The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It is not surprising that so many stories—adventure, comic and creepy—have been written about the railways and railway stations. We have the delightful “The Railway Children’ by E Nesbit; then there are Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories about the master detective Sherlock Holmes, which would just not be the same without the call for a ‘Special’; and one of Dickens’ later short stories, ‘The Signalman,’ is about a ghost in a railway cutting and particularly chilling that is. Not only are there written stories but also there have been films such as “Oh Mr Porter!” with the brilliant Will Hay and the old radio programme ‘Parsley Sidings’ with Arthur Lowe as the Station Master, Horace Hepplewhite.

Not surprising, because there is something about the railways that attracts—long past the age of steam—even those bound to endless waiting either on delayed commuter trains or for connections to other trains. Something that leads to stories. Now Jennie had never read anything much about the railways but, even so, she found herself both travelling and about to have a quite remarkable experience on the railways.

Jennie was not happy, not happy at all. The journey had been a disaster right from the beginning and now she was stuck on the platform of an old railway station in the middle of who knows where, waiting for a connection—a connection she should not have been making had the proper connection at another station worked as timetabled. But her train had been late; it was not a guaranteed connection and had left without her. The station staff had been helpful, to be fair, and had suggested a complicated route but one which would ultimately get her to her destination—hours late of course. So now she was on this cold, dark (for night had come) station and very lonely station. She did not like it. There seemed no one else about and when she looked beyond the white station fence there seemed to be no lights, no nearby town, no houses, no warm and welcoming pub, no nothing. Why had the station been built there in the first place?

The wind got up a little and that made it even colder, tugging at her coat and certainly, fashionable as it was it, was not keeping the cold out, Jennie pulled her woolly hat a little tighter over her ears and wondered if walking up the platform would be warming. It wasn’t and the lack of anything at the end of the long platform, not even the sight of a signal box, was decidedly creepy and certainly bitterly cold. Jennie made her way back up the platform feeling rain starting on the wind, catching at her face and it was then she noticed a red glow coming from one of the windows in the Victorian brick station building, a red glow through the glass of an old wooden sash window that showed the legend, in acid etching on the glass, ‘Waiting Room.’ She had not seen that before despite standing on the platform for some time, not noticed it anyway. It was such an odd thing to have missed. Indeed she could have sworn she had checked, had tried to search out a waiting room to no avail, but there it was and with an old painted panelled door next to it, again labelled ‘Waiting Room.’ She had paused looking at it with a puzzled expression before she turned the handle and stepped inside. Pleasing warmth hit her: such a contrast to the falling temperature outside with its unwelcome promise of rain. The room was poorly lit but it was warm and that was what Jennie wanted. She put down her bag and sat in pleasure on a bench, relieved she would not have to spend her, still long, wait out in the cold of the night on that creepy platform.

It was surprising to Jennie to see the source of heat was not some whirring fan heater or hot water radiator but a stove, an antique black metal stove with an iron pipe bending up to the roof and with the bright glow of the coals showing through the glass of its door. A real fire—the red glow of the window was explained. It certainly let out a very considerable warmth and Jennie was not going to criticise it for not being modern. Indeed the glow of the coals drew her eyes and she stared at them as if hypnotised, watching the play of flame and the ever switching brightness.

A small sound, as of someone moving disturbed her reverie. She was surprised she hadn’t noticed before, given her eyes were already accustomed to the dark from her walk up and down the platform, that she was not the only occupant of the waiting room. Admittedly he was sitting in a dark corner but, she would have thought, even so, she should have seen him. Perhaps it was his dark clothes that had made him difficult to see. Dark and rather formal clothes, a dark suit, a rather old fashioned suit of heavy material and a white shirt with winged collar under a waistcoat and alongside him on the bench a hat which looked very much like a top hat. One hand was resting on the top of a black silver capped cane. It was this that had moved and caused her to look at him. He was leaning back and it was difficult to see his face. Perhaps he was going to a formal dinner or party.

The man acknowledged Jennie by an inclination of his head.

“Hallo,” she said.

“Good evening, my dear. I trust you find this a comfortable refuge from the cold outside. It is not a night to be travelling by the railway. Where does your journey take you?”

