About me (for those who don’t know me)
My name is Catriona. You may have read about me on this site before. I’m a successful businesswoman, in my thirties, and my professional career could keep me fully occupied, if I allowed it to. Because of my inordinately high sex drive, however, I choose to place strict limits on the amount of time that I spend on work and related matters.
I consider myself a rather enigmatic figure. I can appear sophisticated and aloof, and yet I’m easy to relate to, and I have absolutely no sexual inhibitions. I like to think of myself as an “up-market slut”: I look stunning, dress expensively, and choose my companions with great care. I’m educated and articulate, with a rather deep, rich, velvet-smooth voice. Childhood elocution lessons have proved a valuable investment.
Behind closed doors, however, you’ll hear me saying things that may surprise you, or even shock you. I get very aroused by obscene talk, and I love to provide my own foul-mouthed commentary on the more extreme forms of sexual perversity, talking myself into ever more depraved behaviour.
As to my appearance, I have no hesitation in saying that I’m attractive. I’m well built, and very well proportioned, of average height, with large, firm, natural breasts, an ample bottom, expansive thighs, and impressively smooth skin.
My circumstances just now are that I’m single, solvent and completely independent. I take full advantage of my single status, to enjoy intense, short-term liaisons with men of all ages and backgrounds.
As to my sexual preferences, it will suffice to say here that they are wide-ranging, and I am always open to new experiences. I have a fascination for the more unusual, extreme and perverse forms of erotic encounter, in both one-to-one and group settings. I’d describe myself as a “switch”, as I can move easily between dominant and submissive roles, as the mood takes me. I can be gentle, but I’m at my best when things get rough.
This is a story about what happens on a train journey. In this story, I’m returning home from a business meeting, one afternoon. I’ve enjoyed a pleasant lunch – nothing too heavy – and a couple of glasses of wine. I’m looking forward to some rest and relaxation, on my long journey home.
As I board my train, I make a point of going straight to the back of the very last carriage. I’m keen to find some peace and quiet, and not many people find their way to this part of the train, at this time of day. I use these trains often, usually for quite long journeys, and my comfort is very important to me. This is Coach ‘A’, the Second Class “quiet coach”, and it’s my usual choice, if I don’t want to be disturbed. I can switch my mobile phone to “silent”, drop it deep into my handbag, and forget about it for a while.
On a busier train, I’d travel First Class, but at this time of day, when things are usually very quiet, I’ll have all the space and comfort that I need, sitting here. After all, if I’m going to spend most of my time taking a nap, I don’t need a more expensive ticket.
At the very end of the carriage, next to the door leading to the guard’s compartment, is a single seat, tucked in behind a double seat, with a double seat on the opposite side of the central gangway. There are no passenger doors at this end. There are double seats throughout the rest of the carriage. Most of the seats face in the same direction, towards the passenger doors, and they all have high backs, which means that the single seat in the corner at the end is well and truly tucked away, out of view of almost everyone.
That secluded single seat is a favourite of mine, and once I’m in it, I can relax, and even go to sleep if I feel like it, without having to worry about anyone sitting down next to me.
The only interruptions come from the train staff, using the end door. Very occasionally, a passenger might walk down here, looking for the guard. Most of the time, though, there’s nothing to disturb the privacy of this space.
In this carriage, this afternoon, there are perhaps half a dozen people, all in seats near the doorway. A couple of them are asleep, and the others are reading, or staring at the screens of their portable computers. All the other seats are empty.
As I walk down the gangway, towards the secluded area at the end, I notice, to my slight annoyance, that the single seat is already taken. The occupant is a smartly dressed man in his thirties, who’s sitting quietly, looking out of the window, a copy of The Economist on his lap.
I sit down in the double seat opposite him, to his right, and put down the take-away coffee that I bought on the station. I’ve brought a book with me, some magazines, and a newspaper, and my iPad is in my briefcase. Somehow, though, I don’t feel as though I’d settle to anything that would need any concentration.
