Quiet Carriage

Just a brief vignette that popped into my head. Nothin' epic.

Quiet Carriage

I’d been stuck on a train for two hours now, rumbling wearily towards London. There’s only so long I can spend stuck behind a table, watching specks of sheep whip past the window and listening to Stravinsky on my iPod before I get a little bored and fidgety.

It was late, and the quiet carriage (I always choose the quiet carriage) was empty and dull. As the train rattled inexorably into the last stop before King’s Cross I glanced at my watch. Another forty minutes to go... I groaned, yawned and slumped forward onto the table. This, I said to myself, is going to be the longest forty minutes of my life.

The carriage door behind me opened. I heard the inimitable swish and bump of it behind me to a crescendo of strings on my iPod. I eagerly swivelled my head round to catch a glimpse of my new travelling companion, and... gawped. There's no other word for it; I simply gawped. I know, I know, it’s rude to stare, did my mother not teach me manners, blah blah blah... but honestly, I dare anyone reading this to practise self-restraint after coming face-to-face with something as wildly, blatantly, uncontrollably sexy as the girl who had just stepped into my world. She was a vision of undiluted sex appeal; a living goddess of impossible curves and dark mysteries, a ripe young wench as comely as they come.

Her stocking-clad legs, which flared from dainty feet kept in orange Converse shoes to curvaceous calves and thick, powerful thighs, began to shimmy their way down the aisle of the carriage. Her wide, womanly hips were hid beneath a skirt so short it barely covered half her mesmerising ass. She was sporting a black vest-top so skin-tight it seemed ready to burst the moment she took a deep breath. Oh... those tits. Tits so round they had to be fake. Tits so supple and soft they had to be real. Tits so astonishingly large that a cup size would be both impossible to guess and, frankly, irrelevant. They jiggled and bounced around wildly under that brave little top with every tiny movement she made. At least ten inches of cleavage was spilling out of what could hardly be called a low-cut top, and it was obvious she had plenty more where that came from.

And then there was her face... A long way from conventionally pretty (but then, there was nothing terribly conventional about this girl), it was still a face of impossible beauty; framed by waves of thick, black hair. She had pale, silky skin and plump, smiling lips that yearned to be kissed. She had eyes you could write novels about. Those eyes fixed me with a puzzling stare as she approached my table; dark and sparkling, daring me to read her thoughts.

“Mind if I sit here?” she said with an innocent smirk, settling down in the seat opposite mine.

“I... uh... mmf...” I managed as my trembling fingers groped about for the pause button on my iPod.

“So, wha