Jennie answered and in turn asked where he was travelling. The sort of conversation that must happen in waiting rooms everywhere.

He sighed, “My ticket says Ponderton under Nettleham but I wonder if I shall ever get there.”

“Me too, it’s been an awful journey.” And Jennie launched into a description of all that had gone wrong.

The man nodded sympathetically.

“Hopefully the train will come soon,” finished Jennie.

“Not yet,” said the man pointing at an old station clock on the wall, “it is not yet time.”

Jennie looked at the clock in puzzlement, she had not seen it before, had not heard it ticking and its tick tock was quite loud. She glanced at her wrist watch. Time was dragging, it confirmed the time on the old clock; her connection was not due yet for quite a time. But at least she was warm now, hot even. She pulled off her woollen cap letting her dark curls fall free and undid the buttons of her coat; she sat for a few moments like that and then took the whole thing off. You could not complain about the railway company’s attention to keeping their passengers warm.

“It is a pleasant waiting room. I use it often. I don’t think I know of better, nor the stove.” He indicated with a slight movement of his cane. “Most efficacious. Keeps away the chill. I trust you are warm enough?”

“Yes, thank you. If anything too warm! Funny how you can go from being too cold to too hot.”

“We are difficult to please perhaps. A dissatisfied race.”

It was at this point the man leant forward and Jennie saw his face rather clearer. He was older than she had realised, a lined face though not at all unpleasant and carefully combed, but grey, hair falling a little over round glasses a little reminiscent of those worn by Harry Potter. Altogether an old fashioned look, very old fashioned.

“Are you going to a party?” Jennie asked, letting her unconscious thought about his clothes leak through into speech.

“A party? A gathering? No, no I don’t think so. I have not been to such a thing for a very long time. What is the purpose of your own excursion, if I may enquire?”

For Jennie it was, indeed, basically a party, a gathering of friends but a meeting she was going to be late for. She explained at length. There would be music, drinking and dancing. The room grew hotter.

“I very much regret I have not so much as a hip flask about me so I cannot offer you a tincture of brandy to warm you; I have neither pipe nor fiddle and two makes for a very poor sort of party.”

As if on cue the door opened and they were joined by a third traveller, a young man in jeans and fleece stepped into the room, momentarily letting the cold air sweep in before he shut the door behind him. “Bloody freezing,” he said to Jennie, “Cold enough to,” he checked himself, “that wind is piercing. You waiting for the 20:29?”

“Yes,” said Jennie.

He dropped himself down along the bench from Jennie and stared at the fire.

“That’s good—but very old. You’d have thought British Rail would have used gas or electric, not that I’m complaining, heat is heat. Dark in here though. Where’s the light switch? The lights are really dim.”

He got up despite having only just sat down and fumbled around on the door near the wall to no effect.

“I can’t read my book in this light.”

“What are you reading?” There was nothing else to do and Jennie was happy to prolong the talking.

“Oh, it’s not a novel. Textbook. For my degree, history of art and all that.”

“Your degree is art history?”

“Nah, that’s just part of it. Fine art really.”

“What do you work in?”

“Oh anything. I like pencil particularly. I’m a bit odd in the class, drawing is not really in: but I’ve always liked drawing.”

“There is a great deal to say for the craft of the lead pencil.”

The boy gave a start; it seemed he had not noticed the old man.

“I have dabbled,” went on the old man, “landscapes, still life but particularly portraiture and life studies; perhaps we are of the same kidney.”

“Oh, right,” said the boy.

Jennie pulled off her jumper. The stove, if anything, was too hot.

“You will observe,” the old man continued, “what a fine subject the young lady presents, a lengthy neck, strong cheek bones and that mass of hair. Is she not something to capture with your Westmoreland lead pencils?”

The question gave the boy opportunity to look at Jennie more closely. She blushed under the scrutiny. Not really the thing for a modern girl to do.

“Yeah,” he said, “I think you’re right.”

“Would you mind, would you be offended if I was to attempt a likeness?” His eyebrows were raised and he was looking keenly at Jennie.

It was difficult to refuse not least as the old man was already retrieving paper and pencils from his bag.

“You’ll need more light,” said the boy, “these bulbs are so dim but I can’t find the switch.”