I’m wearing a short, light trench-coat, in very pale cream, which I’ve kept on, for the moment. As today’s was a rather important meeting, I’m wearing my favourite footwear, my beloved Arielle A Talon ankle-boots by Louboutin of Paris, which boost my self-confidence enormously.
Just behind me, the staff-only door swings open, and an attractive young woman appears. She’s petite, blonde, about my age, a little on the stocky side, with a lovely figure, and sleek, shapely legs. She comes across as enviably chic in her dark navy uniform, which is neatly tailored, and has minimal corporate decoration. In fact, it’s starkly plain, with no more than a small and very discreet logo on the front. Her shoes are simple and stylish, and look as though they could have cost serious money.
Her skirt is cut to what I’d call a sensible length, but the split in the middle, at the back, looks conspicuously long. Then again, any woman with legs that good is going to want to show them off, even during working hours.
The tantalising glimpse of lower thigh has certainly had the desired effect on the gentleman on my left. He’s already caught her attention, just for the sake of it, asking what our eventual arrival time will be – though I’m quite sure he already knows – and now he’s gazing intently in the direction of that split in her skirt, as she saunters down the gangway.
Once she’s passed through the doorway at the end of the carriage, everything is quiet again. The gentleman on my left is leafing through The Economist, apparently with rather less interest than he showed in the split skirt. He’s cast a glance or two in my direction, but quickly turned away, as soon as I glanced back.
I settle into my seat, and sip my coffee, gazing vacantly through the window. After a little while, my attention begins to drift. There’s a reason for that, which is, that a plan is forming in my mind. It’s an ambitious plan, fraught with risk, and so it’s much more interesting than anything I’m likely to find on a news-stand.
The plan is as follows. The gentleman sitting just to my left will be my captive audience. I’m going to relieve his boredom, and give him what I hope will be a very pleasant surprise. As I stand next to him, moving in very close, he won’t have any exit route. He’ll be compelled to go along with whatever mischievous initiative I devise.
I’m going to watch his reactions extremely closely, though. At the first sign that he might be in the slightest way offended, or unsettled, by anything I’m saying or doing, I shall back off, straight away, showering him with apologies.
As things are, I don’t think any apologies are going to be called for. I’ve seen how he was looking at Dark Navy Uniform Woman, and at me. He’ll be fine.
I’ve got it all worked out. Standing next to that single seat, I’ll be mostly hidden behind the high back of the double seat in front. I can easily turn to look back up the carriage, from time to time, but that’ll hardly be necessary. If Dark Navy Uniform Woman were to reappear – which is quite likely – I’d hear the door at the far end, which is always clearly audible, over the ambient noise in the train, and even if she was in a hurry, I’d have a few seconds to react.
The only thing that could floor me would be the sudden appearance of another member of staff, hitherto unseen, through the staff-only door, just inches away from me. There’s no contingency plan for that. It would ruin everything. Not only would the two of us be, quite literally, “caught in the act”, but Dark Navy Uniform Woman would be summoned straight away, and the whole thing would become quite an incident. [I almost said that the whole thing could “snowball”, but I’d be getting a little ahead of myself.]
For all the potential for embarrassment and upset, though, the possibility of being exposed to sudden, unavoidable discovery brings a sharp frisson of excitement to an already thrilling prospect!
I leave my seat, ignoring Economist Reader, and make my way to the toilet at the end of the carriage. That gives me a little time to fine-tune my tactics, before making my first move. Inside the cubicle, I slide the hem of my dress – which is a simple, lightweight number, with a relaxed, comfortable fit – up over my hips, and I slip off my knickers, and pop them into my handbag.
I add a totally unnecessary dab of Ferrari red to my already well-made-up lips, spray another dash of Prada behind my ears, and I’m ready. Wrapping my coat back up, and tying the belt loosely, I leave the cubicle, and make my way back down the carriage.
As I stroll back down the gangway, I feel Economist Reader’s gaze on me, all the way. As I approach him, he looks away, but when he sees that I’m standing by his seat, and not sitting down in mine, he’s forced to look up again. Returning his gaze directly, I smile my friendliest smile, and whisper, “I’ve got something to show you. Would you like to look?” A little hesitantly, he nods and says, “Oh, yes, please … by all means”.
