The Glanconer

The train is already twenty minutes late when you’re told there will be another delay. The bus station is further from the train station than you had thought and you’re forced to run from one station to the next, through the rain.

You sprain your ankle quite badly when the heel breaks off your left shoe and this is after you’ve stepped in a puddle, a much deeper puddle than it first looked, soaking your right foot completely.

As you limp out onto the platform, soggy and squelching and with your hair all plastered to one side of your head, the news of a second delay is not surprising nor does it even provoke much of a reaction.

It simply isn’t your day.

The rain has stopped but the cool autumn breeze is doing its best to find every gap in your clothes and chill you to the bone. You haven’t started shivering but you can feel the beginnings of a cold. You find a seat on the platform, put your suitcase down beside you and simply wait, in the cold, with families bustling around you and business men and women in power suits flitting around the place, hardly looking where they’re going.

When your train does arrive there is a further delay while they add additional carriages to it and so it is with a heavy heart, and a weary soul that you finally trudge, with a lop-sided gait and a sopping wet, cold foot, onboard.

The first carriage you enter is too crowded and so you make your way through the train towards the rear cars. The next carriage is a little quieter but you decide to try just one further. As you step into it the train pulls away from the station with a jolt and you stumble into the carriage, almost falling headfirst.

There has obviously been some problem with the regular train carriages as this one looks old, antique almost. It seems to be made out of wood and it smells of worn leather and aged oak.

The carriage is divided into individual cabins; each of them has two benches on opposite sides of the cabin that are tastefully upholstered in bottle-green and you look in as you walk past them.

The first is occupied solely by a young woman in a tweed skirt and cotton blouse. She has her hair in a severe bun and is wearing sensible black spectacles. As you walk past, though, you notice that her eyes are unfocused and her glasses slightly askew. Her hair is slightly messed up as though she has been exerting herself, her hands grip the chair tightly and her breath comes in shallow gasps and every so often a small moan escaps her lips.

The second is occupied by a couple, sitting on opposite sides of the cabin. The gentleman is wearing a double-breasted suit and tie and, strangely, a trilby. He has a moustache and both that and his hair are liberally flecked with grey, so he looks noticeably older than the young lady sitting opposite him. She has black and purple hair and is dressed in a black velvet dress that looks as though it had been deliberately and strategically slashed in certain places. The two of them are leaning forward and he is whispering something in her ear. While you stand there watching she slowly reaches out and takes hold of his tie and then leans back and forcefully pulls him out of his seat and into an embrace.

The next cart is the strangest yet. There is an old woman sitting in it on her own in clothes that almost look dusty. She is staring into the middle distance with the barest suggestion of a smile on her lips. Only the very occasional, very slow blinking of her eyes make you certain that she is still alive.

You walk along to the final cabin and, gratefully, find it empty. You slide the door open and place your suitcase on the rack above one of the seats and then sit down. It only took a moment of leaning back against the headrest before you drifted off.

The train stopped with a slight bump; just enough to wake you. You looked out of the window and were taken aback to see nothing but trees outside. The sun is setting and the autumnal colours give the forest a savage, burning hue.

After a few moments the train starts moving again and as you watch out of the window you leave the woods behind and are soon passing through fields of green.

As you look away from the window, and are just about to close your eyes again the door to your cabin opens up and a man walks in, tamping out a pipe. He’s wearing old-fashioned clothing; a dark green frock coat and leather riding boots and he rums his fingers through his dark, curly hair, trying to muss some of the damp out of it. His eyes are a brown so dark you’d have called them black and they hold just the slightest touch of insolence as they meet yours.

The train jolts slightly and he falls towards you. He braces his arms against the walls to avoid landing on you fully. As he is that close you can savour his scent, a wild musk, like lustful sweat mixed with the scent of a forest after the rain.

He laughs very slightly and apologises for falling on you, then he stands up and you, very briefly but definitely, regret him moving away from you. He sits opposite you and you have a chance to draw your eyes away from his and look at the rest of him.

He’s tall and slender, almost willowy and his clothes look faded, like they’d been left in the sun for too long a time. His skin is very pale and his dark eyes have a slight almond shape, as though he has oriental ancestry somewhere far back. When he speaks it is with a soft, breathy voice, so faint you have to lean yourself towards him to be sure you don’t mishear.

“Have you been sitting here long?” he asks you.

“No. At least, I don’t think so. I got on at the last stop, I think; I fell asleep so I’m not sure where we are.” You can hear yourself babbling but his eyes are looking straight into you and making it hard to concentrate.

“We’re between places right now; closer to there than here. Not quite reached anywhere but we’ll pass through nowhere before we get to somewhere.” he says.

You are just about to berate him for being pointlessly cryptic but then he smiles.

“You’ll arrive soon enough, I promise.” He says, as a whisper that stretches across the cabin and wraps itself around you, touching you so faintly it almost tickles. The sound of his voice is intoxicating, and it certainly distracting enough to make you forget that you had never told him where you are going.

He reaches into a pocket and pulls out an old wooden pipe and starts to remove ash from the bowl with an old penknife. His movements are smooth and obviously well-practiced at what they are doing and you can’t help but wonder what else those strong, gentle hands could do.

“You’re hurt” His words interrupt your reverie.

“What? No, I mean, yes but it’s just a sprain. It’s nothing really.”

“I could help you. I could take all your pain away, if you’ll let me.”

You want him to. It has been so long since an attractive man or woman has laid their hands upon you. Too long; your body aches to be touched.

