This is my contribution to Shon and Maria's Fantasy Train group of stories - the premise being an erotic rail journey undertaken by the personae (mainly authors) who hang out the group alt.sex.stories.d. The 'd ' stands for discussion.
If you want to know more, or to read some of the (much better) other Fantasy Train stories, there's a web page at http://www.asstr.org/~MariaGonzales/fantasy/fantasy.html
My own flimsy tale is full of bad jokes, in-jokes and low-brow literary allusions and there's not a lot of sex either. Just thought I better warn you, to avoid disappointment. Oh, and there are footnotes.
© BronwenSM, October 1999. This story contains explicit sex and is not be read by minors or in locales where such material is illegal. I wrote this story, it remains my copyright and it is not to be reposted or archived without explicit permission. ASSM has my permission.
@---}---}----- "Derailed" by Bronwen Chapter 1: "At Platform 16" @---}---}-----
As I paid the driver and stepped out onto the station concourse I took a deep breath. The very air breathed...
Well, actually it breathed doughnuts. I *love* doughnuts. Coffee too. And I had *stacks* of time before the train...
A little later, blotting foam from my moist, beautifully painted lips and brushing sugar from my cleavage, I reflected on what the very air did breathe...
It breathed freedom: work and family responsibilities put to one side.
It breathed fellowship: long-anticipated meetings with people I'd only known on-screen. People who made me laugh, rage, sigh, yawn and reel in admiration - and yet people whose faces (and bodies) were as yet unknown.
It breathed adventure: my marriage vows were secure in RL, but *I* had stepped outside them to board the Fantasy Train. Which was leaving today. In less than half an hour. From Platform 16.
There'd been some debate about whether the train should leave from Platform 16 or Platform 18, but the British authors had won. "It's a matter of symbolism. If we're leaving from King's Cross station it's an English train, and as 16 is *our* age of consent it's only right to leave from that platform," Inkubus had declared firmly and his logic had prevailed.
The train had been privately chartered by a small group of the wealthier ASSD regulars. And some of us are wealthy indeed. Can you *imagine* what the interest alone on Uther Pendragon's pension must be after more than a thousand years? And of course we have a number of titled members: Lords Shon and Malinov had been prominent among the sponsors. Me? I'm ligging - freeloading. I may be sitting on a fortune but I'm afraid I haven't leveraged it much recently.
@---}---}----- The long-awaited day had arrived. We were all off for a pleasure trip none of us planned to make forgettable. I certainly didn't. I had my Y2K jelly (you can get four digits in where only two were possible before) and a number of other strategic items in my handbag.
Having missed so many trains in my drunken youth, these days I tend to arrive with far too much time to spare. Today I had time to kill. Time to watch the passing show...
Platform 16 was empty. I sat idly for a while watching the passengers for the Hogwarts Express going through to Platform 9 and three quarters* and some policemen ineptly trying to round up a naked man who was screaming: "But I'm the bear! Can't you SEE! I'm the BEAR!!"* But eventually even *I* got restless.
I'll just check my face," I decided. Don't know about you but when I meet people I hope to impress favourably I always worry that I'll have spinach between my teeth or spaghetti sauce on my chin. Not that I eat too much. Oh no. Can't you tell? I spill most of it.
So I mooched off to the Ladies to check my face. And everything else.
The loos were deserted. I swiveled slowly before the long mirror at the end of the tiled room, checking my hem, my hair, my seams. I had really gone to town.
@---}---}----- A woman I used to know was amazed when I came into work one day utterly elated because it was my 35th birthday. "*I* wouldn't want to make a fuss about a thing like that," she said. "Don't you feel *old*?"
I stared at her, puzzled. "But I've *always* wanted to be 35. At twenty you can be all sorts of things but it's only at 35 that you can become a woman of mystery and allure. Think about it... Imagine an old movie. A woman is climbing into the Orient Express. She has a hat with a little net eye veil, she has silk stockings, her skirt rustles. She wears preposterous heels, she has long hooded eyelids which murmur of passion unimaginable. You can tell she smells so delectable that men shiver when she passes. She has a past. She has glamour. You can't do any of that until you're at least 35."
My colleague thought I was mad. But as I thought she was stupid, that made us quits.
