INBOUND!
by
Copyright©
2012, Michael
J. Prescott
Published by Living Books USA
Cover design by author
Smashwords Edition
NOTE: This work
contains language or graphic images not suitable for persons under
the age of eighteen (18) or those of a sensitive
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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author or publisher.
This book is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons whether living or deceased, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
* * *
INBOUND!
Author’s note: caveat emptor. This story was written specifically for a British readership. Americans and other aliens may be confused by some of language and terminology. But don’t let that worry you. After all, you’re only here for the sex, right? And we all understand that, whatever language it comes in.
* * *
The 9:05 Intercity 125 bound for Manchester pulled out of Victoria Station away with barely a sensation of movement. That’s why I like the Intercity; it’s a beautiful smooth ride. I always travel first class with British Rail. It’s one of the perks of being a college professor.
Although I’m based at King’s College, I sometimes travel to Manchester to give a few lectures on genomic repression, my field of study. I was going up to UMIST for a few days to impart my knowledge to some eager young post graduates, hoping to earn their PhDs in a few years’ time.
First Class is rarely used these days as ticket prices have soared in recent years. This morning however, there were quite a few passengers and, in typical form, sat as far away from each other as possible.
Judging by the look of them, I’d say that most were probably doing the same as me. Their tweed suits and hats were a dead giveaway and they screamed ‘old school’ college professors. Probably Oxbridge.
We had just cleared the station’s massive canopy when a young woman ambled in and took the seat diagonally opposite me. In a carriage filled almost entirely with men, she stuck out like a sore thumb.
I had brought my Kindle along, intending to catch up on some reading during the two-hour trip. I had also stopped at the Starbucks in the station and picked up a latte. While the Intercity may be a smooth ride, their coffee was rough as hell.
I occasionally glanced over to where the woman was sitting as she was directly in my line of view whenever I looked up. A few times when she had caught me looking at her, she had given me a slight smile.
I couldn’t quite figure her out and I’m usually pretty good at determining from whence people hail, simply from their dress and their mannerisms. I put her in her early thirties, smartly dressed in a short brown skirt, a neat white blouse with the top two buttons open, and long legs clad in charcoal stockings – probably with a suspender belt - that were thrust into a pair of black high-heels. A light-blue casual jacket lay on the seat beside her. I doubted any of them had been purchased at Marks and Sparks.
Very smart.
Her shoulder length, light brown hair hung in large whorls around her face and she had chosen a deep red lipstick to accentuate her features. I was a little too far away, but it looked as if she had brown eyes. Could have been hazel, though.
As we thundered along with the landscape blurring past the windows, my attention was broken by an unmistakable sound; a sound that any man recognizes instantly.
It was the sound a woman’s stockings made when she crossed her legs. Stocking have a distinctive whisper to them.
Without moving my head, I swivelled my eyes and looked at my female companion. Unlike most single passengers, who sit beside the window, she had chosen to sit near the aisle, which was a bit peculiar, though she appeared to be quite comfortable.
She was reading a copy of The Independent, which she occasionally put down to make notes in a small white notepad. She had her left leg over her right leg, with her foot protruding into the aisle, gently moving it up and down as if keeping with the rhythm of a song.
At this angle, it also meant I had a very nice view along her left thigh, which was long and slim.
I don’t know why it bothered me, but while I was looking at her, she suddenly raised her eyes and looked directly at me. I smiled with my mouth only, and before I could avert my eyes, she uncrossed her leg and let it fall to the side, giving me an unprecedented view right up her skirt. She must have known I was watching her!
All men, when a woman crosses her legs this way, are hopeful for a quick flash of white panties before she crosses her legs again. I don’t know what it is we hope it will do for us, but we live in hope anyway. It is probably just the titillation of wondering what is at the top of her legs and how much we’d like to—
Good grief!
I couldn’t believe my eyes. The woman was still looking at me, with me staring up her skirt, and what I saw almost made me choke on my coffee.
Being a normal man, I was of course hoping for a glimpse of the aforementioned flash of white panties when she briefly opened her legs. What I saw in fact was not the revered white flash, but a dark triangle, with the skin of her thighs clearly visible on either side of it.
To my astonishment, I realized that she was not wearing any panties. Not only this, but she was clearly aware that I was looking directly up her skirt and yet made no attempt to obscure the view.
Instead, she placed a hand on her knee, slid it around to the inside of her leg and gently pulled up her skirt in order to give me an even better view. Now I could see it clearly. I was looking directly at an unadulterated, fully matured, female’s vagina! And she still had her eyes fixed on me.