The Man on the Clapham Omnivorebus

The Man on the Clapham Omnivorebus
By JD joandoe@gmail.com
 
Description: Caught by the bus, wounded, horrified, Dylan needed an angel. No mortal alone could escape the insatiable public transport vehicle once snared. He got something else…

Content Codes: Hum - Humanoid, M/F -Het, Oral sex, Violence, Violence [wounded character and some scenery descriptions]

Disclaimer: This story contains content that should not be read by people under the age of 21. It is 100% fiction and has no bearing on reality whatsoever.  This is an original story and not a fanwork. In the unlikely event that you wish to re-use any part for another story, I ask only to be credited – no other prior permission is needed. I certainly make no profit from this story. Read the damn story codes. 

Part one of two: 

His name was Dylan MacFitzson. This linguistically unlikely moniker was the result of his father’s father legally changing his family name from Campbell during a widely-forgotten period as a comedian on the provincial stage. The old man had then handed it on like an heirloom to Dylan’s father along with a fake beard. His rather more established first name had belonged to his mother’s father. Dylan’s hair was a fiery ginger that grew thickly and scruffily down his pale lithely muscled shoulders. He’d finally filled out in his early 20s to a body he felt happy with, after an early growth spurt at 13 to six-foot dead in bare feet earned him a playground Lanky Mac nickname.  He considered himself neither religious, nor superstitious, happy to walk under ladders or give a magpie the V-sign. 

On the particular Friday night where we find him, he’d told his drinking companions in the tap house beside London’s Euston Station that it was more likely that he’d walk on Mars than see a ghost, or devil, or goblin, hob or otherwise. Yes, there had been clips getting onto the internet over the last few years, staged clips with special effects added, surely? The fat guy caught groping a woman at a metal gig, only to have her turn into some kind of wolf woman and leave him a screaming self-soiled mess without even laying a paw upon him. Or the few blurry seconds of a frankly under dressed blonde woman with black eyes, who supposedly defended a school from a van sized monster trying to eat the children with nothing more than a double ended dildo, only, so the ‘witness statements’ said, to have the supposed monster fade into nothingness after defeat. “You’d have to be mad”, Dylan had proclaimed with a wave of his beer glass, “to take any of that yank shite seriously”. 

And so, after two or three pints of beer at most – it was getting towards the end of the month – Dylan bid the handful of fellow postgrads farewell, slipped his earbuds in, and strolled mostly steadily to the stop where the number 88 bus would take him north through London. Despite having had a grandparent raised in three of the four countries of the United Kingdom, and the last one in Poland, circumstances had seen both his father and mother in turn raised in boroughs of London, and he saw himself as much a Londoner as anything. He’d mastered the usual abilities; avoiding eye contact on public transport, thinking of anywhere outside of the M25 as 10 years behind, and managing not to laugh in the face of any tourist from over the Atlantic who explained they were actually Scottish because some far distant ancestor ate a haggis once. 

Rain had been threatened, or ‘forecast’, as the BBC preferred to describe it, and so Dylan had put a long rain coat on over a turtle neck rugby top and light chinos before heading out earlier. The rain hadn’t appeared but there enough of a chill in the late-night air that he was glad of the extra layer of clothing. He’d rather hoped to get to the stop just before the bus, to avoid waiting, but saw one pulling out just as he approached. He tutted, and walked over to become the first of what would no doubt be a glorious London queue. Sat inside his pocket, his phone shuffled from one track to another as he kept an eye out for anybody who might of a mind to cause trouble. While far from being the roughest part of London, it still didn’t pay to be completely unwary. Thieving scrotes would take an opportunity almost anywhere in the city. Dylan caught sight of another approaching 88 bus from the corner of his eye. The once famous Clapham Omnibus, though only his Scottish grandfather had ever regularly referred to it as such in Dylan’s hearing. The old man had a comic monologue on the topic that, Dylan felt, gave some insight as to why he’d remained a provincial comedian. 

