Have you ever fucked anyone on a train? I have, and it was a night I’ll never forget.
I’d been visiting friends in Southern Spain, and was headed back to the UK. My finances at the time didn’t cover a plane ticket, and time not being an issue I’d decided that rail travel would be the next best option. My journey down had been uneventful – enjoyable even, since I’d randomly met some great people on the train – and after a couple of weeks of sunning myself in Seville it was time to return home.
My friends saw me off, and with a reciprocal wave and wide smile I turned and went to find my carriage. Like a French ‘couchette’, this was an old-fashioned carriage with long seats during the day that converted into four bunks at night. Thankfully my compartment seemed empty – all mine, at least for now. I couldn’t believe my luck.
And then I realised the air-con didn’t work. Or rather, it probably never had: it looked more like a dodgy fan system than anything, and now even the dodgy fan system was no more. I opened the window as far as possible and sat back on the seat: there, better. I had a slight breeze blowing on my skin, and the sun behind me. I put on my headphones and drifted away to the motion of the train: I’d found living Spanish hours inspiring but tiring, and a little shut-eye could only do me good.
I was woken from my reverie by the carriage door slamming. We’d clearly arrived at Cordoba without me even realising the train had stopped. Still slightly groggy, I was startled to see an apologetic-looking guy taking the seat opposite.
“Cansada?” he asked “Lo siento.”
I knew enough Spanish to understand but not enough to respond: “Yes, I was sleeping. It’s fine.”
“Ah, you are English?” he brightened.
“Scottish, actually, but I won’t hold it against you” I smiled.
Sebastian was younger than me, Spanish, easy-going, intelligent, and fortunately for me, great company. We clearly hit it off because the hours flew by as we chatted, and then all of a sudden it was evening.
The train stopped again and took on more passengers. As it moved off and no-one approached our carriage I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Despite the cooler night air, just from the heat radiating from Sebastian and I it was getting hot in our compartment, and I wasn’t sure how we’d manage with any more people crammed in to our little sweatbox.
A moment later a shadow fell across us and the door opened to reveal an attractive but rather harassed-looking man, swearing in Italian. Sebastian got up to help carry in his collection of bags and suitcases, and once he’d arranged himself and sat down our new roommate visibly relaxed, exhaled exaggeratedly, and shot us a beaming smile. He had absolutely astounding teeth, and they gleamed against his dark skin.
“Mario”, he said by way of greeting, leaning over to shake our hands.
We introduced ourselves, and he apologised for the swearing. He’d been up and down most of the train with all that – effing – luggage, being bounced from pillar to post, because some – unmentionable – conductor had sent him on a wild goose chase for his – cover your ears – carriage. But thank – shh! – he was here now, so how would we like a drink to celebrate?
In my rusty schoolgirl Italian I answered I’d love some, and Mario seemed delighted by my response. Handing over a couple of beers – still cold! – his grin grew even wider as Sebastian pulled out a big bottle of wine. Not to be outdone I dug into my bag for some Cava. Having been caught out with nothing to share with my fellow passengers on my journey down to Spain, this time I’d bought a couple of bottles wrapped wine coolers for the trip home, and it was still drinking temperature. I’d even bought plastic cups – the boys were impressed!
Needless to say the next couple of hours passed in a blur and neither myself, Sebastian nor Mario were ready for bed when the conductor came back past to set the bunks up. We decided to put up the extra bed ourselves when the time came, and Sebastian being the only Spaniard was talked through how to do it. Meanwhile, as the heat became increasingly intense we joked that since we had to keep our liquid levels up somehow, we may as well continue drinking. I was having fun! And I’m not ashamed to admit, some of my enjoyment was due to the attention of being the only woman among two rather good-looking men.
“This is what holidays are all about”, I drunkenly toasted: “To sun, sea and sex!”
“It is night, we are in countryside, and we are not doing dirty like she says Christina Aguilera” Sebastian pointed out.
I was so happily sozzled, I couldn’t help myself: “That’s my favourite karaoke song!” I exclaimed, and jumping up I started singing and gyrating provocatively. I may not have been wearing Christina’s chaps, but from the expression on the guys’ faces I could see that my flimsy summer dress was having the desired effect. They joined in with full voice at every ‘dirty’, and meeting me alternately on the narrow floor and benches had a go at Christina’s dance moves. It was hilarious seeing the glee on their faces as we all tried to dance like pop stars around the tiny train compartment, and their attempts at stimulating sex on each other had me in absolute stitches. If I wasn’t already on my way back to Scotland, then this would certainly be something to write home about.