He leans forward in his chair and reaches his hands out to touch your leg and then he stops. You almost cry out a little in disappointment when he doesn’t touch your skin.

“Would you like me to? Do you want me to make you feel better? I can make you feel better.”

Your head is starting to swim as his voice makes your heart beat faster and your breath catch in your throat.

“It’s fine,” you manage to say, “Really...I’m not sure what you could do.”

“Oh” he says, looking disappointed and a little hurt. His hands so close to your leg you can almost feel the warmth from them.

“Won’t you let me try? Please.”

It’s the please that does it. The thought of him pleasing, teasing, touching you everywhere, pleasuring you with those soft, delicate hands.

“Okay then,” You say. “Touch me, please.”

He leans across and gently lifts your foot off the ground. He undoes your shoe and slowly works his fingers across your foot, soft but firm pressure against your skin, kneading the sole of your foot with slow, sensuous movements. As he caresses your foot with his left hand his right hand starts to massage your calf, releasing the tension you hadn’t known you were holding on to. His right stops briefly and slides your skirt further up your leg, past your knee and further up your thigh.

Then his left hand moves on from your foot as well, stroking your calf and working at the knots in the muscles. He returns the suppleness to your legs and then his hands keep going, reaching your thigh. His hands touch and squeeze and move between your thighs and all pretence at platonic healing is lost as he lowers his lips and kisses your thighs and a raw, needful moan escapes from your mouth.

He stops, briefly, to smile up at you and then, very carefully and deliberately, cuts cleanly through your underwear with his knife. His tongue finds your wetness and you cry out for a moment before he stops.

His hands continue to run over your body, they slide under your blouse and massage your sides and work up to your ribs as his tongue starts to tease you. He flicks his tongue in and out, delicately playing over your clit, not quite tickling, halfway between pleasure and panic, and then he uses more force. Greater pressure with his tongue and slower movements, a long, deep kiss on your pussy as his hands stop massaging you and swiftly scratch down your sides.

You move your hands down and run your fingers through his hair in time with the movements of his tongue, gripping ever so slightly tighter and tighter as he flicks his tongue faster and faster. He runs his hand down the length of your body and slides one finger inside you, licking you all the while, never stopping the pleasure from building inside of you.

As he starts to use his fingers and tongue faster you feel yourself getting closer and closer, your breathing becomes faster and shallower and you wrap your legs around his head, trying to squeeze every sensation you could from him, lost in the moment, feeling nothing but the burning need for release and then it comes. Your whole body spasms and contorts and writhes as the pleasure takes you over. It is a liquid fire, running through your veins, burning away every care, every ache and pain, filling you with pure sensation.

Your body trembles slightly as the orgasm slowly drains away, every inch of your skin sensitive to every touch. The cotton of your blouse, now damp with sweat. The wiring in your bra digging into you slightly, but the pain now mingles with the sensation of climax to become pleasure.

The soft, warm feeling of his hair between your fingers as you realise how hard you are holding and how tired your hands feel.

You let your legs open and he slowly stands up and then leans over you.

He holds your face in both hands and kisses you, without hesitation or reserve or propriety. You part your lips willingly and grab the front of his shirt, holding handfuls of the fabric as you kiss him greedily and massage his tongue with yours, forcefully, almost painfully.

He moves his hands to your blouse and tears it open, forcing a gasp out from the kiss.

You open your eyes and push him back from you, forcing him to stand up so that you can unfasten his trousers. You pull them down his thighs and leave them bunched around the top of his boots, grabbing his cock you started to lick it fiercely before taking it in your mouth. You stroke it with one hand and run your mouth up and down the length of it, flicking your tongue against the head while your hands move to his ass and you tried to take as much of his length into you as you possibly can. Your feelings have gone beyond lust or desire or even hunger. It is now a need, like the yearning for breath after a long swim underwater, you need his cock in you so you tear your lips away from him lean back where you’re sat, spreading your legs and exposing your hot wet slit.

He stands over you for the briefest of pauses, a vulpine smile twisting his lips but you can’t let him be so far from you for long.

You grab hold of his shirt and pull him down on top of you, you tear his shirt open and kiss his chest and bite his nipples as your hands find his cock and slip it into you, easily. He quickly starts to move himself back and forth and you rock your hips to meet him as he thrusts in, every movement making you moan and mumble before you start to call out for more, you want as much of him in you as you can get. Every time he moves, the simple pleasure of touch ripples through every tiny piece of you.

You love him in that moment, more than any man who has ever brought you flowers or run you a bath or told you that you were beautiful. This is real love; your body’s needs being truly satisfied.

You spread your legs as far as you can and let him go in a little bit deeper, just the tiniest bit more of him inside you but it is enough to let the moment claim you and you scream your delight and lust and satisfaction.

You arch your back and every muscle goes rigid as the orgasm claims you. You don’t want to move in case you miss out on some small part of this joy. It takes you, it makes your head swim and it winds through you and around you, puts you beyond ecstasy, beyond anything but pure sinful pleasure.

All that exists for you is the moment; that one shining, wicked moment that you will hold on to forever.

You no longer notice the carriage you’re in. You forget about the train you stepped onto and the sounds of the wheels along the track starts to fade from your hearing. You forget the journey you were taking before you stepped on that train.

You eventually forget about the tall, slender man with the curly hair and the dark eyes.

Eventually, you don’t even notice the people who walk by your cabin, from time to time and they hardly spare a thought for the beautiful woman, with the tattered clothes, sitting in her seat, staring straight ahead, the faintest of smiles visible on her lips...