The Spy Who Loved Me

The train journey I took coming back from London was the inspiration for this, my latest post. It was quite possibly the most entertaining train journey I have ever had in my life. In my carriage there was a guy loudly glued to his mobile. As the train whizzed along its tracks I was gripped as the show unfolded. His audience, we, his fellow passengers, got to know this guy a great deal better than we would have liked to. We knew who his friends were, who owed him money, what he was going to do if these people didn’t pay up, how much the ‘robbing thieving train company’ had charged him for his ticket and who his twenty bags were destined for. There were two posh lads sat to the other side of me, getting merry on mini cans of gin and tonic. They kindly were offering to share their cashew nuts with me. They looked shocked by the behaviour of this guy, expressed disgust that someone could discuss their drug deals so openly. I thought you haven’t lived boys, you really haven’t.


Now the twenty bag guy was entertainment enough, not least when the conductor came and he couldn’t produce his ticket, the one he had told all his friends on the phone and everyone in the carriage had cost him 133 quid. The conductor said if he didn’t produce his ticket he would have to get off at the next stop. The rants of ‘I've fucking paid!’ gave way, in the end, to tears, the sensitive side of our drug dealer displayed. Tears that only subsided when his ticket DID actually turn up, to the amazement of all, in the refreshment car. He’d dropped it whilst stocking up on cans of Stella.


Now this, as I said, was entertainment enough for me but in my carriage there was another source. There was a girl equally attached and loud on her mobile as twenty bag guy. I couldn’t help but over hear snippets of her conversation. The one snippet that got me was when she was slagging off one ‘friend’ to another.


‘You’d think with her being so fat she’d have bigger tits’ She said.


I thought I’ve heard the lot now. This girl was herself fat. Not overweight. Fat. This was a fatty abusing, by proxy, another fatty. Just to add to the comedy this fat girl proceeded to describe herself to someone down her phone as ‘an individual’. ‘An artist’ no less. I was almost pissing myself, taking the piss artist more like it I thought. Yeah right love, you are clearly an individual, plainly an artist as you sit in your standardized Goth, Emo, whatever you want to call it, uniform. You’re so right my dear, I’ve never before seen a fat girl in a crushed velvet dress, black tights, Doc Martens, bobbed black flat as a pancake hair who has gone to town with black eye liner. No your right love, never seen that before. I mean pretentious, nasty, a stereotype; you have clearly got it made.


Now I wouldn’t want anyone to think I told that story to take the piss out of the girl because she is fat. What I am mocking is that whilst no one should pick on anyone because of their size, as a fat person she is the last person who should be picking fault with how much someone else weighs, their tits or lack thereof. When I was fat I wouldn’t have dreamt about doing such a thing, I would not have had the cheek. And yes, I have been fat in my life. At my heaviest I tipped the scales at 13 stone and wore size 14 clothes. Prior to becoming overweight I had been super slim, size 6 clothes slipped on with ease. My weight was something I never really thought about, I couldn’t have told you what I weighed to the nearest stone let alone pound. I didn’t diet. For me, it was what it was. I was envy of many of my female friends who saw I could eat what I wanted and never appeared to gain a pound. I remember one occasion I rocked up our then local in my first pair of expensive jeans (there have been many since) and the mouth of one of my friends just dropped. She declared she wished she looked that good in jeans as she slapped my arse. They and I all concluded that I must have a super metabolism. However the truth of the matter was that because my family circumstances were so bad I wasn’t eating much of anything. I think the real truth was that during my teenage years I wasn’t too keen on living and as a consequence I wasn’t too keen on putting the fuel into my body that would keep me alive. Anyone can eat what they want if they don’t really want to eat very much of anything.


However, when I left home and became much happier, not having the shit kicked out of you does tend to improve one’s mood, a desire to eat took a hold of me with a vengeance. And eat I did. Pasties for breakfast, the same for lunch but this time with the addition of a chocolate muffin and at least one family size bag of sweets. Tea always came from the takeaway, kebabs, chips, sweet and sour pork, fried rice, lemon chicken, whatever I fancied that day but always followed by a huge slab of chocolate cake and cream. After four months of binge eating I woke up in a body I didn’t recognise. I lived in track suit bottoms because they were the only thing that fitted and, unwilling for a time, to confront what I had done to myself I refused to buy clothes that would fit. Bath times were the worse, during the day I could avoid mirrors and looked straight ahead as I pasted shop fronts, careful to avoid catching a glimpse of my reflection in their glass. I’d stay indoors, bury my head in books, and avoid human contact as much as possible. But at bath times, lying naked in the warm soapy water that was the one place I couldn’t run from the truth, the one place when I couldn’t hid from reality. The place where I cried. I was fat, fat, fat. I had a body I felt disconnected to, one that was someone else’s, one that didn’t belong to me, couldn’t possibly be mine. But it was. And I had done it to myself.