With a single deft movement, I undo my belt, and my coat opens wide. Standing just here, I’m positioned so that only he can see what I’m revealing. The plan has worked. He is immediately captivated. I have his full attention, and there’s no going back.
To begin with, he doesn’t seem to know where to look. My finely-shaped legs are sheathed in sheer nylon stockings, held in place by suspenders. On my feet, I’m wearing my ultra-sexy Louboutin boots. My lightweight dress has been rolled up to my waist, and he has a perfect view of my gloriously succulent pussy. The expression on his face is a picture, as a flicker of astonished embarrassment passes across, giving way to awe-struck delight.
I slip a hand between my legs, and gently fondle my moist pussy. I tease the lips, stroking them gently with my fingertips, tugging on them very lightly to expose them more fully. Then I make another well-practised movement, drawing my fingers upwards, to expose a proudly swollen clit. Economist Reader is mesmerised. My morale is boosted by the intensity of his warm, appreciative gaze, as he continues to feast his eyes on this tantalising spectacle.
All trace of hesitancy gone now, I reach down to take his hand, and guide it to a place between my thighs, a little above my knees. The touch of his fingertips on my nylon-sheathed skin is surprisingly delicate, and sends a little shiver right through me. Without needing words, he’s told me the kind of man he is: experienced, street-wise, decisive, but not in any way arrogant or self-important, and at the same time, capable of the sweetest tenderness.
Only now do I realise that there’s a serious weak point in my plan. If he were to touch my pussy in that electrifyingly sensitive way, I might not be able to stifle a loud moan, as a wave of sheer excitement crashed through me. It’s dawning on me that I’ve got myself into something here that I can’t easily get out of, and suddenly, I see that it’s me that’s about to be held captive.
I slip a couple of fingers back into my pussy, and work away more vigorously, making rough little jerking movements, so that he can hear juicy squelching noises, and realise how incredibly wet it is in there. Then I take my fingers out, and slide them straight into his mouth.
I have to remind myself that I’ve no idea who this man is, what he does, where he’s going, or even what his name is, yet here I am, coating my fingers with fresh warm juice from my cunt, and then pushing them into his mouth and inviting him to lick them clean. Even by my standards, this is starting to seem like a reckless initiative.
I can see he loves the taste. I’ve been complimented many times on the delicious fragrant sweetness of those intimate juices, and when I hear things like that, those juices flow still more freely. This is an encounter that’s almost entirely without words, though, and I’m reading everything from my partner’s touch, and his facial expression.
Now comes the moment I’ve been waiting for. It’s also the moment I’ve been dreading, as I may not be able to keep quiet any longer. I edge even closer to him, and he tilts his head slightly, sticks his tongue out a little, and for just a second, makes tantalising little movements with it, flicking it rapidly in and out, then inches closer and immediately makes contact with my eager, horny clit. Oh my fucking God. A flash of high-voltage electricity hammers right through me, and I jump backwards, grabbing a seat-back for support as I wobble precariously on my heels. I barely manage to stifle an ecstatic yelp, but no-one looks round.
I can’t stop now, though, and I edge hesitantly back towards the dangerously inquisitive tongue. Sensing my predicament, my willing partner presses his mouth against me, in that same spot, but keeps his tongue quite still for the moment. If he starts sucking on my clit, I’m finished. I’m beginning to wish I’d never started this. I’m the prisoner now.
My partner gently eases the pressure on my clit, but starts to do something that’s equally risky for me, sliding two fingers into my pussy, while keeping his mouth pressed lightly against my clit. He’s keeping those fingers still, for the moment, just leaving them nice and deep inside, taking pleasure in the warmth and tightness. The fit is flawless, and the contact between us is lubricated to perfection, as I respond with another generous flow of juices.
