Calling at Doncaster..."(MF, daydream)

By the time we were past Edinburgh, I'd eaten all my sandwiches and 
read my newspaper and my magazine.  There were a couple of tapes in 
the bag, but somehow I didn't feel like listening.  I found myself 
huddling against the window, trying to get comfortable in the cramped 
airline-style seat, stiffly rocking with the carriage down the East Coast Line.

By the time we pulled out of Newcastle, I had been to the buffet car 
for a plastic cup of weak tea.  I had completed the quick crossword 
in my newspaper and had a futile attempt at the cryptic clues; I had 
watched Durham Cathedral float by the window; I had swore under my 
breath at the woman two seats away who seemed incapable of stopping 
her unpleasant child from running around and screaming.

It was at York that he boarded the train.  I could hear our train 
being announced, echoing over the PA through the busy station 
outside.  "The train now standing at platform three is the 14:22 to 
Kings Cross, calling at Doncaster, Peterborough, Stevenage..."

The only words he spoke to me were "Is there anyone sitting there?"  
His accent was definitely Yorkshire, quite soft and deep.  What 
caught my attention as I looked up at him, though, was his sandy 
blond hair and his fine features.  Oh, and his height.  He was at 
least six foot two.  I said no, there wasn't and moved my bag from 
the seat to the floor.  He stowed his rucksack on the shelf above us.

As the train pulled out, I saw that he had pulled a paperback book 
from the inside pocket of his jacket and had started to read.  He was 
leaning away from me, so I could not see the front cover.  I was not 
sure I wanted to; he was so gorgeous, I didn't want to spoil things 
by finding out he was reading some cliche-ridden blockbuster about 
spies or ghosts or submarines.  I wanted to think of him as clever, 
witty and sexy all together.  I wanted him to read philosophy.  I 
have always fancied intellectuals.  Well, intellectuals with muscle 
tone at least.

It was then, as the train speeded up out of the city that the thought 
came to me.  "I have never had sex on a train".

I turned to stare out of the window, embarassed that I was feeling a 
surge of lust for this stranger.  I was travelling to be with a man I 
was certain that I loved, one who satisfied me in every way.  But, he 
had been away from me for some time and the combination of 
expectation and boredom seemed to have got to me.  I wondered how one 
would do it.

Perhaps I would strike up a conversation with this stranger, and we 
would spark.  The obvious attraction between us would build, until we 
would find each other touching each other, little touches.

Perhaps I would be bold, and say "Let's go into the toilets and fuck."

In the toilet, I imagined, he would kiss me.  His lips would be 
gentle, and his tongue would probe into my mouth without choking me.  
His hands would roam over my body, slipping under my jumper to stroke 
my breasts through the lace cups of my bra.

I imagined pushing the toilet seat down, and him sitting on it, his 
jeans around his ankles.  I imagined my skirt riding up and me riding 
him.  Fucking.  Yes, and his cock would be lovely and wide, filling 
me up.  I imagined his lips upon my nipple...

I realised that I was sitting on a cramped train, leaning towards the 
window, and that I was wet.  The train rocked beneath me, and I 
squeezed my thighs together as my nipple pressed against the window 
frame.  The juddering of the carriage ran through my body.  I was 
silent and surprised as I found myself coming.  At least, I think I 
came.  At the time I could hardly believe it.  I felt a rush of heat 
through me and realised the muscles around my vagina were 
rhythmically spasming.

The man next to me had not looked up from his book.

I sat silently, embarrassed, wondering if I had given myself away in 
any way.  Had I moaned?  I could not remember it, and he didn't seem 
to have noticed, but perhaps he too was embarrassed.

Thankfully, he left the train at Doncaster.  The last I saw of him, 
he was striding away down the platform, his rucksack over one 
shoulder.  He moved beautifully.  I put my bag back on the chair 
where he had sat.

It would be some time yet before we reached London Kings Cross.