“If you pull the chain over there below the lamp it will improve the illumination.”

Mystified the boy did as he was bid and with a hissing the light got stronger. “The lighting’s gas,” exclaimed the boy, “I don’t believe that—in this day and age. A gas mantle—how weird!”

Peculiar or not the light was definitely stronger, the hissing gas mantle casting a yellow light across the room.

Acknowledgement of the heat of the stove came from the boy as he removed his fleece. Jennie was surprised that he had survived outside with just that and the tee shirt he was wearing. Perhaps he was made of tougher stuff than she was. He had his book out now and seemed engrossed

“I wonder if I might be so bold as to ask you to tie your hair up, reveal your pretty neck a little more, yes like that, and if you turn your head a little to the left, yes like that and look a little down. Hold that please.”

Jennie was a little surprised at her ready acceptance of being used as a model. She had momentarily thought of refusing but perhaps it was the warmth from the fire that had softened her. Even the reference to her pretty neck (indeed!) had not riled her. The warmth was very soothing and she fell into a reverie.

Jennie’s head jerked up, she had almost fallen asleep in the warmth of the waiting room. It seemed as if quite a time had passed but when she glanced at the clock it showed it had been very little time at all.

“You have lost your pose but never the mind, I have you in pencil.” The old man turned the paper and there she was in black and white on the paper, a very good resemblance and, as the art student, looking up from his book, commented, very well executed. The hair was no doubt rather better arranged than she had managed and the velvet choker on her neck was a bit of artistic licence but certainly she could not find fault.

“I like it,” she said. “But this waiting is so annoying. It must be for you too. When does your train come?”

“Sometimes it seems like I have been waiting forever”. There was a smile at this. “Shall I place you on the paper in addition?” The man was speaking to the boy.

“If you like,” he said with no great enthusiasm.

The boy was encouraged up the bench to sit next to Jennie and look at her. It was not a difficult pose, they were not looking at each other directly eye to eye which could have caused laughter or embarrassment, rather the boy was looking at her and Jennie’s eyes were downcast looking now not at the bench but his jeans. They were a good denim and cut she noticed. Her mind drifted away thinking both about clothes and how nice the boy’s legs looked in his jeans.

Again she almost caught herself dropping off and, despite the little movement on the clock again, the old man seemed to have worked fast. The likeness was striking; the old man knew how to draw.

“You are good subjects,” he said, “you know how to sit still. Now I wonder,” he was speaking to Jennie, “I am not sure your present apparel will quite fit in with the composition as I envisage it, I imagine you, perhaps, in a dress, satin, low cut with bare shoulders. Would I be asking too much if you could slip your blouse down off your shoulders?”

It was certainly asking a lot and Jennie was very considerably surprised to find her fingers already on the second button of her blouse. She was conscious of the boy looking at her, but her fingers did not stop. Half unbuttoned; she slipped the blouse down her shoulders, baring them. The pencil moved. She was again looking at the boy’s jeans but what was he looking at? She knew it would be her bra, visible now her blouse was off her shoulders and he would be looking down the valley between her breasts inside the bra. It is what boys did.

“I wonder, young man, whether I could sketch your upper body, your torso? Your train is not for a while and I do so revel in life studies.”

It seemed to Jennie the requests were getting stranger. It was one thing to be sketched in a waiting room whilst you did what it said on the door—waited—it was rather another to find yourself modelling for an artist. But the boy did not seem to mind taking his tee shirt off.

“Back to your pose please and one hand on the young lady’s shoulder, yes arm around the back but fingers just gently resting.”

Having the boy touching her, that the old man should ask was a bit much, but against that there was really no harm in having the boy’s hand on her shoulder and it felt nice enough and certainly it was pleasing to have a different view from the blue material of his jeans. The view of his unclothed stomach was fine—very flat and firm she thought.

The gas hissed and the pencil moved across the paper, the fire shone its ruddy glow and spread its soporific warmth around the room, Jennie’s head fell forward and her cheek brushed the boy’s naked chest.

“Dear me, you are fatigued and I am sorry to impose on you like this but I am so pleased with my drawing. Look how I have captured our young man’s upper limbs. Would it again be too much if I was to draw your limbs?”

