Bad Penny (31 page)

My awareness of him was definite, although it came from nothing obvious. The light patterns must have changed, and perhaps his breathing was audible, but he was certainly there. If I hadn't been so drunk, I'd have jumped up immediately. With my reactions following so far behind my mental speed, I didn't, but stayed slumped on the seat. If I appeared calm, then inside I was in utter turmoil. Someone, a stranger but probably the railway guard, had lifted my dress to look at my legs and panties. He'd seen me playing with myself and, when he found me asleep, he hadn't been able to resist molesting me.

I fought down the very real urge to sit up and scream at him to get lost. My earliest fantasy had been about men being unable to control their lust for me, and this one clearly couldn't. He'd risked his job, maybe even his freedom, just for a look at my panties. Possibly he was just too thick to consider the consequences of his actions, but I quite like the idea of men as brainless hulks driven only by lust. Whatever the case, I found his attention both frightening and thrilling and stayed put, hoping that he'd take his exploration of my body further.

We stayed still for a long time, he presumably wondering if he dared interfere with me, me hoping that he would do exactly that. Eventually it was me who decided to do something, and I gave a sleepy moan and moved a little further down the seat, hoping to improve his view. Nothing happened for a moment and then I felt a touch on my dress, somehow guilty and uncertain as he lifted it as high as it would go. He had bared my tummy and the whole front of my panties. My legs were open and I knew my panties would be wet, which he'd be able to see.

I gave another little moan and let my left leg move, giving him a full view of my panty crotch. He moved back, evidently thinking I might wake. I could hear his breathing clearly now, hoarse, low and full of passion. Once more he approached, and I felt his hand on a breast, gentle and cautious, then firmer as his confidence built. I moaned for real as his fingers brushed my nipple through my dress. He stopped, then went on when I didn't appear to wake.

He treated himself to a really good feel of m y boobs, one hand on each, stroking and fondling until my nipples were rock hard. I could feel the lace of my bra cups against my skin, further exciting me as he explored. Then one hand, his right, lifted and I heard the faint sound of a zip being pulled down. He was going to fuck me, or at least wank over my panties. I sighed and stretched, arching my back in pleasure. He didn't stop, evidently having decided that I was in a drunken stupor. He squeezed my breasts, one after the other, then took his hand away.

I could hear a slapping noise, fleshy and somehow really dirty as I knew it was made by his cock slapping against his hand as he jerked himself to full erection. The noise stopped, and then my panties were being pulled aside to expose my pussy. He was going to fuck me, and he thought I was asleep.

His body pressed down between my thighs, spreading them. His cock touched my pussy, bumping against my clit twice before finding my vagina. It slid into me really easily, the sensation of entry making me groan aloud. I didn't care if he knew I was awake any more, and he obviously didn't either, as he took hold of my legs as he began to fuck me.

The position must have been uncomfortable for him, as he was soon panting and grunting as he moved in and out with little, hard thrusts. I lay back and let him use me, sighing and moaning but with my eyes still closed. His arms were locked around my thighs and most of his body weight was resting on my hips, creating a wonderful pressure as he rode me.

He pulled out suddenly, only to wrench my panties up around my thighs, roll my legs up and enter me again. The manoeuvre pulled me forward a bit, so that his balls banged against the tuck of my bottom each time he pushed into me. I put my hands to my tits and began to feel, abandoning my pretence of sleep completely.

‘You dirty bitch,' he growled, which seemed a bit unfair, as he'd mounted me without so much as a by-your-leave.

Seeing that I was awake, he pulled out again and took me by the thighs, twisting to indicate that I should turn over. I obliged, kneeling half on the seat and presenting him with my bottom. He got back up me without preamble, leaning over to take a tit in each hand. It was like he was fucking a doll, moving me for his best access, first rolled up, and now into doggy position. His weight was pressing me down into the seat, and only the tip of his cock was in me, but he didn't seem to care. He began to grunt and I knew he was going to come, only for his cock to slip out at the last instant. It bumped against my clit, then shot back up my pussy, making me gasp. He grunted, slamming hard into me, only for his cock to slip out again and slide up between my bottom-cheeks. He was coming. I could feel the wet sperm between my bum-cheeks. He rubbed his cock in it, right against my bumhole, his balls banging my empty pussy, his come squelching and oozing up between my buttocks and dripping into my panties.