I don’t know who started it, but suddenly I noticed Mario was doing a stripping routine as he sang, and looking over at Sebastian I saw he was already down to his pants – and they seemed to be sliding southward too! Well, what the hell: I drew my dress over my head and waved it lasso-style in the air. Finally I was cooler, and with my bra off too, well, that would feel even better, I was sure.
Stripped down to my knickers I wriggled and jiggled with joy, and it was no time before I had Sebastian dancing on one side of me and Mario on the other. I laughed in delight. This was going even more swimmingly than I could have hoped.
With a bare arm around each man I was in heaven – especially when as if by some secret signal they both dipped down to suckle my breasts in stereo. This may not have been entirely expected, but that’s not to say it wasn’t welcome: I’d had fantasises about this kind of thing, but never in my wildest dreams had I thought it would be so easy to engineer – or feel so natural. It was neither awkward nor intimidating, and I genuinely couldn’t believe my luck: I couldn’t have imagined my threesome any better. And to think the real fun hadn’t even begun…
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Fresh from the inspirational, stimulating and exceedingly welcoming weekend that was Eroticon 2013 (let’s learn to writesexright,
write rite right?!), I thought it would be fun to share the scripts some of us wrote in the final Creative Writing session of the conference.
Experienced and encouraging author K D Grace set us the exercise of beginning a narrative in medias res – from the midpoint of the story. She suggested we write for ten minutes, starting slap-bang in the middle of the action: no preamble, no introduction, no easing the reader in gently.
I found this a fascinating challenge time-wise, as I soon realised that with my method of writing, using pen and paper extremely was tricky because I was constantly editing and revising what I’d just written. Instead, I had to move onto Notes on my iPhone so that I could move sections of text around and delete and amend as necessary. This had the result of a rather short and embarrassingly clichéd paragraph of text: I don’t really go for the ripped, athletic type, but nonetheless my female character was mesmerised by her man’s unusual physical prowess. Please don’t hold it against me…
Emily studied Nick as he stood there, feet planted firmly on the ground and parted slightly to accommodate his burgeoning desire. She let her gaze travel upward, tracing over the rough terrain of his finely defined abdominals, up to the broad plains of his chest and then across to his wide shoulders. Finally she let her eyes climb to his lips, where a slight smile rested at the corners, belying good humour as well as expectant arousal.
So now it’s your turn: ten minutes of your unedited/ uncorrected prose please, and yes, you can also try this at home kids – just remember to start in medias res (in the middle of the drama). Exciting times!
This is an excerpt of Part 2 of Red’s Rock Star Romance. Click here to read an excerpt from Part 1.
“I’m speechless”, I said, turning to Nicky.
“Then don’t speak”, he suggested with a smile, taking my face in his hands and giving me the longest JD and Coke flavoured kiss I’d ever had. God, it was delicious, and I was wholly lost in its lusciousness.
“Red…” Nicky breathed into me, drinking in my kisses as if he’d spent a month in the desert and I was the oasis he’d craved. “I am…crazy about you…I haven’t…stopped thinking about you…since the last time I saw you…I want you…I need you…to…” He broke off, kissing me fervently between breaths, and I was swept away by his intensity and sincerity.
After a while he sat back to have a proper look at me. “I can’t believe I’ve finally kissed you”, Nicky said, “You’ve been on my mind for months.”
I laughed, legitimately surprised at a rock star thinking about me, a random girl he’d met a couple of times on his travels around the globe. “You’re kidding me, right?” I asked.
“Did that song sound like I was kidding?” He argued, mildly offended. I had to concede that no, it didn’t. “I’m not some asshole rock star, you know” Nicky persisted.
“I never said you were an ‘asshole’” I joked, mimicking his American accent. At that I got another fake dead arm. And another kiss, which led to…Nicky’s hands on my breasts, my hands on his chest, and a simultaneous lifting of tops that could’ve taught The Chippendales a thing or two in the name of synchronised stripping. Nicky dipped his head, and through my lace bra took a nipple in his mouth. There’s something about the feel – and even just the thought – of licks and kisses through material which really gets me going, and I groaned involuntarily as he teased me with his teeth, the lace from my bra scratching my skin just the right amount, his hands kneading and cupping as he embraced my full breasts with his hands.
