They arrange to meet outside Euston Station at eight-thirty.
He arrives first, taking up a vantage point to the side of the main entrance, watching from the half-shadows as the last of the day’s commuters criss-cross his view. The sodium street lights are on, tinting the world about him reassuringly. The roar of traffic on Euston Road is constant.
It’s another five minutes before her taxi pulls up. She swings her coltish legs elegantly out of the car, and then waits for the driver to retrieve her wheeled case from the Mercedes’ boot before handing him a purple note. She doesn’t wait for change: she turns away immediately, scanning the station’s facade.
The ghost of a smile plays over her mouth when she spies him.
They stroll onto the concourse together, a few discreet feet between them. He carries a dark brown leather holdall in his right hand, big enough for two changes of clothes and his faithful, battered wash bag. She draws her case behind her, its wheels rumbling and clicking across the grey-green tiles. It makes him think of the journey that’s ahead.
The orange glow of the digital departures board tells them that the Caledonian Sleeper is scheduled to leave from platform one. Boarding is permitted from now until the train departs at nine-fifteen.
“Coffee?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “Wine.”
He turns right, leading the way to the bar situated at the eastern end of the station. It’s bland but clean, with the added virtue of only having a few other customers. He leaves her to select a table for them while he goes to the bar and orders her a glass of chilled rosé and a double Laphroaig for himself. When he turns back, she’s picked a tall table against the back wall. She’s already sitting poised on one of the two stools. He places her glass down in front of her and raises his own as he hoists himself onto his seat.
“Sláinte,” he says.
She raises an eyebrow questioningly.
“It’s Gaelic for ‘health’.”
“I know that. I just wondered where it came from.”
He sips some of his whisky. “It seemed appropriate, given our destination.”
“In that case…” She tips her own glass towards him. “Sláinte.”
They drink in silence, regarding their fellow drinkers, the few people passing by outside. At a little before nine, he checks his watch, swallows the last of his whisky and gets up.
Platform one is the closest platform to the bar. The Caledonian Sleeper’s royal blue livery gleams brilliantly beneath the off-white light cast by the line of domes dangling over the platform from the flat, latticed roof.
They walk together along the strip of grey concrete, the off-white pillars on their right separating them from the brick wall that defines the station’s eastern boundary. The deep hum of the electric locomotive at idle is barely perceptible above the noise filling the rest of the station.
They find their carriage and step on board. A cheery, middle-aged woman named Kate introduces herself as their sleeper host and shows them to their berth. The compartment is as narrow as he’d been warned. Kate shows them how to find their sink, pull up their blind and latch the door. She also points out the emergency hammer for smashing the window in the event of disaster. Then she steps back out into the corridor and points them in the direction of the lounge car before going about her duties.
They stand face to face in the tight compartment. She shrugs.
“I’ve had worse.”
She nods. “I’ll tell you about it some time.” She steps past him and goes out into the corridor; she looks back over her shoulder. “And I’m off to find the ladies’.”
“I think you’ll find the toilets are all unisex.”
“You know, they don’t appreciate passengers using the toilets whilst in the train is in the station.”
“Too bad,” she says, disappearing with a flounce.
He turns to the rectangular window and raises the blind. The track at platform two is empty, but the stationary train at three blocks his view of the remainder of the station. It’s still better than the blankness of the end wall they’d walked along. He wishes he’d had another scotch, and wonders what time the onboard bar starts serving.
He surveys their room. ‘Compact but cosy’ the guide had said. Bunk beds that take up one wall; both are over six feet long and a couple of feet wide. The white duvets and pillows look clean and fluffy. He tests both mattresses, even though he will offer her the choice of bunks. He tosses his holdall onto the upper bed, just to clear some floor space.
He steps out into the corridor. It is just about wide enough for an average adult. Claustrophobia caresses the back of his neck with cold, oily fingers. He shudders, and then makes his way towards the lounge car.
She’s sitting in one of the leather sofas, flicking though that day’s copy of The Guardian. She looks up and smiles at him. “I took the liberty of ordering you another Scotch.”