And he just left me like that, kneeling on the seat with my bottom covered in spunk. I didn't care, I just wanted to come myself. I put my hand back between my legs and started to rub my clit. Only when I was on the edge of orgasm did I realise the reason for his haste. Lights were slipping by outside, then an area of sidings as I started to come. I closed my eyes and screamed out my pleasure, letting my orgasm break like a wave in my head and then quickly turning to sit my soggy bottom down on the seat.

I rearranged my dress as we drew into the station, painfully aware that my panties were still down and that I was sitting in a pool of my own juice and the guard's sperm. I was panting too, partly from my orgasm and partly from the effort of supporting most of his weight while he fucked me. The train stopped and I heard someone open a door further down my carriage. I struggled to control my breathing as a cheerful looking middle-aged woman appeared in the isle. She smiled at me and I smiled back, sure that she couldn't fail to detect the rich scent of sex.

She didn't notice, but asked politely if she could sit opposite me. I could hardly refuse, although what I really wanted to do was tidy myself up a bit and then try and sleep for the rest of the journey. Instead I had to listen politely to her chattering and hope she would get off. She didn't, and when we reached the suburbs of Birmingham I was still in the same awkward and uncomfortable state. Only then did the guard appear to check her ticket. I was thoroughly fed up, and also in two minds about the guard's behaviour. He hadn't forced me at all. and I was fairly sure that he'd have made a hasty retreat if I'd shown the least resistance. On the other hand, the only words he had spoken to me had been to call me a dirty bitch; and he had taken advantage of me. As he took her ticket he gave me a knowing leer, and that was what decided me.

‘Excuse me,' I addressed the woman as I stood up and fumbled under my dress for my panties, ‘but I just need to adjust myself. This gentleman raped me earlier, you see, and he left me in a bit of a mess.'

18

Black Mischief

I had lunched at the Student's Union, on the grounds that it was cheap and filling. It was also convenient for the labs and, as I was buried in a particularly exacting experiment, I had no wish to waste time walking to the staff refectory. As I was leaving, my mind was intent on my work, yet one of the posters drew my attention. It was a drawing, exquisitely executed and very elaborate in silver ink on black. I paused, impressed by the skill of the artist but taken aback by the subject. It was basically a goat's skull, complete with horns and set about with cabbalistic symbols and faintly Saxon scrollwork. Only when I had finished admiring the picture did I read the poster, which turned out to advertise a black-magic group that some students had formed. It was called ‘the Coven of the Silver Moon', and purported to be for women only and to involve moon worship.

I turned away, feeling both amused and slightly irritated. I was amused because of the very absurdity of such beliefs, and annoyed because I always liked to hope that anybody with the intelligence to get into university out ought to be at least reasonably rational. Still, I reflected as I left the building, it was no more absurd than many other religious or quasi-religious groups.

That would have been that, had it not been for one of my female students, a rather graceful girl called Ella, turning up to a tutorial in the most outrageous outfit I had seen in some time. It wasn't complicated, consisting of a black cape with a lining of purple silk and high-heeled black boots. What was outrageous was that that appeared to be all she had on; when she walked in, her legs were bare to the thigh and I got a glimpse of bare tummy as well. A brief flash of a small, naked breast as she sat down confirmed my impression.

Being fairly used to students being deliberately outrageous in an attempt to shock their elders, I took little notice, and was surprised when she apologised and explained that she was going straight on to something else afterwards.

‘What?' I queried, fascinated to know what sort of event required such dress at eleven o'clock in the morning.

‘A ritual of the noon solstice,' she explained. ‘It's out on the moors and there won't be time to change.'