He stepped onto the bus, vaguely noting it wasn’t a standard London Bus model. The number and destination had been clear, though, so it ought to get him where he was going. He tapped his oyster card against the reader without paying attention to the driver, and headed down for a seat towards the back. Tired and mildly intoxicated, he failed to pick up on further signs that something wasn’t quite right. Had he looked more closely he might have noticed an unnatural sheen to the driver’s skin, or the way the man’s uniform seemed to cling oddly. He might even have entertained the thought that if he saw a picture of the fellow, he’d think him a resident of a most uncanny valley.  Dylan walked down the aisle to the seat with the best legroom by the emergency door. At his height, he didn’t like to end up contorted over a wheel arch. It was a little unusual to find the 88 so empty at that time, but Dylan chalked it up to other passengers all making it aboard the previous bus. The air on board was warm, almost humid, and so he slipped off his raincoat and laid it beside him before sitting down. 

“Home James,” he muttered, as the bus merged into traffic. 

Seconds later, he’d retrieved his phone from his pocket to check again the weather, and his emails. He was just opening up Reddit to no doubt be shown a screencap of a Tumblr post about something stupid some guy on Twitter or X or whatever the fuck it was had said about Facebook when a boneshaking judder rumbled back through the bus’s frame towards him. He looked up, wondering what could have caused it when there hadn’t been the bang of impact, looked back back down at, yes, a Tumblr screenshot, then sharply back up again. 

“Oh fuck me!”

The bus’s front window had become completely obscured from view, covered with a pulsing, oozing fleshy substance. Not healthy flesh, though, for pus seemed to ooze from suppurating gashes. It wasn’t the most disturbing thing he’d ever seen on a London bus at night, but it had to be somewhere in the top five. Ok, seven. Worse, the fleshy corruption was spreading down the sides of the bus, blocking out the side windows, coating the seats, the floor, even the ceiling. The interior lights went from bright white to unhealthy hues of red and yellow. 

“Ok, don’t panic, don’t panic Dylan. Some right bastard spiked your pint in the Tap. This isn’t happening. This is definitely not happening.”

It was not, he felt, very convincing. Dylan closed his eyes, squeezed them tight, and calmed his breathing. Repeated in his mind that he was just sitting on the number 88 bus, everything was fine, and he’d just had a funny turn. Then he opened them to see that the corrupting spread had reached down past his seat. Slipping his phone into the pocket of his chinos, he lunged desperately for the emergency escape door. Hallucination or not, he had to get off, out into the cold night air. He gripped the handle in both hands, squeezed, pulled, and felt pain, no, agony shooting into his fingers, his palms. 

“OH FUCK ME!” 

The pain throbbed in his hands, looking a bad case of scalding or even first-degree burns everywhere he’d gripped the handle, but feeling even worse than either. The door hadn’t budged. He kicked at it once, twice, trying to attract the attention of those the bus passed in the street, but it did no good. The corrupted flesh had finished spreading around the bus by then, covering the back window too. Dylan cupped his hands up before his chest, gauging his best bet might be to try charging the door, and throw himself hard enough at it to force it open and escape. His rugby shirt would hopefully be enough to protect him from further harm by the corrupted surface.  

“Let’s do this.” 

He did not, in fact, ‘do this’. The foot he’d previously kicked out with came up with some difficulty, the second was stuck fast to the oozing floor within its shoe. He nearly yanked his foot right out, and instead overbalanced as he tried to correct his stance. Dylan landed awkwardly back on his newly corrupted seat, his leg thankfully flexing enough not to sprain. He tried to rock himself up without using his throbbing hands to steady himself, but found his clothing sticking to the fleshy seat. Over the juddering of the bus’s engine, he felt sure he could almost hear… chewing? Twisting his neck, he saw teeth, misshapen mouths, forming in what had been a normal bus seat. Eyes wide he made another desperate attempt to pull away, and heard his clothing give way, not so much ripping as dissolving from behind. He managed to get back upright on his feet without using his hands, and both t-shirt and chinos dropped away, leaving only tartan boxer shorts, socks, and rapidly dissolving shoes clothing his person. 

The music signal from his phone became distorted, a discordant screeching. Nothing like the music he’d been enjoying, his earbuds spewed forth the screams of the damned. He shook them free, and let them fall away. The tinny cries sounded up from the floor as the earbuds slowly sank into the fleshy surface. Dylan noticed he’d lost height as his shoe soles dissolved. He managed awkwardly to pull a foot from one shoe, then the other, and stand atop what remained. His socks stayed behind, stuck inside. It wouldn’t be long until they were gone, too, along with the scraps of his shows.  

