Train of Events

All my adult life, I thought that my sex life had been mundane, until I started writing these stories. On reflection, I realise now that I dared to do some outrageous things, with the willing co-operation of certain women. This story is mostly true. It is in three phases: three different women, three incredible experiences.

They say one should never go back; never try to repeat a past glory, for going back is never rewarding. Well, this was one recurring situation when that rule didn't apply, and every time it got better.

Phase One: Honeymooning

We had met at university. Lyndsey set me on the road to sexual enlightenment and I thought she was my one and only true love. In fact life was good and we were very much in love, until parental responsibilities intervened. The arrival of our son was to prove the beginning of the end of our marriage. She knew I had always wanted children but she had not. Yet, she surrendered to fate and played Russian Roulette with The Pill. From the moment our son was born, she lost interest in our marriage, and went through the motions with our son. He was an intelligent, perceptive child. He had noticed the differences, and attached himself emotionally to me, even though I worked and commuted long hours. Eventually she left us for another, younger man. Our son was five. I thought I'd never replace Lyndsey. I was wrong.

I was left with some treasured memories of carefree, childless days. One in particular sticks in my mind. We were on our honeymoon, it was the 1970s and money was tight. So we honeymooned on a modest budget on a holiday island. I had been there many times as a boy, staying in caravans in a field with a railway line at the bottom of the field in a shallow cutting. I grew up amongst electric suburban trains so this one was special: it was a traditional steam railway.

Nothing was more thrilling than to hear the train approaching from far off, its plumes of steam rising above the trees. The blast of noise from its sheer power excited me. The percussion of its pistons and the wheels crossing the joints in the rails, were unlike any other experience in my mundane childhood life. Nor was it only boys who chased the train as it chuffed past. Girls did, too, stirred deep in their bellies by the primeval sensation of its smoke and thunder.

Then Dr Beeching closed much of the rail network, including my beloved steam railway line. I thought my life would never be the same again: the first of many such senses of overwhelming loss. So imagine my joy when a decade later, a country part of the line was re-opened by enthusiasts, and steam trains ran again, initially for a short stretch of just a few miles.

We had arrived by car ferry for the start of our honeymoon, and were travelling to our hotel when I saw the sign to the steam railway. I took a diversion down narrow country lanes and was overjoyed to discover it in the middle of nowhere: a small junction station at an intersection between two branch lines, surrounded by green fields and woods. The walls of the station buildings were painted in pre-war colours of sandy yellow with green borders.

"Look at that Lyndsey. Let's come back here and have a go on the trains."

She wasn't particularly enthralled at that idea, but usually gave in to my suggestions. She was amenable like that. Lyndsey and I had met by accident at university and quickly become an item. Two years in one or other single bed in student accommodations had helped us to grow close together. We thought the same and had similar tastes in most things. We knew each other's likes and dislikes, so usually found it easy to go along with each other's suggestions, provided they weren't too outrageous.

So we were always destined to sample the delights of that steam railway once we became aware of its existence.

I had been taken by Lyndsey's extraordinarily pretty face on first acquaintance. Two of my flatmates shared my enthusiasm for her, but it was shy, socially backward me who first plucked up the courage to ask her out on a date. My roommate in hall was dating one of the females. So we got to mixing together. We had been socialising for four weeks, sharing meals in each other's flats, going to the pub or a club, generally having a good time. I had talked with Lyndsey, but nothing more, until the morning I saw her at the bus stop heading to the university main campus. Too tongue tied to speak to her alone, I sat away from her line of vision and concocted a plan to bump into her by accident. It entailed alighting at the bus a stop before the campus main entrance, entering through a side gate and racing up a steep hill to intercept her walking up from the main entrance.

There she was, walking towards me from a distance, looking utterly desirable in a fashionably full length skirt and tight top. Her honey blonde hair freshly washed in a page boy cut, set off her face wondrously. I had to slow right down to a casual walk, trying desperately to get my breathing under control after my exertions racing up the hill. I had to try and appear nonchalant and surprised.

"Oh, hi Lyndsey, fancy seeing you here."