I pulled Nicky closer towards me, and desperate to feel his skin on mine, in less than as second I’d shed my bra so that I was pressed against him, naked from the waist up. We were burning with lust for each other, a slick sheen of sex sweat sticking us to one another before we’d even fully undressed. But then that didn’t take long either, as laughing together we fought to rid ourselves of our hot, tight, skinny jeans. With a little help from the other we each managed to free ourselves of our Levis, and soon I found myself lying on top of Nicky in my knickers, dry-humping him like a teenager, desperate to feel him inside me, but prolonging the excitement and anticipation for as long as possible. It was so good to be so carefree and yet so intensely, sexually raw at the same time that I felt freer than I had with anyone in a long time, and I let myself go in an abandon of harlot-like hormones and lust.
“Wow”, exhaled Nicky “now this was worth waiting for…” I bucked against him, confirming his statement, letting him know that I wanted it too.
I’m a music journalist, and over the course of my career I’ve interviewed all kinds of musicians right across the music spectrum: Producers, guitarists, rappers, ravers, singer-songwriters, multi-instrumentalists, Metallers, classical violinists, punks, pop stars, opera singers, DJs, jazz legends – you name it, the lot. But because of their crazy stories my favourite interviewees have tended to be the rock stars. This may also have been because there have also been a few specific frontmen – and women – I’ve had the hots for. These people just have an aura about them: raw talent which translates into raw sex appeal on and off-stage.
There’s one particular American band I’ve been lucky enough to interview three times. I say ‘lucky’ because I unexpectedly developed a thing for the main guy, and over the course of each subsequent meeting it became clear that he had a thing for me too. The first time we met was backstage at a festival, where I interviewed the infamously red-haired Nicky and his various bandmates on the steps of their tour bus. Although I did nothing to encourage it, there was the inevitable flirtation between a young music journo (me) and a gang of excitable, hyped-up, sleep-deprived and highly-sexed blokes (them), involving a lot of inevitable banter about my pillar-box red dyed hair and whether I was a real redhead in the sack, and more general testosterone-fuelled larking about, which even the cameraman found funny. Thankfully they were all very charming rather than annoying and rude, and so somehow I was able to keep the band on track long enough to talk about their music and the festival, whilst simultaneously knocking back their offers to hang out with them in their tour bus before they went on stage (wasted opportunity I know, but I liked to keep it professional – and besides, I had other interviews to do).
However, I did notice Nicky checking me out appreciatively (subconsciously, rather than leering with a sense of entitlement like some stars did), and calling me “Red” with a teasing tone and an openly admiring look, but I didn’t encourage it. OK, well maybe I did a little, but with subtle signs of my own, as these guys were used to women throwing themselves at them, and I didn’t want to be just another groupie. And I wasn’t. Not that time anyway.
Less than a year later we met again backstage during soundcheck at a well-known London venue, where Nicky and the gang were christening the opening leg of their long European tour. Our cameraman that day was a cameragirl: a friend of mine called Fiorella, a super-cool, very friendly and utterly gorgeous Italian chick who was a magnet for men the world over. But it seemed that Nicky only had eyes for me: “Hey Red” He said when he saw us, a sudden smile hitting his face like a ray of sunshine in the grotty, grey Green Room.
“Hey Red yerself” I batted back, flattered that he remembered me.
Happily, his bandmates were so taken with Fiorella that Nicky and I had a moment to look each other in the eye and establish that we were the two main members of our mutual appreciation society. A slight blush hit our cheeks (I know – even him, the rock star!), a knowing smile played at the corners of our mouths, and as he unconsciously adjusted his jeans my body began to hum for him. From then on all I could feel was Nicky’s gaze on me, and I think Fiorella noticed I welcomed it, as she motioned for me to interview him alone first. I took a deep breath to steady myself and sat alongside Nicky on the sofa, kicking off my shoes so that I sat facing him with my legs curled under me. He shifted position so that he could look at me properly. I could see every nuance of expression in his face, and I swear he could feel my body burning for him. There were sparks practically flying between our knees.
Suffice to say that even Paula Yates and Michael Hutchence could have learned something about on-screen flirtation during the next fifteen minutes, as Nicky and I tried and failed to keep it entirely professional. Forget the heavily-laden sentences we were somehow managing to string together, our body combined language was screaming sexual attraction, and from the way his bandmates were smirking in the background it was plainly obvious to all that Nicky and I seriously had the hots for each other. This interview was going to make for intriguing (and possibly cringeworthy) watching later…