The Train, Part I
(a true story, as most of my accounts are…)
She boarded as instructed, on the last Coach Class car, placed her luggage on the rack, and walked down the aisle, searching for him. He was there - in the middle of the car - on the aisle - in an empty row of seats. As she sat in the window seat next to him, his explicit email instructions rang in her ears and made her already-wet pussy clench and lubricate anew….
“Not a word. I do not know you, and you do not know me.”
She had primped for him. She loved the way he looked at her when she primped. Like a kid in a candy store with a $100 bill. It always made her feel sensual, lusted after, and owned in the way only he could own her - body, mind, and soul. Her outfit was to his specifications - lace bra, silk blouse, no panties, dress slacks, and fuck-me heels. Complete with the modification he had required.
Today, she received no such look, no recognition. She placed her sweater on her lap as instructed, and stared out the window, doing her best to ignore her hardened nipples straining under her bra and to control her trembling upper thighs. She waited.
And then - his hand. Under her sweater. Slowly approaching her crotch, along the erotic path defined by her spread thighs - presented as instructed. She swooned silently, loving the way he could trail his fingertips on her body and make her come alive in a multitude of ways.
He continued his erotic journey until his hand reached her crotch. She steeled herself, vowing not to whimper or to embarrass herself in front of an occasional passer-by with an involuntary undulation of her hips. His fingers continued to trail to the folds defined by her pussy lips. And then - his diabolically decadent modification to her wardrobe came into play.
He pushed aside the wool gabardine of her slacks, and traced her wet pussy lips in the open crotch he had her create with a seam ripper prior to the trip. Gently, ever so gently, he traced the length of her pussy, sliding her pussy juices up and down her lips. He continued, working his middle finger into her wet gash as his index and ring fingers slid along swollen lips.
She knew her wetness betrayed her arousal. She closed her eyes under her sunglasses, but he knew from her countenance and her body language that she was in the midst of the most sublime erotic torment at his hand. Her thighs continued to tremble under her sweater, amplified by his movements.
He spoke to her casually, as any stranger on the train might do to make small talk. She did her best to respond, but his erotic onslaught soon turned to her clit. As he deftly pulled back the hood and swirled his lubricated fingertip on her swollen pearl, she found herself stopping abruptly mid-sentence to try and compose herself. She was no match for his devilish ministrations.
“Torture takes many forms, girl.”
His favorite saying was ringing in her ears as the train ride morphed from station announcements to silent near-orgasm proclamations - with him edging her to the brink, only to take his hand away at the peak of her trembling - just before she capitulated without his consent. All told - she endured over an hour of his technique, feeling him play her as he might play his guitar.
And then - their stop. Her conference awaited her, and there was no telling if any professional colleagues would be traveling by train. Again - he was flawless in his execution. He disembarked close enough to her, yet maintained a modicum of distance. Of course, this only made her wetness trickle down her thighs inside her pants - to have him so close - and yet so far. How she craved him right now.
The hotel was minutes from the station by taxi. As she got into her cab, he asked if she might share a ride. She agreed, and the driver placed his luggage alongside his in the trunk.
As the cab pulled away from the curb - he suddenly continued his onslaught of her wet cunt. She clutched, sweater thankfully in her lap, and scanned the mirror to see if the cabbie noticed she was being fingered mercilessly by the “stranger” in her cab. He did not. Sir was very, very good at this.
Once inside the lobby, he drifted towards the elevators while she registered for her room. He stepped in behind her without a word and stepped off on her floor, keeping his distance. She walked to her room, slid the keycard, opened the door, and….
…he was there in an instant - pushing into the room behind her, closing and locking the door. When she saw the hunger in his eyes, built up over the past 90 minutes, she nearly melted to the floor. He took her by the hair, and walked her to the center of the room - at the foot of the bed.
(to be continued)
Caption © Fringe of Darkness, 2012
Image - property of photographer