Not many minutes earlier Dylan had mocked the very idea that something akin to the horror around him could be real. It was like something out of a fever dream or psychotic hallucination, but the pain in his hands wouldn’t let him feel it as anything but terribly true. The foul smell that filled the ill-lit air felt like it would stick in his nostrils for the rest of his life, even if he did escape. He looked around, barely avoiding giving way to total panic. Further mouths had sprouted, gnashing, moaning, hungry. From between them the corrupted bus began to extend fleshly tendrils, whipping from side to side as they grew, reaching for him. The bus’s engine no longer sounded remotely mechanical, instead it echoed the screeching from his discarded earbuds. 

He needed a miracle. He got a fist punching a messy hole through the fleshy side of the bus, approximately where there should have been a window. The gap began to heal, to close, almost immediately, but a second fist came through, each hand tearing the hole wider. Too small for his broad shoulders, and the gap between was quickly filled by thick black hair; a head, then a body, pulling through the gap. The hole’s edges contracted, trying to close around the figure, but the corrupted bus couldn’t stop the intruder’s forced entry. He hoped they were friendly. He hoped he wasn’t mad, just imagining horror, and too-real pain; near-naked and screaming insanely at nothing aboard a normal number 88 bus.

“Please! Help me! I’ll do anything!”

The head came up as the legs came down inside the bus, and he found himself looking into eyes as black as the hair. It, no, she had vibrant red skin, redder than his painful palms, hair far longer than his, thickly swept back from her face, hanging down her back, and hoofs at the bottom of her legs. He noticed those before the black, claw-like, nails on her fingers, or the mid-riff bearing black leather crop-top she wore over a short looser-fitting skirt of the same material. The belt holding her skirt did double duty holding a sheath for what seemed to be a machete. He’d just pleaded with a demon for aid. 

“This is Hell. I’m in Hell. I don’t even remember bloody dying!” 

The demon smiled, toothily, mouth a little too wide,

“You yet live, mortal. If you want my opinion, this city is nicer than Hell,” she paused, considered, added, “Parts of it. Watch out!”

The last two words came as a questing tendril, closer than he’d realised, snagged at his boxers. It caught a hold of the dangling fabric, millimetres from the flesh of his leg. Dylan tried to pull away without shifting his feet from the fast dissolving remains of his socks and shoes. At the same time, he heard the clop of hoofs against the fleshy floor, and then the demon slashed her black nailed hand down. She freed him of the tendril’s grip; It pulled the remains of his last intact clothing back into the writhing mass further down the bus.  She followed up by lifting him off his shoes. Though shorter and slighter than he by far, she lifted him as easily as a mother her child, and manoeuvred him around to her back. 

“Hold on, mortal. The Omnivorebus can do little to harm me, but you are not so fortunate.”

“Omnivorebus? This is supposed to be the 88 to Clapham!” 

Dylan spread and then wrapped his legs atop each hip and locked them around the demon’s waist, sat just above her leathers skirted arse. He was unsteady though, and tried to grip her shoulders without thinking it through. The pain in his fingers, the palms of his hands, dulled by adrenaline and terror, shocked his arms again. He screeched, and only managed to keep his position because the demon held both of his legs in place.  Her long, silky, black hair hung down into his unnervingly bared crotch, while Dylan found his dick pressed against her expanse of surprisingly soft, warm skin below her crop top, and above her skirt. 

“Hunch forward, mortal and dig your elbows in. I’m far more durable than your mayfly clay. You won’t hurt me.”

The suggested position was uncomfortable and awkward as hell, but Dylan found his extra height allowed him to dig his elbows in without using his hands. It helped his balance, if nothing else. As he adjusted his position she moved, and he found his organ rubbing against that soft red skin, and being rubbed in turn by her hair. She swiftly moved her head around, tracking the nearest tendrils, the stages of the corruption around them. Each movement rubbed deliciously. 

“We can’t stay back here too long, another ten or fifteen minutes at most. The tendrils only stop there to give the victim a sense of hope as their hands or feet burn, but after a time the rear of the bus will simply push us into them and then they’ll drag you down beneath. I can’t get you out through the floor, or the ceiling, or the way I came in with your skin attached. So, we have to go down the aisle, through the tendrils. Understand?”

Oh shit! He was fully erect. If the demon wasn’t so engaged with the challenges around them, she’d surely have noticed. He managed to keep his voice steady as he replied,

“Right, whatever you say, mate! I just don’t want to die!” 

“Ok. There’s a weak point, at the front there. You see where it glows now? It has to be approached from the right distance and direction to be destroyed. I need you to stay firmly on my back, ok? I’ll move sharply and both my hands may be occupied.” 

