Confessions from a Holiday Camp. Timothy Lea
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love to,” says my bird.
And the consequence is that they have disappeared up the corridor before I can say Fascist Hyena. It is diabolical, isn’t it? The titled twit hasn’t even asked me if I fancy a cup of tea. I try and immerse myself in my book but even the multiple talents of Christopher Wood fail to wrest my uneasy mind from the thought of Sherlock and Big Eyes grappling over the tea table. She is obviously the kind of chubbycheeked scrubber that hands it out to everybody and I did not move fast enough. The thought of losing out to Lord Shagnasty is more than I can stand.
I consider wandering down there after them but I can’t see where it is going to get me, apart from outside one of British Railways’ diabolically expensive excuses for the traditional vicar-ridden and clotty.
One hour I have waited before they stumble through the door and it is obvious that the tea has degenerated into a drop of the hard stuff. My tip for the Upper Class Twit of the Year stakes is registering symptoms of an attack of the galloping knee-trembles and Big-Eyes is totally giggly and droopy.
“Awfully funny,” says Shagnasty raking his eyes across my face is if he expects me to break into spontaneous applause. “Oh, yes, capital wheeze, eh wha-a-at?”
Only the lack of a primed twelve-bore materialising in my hands prevents me from turning his mug into scarlet wallpaper.
I sit there pretending to give my all to “Terrible Hard, Says Alice”, whilst my evil cock-orientated little mind seeks a means of reducing the human equation to a simple one plus one equals minus supertwit.
Fortunately, Fate chooses that moment to play into my hands. The train shoves on the anchors and I notice a flurry of activity in the corridor which denotes the fact that disembarkation is imminent.
Whilst my two companions flop out in their seats making fish-pouting noises to each other, I cast a casual eye over Shagnasty’s baggage. This clearly reveals that my rival is bound for Leeds. This is something of a surprise, but I have a better one in store. The sign on the platform describes a place well short of that fair city and is obscured by a trolley-load of mail bags as we grind to a halt. Quick as a flash I dart onto the platform and take up a position behind the mail bags. “Leeds,” I shout. “Change here for Leeds. We are the champions.” Whether my final utterance gives a gloss of truth to the rabbit I do not know, but my erstwhile rival is soon stumbling out of one door as I get in the other. I lean out of the window and can savour with genuine ecstasy the sight of his drunken mincepies colliding with the sign saying “Crewe” as the train begins to pull away. He reaches back as if trying to stay our progress and then is snatched from my sight. Now it is just me and the crumpet in seat number A7.
She looks up as I come through the door and our eyes meet like they are connected by dotted lines.
“Newcastle?”
“Soon,” I say. “Oh my God!” This latter phrase may seem a bit uncalled for but I can vouch for its effectiveness if delivered with sufficient passion. Basically, what it means is: “I find you so paralysingly beautiful that I am temporarily robbed of the power of speech.” Such utterances are usually very well received by the kind of bird who finds it difficult to string five words into a sentence.
“What do you mean?” she says.
“You’re beautiful, aren’t you?” Few women will deny this.
“Oh,” she squeaks. I snatch up her hand and squeeze it passionately.
“When I first saw you—oh, I don’t know, it seems ridiculous saying this because we’ve only just met but I—I felt this strange thing happening to me. Do you know what I mean?”
How can she, but she nods vigorously. That is good because with the breathless approach you have to come to the boil pretty quickly. It’s either there or a quick case of the
South London Magistrates Court.
“I felt as if I had been carrying a picture of someone in my mind without really ever being able to put a face to it. Then, when I saw you—”
I look meltingly into her big blue eyes and her head tilts forward. This last gesture is equivalent to putting your bonce into the mouth of a lion with hiccups and I am not slow to slam my pinkies against hers. As lips go they are softer than underdone liver and generate enough heat to forge spare parts for half the British motor industry. That they smell of whisky I can forgive, especially since Supertwit paid for it.
“Darling,” I murmur, coming up for air. I glide my hands around the back of her head and stroke her ears with my thumbs. This might be the means of operating her tongue because that object starts bashing the inside of my mouth like its trying to find a way out through the back of my head. The arm rest is in the way so I press that up and pull her back to lay along the seat. I am on my hands and knees.
“What about—?” she murmurs, but she need say no more. I am the soul of discretion at moments like this and I spring lightly to my feet and pull down the blinds on the windows giving on to the corridor. Outside the slag heaps and the lights of small spurned stations are kaleidoscoping into the night but I am here pressing the light-switch towards the position marked “dim” and effortlessly releasing the buckle of my belt. The very motion of the train churns the lust round my pelvis until it takes on the consistency of cream and my nerve-ends tingle. I return to my original position and press up the last of the arm rests so my friend can extend her luscious frame without impediment. Our lips return to the position we have practically copy-righted and I allow my fingers to steal down to the fertile pasture land of her thighs. For a second her hand drops protectively on mine but the pressure is so weak that I know it is no more than a hangover from what she learned in the Brownies and I continue to press forward towards my goal. The attainment of same is made more easy by the fact that Big-Eyes is not wearing tights. Fellow stocking-lovers will rejoice with me in a mellow saunter down memory lane as I describe the electric ecstasy of my fingers tip-toeing over the brink of her stocking tops to be met by an expanse of warm, soft thigh. Restraining the impulse to run amok I fondle the faithful suspender and then, responding to the impulsive arch of her eager body slip my fingers under the tight stretch of her knickers. This is a frustrating exercise because the British are nothing if not excellent knicker-makers and it is difficult for my eager fingers to perform up to the standard they can attain when permitted uninhibited access.
Drawing back with reluctance, I tug down the clinging nylon and reveal the fur muff below. Over the unprotesting knees and I lower my mouth to nibble along the thighs. Now it is up to fursville and as I trip her panties over her ankles, so I perform an acrobatic love dive which jerks her heels against my shoulder blades whilst she makes contented moaning noises.
Her needs seem well catered for but mine as yet are only putting a strain on the front of my brushed denim. Guide, philosopher and friend I may soon have to be, but at this moment, Number One is screaming for action and I am not the man to stand in his way. Without discontinuing my labour of love I ease my jeans down over my heels and hope that a status-conscious ticket collector will not choose this moment to improve his promotion prospects. With the departure of my lower garment it is now possible for me to pay Big-Eyes the ultimate compliment and seizing her around the waist, I draw her forward so that she topples gently onto the floor. Beneath us, all is shudder, shake and quiver and my own body could play accompaniment without the aid of a musical instrument. Greedy sod that I am I now peel back her sweater so that I can see the glowing mounds of her breasts encased in heaving pink. Our mouths hold again and I slip my hands beneath her arched back to release the jack-in-the-box catch. My expectations are not disappointed. Her nipples are like dainty gherkins and when sucked pulsate like wire coils on a pin table machine.
With such a creature it is a problem to know where to go next but J.T. Superstar is now taking over my personality and, almost without being conscious of it, I find myself immersed in Big-Eyes right up to the dolly bags.
At this point I would like to try and step back from the narrative and say to you frankly – Ladies and Gentlemen, if you have never had it away on the floor of the 15.00 to Newcastle ring up British Railways tomorrow. You do not know what you have been a missing of. A