Chapter 2: The Double Header
The greasy leather of the couch met Thomas’s cheek, its smell of age and sweat filling her nose. Sir Topham Hatt’s fingers were inside her, a slow, testing push and pull that made the muscles in her thighs quiver. She could feel the rough texture of the woman’s suit trousers against the back of her bare legs.
“Choo choo, Thomas,” the controller crooned, her breath hot on Thomas’s ear. The fingers curled, a deliberate pressure that made Thomas gasp. “You’re already lubricated. Good engine. But we need a full systems check.”
The shed door creaked open, a slash of brighter, sickly yellow light cutting across the floor before it thudded shut.
“Well, well. The famous Number One.”
The new voice was a low, amused drawl. Thomas tried to turn her head, but Sir Topham Hatt’s hand on the back of her neck held her firm.
“Mavis. Rebecca. On time.” Sir Topham Hatt didn’t stop the movement of her hand. “Thomas requires a full capacity inspection. The tunnel won’t rebuild itself.”
Footsteps echoed—a sharp, confident clip of heels and a lighter, almost bouncing tread. They moved into Thomas’s limited field of vision. First, the purple knee-high boots, then the sleek black bodysuit, silver accessories catching the dim light.
Mavis crouched, her eyes level with Thomas’s. She had a sharp, pretty face, a smirk playing on her lips. “Look at her. All hitched up and ready to be loaded.” Her gaze traveled down Thomas’s body, past Sir Topham Hatt’s moving wrist. “Pitiful little steam engine.”
“Be nice, Mavis,” came the cheerful rebuke. Rebecca, in her sunny yellow bodysuit, knelt in front of the couch. She smelled like vanilla and something artificial. She reached up and gently took the top hat from Thomas’s head, tossing it aside. “Hello, Thomas. We’re going to make you really useful.”
Rebecca’s fingers, soft and insistent, guided Thomas’s head forward. The bright yellow nylon of her bodysuit was tight against her crotch. Thomas resisted for a second, a shiver of humiliation racing through her, but Sir Topham Hatt chose that moment to thrust her fingers deep, a punishing curl that stole Thomas’s breath. Her mouth fell open in a silent cry, and Rebecca took the opportunity, pressing Thomas’s face firmly into the hot, musky fabric.
“That’s it,” Rebecca sighed, her hips rolling forward. “Inspect the cargo. Make sure it’s all in order.”
Thomas couldn’t breathe. The world narrowed to the smell of Rebecca’s cunt through the nylon, the relentless fuck of Sir Topham Hatt’s fingers from behind, and the metallic snick-click of a buckle being undone.
Mavis stood up behind Sir Topham Hatt. Thomas heard the rustle of clothing, the low, thick sound of silicone being smoothed with lubricant. Her heart hammered against the leather couch.
“Make room, controller,” Mavis said, her voice all business. “Time to test the main coupling.”
Sir Topham Hatt withdrew her fingers with a wet sound, leaving Thomas feeling brutally empty. The cold air of the shed hit her exposed flesh. Then something else, blunt and massive and insistently slick, pressed against her.
It wasn’t a slow entry. Mavis didn’t believe in slow. With one hand gripping Thomas’s hip hard enough to bruise, she shoved the strap-on forward, burying its length in a single, tearing thrust.
Thomas screamed, the sound muffled into Rebecca’s bodysuit. Her body arched, a bowstring pulled taut. It was too much, a searing, stretching fullness that bordered on pain.
“Fucking tight,” Mavis grunted, adjusting her stance. She pulled back almost all the way and slammed home again. “Like a virgin tunnel. Gotta break you in.”
The rhythm was brutal, a piston driving into soft earth. Each thrust jolted Thomas forward, grinding her face harder into Rebecca. Rebecca’s hands were in her hair now, holding her, encouraging her.
“Use your tongue, Thomas,” Rebecca moaned, wriggling against her. “You gotta lubricate the tracks.”
Thomas, drowning in sensation, obeyed. She licked at the damp nylon, searching for the shape beneath. She found a hardness, a bud, and circled it with the tip of her tongue.
“Yeah. Just like that.” Rebecca’s voice was getting higher.
From behind, Mavis was setting a punishing pace. The slap of flesh against flesh, the creak of the strap-on harness, the wet, sucking noise of each penetration filled the oily air. Sir Topham Hatt had stepped back, a silent overseer, her hands clasped behind her back as she watched.
“Boxcar one is full,” Mavis announced through gritted teeth, her thrusts becoming shallower, faster. “Loading boxcar two.”
Her hand, slick with lube or sweat, slid down the cleft of Thomas’s ass. A thumb pressed, just a hint of pressure, against her other hole. Thomas went rigid.
“No,” she whimpered against Rebecca, the first coherent word she’d spoken.
“Yes,” Mavis corrected, and the thumb pushed in, just past the knuckle.
The double invasion was shattering. Thomas felt split open, owned, a piece of machinery being serviced. The pain blurred into a dark, shocking pleasure. Her own cries were lost in Rebecca’s moans as her tongue worked faster, desperate for an anchor.
Mavis’s thumb worked in time with the strap-on, a crude, alternating rhythm. “Gotta pack every inch,” she panted. “No wasted space. This is a big job.”
Thomas was losing herself. The shed, the women, the ridiculous costume—it all melted into a throbbing nexus of sensation. A coil was winding tighter and tighter in her gut, a pressure building with every slam of Mavis’s hips, every circle of her thumb.
Rebecca suddenly convulsed, a high, thin cry escaping her. She ground herself against Thomas’s mouth, her thighs trembling. “Choo choo!” she gasped, laughing through her climax. “Choo fucking choo!”
The sound, the phrase, acted like a trigger. The coil in Thomas’s core snapped.
A wave of raw, mindless pleasure detonated through her. Her back bowed violently. A ragged, broken scream tore from her throat, utterly inhuman. “CHOO CHOO! CHOO CHOO!”
She chanted it, sobbing the words into Rebecca’s soaked bodysuit as the orgasm ripped through her, wave after brutal wave, each one magnified by the relentless, filling thrusts from behind. Her vision whited out. She was nothing but a vessel, a useful engine being filled to overflowing.
Mavis gave three final, deep drives and held herself there, a low groan escaping her. She slowly pulled out, leaving Thomas shuddering and hollow.
For a moment, the only sounds were ragged breathing and the distant drip-drip of a leaking pipe.
Sir Topham Hatt stepped forward again. She placed a hand on the small of Thomas’s back, where sweat had pooled. Thomas flinched at the touch.
“Adequate,” the controller said, her voice devoid of warmth. “The initial load has been accepted. But the real work hasn’t started.” She leaned down, her lips almost brushing Thomas’s ear. “The boring shafts are next. They’re much, much bigger.”
She straightened up, addressing the room. “Rebecca, hose her down. Mavis, check the harness on the flatbed. We need her hitched and ready for the heavy freight in ten.”
Thomas lay collapsed over the couch, her body humming, utterly spent. The yellow ‘1’ on her ass was smeared. The roller skates on her feet felt like anchors. She heard the women move away, discussing couplings and weight distribution as if she were just another piece of rolling stock.
Which, she realized with a dull, final ache, she was.