@---}---}----- Today, in the loo in King's Cross, I am the woman I described to my colleague. It's easy when all you have to do is write it to become it. I stand before the glass in those very clothes. Naturally, I walk gracefully and comfortably in my four inch heels. My figure is as lovely as it was before the babies, and, as I shift my pose, my thighs brush together and I hear again the sound my silk stockings make - a silky erotic whisper - whenever I cross my legs. God, I'm gorgeous!
A quick check of my teeth and then I remember I don't have to worry about that sort of thing on this trip. Over breakfast this morning I read the small print on my Artist's License for the first time: "While acting as narrator within a story of her own devising, the holder will appear however she wishes to describe herself. While in this mode none of the normal rules of wear and tear apply. Pregnancy or infection cannot occur except as an act of volition on the part of the artist, and once an outfit is described it will remain immaculate unless or until the holder expressly describes an alteration."
There was a lot more, and it took me a while to comprehend it, but eventually I shrieked: "It's like the girls in the Westerns."
My husband is used to my tactic of starting a thought at the conclusion and working back, so he just smiled kindly and asked "What?"
"You know how the heroines in old Westerns are always getting kidnapped by Indians and dragged through undergrowth or lost in the burning sun but their hair and lipstick is still perfect?"
"Y-e-ss," he replied slowly.
"Well, as from this morning - once I arrive at the station - I'll be like them. I could be flattened by a train and just bounce back up if I wanted to - like Tom and Jerry. I write myself exactly as I want to appear and I'll simply stay like that until I decide to change it. Perfect make up, perfect nails. No periods, no colds, no sore feet. I can wear any damn shoes I like."
And with some excited little yipping noises I rushed off to the 'puter to write myself some serious lingerie. Terrible time-waster though. I wrote it all, then I started on shoes, then I had to write a suitcase for it all. Which, of course, was so enormous I was forced to invent a kind of wardrobe zip file. In the end I deleted the whole lot on the grounds that I don't like science fiction and decided to write myself new stuff as and when I needed it.
James mooched upstairs a bit later, his interest piqued. "So what you're saying is that you could write yourself as a five foot redhead and it would just happen?"
"Yep."
His eyes narrowed. "Does this mean you could write yourself a Ferrari over there in Cyberspace and then sneak it back into RL?"
Flattered though I was that he's clearly more interested in a revised car than a revised wife, I still had to disappoint him.
"No, " I said, regretfully. "I can't bring anything material back - we have to do a Reality Check on the journey back and trying to smuggle fictional things into RL is simply not worth the risk. You don't want to know what they'd do to me. The people on alt.sex.snuff.cannibalism want to know, but you don't."
"Oh well," James was resigned. "Well, at least you don't have to worry about forgetting anything. None of us had any toothbrushes when we went to your mother's last time. That can't happen on this trip. Forget a toothbrush - write another. God, you lot have it cushy."
And he was right. Not feeling any desire to look like a complete stranger I've written myself as I looked on the best looking day I ever had, only 35 years old and dressed like a 40s movie star. I have the sort of corny costly lingerie that looks marvelous but usually digs in and of course today none of it does. My stocking seams stay straight, my fox fur is ethically pure. The animal died (painlessly and of natural causes) having reached Nirvana just as a furrier was passing and I am... I am...
@---}---}----- What I am is late. I am *late*. I might even miss my train. Balls. Oh, shit! Poo bum willy willy bum. If I hadn't been so busy posing ..
Bloody vanity. All is vanity. I had imagined my departure on the Fantasy Train as an elegant saunter down the platform, drawing admiring glances. Instead I clatter up the loo stairs and across the concourse like a panicked rabbit in stilettoes. Breathless, I reach the barrier. An exotic-looking train is ready at Platform 16, and I can hear American accents rising from the people surging to board. It's the Fantasy Train - and I am so, so scared that the train will leave without me.
But no. I'm going to make it. Pelting down the platform I grab the handle of an open door and throw myself into my compartment, panting, inside. Ruefully I lean back in my seat. So much for elegance. "Sic transit gloria mundi!*" I mutter to myself as I offer my ticket to the waiting collector.
"Do I know you?" A boot-faced woman is looking at me oddly. I stare back blankly until I register her name badge. It reads "Virgin Trains: Gloria Mundi."