One of the nearest mouths, opening in the flesh wall, belched. 

“Is this thing alive?”

“Hah, no, just animated by rage, pain, misery…  I couldn’t create life.”

He blinked down at the demon he was hunched over,

“You… you made this?”

The demon nodded, slightly, without looking back.

“Then why are you saving me? Are you actually rescuing me from this nightmare, or just setting me up for something worse?”

She sighed, “I understand your doubts, mortal, but shut your mouth and allow me to concentrate if you would live.”

There was emotion in her voice - sadness? Regret? Dylan shut his mouth. She unsheathed her machete left-handed. The blade caught the sickly interior lighting strangely, flashing strange patterns scored along the length. It seemed a weapon as unnatural as the corrupted bus, but handily severed the nearest reaching tendrils. Ahead, they grew thicker, teeming faster and further from the pulsing flesh-walls. It seemed the Omnivorebus knew which direction to protect from assault. The demon advanced. She targeted the nearest tendrils, opening a path only to be beaten back as more surged in. 

“It’s adapted far quicker than I expected. I made it too well.” 

Her hair flicked around, swishing from side to side as she scanned around for the nearest threat to cut back. It brushed against the sensitive head of his cock, the weight of it also pressed his tool into the skin of her back. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, just enough friction in just the right place against his manhood. Dylan felt like he was as close to death as he’d ever been, hunched on the back of a demon, and yet he was also hard as a rock. The pain in his hands dulled under the pleasure the demon’s hair, back, and movement inadvertently brought to him.

She dodged about, hoofs stomping over the slimy corrupted floor, and beautiful black hair brushed repeatedly across the sensitive crown of his organ. He dug his elbows in harder, tried to shift backwards, to at least stop him rubbing against her back. He nearly slipped off as a result. She grabbed his right leg with her empty hand, and pulled him back close. His cock slapped between them with greater force, foreskin retracted. He’d never imagined hair could feel good. 

“You’ve gotta sto-“

“Mortal, still your tongue! Do you wish to be dragged from your perch, and torturously consumed?” 

She darted forward. Quick, targeted strikes with the strange machete, the clawlike nails of her free hand. Even the soft grunts and curses as she struck sounded erotic in that moment. He bounced faster against her, as she fought harder, vibrations jarred through her back into Dylan. He ground his teeth, bit his cheek, tried every mental trick he could.  He couldn’t help it. If only he’d been able to squeeze off the shaft, or direct his organ somewhere else. He exploded, forcefully, up her back, her neck, into that mass of luxuriously soft black hair. Exploded, and didn’t stop, shooting what felt like ropes for longer than he ever had, even back in his horniest teenage years. He fell limp against her; a soft groan stuttered from his lips. 

She stood still. Utterly still. There were no vibrations, no lashing hair. The last droplets trickled from him. The tendrils began edging back closer, the path she’d started to force closing. She spoke then, slowly, clearly, and very coldly.  

“Mortal. Did you just… just ejaculate on me?”

He had. Very much so. He’d come so hard his hands had stopped hurting entirely. Any other time he might have been rather proud. 

“I’m s-so s-sorry! I didn’t mean to!”

He could feel his load, where it wasn’t clinging to hair, running down her back, coating his wilting shaft. Dripping freely. 

“You. Didn’t. Mean. To. Tell me, mortal, do you think I should have tried saying that before I was bound in chains, and cast down to Hell?”

“I really am sorry! I have… I mean I haven’t ever gone off like that before. It all just got too much for me.” 

The screeching engine of the Omnivorebus hadn’t changed, not really, but Dylan could have sworn it was laughing at him. 

“No, no, don’t apologise mortal,” voice as dripping with sarcasm as her back was with seed, “it happens to lots of guys on a first date.”

“Your hair-“

“It’s your hair trigger you should concern your thoughts about.”

She reached back between them with her empty right hand. He felt her flex her fingers and a sensation of heat, and then his spilled seed flowed faster down her back, sliding from her hair, every drop pooling into the demon’s hand until her back was dry from everything except the sweat of his fear. She pulled her hand back between them and held up his pooled ejaculate for a moment. He thought she was going to throw it into his face.  Instead, she flicked her wrist out with a dancer’s grace and sent his essence to splash in a long streak along the hungry wall of the Omnivorebus.