Then he begins to slide those fingers slowly around inside me, stretching me just a little more, as he sets out to explore me. He is showing the utmost sensitivity in his touch. His teasing is utterly ruthless. The slightest increase in pressure, or speed of movement, and I’d be right over the edge, with no way back, howling in wanton ecstasy and gushing uncontrollably. He senses my progress with unwavering accuracy, as if he was watching a needle on a dial, edging ever closer to the mark that says “danger”.
This is unbelievable. I wanted this man for a plaything, to while away some time on a tedious journey, and now he’s the one controlling the game.
As if to emphasise his dominant position, he slides his fingers out of my dribbling wet pussy, still taking the most extreme care, and directs me to turn around. I do so, excited beyond measure now, and yet edgily unnerved. Standing before him, my naked ass in his face, I am totally exposed and vulnerable, helplessly awaiting his next intervention.
This wasn’t in the plan. Standing like this, with my back to this man, I’m in a good position to turn and see the rest of the carriage, but in a bad position to try to explain what I’m doing, should the question arise. I’m leaning somewhat awkwardly across the gangway, supporting myself on a seat-back on the opposite side, legs unsteady, feet apart, coat hanging loose, hair a ruffled mess, casting furtive glances down the aisle.
That chic sophistication which I thought was unassailably mine has vanished without trace. Again the tears well up as I consider my predicament: fired up with wanton arousal, and yet totally under the control of a complete stranger, in an all-too-public place, with no easy escape route. I can feel my heavy make-up melting into grotesque dark smears across my face, and my self-assurance is dissolving away just as fast.
The worst – and the best – of this is, that I’ve no idea where things are going to go from here.
Maybe my partner will want me to sit on his cock, riding him, reverse-cowgirl style, while he leans back across his seat. That would be a non-starter, though. Once the tip of that meaty rod slid between my cunt lips, I’d be gasping and groaning for all I was worth, begging for more.
A crazy thought it may be, but he might even want to go straight into my asshole. He’d have no chance, however, in this situation. It’s true that there’s nothing, but nothing, that I like better than a solidly rigid cock ramming me hard and deep in my ass. In the right place, at the right time, that’s my idea of heaven. Right now, though, the first touch of that velvet tip, brushing against my sphincter, would have me screaming the place down.
My fantasies are running out of control now. Maybe he’ll casually reach into his briefcase, and whip out a vibrator and some lubricant, and start stimulating me with that. I wouldn’t put anything past this guy. Even that would never work, though. I’d be squealing my head off, as soon as the tip of it touched me, anywhere.
Perhaps he’ll want to finish by changing places, so that he can stand over me, and face-fuck me, long and deep. Then, when he’s finally ready, he can shoot spurt after spurt of hot semen into my mouth, and then casually pass me a handful of tissues, so that I can quickly clean my face, wiping off all the sticky mess that was too much for me to swallow. That sounds wonderful. Just at the moment, though, it’s out of the question altogether, as the sound I’d make while gagging on his fully-erect cock would probably be heard throughout the train.
Weighing all this up, the best that I think I’d be able to manage would be a “quickie” blow job, followed by a hasty visit to the toilet, hoping there’d be no queue. That would be just about feasible, as long as Dark Navy Uniform Woman didn’t choose that moment to start a ticket inspection. Just now, though, it’s not up to me.
Now there’s another sudden surprise, as the tails of my coat are parted from behind, and moved aside. Strong, decisive male hands place themselves on my ass cheeks, and spread them forcefully apart. Oh you evil fucking bastard, who the fuck said you could do that?
I jump forwards, in response to yet another shock, as I feel a generous shot of spittle land on my asshole. Then I feel another deep thrill, as his tongue begins to probe me. The tip of his tongue is so firm, and so meaty, that it feels just like the head of a substantial cock, pushing insistently against my anal sphincter, caressing, teasing, tickling and stretching.
I feel myself wanting to open myself up to him, eagerly receptive, easing his entry, even though he has absolutely no business to be there. His tongue is working my sphincter, expertly and assertively, and waves of exquisite pleasure pervade my body, radiating out from my asshole and warming me right through, as my arousal level just carries on rising.
