1. Tunnels, Tracks, and Trains


    Date: 2/21/2016, Categories: Hardcore, Author: Alexandra_A, Rating: , Source: LushStories

    scattered the flow's final atoms. The cock, now soft and comically harmless, slipped once again between the carbon lips. As in some pornographic magic trick, it entered with the foreskin peeled back and exited with the helmet sheathed. Grinning stupidly amid the glistening devastation his spurting urine had wrought, the man stooped to pull up his pants and trousers from around his ankles. Somehow, they had escaped a soaking, were merely minutely soiled by sporadic splashes. Opposite me and to my right, a tired though sultry voice rasped in disappointment from behind a black, wide-brimmed hat. 'Surely, that's not all you've got? I expected so much more from you.' The man appeared not to hear, slid back into his seat next to the voice's owner and folded his arms protectively across his chest. Silent seconds ticked away. Beyond the windows, English countryside turned into English towns, from green to grey, then back again. Distant hazy spires floated by. Factories and smoke. Hills and vales. We must have left the tunnel's stygian confines an age ago, yet the startling transition had somehow evaded me. I realised I had no idea where we were. The punk shakily got to her feet, pulled the pissy dress over her head and - naked but for her startling footwear and tiny thong - proceeded to mop the floor with it, sweeping it across the Lino with a purple-booted foot. Her body was perfectly proportioned, petite but shapely, and I wondered at the sway of her firm young tits, recalling a ...
    time when mine had defied gravity with equal aplomb. The dark red thong had all but vanished up her arse, while her pussy was making a meal of the narrow triangle of material that had once covered it; as she moved, the chewing lips were disgustingly beautiful. When she was satisfied with the floor, she kicked the sopping dress under a seat and returned to her place at my left by the window. From a battered navy duffle bag, she produced a long, black bin-liner of a T shirt that she carelessly slipped over her head. The seat welcomed her now shiny arse with a fart-like rasp. She turned to me, unexpected concern filling her eyes to overflowing. 'You okay?' 'Yes, thank you. Why wouldn't I be?' 'Because you remind me of my mother... so refined; regal, almost.' She lowered her eyes. 'She'd have had a heart attack witnessing...' Smiling wryly, I shook my head. 'I can assure you, young lady, I've seen worse things in my life,' I leaned close and spoke conspiratorially, 'and done worse things too - stuff that would make your hair curl.' I glanced briefly at her velvet head and shrugged, 'Well, you know what I mean.' 'Yes, but...' 'People are people, dear. Clothes, money, an accent, are easily acquired and stand for little. Don't judge.' A cracked though cultured voice butted in. 'Judge? I was a judge!' Years of adversarial experience kept my thoughts on track and I remained focussed on the young woman's bright blue eyes. Surprisingly inquisitive and trusting eyes. 'I try not to. Judge, ...
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