The turning point came when; tired of grey, washed out, worn out track suit bottoms I braved the shops in a bid to buy a pair of jeans. I landed in TK Maxx. I picked up a pair of Tommy Hilfiger jeans and because they looked huge I didn’t try them on. There really wasn’t any need. I wasn’t buying them to look good. I knew they were not magic jeans, that no clothes, nothing I did with my hair or makeup was going to make a difference. But I did have one expectation, that they would at least fit. They did not. That shocked me. As I stood in my bedroom, these clown pants squeezed somewhere around my thighs the horror that they would not do up hit me hard. I froze. This was bad and what’s more it had to change.


Now I don’t want anyone to misunderstand me, I am not attempting to bash girls who are bigger. Some girls do look great at a size 14, 16 even. Some girls end up with a Nigella Lawson -curves in all the right places- sexy silhouette complete with a naughty glint in their eyes that conveys unquestionably ‘I indulge in food, wanna find out what else I indulge in?’ I wasn’t one of those girls. I didn’t look curvy and sexy. I looked over stuffed, bloated and blob like, I felt old, like my youth had been robbed from me.


In a determined bid to nick my youth back, to become slim again, I threw away the take away menus, swapped cans of coke for two litres of water a day, shopped for fruit, vegetables and fish. I joined a gym and went five days a week. I didn’t do gentle exercise, I skipped yoga and tai chi and did high energy classes, sweated, braved the embarrassment of being the fattest girl in the classes, being the girl half dead, beetroot faced, struggling to breath not even half way through. This was all whilst the thin girls barely looked like they had broken a sweat. I pushed and kept pushing, I swam, did aerobics, step, kick boxing, circuit training, weighs, rowing, I did the lot, I did it all, week in week out because I wanted my body back. Nothing was going to stop me and nothing did stop me. I gave up alcohol when the weight stopped coming off, when I hit the inevitable brick wall with the gym I finished the job by switching to a low carb diet. When I fitted with ease in to a size 26 waist Diesel jeans I knew I had done it. I was me again. Indeed I think my weight loss journey is the reason why I don’t mind getting my body out in the pictures I put up alongside posts. These are pictures that a fellow blogger has on a certain forum referred to as ‘slut pics’. I am fine with those pictures, enjoy the fact that they are there. This is because the body in them is the body I have earned.


This brings me to a question that was put to me in a recent comment on my blog. ‘What do I think of other sex bloggers.’ I couldn’t answer that question in the depth I would have liked to because space didn’t permit but since I am here I can answer more fully. Each to their own, but the tame shallow antics of the spoilt and over privileged don’t do much for me. If I was having sex with as many random men as the certain other blogger mentioned above reports, men I don’t care about and men who don’t care about me I would want paying because I sure as hell wouldn’t be doing it for free. I don’t think it is cool and daring to shag around, to be any man’s for the price of a pint and a half providing you’re paying. I think all people do when they shag around is to sell themselves short, to make cheap look expensive. The best sex doesn’t occur during random encounters, it happens when there is friendship, when the people involved care about each other, are able to laugh and argue, trust and rely on each other. It is in this security that sexuality can be explored. In this space that boundaries can be pushed.


And in my friendship with my research partner I know I am transcending boundaries other people find hard to understand. The subject came up with an acquaintance of mine, someone from the upper classes who said with a tone entirely unkind ‘He’s a bit more than your friend.’ ‘No actually’ I said, ‘we are friends and that is the way it is.’ I left it at that with that person, there was no will in me at that time to explain why this friendship takes the form it does. Why I think its form is dictated by our shared social class. It is something that particular person wouldn’t understand the first thing about. What I would have liked to have said is that I think the nature of our friendship is hinged on the fact we both share disadvantaged backgrounds, our families are not the best. However what people like he and I do have is our friendships. These friendship probably mean more to us than it would for people who have tight knitted family support. Whilst others can turn to their families when the shit hits the fan people like he and I turn to our friends, we turn to them and we turn to each other.


