Welcome Home

[Un****]

The plane journey had been long and tedious. Travelling these days was arduous and felt like such a waste of time. All the getting to somewhere and returning from somewhere else took far too long and Abi was now heartily sick of this next journey from Heathrow back to her South London apartment.
Not long now though. She’d returned from Italy, her three-week course now complete, tan topped up from snatched afternoons on the beach, and having done most of the return trip she was now at London Bridge awaiting the train to Greenwich.

Her one suitcase was at her feet. She looked around. Lots of ordinary people stood around her in turn, idly chatting, reading newspapers, or staring at the ‘Destinations’ board. A ***ager ate a burger, earphones firmly plugged in to stop the world from interfering. All very ‘London’, all very usual, all slightly dull. And no sun. At least Italy had had sunshine, and an attractive blonde in a bikini could enjoy the attention of cheery Italian men without necessarily getting too involved. She smiled.

In her jacket pocket, her mobile buzzed. Abi groaned inwardly. Hardly back and already the office was on her back. She reached in and read the message, “Are you on the train yet hun?”
She frowned. She checked the number and didn’t recognise it. It wasn’t one listed in her address book, but whoever it was obviously knew she was back. And “hun?” No-one called her that! She was single too, so that was a bit strange. She decided to bluff her reply, and wait for a clue further down the line. Literally, since her train had just arrived!

Hurriedly going through the barrier, she hopped into a carriage, sat down and sent back, “just on train now. How are you?” Non-commital, friendly, basic. Almost instantly the screen lit up with the response, “waiting darling.”

Abi frowned again. This wasn’t getting any better. No clues so far, and now she’d sent her reply she could hardly type “who are you?” without looking pretty silly. But, “waiting”. That made no sense. She wasn’t meeting anyone, had no plans and wasn’t even in the mood to make any! But it was intriguing! A thought! There were clues after all. “hun” and “darling”! A man then? Was it Peter, her ex? No, he’d just call, and anyway he called her ‘Abi’. That was partly why she’d left him. He was fine, decent, motivated, and had no imagination whatsoever, which sadly included the bedroom. So… not Peter.

In her hand the phone buzzed. She looked down. New message. “open your legs”. That was it. No pet name, no endearment, not even ‘please’, she thought wryly. No-one she knew would ever be so … so what? Rude? Basic? No, that wasn’t it. What was the word? ‘Demanding’ that was it. And vaguely dismissive. And obviously a wrong number.

She smiled again. Ah well, no mystery then. She could concentrate on getting home and relaxing in a hot bath.
Without realising it Abi had relaxed back into her seat, and she may well have been surprised – had anyone been around to point it out – to find that her legs had, admittedly only slightly, opened, allowing her now inappropriately thin bought-in-Italy skirt to d itself over her legs. The movement of the train made the material move gently up and down her stockings, millimetres only each time, but regularly, and continuously.

‘Buzz, buzz’. Abi glanced down again. She was about to press ‘delete’ when instead she found herself opening the text. She read, “wider”. That was all.

There is no such thing as coincidence, some say. And there is sometimes no easy explanation for why we follow a course of action when we do. A convergence of impulses? The right thing at the right time? Who knows. But what Abi knew, somewhere in the back of her head, somewhere behind conscious reasoning, that in that still, charged moment when she could have ignored the ridiculous text … she didn’t.

Without changing her position in any way, she slowly and deliberately allowed her legs to open. And she felt the material of her skirt move, and re-arrange itself in new folds, and she felt the new draught between her legs where the air had more freedom to swirl and caress. And she liked it.

She looked down at her phone. Without thinking too hard, she texted back a simple message, “yes”. Almost immediately, the response came back,”yes what?” Abi was confused. What should she reply? She had no name to use for this invisible ‘voice’ and to try one would inevitably give herself away.

The train stopped at Waterloo East. She looked out the window. This could be a busy station and she was suddenly very territorial about not wanting the seats opposite or next to her to be occupied. She moved her suitcase slightly more into the space around her. But no-one got on, and the train began to move. What should she type?
She felt a lazy flush as the idea simply arrived, and texted “yes please”, and waited.

At Greenwich station a dark haired man in his mid-forties, dressed in a dark blue Armani suit was leaning against the outside of the building, holding a mobile phone in his hand. Casually he watched the traffic, and allowed the anticipation of the coming evening to swirl teasingly around his brain, and his groin. His mobile trilled its distinctive alert, the opening bars from Tchaikovsky’s “1812” Overture, the screen lit up, and he opened the messages, read the text, and frowned. ‘Yes please’, he read. Slightly irritated he sent back ‘Sir’. The he relaxed. That little lapse would cost Rachel a caning, he decided. Excellent.
Her reply was quick in coming, and he read the corrected text with a grin.

On the train Abi was now reading the follow-up, “what are you wearing?” She duly replied in some detail informing ‘Yes please Sir’ that she was wearing a denim jacket, pale blue blouse, white skirt and, after a moments hesitation, black stockings. The train paused briefly at Deptford before moving on to her destination, the next stop.

He sent, “you are mine”.

He received “I would like that”

A train arrived at Greenwich station as he typed, “Call me Sir. I won’t tell you again.”

Abi was man-handling her case off the train, now very aware of the warmth and moistness between her legs. She was, she decided, very much looking forward to her hot bath. It would be a longer bath, she knew. And one she would enjoy immensely, suddenly wanting the feel of the vibe between her legs in the steaming water.

She went through the barrier, walking at a good pace through the small concourse, heading for the street and ultimately the small apartment near the Park, where she now desperately wanted to be alone. She read his last message, stopped briefly to type “make me”, and stepped into the street.

A man was leaning against the wall. As she moved past him, his mobile suddenly went off. Unusual sound, she thought distractedly. Something classical.

He read “make me” as a part of his brain registered the attractive blonde in white skirt and denim jacket moving purposefully past him, pulling a suitcase behind her.
His phone spoke again. He read,” where are you Sir?” from Rachel’s mobile number, and moving away from the station he walked confidently after the blonde. He smiled. The evening, he had decided, was going to take a very different turn. He switched his phone off.

On the station platform behind both he and Abi, who were striding into the distance, a small dark-haired woman called Rachel stood, and wondered where her Dom had gone.

Abi was about to be welcomed home. Definitively.

[Mo****]

An interesting story, and one that I will be following.