Erotic Humiliation on the Late Night Train

Description from Amazon (of ‘Good Alice, Bad Alice’)

Erotic humiliation fiction with a dark twist. A story of degradation, danger and desperate sexual need on the late-night train—a woman driven by needs she cannot understand, and is unable to control.

There had always been two versions of Alice Franklin. There was the university lecturer who cared about her job and her students, the one who they came to confide in, the one with an ever-open door and endless time to chat. She was the one who would listen to their problems and give them more than a stock response, the one who would take up their cause with whoever and fight their corner.

And then there was the other Alice. This one is hidden away; the one who seethes with spite and raging discontent; the one who nurtures hate and jealousy. The one who burns with unfulfilled desires, who is possessed by unnatural sexual drives, by unfulfilled cravings of the most perverted kinds. She is the Alice who fantasises about her male students while being rabidly jealous of those girls she sees as having those satisfactions she most urgently pines for.

Alice is a woman driven by despair and desperation. What will she find on the rowdy-drink fuelled of the last train home?

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Excerpt:

It was always nice to be wanted, and tonight she hoped that she would be. She needed to be. Being alone just wasn’t an option. She would do whatever was necessary…accept what she had to.

She looked into the mirror and carefully applied her lipstick, practicing her pout, making sure she put plenty on. Bright red. Dirty cocksucker’s lipstick. She was past the age when she could afford to be subtle.

Subtle was for the girlies, the lambs. Mutton had to go the extra mile or several. At forty-three she knew that. She had come to terms with it. But she still had moves. That’s what tonight was all about. Her doing the necessary. Taking what she could get.

It was why she kept coming back. Why she couldn’t keep away. Why she couldn’t help herself but give in to her urges; urges that one day would cost her more than she wanted to pay. That would be the end of her.

You could only take the same gamble so many times before you lose. If you play Russian Roulette long enough….

But not tonight, she thought. Hopefully not tonight.

Nowhere else was quite like the Bridlington Arms. If you wanted that ‘unwanted’ brand of attention it was the only place in town. And that was just the kind of attention that was indispensable to her; she craved it; it was a compulsion to her, like a drug. She lived for it. To her, it was as addictive as pure as heroin or crack cocaine. Sometimes she hated herself for her needs, but she always fed them. Feed them hungrily, fed them desperately; fed them any way she could.

What else are needs for?

Her late-night journeys were her only indulgence in an otherwise blemish-free life. It was her chance to be another person for just a few hours. That person she kept locked away like a prisoner in a cell. Afterwards, she would often be repulsed, ashamed of her craving, disgusted by her behavior. Sick of herself.

And to her, it was a sickness. And she knew there would never be a cure. She knew it would be terminal. Accepted it.

There had always been two versions of Alice Franklin. There was the university lecturer who cared about her job and her students, the one who they came to confide in; the one with an ever-open door and endless time to chat. She was the one who would listen to their problems and give them more than a stock response, the one who would take up their cause with whoever, and fight their corner.

She was deservedly popular with students, less so with staff who saw her as ‘too close’ to the rank and file, who would have preferred a little more distance between one of their number and the great unwashed student body. Staff saw her as the rebel, the one who had never matured into the responsibilities of her job, she was the girl apparently trying to play at being Penny Pan, the little girl who would never grow up. Who was clearly and observably trying to re-live her student years.

And then there was the other Alice. The one hidden away; the one who seethed with spite and raging discontent; the one who nurtured hate and jealousy, the one who burned with unfulfilled desires, who was possessed by unnatural sexual desires, of unfulfilled cravings of the most perverted kinds. The one who hated anyone and anything that stood in the way of her ‘satisfactions.’  She was the one who spoke in friendly tones to male students while imagining them fucking her hard up her arse and then transferring it straight to her mouth and worse. She was the one who was jealous to the point of hatred of the pretty young girl students, gleefully knocking marks off their work, just because they were young and pretty. Just because they had firmer breasts, tighter pussies, and had a life that stretched before them. She was the one who felt her life was ebbing away.