She beamed at me happily. "Hi, where are you going? Lectures are this way; and why is your face so red?"

"Just heading to the Student's Union to get some tickets for the rock concert this evening. Fancy one?"

She smiled again and nodded.

"OK. How about we meet up at lunchtime at the door to the refectory?"

There were no tickets for the concert, which didn't exist on that day.

It was odd how her flatmates appeared from nowhere as we met up outside the refectory. This was meant to be a one to one encounter. There was much teasing at my mistake about the concert.

I looked at Lyndsey, trying to shut out the extraneous chatter. "I'm so sorry. I'll make it up to you. Why don't we go to the Paramount Cinema instead? There's bound to be something interesting on there."

It was a far better idea anyway. At least we could be alone together, as a couple on a proper date; not two bodies in a sweaty throng of sardined bodies.

I called for at her flat that evening. Her four flatmates insisted on coming with us. One of them confided that my flatmates were coming too. We'd never been to the cinema as a group of ten!

It was a wretched ride into the city centre on the bus. I couldn't understand why the group collective had decided to chaperone us. Tony was monopolising Lyndsey. Wendy had taken pity on me and was trying small talk. How could they all not realise what an utter disaster this all was?

We bought our tickets as a block, occupying two allocated lines of five. The cinema was not very busy even for a Tuesday evening. Lyndsey insisted that we sit on the end of a row. Then she left the auditorium. She returned a few minutes later to announce that she had exchanged our two tickets for two other seats. Right at the back. So she assumed it was to be date too. Our flatmates' mischievous scheme was failing. So we settled down in splendid isolation, hand in hand - the first time I had touched any part of her flesh - and watched as Walt Disney's Fantasia (restored, in Dolby surround sound) burst onto the screen. When you're on a date, it doesn't matter what you are supposed to be watching. I'm not sure our respective flatmates were quite as satisfied, though. But for Lyndsey and me it was perfect. In fact, any old film would have sufficed. And, maybe, Lyndsey actually liked me.

We were surrounded again when we left the theatre, and were dragged away protesting to a pub for a post-film drink. I asserted my male credentials after that and insisted that Lyndsey and I would walk on ahead on the way back to the bus stop. I was conscious of the eight others following us at a respectful distance, talking in hushed tones. Was this a little known aspect of the student-dating ritual: others witnessing the event, like the deflowering of as maiden on her honeymoon, to make sure that all went smoothly?

We ended up in Lyndsey's bedroom. She let me share her toothbrush. I washed myself in an alien bathroom filled with five young women's lotions and potions, nothing like the male environment I was used to.

I hopped into bed whilst Lyndsey used the bathroom. When she came back, she switched off the light then, as an afterthought turned on a bedside light. She undressed in my full view, slowly, careful to stretch her body to show off her curves to their best advantage. She was my first sight close-up of a naked woman. I stared at her 36C tits, slim waist and 36 inch hips. Then I noticed something novel: she had no pubic hair, and a crevice showed at the front of her pubic area. What had always before been a diagram in a biology text book was now staring back at me in the flesh.

She advanced on the bed with slow, tantalisingly deliberate steps. I started to shake with a mixture of apprehension, excitement, and desire. My first encounter with a naked woman was about to happen at the woefully late age of nineteen. But it was worth the wait. I didn't have any feelings of fear or discovery, guilt or shame, just a readiness to add another long-awaited experience to my lifeline.

She bent down and pulled back the quilt from my body.

"You're a virgin, aren't you?"

I nodded. "I was waiting for the right woman. Lyndsey, you're beautiful. It was worth the wait."

She took hold of my penis, which had reached its customary tautness. She massaged it whilst staring me in the eye, willing me to hold eye contact with her. I reached for her breast. She trembled at my gentle touch and closed her eyes. I went with my instincts. I rolled her onto her back and leant in to kiss her. I explored her body with my fingertips. She showed no embarrassment. When my fingertips touched a nipple her body arched involuntarily. I stroked my fingers down her chest to her navel.