It is now that I begin to realize that while I am writing this particular story, I am by no means the only author about today. Fiction is stranger than lots of things. And a lot of my ASSD friends are stranger than fiction. Who wrote Gloria Mundi? And what made me late? It certainly wasn't part of *my* story.
@---}---}----- Notes:
1. The Hogwarts Express, leaving from Platform 9 and three-quarters for the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, is a feature of the Harry Potter books, a best-selling fantasy series for children.
2. The Bear posted on ASSD for a year or more, and still appears occasionally.
3. This is Latin for "So pass the glories of the world" or in other words "All flesh is grass."
@---}---}----- " Chapter 2: "Mystery Tour" @---}---}----- Well, I didn't miss the train. Let's be grateful for small mercies. Catching my breath I look around me. It's a lovely compartment, but not perhaps as opulent as I'd expected. There hadn't been a lot of argument among the ASS authors about what sort of train we were going to charter. We were all agreed (apart from the ones who wanted a Trekky version)
We decided on an even more erotic version of the Orient Express. We wanted luxurious upholstery, porters, restaurant cars and lots of compartments. This train definitely has compartments, but where are the velvet cushions, the pretty Lalique lamps? Let alone the padded restraints.
Better explore. I'm alone in my compartment, and I can't wait to get better acquainted with my fellow passengers. Remarking casually to myself, in narrative voice, that "Now completely recovered from her dash down the platform, Bronwen's appearance was little short of breathtaking," I rise to my feet and go out into the corridor. I spot Ms Mundi's broad departing back just going into the next carriage, so turn on my heel and head in the other direction. I can hear a violin playing somewhere up ahead, and this intrigues me.
The next few compartments are empty too, but soon I come upon one which is occupied by a stunning young man. He has a monocle, butter-coloured hair and is wearing full 1920s kit - including spats. As I glance in at him his gaze lifts to mine, and he immediately slips lithely to his elegantly shod feet and slides open the door in welcome.
His regard is appreciative, but gallant. "My dear lady." The voice is to the manner born. The tie is Balliol. "Do please come in and join us." He gestures to his companion, clearly a superior manservant of some sort.
As I take the seat opposite him, he pulls down the blinds. My pulse quickens. Who is this ravishing young aristocrat? Is it Shon? Is it Malinov? Surely it cannot be Daphne Xu? And what erotic delights are in store?
I lean back and take a split-second decision. I shall be assertive. In no longer than it takes me to draw a languid breath, I make my clothes disappear. That's not quite accurate. What disappears are my coat and dress. I am lounging against the seat wearing silk stockings, garters and my fuck-me heels. Plus a great big welcoming smile.
"I've been so looking forward to this trip," I murmur, spreading my thighs and running a long tantalizing scarlet fingernail up between the slick folds of my sex. "And I've never got round to having sex with two men before."
"They told me you were an adventuress," the aristocrat looks a little taken aback. "But this is quite beyond my experience. Myself, I've never shared a lady with my man before. But a lady's wish has always been law with me, and we *do* live in a more democratic age." And he nods to his companion.
Which must be some sort of signal of approval, because the servant, a heavy-set man wearing a bowler hat, slides up the banquette towards me and, without a word, puts his gnarled hand firmly and lecherously on my left breast. His master leans across the carriage and gently engages me in a long, slow, kiss of infinite eroticism. I quiver in anticipation. A lifelong fantasy is about to be fulfilled.
And it is. In no time, and moving with a choreographed slickness that betrays the whole thing as wishful thinking, I am spread between them across the compartment, with my new friend sucking one nipple deep and hard into his mouth while he mashes my other breast hard yet sensuously against my ribs. Having masterfully parted my thighs, his companion is expertly stimulating my clitoris with one skilful forefinger while he tongues me towards my first orgasm. I glory in the broad strokes of his tongue, the heat of his mouth, the pull at my breast. And it gets better. As things evolve, I find myself delectably at their mercy: my mouth and hands in frenzied worship of the young lord, while his servant prepares to impale me on what I happily guess, from the size of the unseen velvety head that brushes my thighs and grazes my swollen slit, is the biggest cock I've ever encountered.
"Fuck me!!" I beg. "Oh yes. Yess!" I had always planned on protesting at this point, begging them not to put that enormous thing into poor little me, but I'm just too damn honest to stay in character. I want them to put it in as hard as humanly possible. Which they do. The larger man grips my hips to more deeply penetrate my soaking sex while his master pushes down on my shoulders to assist the process.