The tendrils on that side reacted immediately. They crowded around the mess, creating a gap almost big enough for the demon to get him safely down the bus. Freedom beckoned for just for a second, and then those on the opposite side of the bus surged in to fill it. 

“Of course,” the demon said, “slow digestion of potential life energy… not just the physical…”

Dylan didn’t have a clue what she meant. Demonic corrupted public transport was not really his field, although presumably the London Underground had an expert on the payroll if this shit was real. He was about to apologise again, to really drive home how bad he felt, when she stopped talking to herself and started urging,

“Again! Mortal, ejaculate again!” 

“W-wha?”

“Come for me if you want to live!”

“I need… 15 – 20 minutes. Maybe a nap?”

Some of the tendrils on the right-side wall were already losing interest in the mess the demon had splashed across them. They didn’t have time for his refractory period. She reached her right hand back between them again, awkwardly twisted. Only humans with extra flexible joints could have got it in the right place, but it appeared little effort to a demon. He felt her warm hand on his balls, then a sudden… energy; hot and cold at once. The effect was instantaneous; he was hard as a rock once again with no hint of over-sensitivity.

“Damn backwash… my binding of course, limiting fine control. There, mortal, that better be enough! Stroke yourself, now, I’ll catch it! Quickly, we have only minutes now to save you in any state in which you’d wish to continue living.”

She bounced about again, flicked her head, but it just wasn’t the same. The hair was a little too forceful, the friction in not quite the right place. Dylan dug his left elbow in, gripped harder with his legs, and reached down to his shaft. He gripped it, moved his foreskin just once, and then yowled with the sudden burst of pain. Whatever had distracted his brain from noticing his damaged hands for a brief period failed utterly. If the demon hadn’t again grabbed his leg and held his whole body to her with one hand, he’d have ended up sprawled across the hungry seats and digesting floor and lost more than his palms. 

“My hands, oh fuck, as soon as I gripped the pain came back! It… it was your hair, your back before, they just felt too good, but it doesn’t seem to work this time? I can’t, I’m trying but I just can’t.”

Moving with surprising grace for a humanoid with hoofs, she retreated further back in the bus, away from where the tendrils had extended, and sheathed her blade. She scuffed her hoofs into the floor, scraped lines through the corruption. Three, four, five times, scraping away the fleshy covering in a shower of sparks to form a small gap. The edges began to heal as the wall had when she first entered, but far more slowly. Then she squatted, slightly, and reached her hands back to direct his feet into the gap. He winched, expecting pain, but in the cleared section his feet did not burn. 

“Ok, ok, good idea! Leave me here. Go stab that weak point!” 

The Demon shook her head. She turned her back on the waving tendrils, and hitched her skirt up enough to kneel before him. When she spoke, he felt her hot breath against his erection.  

“Won’t work, mortal. If I don’t stay this close, the flesh will quickly repair over you. It may already be trying to adapt and pull your body down into the stomach beneath. Time for Plan S!”

“S?”

“For Shannon.”

“Huh? In Ireland?” 

“No. Mortal, I would fellate you. Do you consent?”

“HUH?”

The demon gestured exasperatedly. 

“Do you imagine we have eternity here, mortal? Please, if you would keep your blood in your veins, let me extract your semen.”  

Right. Probably not the worst offer ever made on London’s public transport network. Every second that passed drew him closer to being eaten by a monster bus. Tossing a handful of jism had reduced some of the threat, and another would apparently do the rest. Did he truly consent if the alternative was death? He’d leave that one to moral philosophers. Frankly, he knew fuck all about surviving an Omnivorebus, but he could see the logic, and wanted her to help him. 

“Please! Whatever you have to do, I just don’t want to die!”

“Death is what makes mortals mortal, but I swear I will keep you from it today. I do not believe the tendrils can reach us here, but call out if they adapt for that distance, too.”

Down one side, the tendrils were still distracted. Those on the other side were extending towards them, but still beyond reach. The demon had said the bus wasn’t alive, but it definitely felt like a malignant intelligence was blindly reaching towards him. What if it realised what she was doing, what if it didn’t respond to the next load? Maybe he should try prayer? He lost the ability to think rationally about his surroundings at that point because the demon took him into her mouth. 

“Oh. Wow!”