Jennie looked at the clock, surely the train must be due but no, time seemed hardly to have moved on at all. What did he want now? To remove her blouse—well why not?

Why not? Why not? Because it was a public waiting room and she was with two men she did not know, that was why not! But to her surprise her fingers started undoing the rest of the buttons, one by one until she could just slip the blouse off. It was very odd to be sitting there just in her bra. It would not have been odd had she been on the beach with a bikini top but this was not the beach but a railway waiting room.

“I was thinking, you understand, of drawing all of your limbs so if you could perhaps....”

Trousers as well- what an imposition! Even so Jennie stood and undid the zip. Again she was surprised, very surprised at herself. She really couldn’t believe she was doing this, did the old man have some sort of hypnotic control over her, but she had noticed him do nothing strange. She was conscious that what she was doing was odd but equally she was conscious she did not mind. Nonetheless it felt very peculiar to be taking her shoes and socks off and rolling her trousers down to stand in white bra and blue panties. She was aware of the men looking at her.

“Sir, perhaps you could do the same?”

The boy stood and he too took off his jeans and there they both were standing half looking at each other clad in really very little. It seemed to Jennie this did not matter as the room was warm. They sat again in their poses. Jennie found she was now looking at the boy’s grey and white striped boxers, his thighs and stomach. He was a well built young man and she liked what she saw, of course she could not help notice the bulge under the shorts, the bulge men had and women did not. It was of interest to her rather in the same way as the boy had taken interest, she supposed, in her breasts. She wondered about it.

“I am sorry to trouble you again but just one more thing, your nether garments; I think they can be dispensed with.”

Jennie looked at the boy in his boxers and he looked at her in her white bra and blue panties.

“But if somebody comes in,” she said being practical and trying to avoid the request.

“I would not worry or concern yourself about such an occurrence; nobody will be on the platform until the train is due. I would so appreciate being able to do a full life study. I am sure you will not be disappointed in the result. Such fine young limbs. I am so grateful to you for posing for me. I am honoured.”

Jennie did not like to disappoint the old man as he had asked so very pleasantly. Slowly she stood up and unclipped her bra, the old man nodded encouragingly. It was difficult to let go, to release her breasts from the safety of the bra-cups and have them revealed to the watching men. She was not ashamed of them, boys had not complained about them; they could perhaps be bigger but they were firm and she recalled the areolae and nipples had generated compliments by their size and brownness. She glanced down at them and was a little surprised to see the nipples standing, perhaps it had been the cold: though she had to admit she was not completely unaffected by the near naked boy next to her.

There was a movement to her side as the boy took off his boxers. She did not look but instead kept looking at the old man who was smiling encouragingly at her.

“Good, very good. I shall find the drawing of your bubbies most pleasant. I compliment you.”

Jennie thought of protesting but instead reasoned she might as well get it over and hurriedly removed her panties—quickly done and over with. She hurriedly sat down, thankful her pose kept her legs firmly shut.

Settling back into position, naked buttocks on the old wood of the bench, and turning her head, Jennie found her eyes fixed on the boy’s penis. She had known he was now naked but, even so, seeing it suddenly like that was a shock. It was the centre of her posed vision, pink, limp, its wrinkled tube of skin, its prepuce, forming a classical nozzle shape like the Grecian statues of old and, behind that, the shape of the glans moulded by the skin. Almost hidden between his legs was his scrotum and all was set in a mass of blond curls, She took it all in, her pose requiring her to look, stare closely at a penis longer than she had ever done before, see it in all its detail.

Across from her the old man’s pencil scratched across the paper working at completing his drawing. Jennie’s thoughts wandered but never far from the boy and particularly what she was staring at. She was conscious of the boy looking at her, his head turned to her, looking at her head but no doubt also able to stare down at her breasts and the tight, dark vee of curls between her thighs. Her hair grew thick and lush there and she had no enthusiasm for waxing. That was how she was and boys could take it or leave it! A bit of trimming in the summer for her bikinis was all she undertook.