And we fall into a frenzy of humping and pumping - deep, earth-wrenching strokes, and of sucking - as I hit crisis after crisis I do so while neither losing my oral expertise or biting my gorgeous stranger. My cunt grips like a fist, his cock is drenched with saliva and the air is full of pheromones.
The end, when it comes, seems more than enough to derail the train. Three sets of urgent gasps, of wild cries, and at least a quart of semen both ends. Yum. Then, as our breathing becomes less ragged I suddenly feel just a tiny bit shy. Time for introductions.
But I want to do this properly. With a shrug I am fully dressed and immaculate. I lean across the carriage and, holding out one exquisitely gloved hand, prepared to introduce myself. My companion, however, pre-empts me.
"Countess Blatavsky, never doubt how much we appreciate your courage in this mission." His gaze is serious now. "The Foreign Office told me you would be on the train. Bunter and I have brought the documents in the case. I presume you have the crown jewels?"
"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir, " I falter, a horrible doubt seizing my mind. "My name is Bronwen. BronwenSM. And you are?"
He adjusts his monocle in surprise. "Peter Wimsey, of course.*"
Oh, bugger. I'm on the wrong train.
@---}---}----- With a range of breathless excuses I extricate myself from the compartment and scuttle off down the train, desperate for a bracing cup of coffee and a good think. Have I changed the course of fiction, for a start? And what about poor Harriet Vane*?
In the buffet car I find myself sharing a table with a moustached Belgian who is expounding to his companion his theory about "little grey cells."
"A thousand pardons, Monsieur Poirot...*" I interrupt as courteously as I can. "But could you tell me which train this is?"
"But certainly, madame, "he responds. "This is the 4.05 from Paddington.*"
"And the next stop is?"
"Reading*, madame. We will be arriving there in ten minutes. Isn't that right, Nero*?" And the famous detective turns to check with a vast American in a wheelchair.
Reading. How very apt. Far from being our next stop, this is where it all started. Because if I hadn't loved reading I wouldn't have been writing in the first place. I'm on the wrong train. This one is full of bloody sleuths. Where is the ASSD special? And how did this happen?
Thinking furiously I dredge up theories and discard them. The coffee is excellent, but it'll take more than caffeine to stimulate my own grey cells. I'm stumped. All I can do is change trains and hope for the best.
As we draw into Reading a train is already standing at the other platform. My heart leaps, my sex shivers. My train! My friends! At last...
But as we glide to a halt I see that the other train is full of young men in plus fours, dazzling girls with bobs and pearls and, yes, swept with foreboding, I register aunts. Aunt calling to aunt like mastodons across the primeval swamp. I catch the great Poirot's eye again. He will surely know.
"I am desolated to trouble you again, monsieur, " I start. "But do you by any chance know what train that is?"
"Why certainement, madame, " he consults his wristwatch. "It must be the Wodehouse express to Blandings Castle.*"
@---}---}----- Notes:
1. Lord Peter Wimsey is the hero of the detective stories of Dorothy L. Sayers. His sidekick is his faithful manservant, Bunter. There is a suggestion in the novels that Lord Peter is widely sexually experienced, though nothing actually ever happens.
2. Harriet Vane is the love of Peter Wimsey's life. They marry during the course of one of the novels.
3. Hercule Poirot is one of Agatha Christie's detectives. One of the few famous Belgians - though fictional.
4. "The 4.05 from Paddington" is the title of one of Agatha Christie's mysteries. It was made into a movie, the title of which I've forgotten.
5. Reading is a major station outside London. You'd get there on a train from Paddington station, whereas I set off from King's Cross - in a completely different direction. Imagine my bafflement.
6. Nero Wolfe is the mastermind in the stories of the great American whodunnit author, Rex Stout.
7. Set in the 1920s, the comic novels of P.G. Wodehouse feature Bertie Wooster and his valet Jeeves, among others. Golf is a preoccupation of this author and aunts figure heavily in his convoluted plots. Many of his stories are set at Blandings Castle, the country seat of Lord Emsworth. The protagonists usually get there from London by train. And the bit about aunt calling to aunt is nearly a quote only I couldn't find the original to check the exact wording.
