Strangers on a Train
by Belisarius

Part 3

I visited the Smailes’ every other week or so for the following three months. I was aware that I should have dropped her on several occasions after she’d tormented me over what had seemed to be an endless week-end, but the truth was that she was able to play me like a fish. Part of the reason for my allowing her domination was that I was aching to have her in my power again, as I had had during the night of our first meeting.

Old Joe, meanwhile, began to consider me his best friend and any meaningful glances that passed between his wife and myself were completely beyond him. A more astute man would have had me (and possibly her) out of his life pretty sharpish.

“My brother has invited Joseph and me to his place in the country whenever we like in June,” informed Abigail at the dinner table.

“Yes… Mghhhh, yes,” put in Joe as he enjoyed some lightly sautéed sweetbreads.

“Oh, how nice for you both,” I replied, not lifting my head very far from the trough.

“I’m sure you’d be able to come too, he has a nice place in Oxfordshire, deep in the Cotswolds,” Abigail invited.

“June you say? Pretty busy time for me, I’m afraid,” the only come I wanted was to send a wad deep down her throat.

She gave me one of her meaningful looks while Joe looked on with puppy dog eagerness.

“How long are you intending to stay?” I weakened as her eyes promised me pleasures which my brain knew full well would be refused.

“We’re going for three weeks, but you could come as it suits you. William is very easy going.”

“And Augusta, his wife, is a cracker,” put in Joe.

Well, the truth was, that I hadn’t much on in June at all and a week or ten days in the Cotswolds was quite an alluring prospect, especially if the weather turned out to be better than the English summer average.

“Come on, say you’ll come…. It wouldn’t be the same without you,” encouraged Joe.

“Fine, then, I’ll look forward to it. Black tie at dinner is it?”

“What else would it be?”

“William’s a stickler for that sort of thing,” put in Joe.


William’s place in the country turned out to be a manor house, the core of which dated back to the 15th Century, with 16th, 18th and 19th Century additions. It nestled in a little valley through which a brown, lazy trout stream meandered. Mature trees and shrubs embellished the park while the air was sweet with the scent of honeysuckle.

My first surprise was when I was greeted at the front door by two maids. Both of them, I judged, were in their thirties and dressed traditionally in black frock, frilly white cap and apron.

“This way, sir,” they trilled as they took my baggage.

I followed them up a majestically sweeping staircase, noticing that they were both wearing black seamed stockings, which were finished off nicely with high heeled, patent leather shoes.

The leading maid dropped my case, arched her back, stuck her tits out and straightened her dress up. As she bent to retrieve my luggage I was; I believe deliberately, treated to a glimpse of stocking tops and bare white thighs.

This visit could turn out to be very interesting, I thought to myself, especially if Abigail decided to end her long game of tease-the-cock with me.

I was shown into a room at the side of the house which had a view down to an extensive lake.

“Dinner is at eight, sir, drinks in the drawing room at seven,” the blonde maid, who’s name turned out to be Sally, smiled as she spoke.

“Would you like us to run a bath for you, sir,” asked Mary, the dark haired one.

“Anything you require, sir, just ring the bell,” continued Sally.

I smiled back, the word anything was delivered with just enough edge to suggest the widest meaning of it, but I just nodded my thanks and told them that I would see to myself.


William turned out to be a tall, thin man, about my age, who’s staff were able to put on a superb dinner for twelve. Added to which his wine cellar was both extensive and worth a great deal of money. At dinner, Abigail sat next to me with Joe opposite her, and I couldn’t resist wandering my left hand on to her right thigh whenever the opportunity arose. Eventually, towards the end of pudding, I got a result as she hitched her skirt above her knees and allowed me access to her pantied cunt. My fingers poked and pressed and could feel the beginning of a definite dampness.

“Ladies, if you please,” Augusta led the female guests to the drawing room to attend to their toilettes whilst the men passed around the port.

God, I thought, just when I was getting somewhere with Abigail. However, there was some consolation as I was sure that William’s port would be of an excellent vintage and there’d be plenty of it. I was right, a fine, deep port and a superb brandy the cost of which must have been astronomical, arrived and began to be passed around the table. Then the others began discussing a point-to-point they’d arranged for the next morning.