Indeed our phone sex adventures had their genesis in an act of friendship. He was in a great deal of pain due to injuries he had sustained, sleep was elusive. A friendship we share with a certain doctor made me aware that regular orgasms would help him. There wasn’t much I could do to help my research partner with the other problems he faced but helping him to cum, to get some sleep that I could do. That I wanted to do. It wasn’t his idea, it was mine.


What started out as an act of friendship grew into something we both enjoyed. It got more and more fun as we experimented with role play. It was at this point my research partner made it clear he thought I had a real talent for phone sex, that he should know, he’d spent enough money on phone sex lines and what’s more he knew many people in the military had done the same. At this point an idea formed. That if he was right couldn’t I set up my own phone sex line business? I thought ‘Why not?’ If am good at it then it makes sense to make money out of it. So that became the plan. I started my blog in a bid to advertise this business I planned, as way of drumming up trade for the phone sex services I intended to offer. This is why, to answer a question posed to me in my comments, I called my friend my research partner. It is because that is what he was to me, he was my partner helping me to research phone sex with a view to doing it for a living. However plans changed. This is entirely down to all the wonderful support I have received with this blog. However I kept calling my partner in sexual misconduct my research partner in posts simply because I always had.


Anyway the train journey I recounted to you earlier had me chuckling for days. It made my research partner laugh when I told about it. As we chatted it transpires that it had always been a fantasy of his to have sex on a train. After my long train journey I could see exactly where he was coming from. I had to admit as I sat on that train, internally chuckling about my fellow passengers my mind had wandered to thoughts of sex. I did think it would be fun to discretely play under the cover of a coat or blanket, to whisper filthy suggestions in to another person’s ear as the train steadily and with purpose rocked its way to its destination. But that’s just me, laughing makes me god damn horny. Indeed the men who have been able to separate me from my knickers are the ones who have made me laugh. The only type I have regarding the opposite sex is kind and funny.


On the basis of talk about sex on a train we devised a role play between us that did involve exactly what two people could get up on such a journey. Indeed before we started the role play I listened to Madonna’s ‘justify my love’. Her words ran through my mind and made my pussy ache … ‘I want to make love on train, cross country.’ Oh yes Madonna, I thought, your so right, damn right, too right, right fucking now, hard, rough, bodies pressed tightly, restricted in the only private space that can be found these days on most trains, the bath room, taken from behind, filth growled in my ear ‘sexy bitch, tell me what you want.’ ‘Your big hard cock rammed deep inside, fuck me hard, make me sweat and shake, make my pussy beg’ Skirt pulled up, knickers pushed to one side, my hands reaching behind to undone buttons, pull at zips… Can you tell I was horny long before this particular role play even started? In fact truth be told had my research partner not called sharpish I would have to have had a play without him. For whatever reason my filthy thoughts had left me gagging. Pussy tingling, eager and wet. It felt like a long wait for that particular phone call.


I kept myself busy during the wait for this particular call. I dressed to get undressed. A close fitted cardigan, tied with a bow at its collar, the bow mirroring another bow, one that sat on the arse of the tight grey pencil skirt I was wearing. Well it’s always nice to wrap presents. Running with this idea, how sexy wrapping paper can be, how hot it is to wear foxy underwear I wore a lacy basque and silky knickers, chosen because of their soft feel and cute girly bows. Stockings and 1940’s style shoes completed the look. I kept warm and got into character by slipping on the closest thing I had to something that looked French, the coat and beret featured in the pictures. Crucial to the arranged role play was the scarf I wrapped around my neck. It has a butterfly print on it. This printed scarf was how my British spy counterpart would identify me, how he would exchange information with me. How he would get to know much better the French girl he knew only before as codename Butterfly. With this signal there was going to be little need for conversation, it was going to be all about the action.


When the phone rang we both quickly and with desire slipped effortlessly into our characters. Within thirty seconds we had both turned back time and found ourselves in the 1940’s wartime France. We pretended to be on a train heading for Paris, exchanging discreet glances as we both stood in the buffet car. As my character, Butterfly moved from that part of the train, without the need for words, she was followed. There was much the pair needed to communicate and not everything that they desperately wanted to express to each other had anything to do with the war effort. As Butterfly slipped into her sleeper cabin she sat and waited, watched as her counterpart walked past. She was aware she would have to wait to make his acquaintance, later when there were less people watching, less eyes to observe and guess at what they had planned.