@---}---]----- Chapter 3: "Connections" @---}---}----- A few minutes later I am safely off the mystery train, and waiting for the porter to return with an answer to my question about the whereabouts of the ASSD train. My Artist's License seems to be working again, for which I am deeply grateful. I am indeed at Reading station, but my version is a great improvement on the real one. At least I assume it's my version. Quite a number of writers seem to be influencing today's events.
Be that as it may, I appreciate the old world station. Apart from the obliging porter there is a Ladies Only Waiting Room with a fire, a selection of congenial magazines and a cafeteria.
I am just settling down to a scone and a copy of 'Country Life' when the door of the waiting room opens and a small elderly lady enters, somewhat timidly. She is clearly well-bred and her appearance dates from some 60 years ago - just before the Second World War is my guess. Her small blue eyes catch mine and she inclines her head. "May I join you, my dear?" she asks.
"Certainly," I respond. "But I fear you may have missed your train, Miss Marple.*"
"Miss Marple?" the little old lady's eyes crease at the corners. "You think..?" And, drawing a handkerchief from her reticule she dabs her eyes.
"Oh, my dear.." she shakes her head. Were she not such a refined gentlewoman I'd say she was laughing at me. "I'm looking for the same train as you are. I'm not Miss Marple. Oh no, my dear. I'm *Pred*."
"And this," she indicates a tiny lapdog which clings to her ankle. "Is ronni b."
@---}---}----- It takes me a pot of tea for two to overcome my surprise, but soon we are all three rattling away like old friends. Which indeed we are. "I was always a mischievous little thing, even at school," Pred confides in a light, charming voice. "I stumbled across ASS and I simply couldn't resist. I know it's naughty." And her blue eyes twinkle roguishly.
"I write these truly frightful stories and then when ghastly people write telling me how much they enjoy them, I simply use their email information to subscribe them to other mailing lists."
"What do you mean?" I ask, my mouth slightly ajar. "What happens?"
"I register them with needlework sites mainly. My fans get a lot of email about petit point. Quilting is another favorite. Haemorrhoid remedies. Oh, and tips on keeping miniature dachshunds." She indicates ronni b, who is stretched out on her back on the carpet. "And then I arrange for them to receive deluges of knitting patterns." And she giggles in a ladylike way.
"It's kewl." ronni's voice is tiny, which figures. But I can't help noticing that she's a dog, rather than a bitch, which is confusing. She follows my glance to her little furry sheath and grins, tongue a-loll. "That's Usenet for you, baby."
We chat about mutual friends until the handsome porter returns. A slow visual assessment of this very well-built young man and a surreptitious exchange of glances tells me that Pred and I are of one mind. Should our train indeed be lost without trace, we have found ourselves something else to do this afternoon. Though I am far from certain exactly which erotic activities Pred might favour and have no idea at all what ronni b thinks. She's too near the floor to interrogate without some difficulty and it wouldn't do to make our fleshly deliberations obvious to the unsuspecting rail official.
I am delighted when the porter smiles broadly and announces: "Well, ladies, I've found 'er."
What a relief! He's handsome enough, but having never yet shared a partner with a batty old lady and a dog, I'd far, *far* rather stick to the original plan.
"She's pulled up at a halt 20 miles from here. Some sort of emergency. Apparently your colleague Mr Vargas rather jumped the gun. There were four women in labour already, and the driver decided to radio ahead to the maternity unit. But they're getting it all sorted out, and I've let them know you'll be with them in half-an-hour. Please accept a lift down the branch line with our Thomas."
Yes, gentle reader. Of *course* it was that Thomas*.
@---}---}----- As we chug down the branch line in Clarabel*, Pred and I try to work out what's been going on. Having described my own adventures in mistaken identity I lean back, and await my companion's revelations.
"I knew something was up during lunch," Pred confides. "It was when my salad started talking back."
"You what?" I gasp.
"Well, I was dining with Destiny, so naturally we ordered the lobster. Lobster salad to be exact. *Such* a treat for someone of my limited means! But when my portion sat up on the plate, waved an affable claw and introduced itself as *the* King's Crustacean* I knew things were drifting."
"But it makes no sense..." I murmur.