It may have been her gaze, it may have been what the boy was seeing and thinking, it may have been the warmth of the room but all of a moment Jennie saw movement, the penis previously at rest was now growing, moving, rising upwards and, as she watched, like some strange exotic fruit the foreskin peeled back all by itself exposing the shiny knob within. The jerking progress did not stop until it had reared up to its full height and was standing with the glans naked, smooth and undoubtedly shaped for one particular purpose.

“Sorry,” said the boy, “I can’t help it.”

“No, indeed,” said the man and he continued to draw

Jennie kept to her pose, despite the sudden development, indeed she was quite happy to stare at the boy’s very nice erection; it gave her a funny but not unfamiliar feeling. Despite the stillness of the sitters and the lack of any obvious stimulation there was no abatement in the erection. Perhaps just watching Jennie staring at his penis was enough stimulation for the boy. Jennie for her part really wanted to touch not just look.

The clock ticked and the fire kept up its steady heat. Really, thought Jennie, there was absolutely no need for clothes in this waiting room; they would just make you too hot. She wondered about the old man still dressed in what looked like very heavy and thick suiting. The boy’s penis, she noticed, was just slightly moving with his heartbeat; to have said it was throbbing would have been quite overstating the gentle movement. It really was a very nice penis, if the boy asked she would not be at all averse to sucking it. She doubted the old gentleman would mind, he clearly had a penchant for the naked form and had not been at all perturbed by the boy’s erection any more than she had. Its head really was so very smooth; she could imagine her lips sliding over it.

“I believe it is finished, yes that is it.”

Jennie looked up at the old man’s words. The drawing now covered the whole page, line after curving line flowed to depict their nakedness; the skilful use of shading brought out the curves, mounding and shape of their skin overlaying the complex interplay of bone and muscle beneath. The picture was not quite a pure representation of the subjects. Jennie had already seen the velvet choker and the tidier hair but not the slight adaption of the pose. Instead of the hand resting lightly on her right shoulder it had been drawn lightly fingering her right breast, which it had not been doing, and instead of her left hand resting on her thigh it was, instead, grasped firmly around the boy’s erect penis, a penis, what is more, that was coming, actually in the process of ejaculating, the semen pouring out and running down and over her hand. It was rude, it was crude, if you like, but so well done, almost as if you could see the movement, see the flow—it was undeniably erotic.

Jennie could feel a wetness between her thighs, “I was not doing that,” she said unnecessarily.

“No, my dear, indeed you were not: but don’t you think you should?”

The question did not offend any more than the drawing had. The drawing captivated Jennie not simply because she was the subject but because of its sheer eroticism done with such masterful execution. The old man could draw. There was absolutely no question that he was a master of the lead pencil and the nude study. The boy, too, was fulsome in his praise saying he so wished he could draw so well.

Quite properly the old man had signed his work—the name ‘Josiah Jarrow’ was inscribed with a flourish at the bottom right.

Jennie was more than happy to follow the lead both of the drawing and the old man’s suggestion; her hand reached out and closed. The boy smiled; she was happy to watch her hand at work. No longer was the penis at rest just faintly moving to the beating of the boy’s heart; now Jennie was moving it, and she could watch the long foreskin slipping over the shiny head and down again. The boy’s hand touched her naked thigh, the intention obvious.

Jennie now opened her thighs, opened them to the boy, opened them to permit his fingers to touch and to insert. It had been almost painful keeping them tight shut but she could no longer contain herself. The old man had stopped drawing now; he had rolled the drawing paper up and tied it around with a piece of red ribbon and placed it carefully beside him; he was sitting holding his cane and watching. Jennie could not but notice the slow sliding of his hand up and down the head of the cane mimicking her own actions.

The gas light fell between her thighs illuminating and revealing all; she knew the old man could see, see her most intimate places, see herself opening for the boy and she could see his close attention as the boy’s hand moved across her thigh to touch the slippery wetness of her aroused sex, his fingers to curl and enter.

The actual touch right there was a delight, her hand tightened around the boy’s penis as she felt his fingers walk, exploring her, entering her. Her hand sliding up and down his penis mimicked the action of a vagina, his fingers tight together and pushing into her, in turn, mimicked the action of a penis. Somehow such simulation did not seem sufficient, it would have to be the real thing, it would be intercourse. Across from her, on the other bench, the old man was watching, nodding in approval, his fingers sliding on the cane.