“You ride, I expect?” asked William of me.

“An old wound finished my riding days, I’m afraid, Falklands...” I lied.

“Weren’t with the Ghurkhas were you?” enquired a military looking man.

“No, navy,” I replied. Glamorgan,” I lied again.

“She took an Exocet hit, didn’t she?”

“Mmmmm...,” I returned non-committedly.

“In the chopper hanger, I believe. Cousin of mine was the navigator,” persisted the military man.

“Yes, there was a big bang in that area, now that you mention it,” I was beginning to sweat, people always have relatives in the most awkward places.

“Pity you’ll be unable to join us,” put in William who; much to my relief, led the conversation in another direction, “I’ve a very large, black stallion who’d do very well for you.”

Horses! I hate them even more than I do golf. Smelly, indiscriminate farters, headstrong and downright dangerous beasts, the French have the right idea, they turn them into steaks – not that I’d eat one, mind, far too tough.

I decided that first thing in the morning I’d pop into Oxford and wander around the book shops and treat myself to a decent lunch.


I got back in mid afternoon expecting to find the hall full of dishevelled equestrians, but there was no one to be found, no one at all, not even the maids, who I felt could have provided some pleasant diversion. I flicked through my purchases in the library and then, becoming bored, sat back, closed my eyes and cat napped. I was awakened by a scream. Not a loud one, quite subdued and distant, in fact. I stood up and listened intently. It came again, and then a second and third time. I couldn’t decide whether it had been emitted by a male or female, but I did pin-point it as coming from somewhere beneath my feet.

“The cellars must run beneath just about every room in a house as old as this one,” I muttered to myself.

“Mmmmmghhhhh...,” the sound came again and I decided to seek out the cellar entrance.

As I left the library, I heard a definite, pinched off, gurgled scream. A door just ahead of me was slightly ajar and I made my way towards it, determined to track down the source. Just as I reached it, again, I heard that same strangled cry, whether of pain or of passion, I could not tell.

“Got lost?” the words made me start and I turned quickly to find Abigail standing behind me.

“No, just bored. Where is everyone?” for some reason I thought it best not to mention the sounds I’d heard.

“Still galloping around the countryside, I should think. I’m bored too...”

My mind entertained itself with a series of interesting vignettes and I was about to describe some of them to Abigail, before she took my hand and led me outside and towards the lake. “Where are we going?” I asked.

She nodded towards the lake and to a rowing boat tied up at a short wooden jetty. We clambered aboard and before long we were half-way towards the far shore, with me rowing.

“What’s in there?” I nodded towards a large picnic basket.

“Never you mind. Come, slave, quicker,” she ordered as she poked me in the privates with deliciously painted and stocking covered toes.

“Ma’am... I can only obey...”

I was surprised to find that the end of the lake was indented by a surprisingly wide bay which was out of sight of the house, in the centre of which lay a tree lined island.

“Make landfall there,” she ordered, pointing to it.

A couple of dozen strokes brought us to rest on a narrow gravel beach. I helped her out and led her to a patch of short grass, where she sat down on a smooth rock, seemingly ideally placed for the purpose. Those Eighteenth Century garden designers thought of everything.

“Now what?” I asked, after I’d removed a blanket and the basket from the rowing boat.

“Oh, surely, you as captain of pirates, must know what to do with a lady taken as captive from a booty filled merchantman?”

Well, I knew what to do all right, but did our requirements converge? “I’m not sure whether I should behave as a real pirate would, or, alternatively, as a Hollywood style gentleman buccaneer?”

“I quite see your dilemma? Am I to remain chaste whilst you fight off crewmen determined to dishonour me or am I to be bound, tortured and raped?”

“Something like that.”

“Hmmmmm,” she considered, “I’m not sure.”

Typical, I thought, does she want to be fucked or not? I wished I knew.

She gazed at a nearby birch tree, “Perhaps you should secure me to that tree, whilst I make up my mind. You’ll find bondage materials in the picnic hamper.”