‘Oh, right,' I answered, remembering the poster. ‘That wouldn't be anything to do with the Coven of the Silver Moon, would it?'

‘That's us,' she replied cheerfully, as if admitting to membership of the debating society.

‘I thought you were moon worshippers?' I queried.

‘Well, yeah,' she explained, ‘but we've got this guy coming up from London to do the ritual. He's really into it. He's even supposed to be able to do summonings.'

‘Summonings?' I queried incredulously.

‘Yes, the possession of his body by a spirit,' she answered. ‘It's incredible.'

‘Incredible is the word,' I replied, despairing of her gullibility. The man was obviously a fraud, and presumably got his kicks out of the adoration of credulous pagans. Possibly out of their bodies, too, I considered, glancing at my companion's outfit. She was actually one of my brighter students, which made her bizarre beliefs even more extraordinary.

I saw her the next day in the department and asked how the ritual had gone. She explained enthusiastically, describing how the man, who described himself as an Archmage, had led them in ritual dance, summoned summer spirits to him and implored them to grant a fine summer that would be beneficial to all nature.

I pointed out that different types of summer weather would in fact favour different aspects of nature, which perplexed her somewhat, although she assured me that the Archmage would have been able to explain the anomaly. He was still in the city, and she suggested I visit that evening, certain that a meeting with him would dissolve my scepticism. I agreed, keen to take a break from work and certain that he would be unable to match me in an argument.

His arguments failed to impress me so, in a sense, I was right. On the other hand, he had a glib retort for every one of my objections. My strongest point was that he was completely unable to produce any visible effect, let alone a tangible one. Unfortunately, I had to concede that my own work involved investigating things that nobody had ever actually seen as such. The fact that I was able to demonstrate the existence of an amino acid to my own satisfaction was countered by his assertion that he could demonstrate the existence of a spirit to his.

By the time I went home I was thoroughly worked up, my sole consolation being that he had been as well. I was quite pleased with myself, though, as I had held my ground as the sole sceptic in a large group of believers. I had also noted that there was a good deal of eroticism in their imagery and rituals, and was beginning to wonder if the whole thing didn't serve as a pretext for sexual behaviour that they might not otherwise have felt happy about.

That really set me thinking and, the more I thought about it, the more opportunity there seemed to be for mischief. It's not that I have anything against people with strong beliefs in things I consider obvious nonsense, but I do find it quite impossible to take them seriously. The ritual that they had been discussing, and which the Archmage claimed to have done, was one called the Summoning of the Egregore of Lilith. As far as I could remember, Lilith was an Assyrian demoness with some fairly nasty habits, yet they considered her to represent the essence of female human sexuality. The ritual involved the invocation of her egregore into the body of the priestess. Once possessed, the priestess would indulge herself with her fellow coven members.

The ritual also involved large numbers of black candles and lots of other paraphernalia. These included whips and, to me, the whole thing looked like an excuse for some juicy sadomasochistic sex. The priestess could get high on the heavy red wine and bizarre incenses that the ritual required, then have a great time taking out her darkest fantasies on the others. Afterwards, she wouldn't have to feel guilty about making another girl lick her bottom, or whatever, because it hadn't really been her doing it, but Lilith. Nor would the others have to feel guilty, because an essential part of the ritual was submission to the will of Lilith; so, if the priestess sat on a girl's face, then she had to lick, didn't she?

I didn't believe a word of it, but the idea of being ravished on the floor by a sex-crazed priestess really appealed to me. The priestess of the Coven of the Silver Moon was a girl called Poppaea, who affected green hair and make-up and was even smaller and more lightly built than me. Ella had told me that Poppaea was a third-level initiate, which meant nothing to me but seemed to impress the others, even the Archmage. Highly initiated she might be but, compared with the women who've dominated me sexually, she really wasn't in it. Certainly she was no Amber Oakley, and I suspected that the only reason they hadn't tried the ritual was that Poppaea wasn't really cut out for it.