Which was the real Alice? They both were at different times. But in her more rational and lucid moments what gnawed at her most of all, was the knowledge that the hidden Alice was the one being fed. Every day she fed her a little bit more. Each day her thoughts became that more extreme. Each day there was just that bit more about the world to hate.

Just that bit more of Good Alice to hate.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the areas around the larger railway stations are almost always a haunt of the unsavoury, the grubby and the seedy. The pubs especially attracted a mixture of a transient clientele and locals eager to find those things usually hidden from the more upmarket bars of the city centre.

The only way to attract the lucrative local trade was to offer the lowest prices, the cheapest drinks and a permissive atmosphere. The Bridlington Arms had stood just outside the main entrance to the station for just over ninety years, closing only briefly during the second world war. The drinks were the cheapest, the décor was the shabbiest, and the drinkers were always out for what they could get.

It attracted a mixture of the jobless, the feckless and the irresponsible. They all had one thing in common, they wanted the most they could drink for the little money they had, and they didn’t want anyone interfering while they were about it.

The management and bar staff aimed to be as unobtrusive as possible. If a problem occurred they would look in the other direction, situations usually resolved themselves quickly enough. If an intervention was needed there were usually drinkers in the pub only too willing to have a go. If that bothered you go elsewhere. What could you expect in the type of pub in that type of area?

The place had a lawless feel to it, a bit like the Wild West but with added attractions. She loved the place, although Good Alice hated her for needing it so.

Late at night just before the last trains departed for wherever, ‘the Brid’, would be inundated with those drinkers from the flashier city-centre establishments eager for one last drink before the ride home. The locals always got their orders in early before the crowd.

It was like a cabaret to them, girls with the shortest of skirts and the longest of legs, the lowest of tops and usually too pissed to notice or care who saw what. Some of them even loved to flaunt it, loved to stick what they had right out there. Have a good look they seemed to be saying, that’s all you will get. Unless, in some cases, you were willing and able to pay for it.

Another truth universally acknowledged is wherever you get pissed-up girls wearing as little as they can get away with, you will always find the predator ready to pounce. Men fuelled by beer and exposed flesh looking to score. It’s why they were there, what they came out for; men willing to push their luck in search of some satisfaction.

Sometimes they hunted in packs, sometimes they were alone. You could always spot them. Eyes that flickered over the girls’ bodies like a lizard’s tongue.

And what they were looking for was vulnerability; a victim.

On certain nights, usually, no more than once or twice a month, Alice Franklin would be a part of that late influx. She always liked a couple before the train departed. The difference between her and the other incomers was that she hadn’t been doing the rounds of the other places. She had come straight from home, newly minted. Carefully dressed and made-up she would arrive half an hour before departure and order a neat triple gin. No ice, no slice no tonic.

The first one she would gulp down in two or three mouthfuls. She liked the shiver it sent through her. It was only then she really knew the night had begun. She would stand apart from the crowd near the door, and breath it all in. She loved the feel of the place, the older drunks with their red-lined faces, the scruffy women who she knew could be bought cheaply, perhaps the price of a couple of drinks.

There was a part of her that envied them; a part buried deep inside that wished she could spend her days here, drinking herself into stupidity and letting whatever might happen to her just happen. She would no longer care who they were or what they did. She was there for one thing and one thing only. To be their victim.

She was the easy fuck, the local bike, the bitch, the whore, the slut. The ever-open cunt.

Even the words made her nipples harden; the very possibility that something might happen. Something. Anything. The point was not to take any decisions, not to shape it, force it or manipulate it. Just place yourself in the middle of that road and take what came your way.

For bad Alice the worse it was, the better it was.

That was why she was here. To take what came her way. She knew the pub wouldn’t bring anything more than looks and the odd comment. Everyone here was about their own business. They all had their own agendas be it another drink or several.

 For what Bad Alice really wanted, she needed the late night train.

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