Soon he came, breaking the rules, failing to be as discreet as possible. It didn’t matter in that moment, they both sensed the urgency. There wasn’t much need for words as Butterfly slipped off her coat and undid the buttons of her cardigan. She revealed her tight basque, stood with just this on and her tight pencil skirt, her slim curvy body cut a perfect hourglass image. As she teased a piece of paper from the bra cups of her basque, paper that contained the information this British agent needed her fingers brushed against her tits, lingered on her hardening nipples. Her eyes locked with her spy counterpart, the information she had shared with him wasn’t the only thing he wanted. The other things he wanted, those of a hot intense sexual nature, were betrayed by the intent in his eyes. The spy couldn’t disguise his sexual desires. Despite his training, orders to remain professional at all times, to get the job done, reminders that lives depended upon him, he couldn’t hid from her how much he wanted her. How much he wanted to feel her body, to know her intimately. His true needs were betrayed by how deeply he inhaled each breath and the presence of his huge stiff as a rock cock barely contained by his trousers. All this made it plain that he wanted to fuck. To fuck and be fucked. To forget in that moment the fucking god damn awful war. He wanted to forget, in that moment he desperately wanted to get lost in the feel of her, to think about nothing but her touch. To forget what had gone before and instead soak up what it felt like to touch her, to smell her smell, to feel both their bodies get hot and glisten with sweat, to feel both their hearts pound and hear their pulses race.


Butterfly had much the same idea and much the same determination. She wanted to forget the danger she faced daily and instead focus on something good, the electricity between them and the chemistry it was clear they shared. Her hand moved along her leg, over her skirt, she reached behind and undid her zip, let the material fall to the floor, stood before him, her curves wrapped in silk and lacy. He watched, eyes wide, sat drinking the sight of her in as she put her leg on the corner of the small bed. As she ran her hand along her leg she felt the lace of her stocking tops, got turned on by the silky feel of the material and the tension of the suspenders holding them up. Her hand soon found its way to her pussy. She touched it over the silk of her knickers, felt her swollen clit throb at the gentle touch, panties moist with her already hot and dripping cunt. She knew she wanted to be fucked, the desire contained in the eyes of her counterpart added fire to her own. When he asked the words she had been waiting to hear ‘What do you want?’ She was quick to tell him. Quick to tell him how she imagined his breath on her neck, his lips kissing this part of her as his hands moving along her body, squeezing her tits hard, finding their way to her pussy, to her aching clit where she wanted him to play, to stroke and caress until her pussy begged to be filled with his massive stiff cock. She told him how she wanted to feel his cock on her tongue, to taste him, to open her mouth wide so she take his cock inside deep, to suck long and hard, to suck at first with the rhythm of the train and then to get faster and faster, harder and deeper.


She undressed him to his underwear, tied his hands with her scarf. Let him watch as she touched herself, legs spread wide, a full naughty no holds barred filthy view. She wanted him to hear her wetness as she stroked her clit back and forth, to look deep into her eyes as she slid a finger inside, let him imagine what it would be like to squeeze his cock inside her silky tightness. “ Tu me rends humide” she told him. She wanted him to see how much the tension; the danger had turned her on. For him to hear just how much she wanted his cock deep inside her pussy. For him to know how much she wanted to fuck him where he sat, to straddle him, for his cock to fill her, for her wetness to cover his stiff hard on and drip down to his balls, balls that slammed against her as she rode him fast and hard.. “Je te desire” she whispered. She wanted to fuck him hard, she needed to, to feel him as she ground harder, faster, longer and deeper, rougher than the rocking of the train. There was only one destination she was interested in them reaching and it wasn’t anywhere in France. She wanted for them to reach the point where they were both exploding, were the urgency, the need, the sheer physical desire reached its peak and they came together, breathless, her juice gushing down the shaft of his cock, his balls, emptying, releasing his hot sticky load . For them to cling together, her legs wrapped around his hard huge body, their sticky wetness, their sweat and heat bonding them together in that place, just for that moment.


By this point in the role play both my research partner and I were gagging. We both wanked hard and fast, fucked ourselves for everything we were worth. The toy that had been vibrating on my clit during our play, making me smile, was soon in my hand. I slammed it hard and deep in to my pussy that was begging for attention. I came, I gushed, he came, shot his hot load, we did it over and over again, the need for more and more of the same sweet sexual joy testimony to just how much this particular role play had turned us on. How it meant we both needed an all night long, sun starting to come up, birds beginning to sing seeing to.


Encore une fois became the motto of the night.


Waiting for tickets !


Slipping into something more comfortable


Hopping on and off trains wasn’t the only thing I hopped on !


You’d think I’d be cold ….


But I felt hot, How about you?

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