Chapter 8: Clubs are Trumps!

All the courses and interviews I was attending had me travelling between Catterick, Darlington and London regularly, and it was one of the sergeants of 2RGJ who told me about the 125 Club, that, supposedly, operates on the East Coast railway line.
The main line express trains from London King's Cross to Edinburgh, the so called East Coast line, travel at 125 mph for most of the route, except where the track has not yet been upgraded. To have sex in a 1st class coach's toilet, with the train travelling at maximum speed, or when travelling at speed over a series of points and connecting rails at a junction, which seemed to please the ladies even more, was to join the 125 Club – a land based relative of the Mile High Club.
The myth surrounding this exclusive club, as far as squaddies were concerned, centres on the belief that on late evening trains from London, heading north, female executive type, relaxing after a hard day of work in The City, would pick up a squaddie travelling to Darlington (the connection for Catterick Camp), and shag him in the 1st class carriage toilet as the train rushed through the night at 125mph.
It was Yogi Beddows who told me the tale; he had been a corporal with me in 3RGJ, and I didn't think he was pulling my pisser, but I admit it did seem far-fetched. It was when he told me how the mechanics of it worked that it made more sense.
First, the squaddie would have to be travelling 1st class himself. What you did was to upgrade your travel warrant from 2nd class to 1st. You then sat in a compartment of a 1st class carriage where there was an executive, or high class, type of woman, and if the female fancied you for a shag she would leave her magazine, usually The Cosmopolitan, open at an advert for bathrooms or the like, when she went for a slash.
You followed her out of the compartment about a minute after she had left, met her in the bog, and shagged her senseless – bish, bash, bosh - job done.

Well, I figured it was worth a try, and the next time I travelled to London, to attend the new medical field equipment course, I paid the difference for a 1st class seat. Even if I didn't get to join the 125 Club at least I got a comfortable seat, and was treated more like a human being than an animal in transit, which is how 2nd class passengers are thought to be. I was disappointed that first time as I didn't get picked up. In fact, there wasn't a female in the entire carriage I was sitting in, when coming back from London. However, a fortnight later, when travelling back from London after attending a recruitment application interview at MoD, I struck lucky.

It was the 8pm from Kings X to Edinburgh on a Tuesday. I got to my compartment and was pleased to see a middle aged, executive type, female siting in a corner seat reading the Cosmopolitan. She looked up as I entered and gave a smile; not a come-on, just a smile. There were two businessmen sat in the two other corners so I picked the vacant corner seat, opposite the woman.
She must have been in her mid 40's, but was in good shape, her breasts jutting out the jacket of the business suit she wore. Her legs were shapely and well on show, as her skirt had ridden up to mid-thigh, due to the way she was sat in her seat. I gave the legs an appreciative glance, which I think she must have seen, but she didn't try to pull the hem down.

Dead on time the train pulled out of the station, and I wondered if I was going to be lucky and join the club, or was it just an urban myth put about by lecherous squaddies. The train soon picked up top speed and rushed through the gathering gloom. Peterborough was the first stop, where one of the businessmen got out. The other one was left snoring in his corner as the train pulled out of the station, and it was then the woman suddenly got up and made her way out of the compartment. She had left her magazine open on her seat, and I saw the page had an advert for showers. As she passed me she said quietly, in a Scottish accent. "One minute; left hand toilet."
Never did a minute pass so slowly and I practically ran to the toilet when the time came. It was engaged of course, and as I tapped gently on the door it swung open momentarily, allowing me in, before it shut behind me and the bolt was re applied.

The woman had taken off her jacket, showing that she had a fantastic pair of tits. I don't know if they were silicone enhanced, but they were certainly full bodied, and tipped with dark nipples that showed through the thin blouse, and equally thin bra, that she wore.

"Get yer breeks doon, laddie, sit on the bog and hurry it up. I want your prick fully up and in me, and me nearly coming, when we hit the points outside Grantham!"
Not the most romantic of invitations, but I did as ordered. I was nowhere near rampant, but that soon changed when she knelt between by thighs and gobbled my prick as if she hadn't eaten for a week.
She whipped a johnnie out from her handbag, and with practised hands rolled it over my now fully erect prick.
"Nothing personal, hen, but I don't ride bare back with anyone I've not been introduced to." She smiled as she said it, so I knew that was the case, and any way she would be as poxed-up as a Cairo whore if she made a habit of shagging strangers without taking precautions.
She quickly slid out of her knickers – Harvey Nichols, I recognised from Emma's wardrobe–hefted her skirt up around her waist, got astride me and slid snugly down the length of my todger, bottoming out on my bollocks with a grunt of satisfaction.

"You stay still hen, I'll do all the work," she ordered, then started to slowly work up and down my shaft. She had well-padded hips, allowing me two good handfuls of flesh to catch hold of, and as she pushed herself deeper into me I rotated her hips, and did my pelvic clench.
She had shut her eyes when she first slid down my pole, but my rotary action made her open them up – wide.

"Yeah hen, that's gradely." I knew that meant OK, so as she speeded up I clenched and rotated in unison with her. When we hit the points outside Grantham we were going like a train (!) and she came, just as we rattled over the junction.

The vibrations of the carriage wheels, juddering over the points and rails, were transmitted through the bogies, through the chassis of the coach, then through the floor of the bog, up through my feet, legs and trunk, and my rock rigid penis, and finally into the Scottish lady's gripping twat. The train might not have been on time, but our joint climax certainly was. She gave a howl of release, then practically sucked my face off, shuddering in pleasure as I gave a few upwards thrusts to finish off.

"Is this your first time, hen?" She had got off my wilting prick, pulled her knickers on and applied her lipstick before I had even got my breath back. I nodded.
"Welcome to the 125 Club. Where you headed?" I told her 'Catterick Camp.'

"Ah, that's great, I'm going all the way to Edinburgh, so I will go all the way with you to Darlington. We can manage another fuck, or two, before we get there. You can suck my tits next time. I can see that you admire them."

She was right, I did – and we did manage another two fucks, this time in the baby changing room, which had a bit more room than the bog. We first shagged with her sat on the counter; her legs around my waist and her tits in my face. Sucking on her nipples caused them to swell up in my mouth like a hitch hiker's thumb. I next arse fucked her, with her bent over the counter, her arms braced on the surface. It sounded as if she had enjoyed both her holes being reamed in equal measure. I left the train at Darlington utterly shattered.