"Take it slowly," she whispered, before gasping in a deep breath of anticipation. I had read about the female anatomy, but never explored one close up or unclothed. When my index finger so easily found her clitoris, I was elated. So was she for she bucked her hips, and her shoulders and legs rose involuntarily into the air. She gradually relaxed her muscles and relaxed again. She spread her legs wide. Her cautiousness puzzled me.

"I thought you were experienced."

"I never wanted it this badly. I never felt a man caring about me like this. I want you so much."

Images of bestiality and violence flashed across my mind. I had to shake them off and concentrate on my first full-on sexual experience. She helped me by grasping my cock and drawing it towards her moist cavity. I was surprised at how easily it slipped into her loins, and at how good it felt, like a warm, tight, comforting grip on my shaft. I had never even masturbated before, so it was all new to me, but not evidently to Lyndsey.

But once inside her the pull and thrust of sex came naturally to me. She groaned and gasped almost immediately, then began a sequence of moans and jolts as orgasms wracked her body. It made it easy for me to let myself go and feel the whoosh of warm pulses shooting down my shaft, knowing that my sperm had populated her loins. I had broken my fuck duck.

She cried out as she felt my inaugural laval spout flood her vagina and splash forcefully against the neck of her womb.

I woke next morning to a sharp stinging sensation at the head of my penis. I missed lectures that day, and thought I would need days to recover. That evening, I plumbed her depths once more and withstood the discomfort for the joy of my second session of orgasms in as many evenings. We were an item. I was to prove insatiable.

~*~*~

We sneaked off one sunny June afternoon to some picturesque hills at the end of a city bus route. Lyndsey was dressed light in a sleeveless short loose top and red hot pants. Her round, slightly chubby bottom looked fabulous with the undersides of her cheeks exposed, tilting from side to side as she walked. She had dressed for erotic effect, and she felt the eroticism of the occasion, even down to visual stimulus of the rolling contours of the hills laid out below us. The gentle breeze stirring around her unclad loins stirred her emotions and she took little persuading to shed her clothes for a glamour picture against a scenic backdrop. In pre-digital camera days, I was going to have problems getting the film developed.

For some reason she was body conscious, so never willing to shed her clothes in company, even along with other students at parties. Yet for me she would willingly expose all in private, or when she was sure we were alone.

Sex was like a drug for us. There was a seven minute stretch of Southern Region line towards the end of the route home to her family. Provided the carriage had emptied by that stage on late evening trains, we could do as we wanted. She gamely swung nakedly from the parallel luggage rails, and wrapped her limbs around my neck. Her reward would be a thoroughgoing sucking of her pussy lips and clit until she climaxed.

I slung her bodily on her front over an island luggage rack, and played with her pussy and anal rose. If the train stopped in the dark, the windows looked like mirrors, reflecting back our scandalous behaviour. Occupants of houses backing onto the line might easily have been able to see in and watch us in flagrante delicto.

On the occasions that the carriage did not empty in time for us to get it on, we walked across the Commons in the gloom and selected a comfortably grassy spot in the shadow of bushes to strip off and make love in the moonlight. It was safe provided that we finished our rutting within the half hour before the next train was due. Later commuters could so easily catch us out on their later walks across the Common.

But perhaps the most reckless coupling, in retrospect, was at a National Trust property. We had gone with her very middle class parents and her posh grandmother. It was a busy Sunday afternoon and the house and gardens thronged with crowds of visitors. But we nevertheless, rapidly got the urge to 'do it', anywhere. A busy footpath giving access to the formal gardens, ran alongside the house between a herbaceous border and an over-large box hedge. It was Lyndsey who spotted a gap that led into a hollowed out centre all through the inside length of the long hedge. After a quick look round to ensure nobody was glancing in our direction, we nimbly slipped through the gap and moved along to the relative safety of a region of thicker foliage with a three foot high central void. In keeping with our intrepid natures, it would not have done to have sex with any clothing on, so we stripped completely. I was uneasy and kept checking around me for any risk of discovery. But all the footsteps of strollers passing by within inches of our hiding place never faltered.