"On the contrary," Pred waves an airy hand. "It makes perfect sense. I've worked it out. It's just an unlucky coincidence that on the very day we arranged to have our special trip so did half the genre authors in the world. The country house mystery people are clearly having their works outing on the same day as the P.G. Wodehouse characters - and we've simply got tangled in their collective creative force field. Just think, my dear. It could have been far, far worse... We might have ended up on the Stephen King special."
Our eyes meet, and we shudder.
"All we need to do now," she continues briskly, "Is board the right train and all will be well."
"But Miss Marple, sorry, Pred..." I speak hesitantly. "If we can get drawn into other people's stories so easily when we're not even on the ASSD train, what's going to happen when we *do* get on it? Remember what the porter told us about Homer? I mean, judging by what's happened today I could climb on board and - depending on who I bump into first - I could find myself eight years old, pregnant, a cheerleader, super-sized or even..." and I pause, swallowing hard, "A completely different species. That would be revolting."
"Well, thanks a bunch." I look down, deeply embarrassed. The miniature dachshund is speaking. "You think I left for the station looking like this?" ronni b asks. "Furry has its moments, though. When people are crass and insensitive all I need to do is..." And she pees on my leg.
Pred looks away, blushing, and takes out her knitting. Me? I spend the rest of the short journey masturbating ronni by way of apology. It's like rubbing a child's tiny finger inside a woolly glove, but she seems to like it.
@---}---}----- The huge, gleaming ASSD train dwarfs the tiny rural station. We climb down from Thomas, say an affectionate farewell to his wooden driver, and walk towards the Fantasy Train, ronni tucked cosily under Pred's arm.
They've been told we're coming, and what a welcome awaits us! Faces are pressed against the window - and in one case a glorious pair of buttocks. Dear Alison, no doubt. Or perhaps Lucinda.
Hands wave from the windows - even a tentacle makes a welcoming gesture - and then a door flies open and there, on the steps, stands the one member I would recognize anywhere.
"Maria!" I shriek joyfully and stumble across the remaining tracks to greet my long-lost comrades. Flinging myself into my friend's welcoming arms, I leap up to board the train. "I've been so worried!" cries Maria. "Your friend Wyyrd's been on his mobile non-stop. And Virago Blue's put out an APB."
"But I'm here at last," I sigh contentedly into her neck. "And so are..." But when I turn round Pred and ronni b have vanished. Where to, I do not care to contemplate... Another part of the train, no doubt, and one more suited to their tastes. As a low guttural howl fills the air, I turn away.
Clambering aboard the train, I find myself immediately in a palatial restaurant car. All around me fellow ASSD regulars are drinking cocktails made with real cock and eating with their fingers. What are they eating? Why, each other of course. I smile foolishly and blissfully around. Here I am, safe in the heart of my own.
Then, slowly, a little hesitantly, I climb on a chair. I clear my throat. I stick out my tits, which jut out ravishingly from the clothes I'm suddenly not wearing... <grin>
"I know I'm late, and you may all have other plans. But I've always wanted to be at the centre of a circle jerk," I announce. "And then a gang bang. The works. I'll need at least six guys, though. Anyone up for it?"
And believe it or not, some of them were. And Uther spanked me afterwards as a special favour. This Artist's License business is pure gold, believe me.
@---}---}----- Notes
1. Miss Marple is the other main detective who features in the works of Agatha Christie.
2. The Tank Engine, silly.
3. Have you never heard of Clarabel? She's one of Thomas the Tank Engine's coaches.
4. Say it out loud, dear reader. King's Cross Station. Major London terminus.
@---}---}----- Thanks:
Special thanks to Denny, Jimmy the Hat, Frank, Sven, Shon, See-El, Greybeard, Mat and John McMullen. Well, what do *you* think I'm thanking them for? <giggle>
I'm not thanking Jacques (he was so pitifully grateful anyway) and as for you, Homer - after what you tried to do to me with that cheese you're lucky you got away with no more than a slapped face! <g>
Sorry about that blow job, Wijit, but if you will bring your wife on a Fantasy Train what do you expect?
@---}---}----- If you enjoyed this story, please let me know at [email protected]. Remember Celeste's blow job principle.
All my stories are available at Hoot Island on http://www.hootisland.com/bronwen/ - thanks to wyyrd, my kind host!
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