The Door, Part Four – The Compartment

by CeeCee Mom

The Door and The Compartment are beginning to take on greater size and possibilities than I had anticipated when I first began to write them on Saturday. My style of writing is a combination of both memory and stream of consciousness. I do not begin, unless it is a memory — and even then I have only a basic theme I want disclose — with any preconceived notion as to where it is going to go. I let the story as if it already existed in time and space to slowly begin revealing itself. I think of sculpting in the same way, my piece is already there it just for me to remove the outer layers of chaff and rubble to reveal the piece hidden inside.

So gentle readers and possible writers, I have decided to let at least for the time, this to become an Interactive Story. I will stop for awhile needing to refresh my batteries. I don't want to become the "Kevin Costner" of erotic literature, endlessly replaying myself in roll, after roll, boring my readers to tears in the process.

Waking dreams can often be as jumbled as those that flit in and out of our consciousness as those that visit us during REM sleep. They flash from point to point and back again, leaving, if we were to somehow view them on film as incoherent blurs. It is kind of like driving down a brightly lit city boulevard at night, flashing neon lights, distant Billboards and other passing cars in the night play on us in a subconscious level that only the deepest levels of our brains can process.

This was my state of mind as we pulled from the station on our way to York. Head to the compartment window I held Katie close to me, my left arm circling under and around her, with my own arm just under and through her left arm pit area. My hand almost as if detached from myself, gently resting atop her small left breast as she snoozed softly on her own little dream world. I could hear and feel her soft rhythmic breathing her head resting on the side of my bosom she appeared content as kitten full of mother’s warm milk it would seem.

Tiff, the real Tiff of some hours past looks about the compartment and perhaps surmising all of us are asleep, raises herself from her catty-corner position and stands back to Kate and I. She reaches high to the overhead storage area and retrieves her day bag. As she stretches I can’t help but smile as I catch glimpse of her luscious round bottom, bare save for a the small red strip of thong I see tucked neatly like a thread between her young firm buttocks. Tiff’s short dress does nothing to convey modesty at this point and it is all I can do to suppress my smile.

Turning she looks about again almost as if she were a cat burglar casing her surroundings she places her little compact bag on the floor between Kate and I. The lid is open, back side in our direction, and while she gives the outward appearance of looking for something I become acutely aware of her ruse. Tiff’s eyes seem almost never to leave my Kate exposed crotch, her eyes flit as if in a hurry to do something, what I don’t know.

In her palm I notice a small object, at first, looking still through very slitted blurred eyes so as to continue my own ruse; I think she is holding perhaps a little compact mirror. Sensible enough perhaps the next stop is theirs and she wants to freshen up and is taking the opportunity to also get a closer look at my little pixie. Oh but now I see it’s a cell phone, OK reasonable enough ready to call and make sure perhaps that their ride or some friends will be ready for them. She fuses with the buttons for some moments, I’m such a technophobe I can spend dreadful amounts of time with anything but the most basic of commands so I understand. But she makes no attempt to call or retrieve at least anything other than perhaps text messages. Tiff then does the oddest thing which leaves me momentarily a little confused. Holding it her hand just to the edge of the protective shield of her day bag she begins to subtly wave the cell phone about in the direction of Kate’s exposed little middle area. Oh my God!!! I almost verbalize the words, the little pervert!! It’s a camera phone you idiot! I think to myself. I have no such technology myself only the basic flat rate model.

Now I am in a quandary, it’s one thing to peak and have the memories to drift back upon or perhaps share as I have with my Vignettes, but quite another to take pictures to share god knows where. Do I awake and make a scene? If I do my Kate will become aware of the dangers of the outside world and become possibly afraid of even other women. God I don’t want that it’s hard enough giving a young girl caution about boys and men. I don’t want her to lose that innocent nature she has still. Let her be a child, I conclude, let her make her own judgments based on what she sees and not from the outraged perspective of an over protective mommy.

The brain has the amazing ability to process complex decisions and choices in milliseconds, so before Tiff is even done taking her naughty postcard memories I conclude from that vantage point neither my face nor Kate’s will be visible, just another of millions of Up-Skirts which have become so popular since the advent of the first now crude and bulky Video Camera’s. Part of me even secretly thrills at the idea of Tiff and perhaps Marcy, and Lauren becoming aroused at some future dates to memories and panty shots of my Kate.

As I ponder this — all too resent memory, my detached finger rubs gently flicking at Kate’s little nipple feeling it become erect. As I gaze out the window I am not even aware of this act as my mind again drifts.

“The Compartment” story begs my mind for more details. Lauren contentedly sucking on Kate’s little pixie toes watches as their young Travel Girl boldly allows herself to masturbate in front of them, soft squeaks escapes Kate’s young mouth as she flicks at her aroused and now plump little bean. Lauren lets her right hand glide up Kate’s smooth porcelain leg and hooking her index finger through the tented panty crotch begins to slowly pull on it. Tugging, tugging Kate instinctively and willingly lifts her little round bum to allow, of her own free will the last vestiges of her modesty to be removed.