Lyndsey soon reached a peak of arousal from the thrill of being naked in such a risky location. She bucked her hips and writhed to an extent that it made me forget our location, and I began to pump her loins for all it was worth. Her cries and my muffled moans must have been audible amongst the general hubbub on the pathway, but no feet stopped moving. Except for a young dog. It had scandalously been let off its lead. Some dog owners have no sense of responsibility! It began to bark at bodies in unexpected places. It attracted the attention of a small boy, who ducked down his head, to take a quick look at what was causing the fuss, then ran off shouting excitedly, "there's dead bodies under there."

Ah, the innocence of youth.

I was deputed to emerge first as nonchalantly as I could, and provide cover for Lyndsey to emerge.

~*~*~

So I was confident that Lyndsey would rise to the challenge of a train ride with added spice. The trick was not to give her time to think about it.

The steam train rolling stock was pre-war, including one or two carriages of single fully enclosed compartments with two long bench seats and a door on each side, to cater for joining and alighting from platforms on either side. Lyndsey was unconvinced of the attractions of a steam train ride, but she agreed to indulge what she called "the schoolboy in me." But she lacked imagination.

Schoolboys would never to be permitted to get up to what I had in mind.

It was a hot day in June. Children would be at school, so the only holidaymakers would be couples and single train spotters. I found a carriage towards the front of the train, on the assumption that most people would get on board towards the rear, close to the platform entrance. But just to make sure, I pulled down the window in the door and lounged with my elbows on the cill, to all intents and purposes idly watching the scenery until the train departed. In reality, I was ensuring that we would have the compartment to ourselves.

Lyndsey was oblivious to my intentions. I was nervous. I knew the elapsed times between stops but it was only a short ride at that time. The whistle finally blew and the train lurched into motion as the engine took up the strain on the many carriages' couplings. Then the sound of the engine built up a head of steam as it puffed its way up the gradient away from the station.

"Have a look out the window, Lyndsey. It's exhilarating to feel the breeze."

She obliged me tolerantly, but was pleasantly surprised at the experience of the warm breeze in her hair and face, and the wafts of smoke passing on the air from the engine boiler. She had dressed for the day in a pleated miniskirt and short-sleeved top. It hadn't escaped my notice that she had abandoned her bra for the occasion, causing her bust to bounce gently as she walked. Now, she leant further out of the window to look back along the train. Her bust slipped over the window cill, and hung down outside the train. Her posture caused the rear of her miniskirt to rise, exposing the bottom halves of her butt cheeks, below the hems of her panties.

She was getting into the mood, with the engine's pistoning power transmitting itself to her body's libido. Her back subconsciously arched and her bottom pushed out backwards. She knew I would be looking at her body and lusting for her, and it turned her on. This was meant to be a tease, nothing more.

For a young and frequently on the boil young man, and a twice or three times a day (and I don't mean smoking) man, that was like a red rag to a bull. It took thirty seconds for me to undress whilst her attention was diverted by the passing scenery. Then I leant against her back, as if to look past her shoulder out the window. It was a bit of a squeeze but she was accustomed to my intimate closeness. She was oblivious to my nakedness. After a few seconds, I pulled my head back in, having stealthily accomplished my aim: the unzipping of the waistband of her skirt. Before she could react, I had slipped it and her panties firmly all the way down her legs to the compartment floor.

She gasped and whirled round in surprise. "What have you done?" Even in the permissive Seventies, that wasn't something people did on crowded trains, in broad daylight.

She turned to look at me, and saw that I was naked. "What are you doing?"

By way of reply I turned her back to face the window again, and slid a hand between her bottom cheeks, and along her vulval cleft. I felt slick moisture. She effected to struggle as if to resist, but it was half-hearted at best. As I had hoped, she was already aroused from the motion of the train and her sudden half-naked predicament.

On our way to the station I had described the principle of the steam engine, making copious comparisons to the sex act. I had likened building up of steam to a growing arousal, and had compared the pistons to the thrust and withdrawal of a penis. Any protest she might nevertheless have made about my inappropriate behaviour in that carriage was stifled by her instant arousal.