Hot, and wet, she manipulated his foreskin with her lips, lashing around the crown with a tongue longer and more flexible than any human’s. Men, many men, and not a few women, had freely given their souls to demons for pleasure like Dylan felt in her mouth. He wanted to hold her head, to stroke her hair, but his useless hands meant he could only gaze down into those black eyes. He noticed she was wearing black lipstick, a touch of eyeshadow. He noticed the way the muscles moved in her face as she sucked around his glans, felt her tongue against his retracted foreskin. She brought her hands up, fondling his balls, jacking the base of his shaft. 

Sloppily, loudly, humming a dark hymn, she bobbed Dylan. She took him right to the back of her throat, then almost out, then in again. He was utterly in the demon’s control but in that moment, he didn’t want to be anywhere else. The evening’s nightmarish experience was almost worth it to feel her flicking that tongue against his manhood. She spat him out, licked down his shaft, rapidly moved his foreskin back and forth as she nuzzled his tightening balls, and then swallowed him again.   

She hadn’t blinked, not once. His whole body shaking, stiffening. He knew he needed to come again, to open the way off the bus, but he didn’t want the feelings to end. The best sex he’d had – and he hadn’t had a lot, all things considered – paled in comparison to this demonic pleasure. Yet, this wasn’t hell; this was paradise, for long seconds. He was in her throat, her glorious gripping throat, her lips buried in his ginger bush, when he realised, she probably needed his seed in her mouth. He just managed to gasp out a warning, 

“C-com-coming!”

She whipped her head back, rattlesnake-fast, until just her lips sealed the very tip. She jacked his shaft with both hands. Enough, too much, Dylan began spurting again, pumping more hot semen out directly between her sucking lips. She kept using her tongue, teasing even more from him, she had to be draining him dry. Humming no longer, her checks flexed with suction. His legs buckled, dangerously close to dropping him onto a hungry floor, before she rose from her knees, and lifted up his body over shoulder. Suddenly his head, hair, and arms were hanging down, and his face was almost pressed into the leather wrapped curve of her buttocks. 

“That was amazing… thank you…” he whispered to the demon’s arse. 

He was vaguely aware of her drawing the machete again, even as stars continued to burst in front of his eyes. Blood flowed down into his head, as she turned 180 with him over her shoulder. She snuggly held his dangling legs in close to the front of her torso with the weapon-wielding arm, and did his best to hold them there. He could feel her other saliva slick hand gripping him across her shoulder; all his healthy weight, a six-foot manly frame, as if he was a toddler carried to bed. 

Over the still disturbing sound of the Omnivorebus’s engine he heard her spit with a demon’s force. The sound repeated once, twice, three times, and then she was running. She carried him down the length of the corrupted bus, bouncing like a ragdoll. Her weapon sliced the odd tendril not sufficiently distracted. It was working! They made it to the front, and one more slash sent a juddering impact through both of them. Bright light, the same shade of red as the demon’s skin, flashed down the length of the Omnivorebus. Dylan blinked away the dazzle to see it had become again just an ordinary, non-hungry bus. A moment later, and the demon shifted his weight down to stand on the no-longer digesting floor.

It was all too much for Dylan. He felt a wave of dizziness, blood pressure dropping, as blood drained back from his head. She caught him as he fell. He recovered a few seconds later to find the demon had managed to retrieve at least some of his possessions from the back of the bus – his phone and his keys. Too hard to digest quickly, perhaps? 

She had laid him flat along the aisle, and now stood with her hoofs on either side of his head. His eyes focused enough to see that she didn’t wear anything under the skirt, and then, blushing, he looked away. He sat himself up without using his hands. The pain was back in the palms, he noticed. If only he could keep coming until they healed. 

“Can you stand, mortal?”

He thought he could. 

End of part 1

Author’s note: I didn’t write shit for a few years, then did this. It’s not my best work, but it does feel good to have finished something after all this time. Thank you to those of you who made it to the end of part 1, and I hope that you enjoyed it Or some of it. I’ll respond to any reviews on the forum, and thank you in advance! I’ve gone for British English spellings and terms in this one, with it being set in London.

Citation: ‘The Man on the Clapham Omnibus’ the inspiration for this story’s title is a phrase of some history, having first been used in a legal setting in 1903, but originated in the 19th century.

Citation: ““Come for me if you want to live!” is a paraphrase of a line from… well, multiple Terminator movies, but originally The Terminator (1984).

Review reply thread: https://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/topic/17446-jaydees-originals-review-reply-story-discussion-and-additional-notes-thread/