Jennie got up without in any way releasing her hold of the penis and turned to face the boy, his hand fell away and she mounted him sitting astride his thighs guiding him with her hand. There was no difficulty, the entry was smooth, penetration was deep and they began to move together, the boy, inevitably and pleasingly, suckling her breasts

The intercourse was good, the coupling pleasing to both, the motion easy and in tune. Over her shoulder Jennie glanced back at the old man. He was no longer fingering his cane, instead he had opened his fly and his fingers were now working his own penis. It was pleasingly large.

Of a moment Jennie was minded to watch, feeling both the boy’s own penis working within her whilst at the same time observing the old man at work. Perhaps he might like her help; she liked the prospect of working one penis with her sex and another by hand.

To the boy’s surprise Jennie did not stop on the rise, the rise of the piston like motion of their working sex, but kept going, lifting herself right off his penis leaving it wet and exposed in the cosy warmth of the waiting room. But it was not left uncovered for long, Jennie swivelled herself around and guided him back into her so that she was facing away from him, her bottom pushed into his stomach. Rather than suckle on her breasts he now clasped them in his hands, moving the nipples with his thumbs.

Jennie, for her part was able to watch the old man. Across the way he smiled at her, clearly enjoying the change of view, the working of penis beneath curly hair rather than rounded bottom and the sight of the now restrained breasts. With his free hand he got out a large spotted blue handkerchief. He made no move to stand and offer his penis to Jennie or hold it out for her to suck. Instead he sat there on the bench gently stroking as he watched the energetic bouncing of Jennie and the boy.

Jennie glanced at the clock, at last it seemed to be moving towards the time for her train but there was as yet no urgency, no need to conclude intercourse in a hurry. Not something she wished to do. She slowed; it would not do to make the boy come too soon. Jennie rested, fully impaled enjoying the squeezing of her breasts, the manipulation of her nipples, the feeling of being filled. Careful leisurely strokes were the better idea. Jennie smiled at the old man and let her tongue run across her lips in a slow ‘come hither’ fashion. The old man nodded in reply but did not stir, his hand, though, continued to stroke.

“I am most happy to sit here watching you join giblets whilst I toss off. I have a penchant for observation, for watching the conjoining of crinkum-crankum and plug-tail in such a delicious manner.”

The slow movement continued, Jennie finding she was unconsciously moving to the beat of the clock.

A hand left her breast and found its way between her thighs to play on her little button. Jennie began to move faster again, a slapping sound of flesh on flesh vying with the ticking of the clock; a moist sucking sound adding more as the special feeling built within Jennie and then she was coming, pushing hard against the boy, both his penis and fingers.

She rested, panting, the sweat running down her in the heat of the waiting room betraying the effort of her exertions. Opening her eyes she could see the old man had not yet come. “Have you come?” She whispered back to the boy.

“Almost,” he said.

Jennie began moving, the boy’s hands again on her sensitive breasts.

“Take his whirlygigs in hand,” advised the old man, his attention focused on the coupling.

“His what?”

“His ballocks, my dear.”

Jennie did just that, her hand slipped between her thighs and massaged the boy’s scrotum as she rode again, moving the egg shapes within. The result was soon in coming. There was a groan behind her and Jennie could feel the boy spurting inside her, she did not let up on her movement and as she bounced she saw the old man smile a little wider and lay his large spotted handkerchief across his lap before he too released his semen, it dripped steadily from the penis down onto the handkerchief as his hand moved up and down. Jennie was sorry she had not helped him.

The pushing of Jennie’s thighs ceased, there was no longer movement in the room, just the sound of the clock and breathing.

The time stood then at eight eighteen on the clock, less than a quarter of an hour to her train at 20:29. It was pleasant, though, in the aftermath and the glow of a recent orgasm to just rest; feel the shrinking of the penis she had so enjoyed within her, the feel of strong hands still holding her breasts and the touch of skin to skin. But inevitably there came that odd feeling, one which always made her shudder, when the penis is removed or, in this case, because of her position, fell away from her; she could feel she was dripping.

“The lobcock!” The old man spoke but rather quietly, as if to himself, as he began to tidy himself away into his trousers.

