Part 1
Years and years ago, before the time of computers and mobile phones, people still made daily journeys to work by train. Commuting is not at all a new thing with men and women getting up early to catch the train to town and then returning again in the evening. A daily ritual. Back and forth. And whilst mostly silence would reign in the carriages as they swayed on their way and newspapers were read, this was and is not always the case. Sometimes friendships are struck up when the same people sit with each other day after day.
Hector Stubbs was a successful businessman with wife and grown-up children, a man of note in the City and a man who looked every inch the part. Greying, besuited, indeed in striped trousers with waistcoat and watchchain over his comfortable stomach. It went without saying that he carried an umbrella and wore a bowler hat. His habits regular, including catching the same trains morning and evening. For some years he had shared the first-class compartment at the very front of the train in carriage 'A' with three other gentlemen of similar standing and habits. Four bowler hats sat upon the string luggage rack together with four black umbrellas. Four newspapers open, but sometimes there was conversation. It was not that other passengers did not enter the compartment and sit and read but, on the whole, despite being a commuter train, they sat alone and together.
It was a surprise, then, one evening for a schoolgirl to turn the handle and pull open the door and hop in just as the train was pulling out. A smile from Hector as she settled herself next to him. It was unlikely she had a first-class ticket, but he was not going to comment on that, though the conductor might well later. It was somewhat later and well on into the journey that Hector put down his newspaper and spoke to her. She had been sitting, clearly engrossed in a schoolbook. He noted it was the 'Annals of Tacitus' and in the original Latin. Hector had Latin and asked her about it and her studies.
It was during the conversation that the conductor appeared and Hector, and the other gentlemen as well, were surprised to find she did indeed have a first-class ticket.
"Daddy likes me to travel first class. He says it is safer, a better class of people for a girl travelling alone."
Well, maybe. Perhaps not how it would be put these days, and Hector and his commuting acquaintances were still men, red blooded men and Zephyrine Saunders was a rather pretty, but young lady, in school uniform. A pleasing enough sight to warm them, indeed in those particular, perhaps unusual, and certainly tucked away places we will be hearing more of later.
An unusual name for a young lady, indeed, but perhaps less unusual learning that 'daddy' was a classicist at Cambridge. The four commuters found it rather pleasant being trapped with Zephyrine in their railway compartment and were a little sorry when she left at a station. The compartment seemed less bright and cheerful. And they said so. It was not that they said anything untoward, but they might have thought it. A mature schoolgirl very much dressed as such. A dark grey pleated knee length skirt, dark green striped blazer, and cream blouse with neatly knotted dark green and cream striped tie around her neck. A dark green beret to her head and lace up 'sensible' shoes upon her feet. White knee length socks, not nylon stockings. A badge to her lapel probably indicating her a prefect. Long dark hair neatly plaited down her back and a dark brown leather satchel with brass buckles with her books and things. What also might be appropriate to mention was that Zephyrine was all of eighteen years old.
What became rather pleasing for the mature City men was Zephyrine took to joining them every day at the terminus railway station, choosing to go into their compartment over other places on the train. Normally she would be 'just in time' to join whereas Hector and the others got to the train early. They did not say it, as such, but that was essentially to reserve 'their' seats and compartment. It had been their habit. It now became more and more their usual way, as well, to chat with Zephyrine and spend less time with their evening newspapers, learning about her; and so a rather nice friendship developed between the schoolgirl and the mature gentlemen. Perhaps 'daddy' knew of it and approved, knowing there were men of his own age who would look out for his schoolgirl daughter and ensure her safety.
It was one particular evening, when the train was rattling through the dark countryside, that the pleasant conversation turned to sex. It was a surprise and certainly not something that Hector or the other gentlemen initiated. It came from Zephyrine
"What does this piece mean?" she asked, opening a page with a bookmark in one of her Latin books. "Veneri servit amica manus."
Hector looked thoughtful for a moment, "Thy hand serves as the mistress of thy pleasure. I should think."
"Yes, but what does it mean?"
"Ah!" Hector paused at that. For a man who had been in the army and served abroad he was not exactly unworldly wise, but this question from the schoolgirl in her blazer and grey pleated skirt rather threw him. He looked at his fellow businessmen. They looked away. "It, um, alludes to um, masturbation."
"Oh, what boys do." She said brightly.
"And girls too, I should think," Hector let the words slip from his mouth too quickly, "... but differently, of course," he added, not really improving things much.
"I know I do," said the girl, "and my friends. I expect men grow out of it when they have wives and do things properly with ladies. Do boys do it every night like I do, except..." She looked up at Hector.
"I... I... wouldn't know, I expect... it varies." It was all a bit too personal perhaps. It veered in the direction of what he might have done -- or indeed, on occasion, do.
"Yes, some of my friends don't much. It's nice." And Zephyrine talked on about her masturbation and her thoughts. Gaily talking away about things -- about her bed, about her going to bed and 'that'. She was so very open, and the gentlemen listened spellbound but, alas, Zephyrine's station stop arrived too soon for them. The thirty minutes of the journey had passed, and the girl had to step from the halted train, leaving clearly aroused men sitting there in silence.
"Oh," ventured Frederick Trowse, "that was um..."
"Stimulating," finished James Marlston. "I rather enjoyed that."
"Interesting what young girls get up to."
"Alone in bed."
"She really shouldn't have told us all that. I mean..." Frederick Trowse did look rather perturbed, if a bit red faced.
"I should think she will be quite a cracker when she gets to be.... not alone." The fourth man joined the conversation. Thomas 'Tom' Headman, his hands moving in the air as he spoke.
The subject had, indeed, been of more than a little interest to the businessmen. To hear talk of what a rather lovely schoolgirl got up to -- yes, between her legs - was not just a passing interest but an abiding one with all four of them. A shared interest it transpired, though not one they had mentioned before. They talked rather more about Zephyrine. The next evening found the five of them once more in the compartment and the conversation perhaps rather quickly returned to the previous day's subject and, indeed, not very long after they had left the station. It was James Marlston who smiled and enquired whether, perhaps, Zephyrine had pleasured herself in her bed the night before? It was a very direct and remarkably personal question to make from a middle-aged man to a schoolgirl.
"Yes, it's how I get to sleep. Get all nice and..."
"Wet?" ventured James Marlston.
"Mmmm," the girl's head went up and down. "All sort of cosy and nice, a cuddly sort of warmth and I just stroke with my fingers and imagine little stories and drift off to sleep."