“Prescient of you.”
“I thought so.”
He sits beside her, facing the window overlooking platform two. They drink in silence, no use for words right now, just waiting.
At exactly 9.15pm, the carriage jerks slightly, and the station begins its slow slide past their window. In less than a minute, they are clear of the light cast from the low-hanging roof and heading north into the sparsely lit blackness, aimed at a diminutive enclave of humanity in the midst of the Highlands, five hundred miles away.
In a little while, she drains the last of her wine and stands up.
“Give me a few minutes,” she says to him, before she strides back towards their berth, her behind sashaying with practiced seductiveness. A few of the other men in the lounge car watch her departure longingly, and then briefly regard him with ill-disguised envy.
Unperturbed, he sips his whisky, watching through his reflection as the nocturnal world slips by with increasing alacrity, wondering idly about the myriad lives he will pass by this evening, unseen, nothing more to them than a brief rumble of metal and machinery in the night.
He shrugs, and swallows the remainder of his drink to banish the melancholy from his soul. He offers one of his envious companions a wry smile and then he gets up and follows in his lover’s footsteps.
He stops outside their berth and knocks softly on the heavy door.
“A moment,” she says in a soft voice.
He hears the latch unfasten, but he still waits for her voice to beckon him forth.
He pushes the door open and stops, frozen in place by what he sees is waiting for him. She smiles wantonly at the reaction she has garnered. He regains himself, quickly steps inside the room, and closes and latches the door.
She has switched on the night-lights, and the whole of the compartment is bathed in soft azure. She sits nude upon the tabletop, her back to the rectangle of glass that is their only reminder of the rest of the world. The blue light gives her skin an otherworldly glow; it makes the freckles and moles – the tiny imperfections that make her perfect – stand out starkly against the lightness of her tan. Her slender thighs are splayed wide, and his eye is drawn to the finger-wide strip of tight curls that adorns her mound, that points to the glistening succulence of her luxuriant sex.
She licks her lips as she watches his scrutiny, as she waits for him to act.
He looks back at her face, says nothing. He recalls what she had written in her last message:
Honestly, right now, I want to fuck in the most frantic, urgent way possible. No niceties, urgent animal coupling. The second go round could be more refined, more…thoughtful. But first, I need to let the animal out, let it howl.
He starts to undress. When he goes to her, he is naked and hard.
Their first kiss is intense, volcanic. It is as though she wants to devour him, starting at the mouth. He recalls her confession of a taste for masturbatory edging … holding herself on the verge of orgasm for an hour or longer, perpetual teasing, constantly resisting the easy plunge into pleasure, and finally coming in a veritable explosion. Yet despite the huge orgasms the technique delivered, she was left longing for the touch of a man.
She seems committed to wasting no more time making up for her longing.
Her tongue dances around his as she slides her palms down the outside of his arms, takes his hands in hers and delivers them to her breasts. I want hands on my sweet curves, her letter had told him. I crave the feeling of my skin being stroked, my nerves firing while I stretch and purr like a cat. Her skin is warm, exquisitely soft and yielding. He can feel the drumming of her heart behind her ribs. Her nipples are diamond hard against the centres of his grasp; he yearns to take them in his mouth, to draw his lips along their marbled tautness, to paint them with his slavish tongue. Her mouth will not release him, though, and as if to enforce the point, she wraps her arms about his shoulders, pulling him against her with a strength that belies her willowy frame.
In the close confines of the gently rocking berth, the warm, floral note of her perfume – Tom Ford’s Neroli Portofino, her scent of choice for occasions of lust – mingles perfectly with the musk of her blossoming cunt, creating an utterly beguiling bouquet.
His heart is racing now, propelled by the voracious softness of her mouth, the heaving tautness of her breasts. He tries to get closer to her, greedy to fold her about him, to envelop himself in her effortless femininity.
Inevitably, the smoothness of his glans finds the heat of her cunt, presses insistently against her.