Once he’s got my ring well and truly lubricated, he’s ready to take me to the next level. He slides a finger in, and keeps building the pressure, stretching that sphincter, spitting on it again, and then sliding in a second finger, to stretch me some more. He’s working so methodically, he’s obviously done this many times before, and I can only imagine that he’s intent on putting his cock in there.
Those fingers are in really deep now. I’m starting to think that it wouldn’t be a problem for me to take his cock, after all, as long as it wasn’t too huge. He’s got me perfectly prepared now. In the privacy of my bedroom – or his – this would be the most inviting prospect imaginable. But in a railway carriage? What’s going on?
The pressure from those fingers is intense, and it’s all I can do to stop myself yelling out loud. I lower my head and bite hard on a coat sleeve, sinking my teeth into the soft fabric, and clenching them tight.
Unable to keep silent any longer, I let out a muffled yelp of ecstatic delight, and I shift my gaze warily to my left, thinking that someone must surely have heard me. At the far end of the carriage, though, there are raised voices, and no one is looking this way. I think someone must have tried using a mobile phone in the “quiet” carriage, and that’s led to an argument. That’s good news, for me, just now, as it’s all I can do not to yell out loud.
Moments later, as I happen to glance to my right, I realise, to my outright horror, that just a few inches away from me, the staff-only door is open. Just inside is a man in dark navy uniform, peering out. He’s a small man, and although I’m wearing very high heels, I’m bending well forward, and so our eyes meet, on a level, directly.
Oh, holy fuck. If I didn’t have two stout male fingers stuffed full-length into my asshole, I would just shit myself, right here.
The man holds his gaze steady. I grip the seat-back I’m holding, even more tightly, as I sense that my legs could be about to give way completely. Perhaps my over-active imagination is misleading me, but he appears to be stifling the urge to burst into uncontrollable laughter.
I’ve no idea how long he’s been there, but it could be a while, as I didn’t hear the door open. Unlike the passenger door, this one makes no sound at all. I imagine that he heard the raised voices, further down the carriage, and thought he should take a look for himself.
I console myself with the realisation that he can’t actually have seen much. I’ve got a large coat on, and the man with his fingers inside my anus is almost completely hidden behind me. That said, the onlooker will have had time to put a picture together, and unlike me, he’s evidently seen some humour in the situation.
Once he’s sure of his composure, he smiles politely, and says, “I thought I’d just mention that my colleague will be commencing a full ticket inspection shortly. Please be sure to have all your travel documents available for examination”. Then, before he can let his sense of humour get the better of him, he steps back, and the door closes.
This is dreadful. Never before have I let a situation get away from me like this. My partner has slid his fingers out of my asshole, and he’s swung round into an ordinary sitting position, doing his level best to look as though none of this had anything to do with him.
What a bastard. I can’t believe he’d behave like that. Then again, I suppose I might have done the same, in his situation. After all, he didn’t ask me to shove my naked cunt into his face, while he was leafing through The Economist, and quietly minding his own business.
In the midst of all these thoughts, I realise that I’m dying for a piss. That was quite a large coffee that I had earlier, and now I’m going to need a toilet fast.
If I can get back to the sanctuary of that tiny cubicle, I can start to salvage something from my situation. As I said, it could have been worse. Dark Navy Uniform Man took it all very well, evidently seeing the funny side, and he didn’t give me any hassle.
As for my appearance, I can usually handle looking like a totally-trashed slut, with no problem at all, but not in circumstances like these. There’s still one disaster that could befall me, even now, and that would be to run into the impeccably-outfitted Dark Navy Uniform Woman, while I’m in this state. That must not happen.
Her colleague will be on his mobile phone, at this very moment, bringing her up-to-date on events in Coach ‘A’. That should give me just enough time to straighten my coat, grab my handbag, and dash to the toilet. I just have to hope that it’s not engaged, when I get there.
I sit down for a second, to reach for my handbag, which is on the seat by the window, and as I do so, the worst happens. I hear the familiar clunk of the door at the far end of the gangway. I don’t need to look, to know who has entered. A shrill voice carries easily down the length of the carriage.
“All tickets and passes please”.