Jennie turned and for the first time kissed the boy. “I enjoyed that, but I think we should dress. We have a train coming. I’m relieved no one came—well apart from we three—of course!” They laughed, a shared joke, feeling comfortable with each other.

The old man made no move but watched the dressing.

The clock ticked and the hands moved towards the half hour.

“Might I keep the drawing?” Jennie asked picking up the rolled paper and looking at it again. The old man now seemed distracted as if only half aware of what she was saying, no doubt fatigued by, or lost in the remembrance of his recent orgasm. He half seemed to nod his head but certainly made no effort to stop her taking the roll of paper and dropping it into her bag. She was in a hurry to leave, the hands of the clock showing the time for her train and indeed could now hear it approaching. The boy opened the door, Jennie waved at the seated old man and they were out into the startling cold of the platform, away from the cosy warmth of the old stove, its ruby coals and the company of the old man, and back into the night.

The diesel train slowed as it coasted into the station, its carriage windows casting a yellow light on the platform. A door slid open and the conductor stepped out onto the platform seeming almost surprised by the presence of passengers. Nobody else got off and there was nobody else to get on. Jennie asked first if it was indeed her train. It was. Then, thinking of the old man, she asked when was the last train for Ponderton under Nettleham. Why was it so late?

The conductor looked at her with a sideways smile. “About 1959 I should think.”

“But that was half an hour ago. I didn’t hear it and I was here in the station waiting room. There’s an old gentleman waiting.”

The conductor was laughing now, “No, I don’t mean 19:59, just before eight o’clock at night, the last train to Ponderton under Nettleham was back in 1959, the line was pulled up then even before the Beeching cuts. And what waiting room? There has not been one here, at this station, as long as I can remember. In you get please.”

As one, Jennie and the boy looked back at the station building, back to where they had been but, just as the conductor had said, there was no redly glowing window with the acid etched legend, ‘waiting room’, no welcoming door into cosy warmth: just two crudely bricked up openings in a very sad and dilapidated old building. A very cold chill ran all the way down Jennie’s back.

They slumped speechless into seats and stared back at the cold empty building as the train began to move and gather speed, until it was lost to sight.

In the swaying, brightly lit train Jennie turned to the boy. He was white as a sheet.

“That did happen, didn’t it?” He said hoarsely.

Between her legs there was the undoubted sticky wetness of recent intercourse. That was real enough.

It was only later that Jennie remembered the drawing but, as she feared, it was not there, there was no rolled parchment in her bag, nothing at all. A disappointment, it would have been a confirmation that she had not been dreaming though both she, and her new found friend, knew it had not been a dream and, in any case, it had been a wonderful drawing. She was puzzled about the identity of whatsoever the apparition had been. Could she find anything? A Google search led to Wikipedia and thence to an entry all about Josiah Jarrow.

And that led her to an exhibition of his work. Her breath was quite taken away, not by the works which were impressive in themselves, but by the style and quality of the drawing particularly the nudes. “I understand,” she said rather quietly to the organiser, “that Jarrow did a number of more,” she hunted for a phrase, “racy drawings. I wondered if you had...”

The man looked at her rather oddly and took her across to a locked cabinet. Carefully he brought out a portfolio, “I think you mean these.”

‘Racy’ was not perhaps a sufficient description. Jennie was, to say the least, embarrassed to be looking at them with the exhibition organiser present but that was forgotten when she turned over the tenth sheet. It was, unbelievably, the very drawing she had sat for; there was no mistaking the location or what was portrayed. It was as well drawn as she remembered and there was no denying she was one of the two subjects or pretending it was other than very erotic—the whole scene reeked of sex. The organiser looked from her to the drawing and back again. It was obvious what he was thinking.

“My grandmother,” explained Jennie rather improbably.

“Hmm, well she modelled more than once,” the statement was enigmatic, but as he turned over further sheets Jennie saw herself once more clearly depicted in a place she did not recognise and with people she did not know.

But what really got to her was that her drawing was now dated and clearly so by the artist under his name. Oh yes it was the right day, the right month but the year was quite another matter—1897. It was unnerving, inexplicable and worrying for the future—did this mean she would meet this apparition, meet Josiah Jarrow again? Had she really seen a ghost or had it been rather the other way around?