empress.

She leaves the promise of things yet to come to swirl in my brain, standing up and pulling me through the hallway and into the living room. It's stylishly furnished. She's classy, I surmise - knows what she likes. She stands against the back of the sofa, and wordlessly commands me to my knees. I know what I like, too. I kneel before her, reaching around behind her waist to unhitch and unzip her skirt. It drops to the floor in a heap around her stilettos, revealing the dizzying V of her lavender lace panties. I lean forward to her delta of Venus, inhaling deeply the scent of her sex. It is the most heavenly aroma of them all. I draw her panties down, exposing an exquisitely trimmed pubis, framing the folds of her labia. Her sex-scent is stronger now. She's breathing deeper now and parts her legs as I move in, drawing my tongue over her crotch and between her labia with a primal insistence that is somehow tempered by the need to savour every moment of this encounter. All my instinct is to ravish this unbelievably sexy creature to within an inch of her life.

I'm probing her labia ever deeper now, pushing into her pussy and tasting her core. It is pungent, musky-sweet, a slut-syrup on my tongue. I love it. My grip on her ass is firm; it fits so neatly in my hands. She's reached down to her crotch and is spreading her lips for me. Her clitoris is poking out from underneath its hood, and I trace a gentle path over it with my tongue. She quivers; I feel more of her woman juice on my chin. It excites me. She pulls her labia further up, exposing her clitoris even more. I purse my lips around it and suck gently. She arches like a fighting marlin, grabbing the back of my head with her free hand and gasping. She commands me to continue sucking, pulling my head firmly to her cunt. I keep my lips locked around the apex of her sex, pausing now and then to thrust my tongue into her pussy and up onto her clit, before locking my lips back into place and sucking once more.

She's grinding her hips now, fucking my face. I look up at her and there's urgency in her eyes. Her mouth is slightly open, her tongue curled over her upper lip and she's breathing very deeply. I keep my eyes on hers as I thrust extra hard into her pussy, and then drag my tongue roughly back out and onto her clit. I swirl the tip of my tongue around her clit once more for good measure, and then stand up and out of jeans.

She looks at the bulge in my jockey shorts and shoves a dextrous hand inside. She releases my cock - I'm as hard as a pylon and the touch of her supple fingers is almost enough for me to explode. She looks at me, mouth still open, and turns around. She braces herself against the sofa, leaning forward, keeping her long stocking-clad legs straight and akimbo. Her ass is perfectly shaped, two hemispheres curling over the gateway to her cunt. Her plump pussy lips are glistening with her sex nectar; drops of my saliva adorn her pussy fur. She reaches between her legs to part her lips, and throws me a hot look over her shoulder. I record the image for evermore with the camera of my memory, and step forward. I take hold of her hips and bend my knees slightly to attain the correct angle of entry. The head of my cock bumps against her pussy. She sucks her breath in sharply as I move my cock up and down along the fold of her labia. This is pure instinct - never have I had union with such a magnificent creature.

She wiggles her ass impatiently as my cock nuzzles against her pussy. I lean forward ever so lightly and the tip of my helmet makes slight entry. She stops moving, and so do I. It's a little dance we find ourselves doing. She backs her ass up, but I back off an equivalent amount, just enough to maintain the tiny penetration. I move my cock up and down, just inside her labia and the low grunt she emits signifies her approval. Now I take firm hold of her hips and lean forward with more pressing intent. She's so wet. Her cunt accepts my cock with the gentle acquiescence of an envoy meeting a foreign dignitary. She envelopes me with her sex, gripping me like an urgent friend. I'm buried all the way inside her, up to the hilt. She grinds her ass against my crotch. The animal warmth of her cunt around my cock is exquisite.

I have her hips in firm grip, and now I commence a slow, steady thrust - all the way out, and all the way in. She's talking dirty in a low, frantic voice, telling me how to fuck her. I can't maintain this slow pace much longer; she's too intoxicating. I increase the urgency of my thrusting, and she gasps in response. I lean forward and run my left hand along her belly up to her chest. I run my fingers over the contours of her breasts, exploring their ripe fleshly exuberance. I find her right nipple and tweak it between finger and thumb. It's a firm little acorn, the pinnacle of her womanhood. My right hand is snaking around her hip towards her pussy. It finds the velvety trim of her fur, moist with cooze lube. I massage her mound, palpating her labia and moving ever closer to her clit. Eventually I light upon it, massaging the core of her pleasure zone with gentle fingertips. My thrusting is slow and deep again, and she starts to climax.

She comes with the low moan of a big cat, a tigress on heat. I feel quivers emanating from somewhere near her belly, and then spasms shoot through her cunt, grasping at my cock like a moistened Venus flytrap. Her moan becomes a feral yowl and I grind my crotch against her mound, striving to maintain deepest penetration at the apex of her climax. I see her knuckles, straining white on the back of the sofa.

I release her breast and lean back slightly to get a view of her engorged pussy lips around my cock. She is still savouring the aftershocks of her orgasm, gasping slightly as each little tremor resonates within her cunt. Her pink little anus is an invitation for lust and I trace a finger over it, exploring her exquisite body. She gasps as she registers this touch, and I take this as encouragement to be more explorative. I lube my index finger with saliva and gently probe her ass. Her breathing quickens now. I hold my finger where it is for a beat, and then gently apply more pressure. She takes me further in, and a spasm of aftershock orgasm simultaneously squeezes my digit and my tool. She clamps involuntarily down upon me, holding me fast. I wait for the spasm to subside, and then press forward once more.

She's getting excited, this insatiable sex-creature. She starts bucking against me again. I can't hold off a second time. I fuck her back, one hand holding the back of the sofa, the other probing her ass so carnally. She grinds her ass against me demandingly, commanding me to fuck her hard. I do as instructed and, as she comes again - or is it just a continuation of the first? - I allow myself the release of my own orgasm. The hot wash of my come spurts out into her cunt and she moans.

I am spent. I collapse forward, leaning with both hands on the back of the sofa. She is bent forward, also resting on the sofa, still grasping my cock with her cunt. She looks slyly up at me. I stoop towards her and we kiss searchingly, slowly, languorously, dreamily, forever...

Mind the gap, the automated message tells me, as the train pulls into Shepherd's Bush. I snap out of my erotic reverie, just in time to noice that I've missed my interchange. The classy brunette is long gone, alighted at some earlier station, but our little flirtation and the subsequent daydream it inspired, all leads me to think that sometimes not speaking can be just fine. I wonder if she's thinking of me.

~  Fin  ~

© Basil von Geusau 2007

Baroque Posture
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