It took a few minutes to bind her, fully clothed, to the tree, after which I stood back to admire my handiwork. I had fastened her wrists as high above her head as I was able which had thrust forward her admirable breasts. Her waist was also cinched to the trunk, as were her ankles. Prim and proper she looked, almost virginal in a white, summer dress with a useful set of buttons which ran from neckline to hem.

I stepped towards her and kissed her, thrusting my tongue deep into her open mouth. The kisses were returned and before long she was beginning to pant.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Use your imagination, perhaps a... What do you call it? A crotch rope ? Would that be appropriate at this point, do you suppose?”

No sooner said than done. I pulled up her skirt and tucked it into her waist bindings, taking in with interest the sight of her ivory coloured silk stockings, which were held up at mid-thigh by lengths of pink ribbon. After enjoying the smoothness of her thighs I pulled down her knickers until they were held by her ankle ropes.

I licked my lips as I noticed that she had shaved off her pubic hair leaving her pelvis smooth and making her pink gash stand out. Unable contain myself further and before attaching the desired cunt fastening, I dropped to my knees and began to lick and suck her twat, at the same time listening as her breathing became deeper and her panting louder, my mouth filling with the warm, saltiness of her juices, whilst at the same time my nostrils were filled with the heady perfume of a woman in heat, which, in this case, mingled with flowery hints of Chanel Number Five. I was overcome by the desire to spread her legs, so I untied her ankles and pulled her thighs apart to gain easier access to her, but she kept thrusting her knees together and squirming away from me around the tree which held her.

This wouldn’t do, so bringing one of the oars from the boat, I placed it behind the tree trunk and lashed her ankles to each end of it. Though she still tried to move she could do little but stand before me, her legs wide stretched, her cunt juices gleaming in the sun.

I then realised that her breasts required some attention, so, roughly, I pulled open her dress and eased her globes from their brassiere cups, pausing to suck each pink nipple before giving it a hard tweak and feeling desperately sorry that I had no nipple clamps to hand.

She began to moan again as my hand cupped her crotch and my fingers walked their way easily inside her, deep into a beautiful pink fissure which was becoming wider and wetter with every passing second.

I could wait no longer and took out my cock before it spouted, unasked, a fountain of white gel. Removing my fingers from her cunt, I began to press my penis into her vagina.

“Stop,” the order rang out loud and clear.

“Why, why on earth...” I began.

“You’ve no contraceptives to hand.”

I couldn’t believe it. How could a women so completely in the throes of passion become so clinical in a matter of seconds?

“I don’t intend to become pregnant at this stage of my life, thank-you very much,” she continued.

“You brought ropes, etcetera, why not some baby stopping device? You’ve led me by the nose yet again.”

“Typical male, leave everything to the woman. Why didn’t you bring something?”

“What! On the off-chance I’d get to fuck you, after the merry dance you’ve led me for months.”

“So, I’m supposed to risk everything for a few moments of pleasure, whilst you enjoy yourself and give the possible consequences to myself no thought whatsoever. Typical man, untie me at once.”

I did as I was told, but with ill grace. I decided it was time to ditch Abigail forever and leave for home the following day.

“Good,” she smiled, her voice suddenly full of sweetness and light, “Now, let’s have our picnic. Open the basket, darling.”

We sat in the late afternoon sunshine enjoying a cold game pie, hard boiled eggs, salad and a reasonably well chilled bottle of riesling.

“I suppose you don’t want any further to do with me?” she suggested softly.

“Not much point to it, is there? I find our relationship a very frustrating one,” I replied, nodding meaningfully towards my genitals.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Joseph and I so enjoy your company. He’d be distraught if he lost his new best friend.”

“Becoming Joseph’s best friend was never my original intention.”

“I want you have me...” she wheedled winningly.

I didn’t move, not knowing what to say or do, listening to the conflicting messages originating from both my brain and balls.

“Kiss me,” she encouraged.

I did as I was bid, but still determined to leave the following morning.

“There,” she said after a while, “We’re friends again, you can row me back to the house now.”

End of Part 3