“Oh, fuck!” she gasps into his mouth. “I thought I could wait, but I can’t. I’ve got to have you inside me!” She reaches down for him, grasps his shaft in her elegant fingers, guides his cockhead between her slick folds. “Oh, fuck me! Fuck me now!”
He does not wait, does not have the capacity to hold himself back. He thrusts into the heart of her, gasping as she sheathes him in tight, oiled silk. He enters straight to the hilt, his tongue piercing her mouth as his tumescence fills her. Her lips slip from his as she cries out, and she buries her face in his shoulder, her even white teeth sinking into his flesh to still the sound of her pleasure.
Unbidden, her legs rise so that she can bind him to her, inside her, with her thighs. He slips one hand beneath her mane of untamed curls and grasps her slender neck, drawing her mouth back to his. Their tongues collide in a fevered swirl of mounting excitement as he thrusts in and out of her, drawing back until only the tip of his hard flesh is within the petals of her sex, driving forth until his laden balls rest against the cheeks of her arse. He breaks their kiss, draws the fingers of one of her hands to his mouth and licks their tips, then presses them down until they lie over her clitoris. Released, she caresses herself willingly, greedily, her movements quickly losing all semblances of grace and restraint, her fingers becoming a blur against herself as they propel her flesh towards climax.
When she orgasms, she bites his shoulder again in a futile effort to quieten herself. Fire blooms painfully beneath the points of her teeth, and when she kisses him a few seconds later, he tastes the copper of his lifeblood on her lips.
“Vampire,” he whispers against the side of her throat.
She chuckles, then sinks her nails into the tops of his buttocks and pulls his pubis hard against her.
She pushes him back.
He stands before her, waiting, his thick cock glistening, pawing the air. She turns around, lowers herself so that she can see out of the window, so that her arse is raised invitingly.
There is no need for words. The invitation is lit in blue neon.
He steps back to her, rests one palm on the small of her back atop the swirls of the tattoo that glistens with perspiration, and feeds himself back into the fiery slickness of her sex. His length embedded, he grasps her about her narrow waist, just above the curve of her hips; his powerful hands control her, pulling her back to meet each of his thrusts so that no part of her is left untouched by his passage.
“Oh fuck!” she cries, seemingly beyond considerations of volume. “Oh fuck, just like that! Just like that!” She presses both palms against the window, her weight on her elbows, and stares out into the passing blackness, mouthing her pleasure to whoever might care to look her way.
“I want you to remember this,” he says throatily. “I want your sides to tingle whenever you remember me holding you, squeezing you, controlling you, riding you. I want you to be able to close your eyes in the queue at the supermarket and hear your fevered gasps melding with my guttural groans. I want you to get wet at the dinner table at the memory of me driving deeply into you, the sensation of my hard thighs against the backs of yours, the slap of my balls slap against your cunt.”
“Oh yes! Oh fuck yes!”
He drives into her harder, faster, granting them both the animalistic coupling she has been craving for so long. With each thrust, her hands slip a little further down the cool glass, her abandon made manifest across the window. He wonders excitedly if there is anyone out there looking at them. He imagines faces turning to regard the rush of the train, freezing, awed by the fleeting sight of a woman’s naked surrender, the hint of a Dominar thrusting vigorously behind her, the mirage being whipped from sight almost before the voyeur can truly comprehend what they have seen.
The prospect of their exhibitionism excites him wickedly, carrying him past the point of no return.
“I want to come inside you,” he groans.
“Yes! Oh my fucking God yes, let me feel you spurt inside me!” And to prove the veracity of her words, she reaches behind herself, grasps for his hands, clutching at his flesh so she might pull him into her.
He erupts, and as he does, he entwines one hand in her luxuriant curls, pulls her back so that she arches into him and sinks his teeth into the collar of flesh to the side of her neck.
She comes screaming, her cunt quivering and convulsing about his pulsing cock.
They break apart, his sodden cock falling wetly against his thigh. She turns and kisses him with almost as much fervour as the first. Then she makes for the narrow ladder leading up to the top bunk. She smiles benevolently at his questioning look.
“I want to be seen again,” she says simply.