First Class Train Travel

My head is buzzing. Mists swirl about briefly but clear when  I shake my head. I look around. You and I are sitting on a couch in a spacious, tasteful compartment in a train car. I brilliantly deduce this from the rocking and swaying we feel and the rackety-clack as the train makes its way along. You're sitting next to me, wearing a opaque pearl gray dress that hints at, promises, much more than it actually shows. Your smile is quick and mischievous, your eyes dancing with suppressed glee. What are you thinking?

The woman sitting across from us says something and I miss it, my head buzzing again. You're quicker on the uptake, though, and soon you're both in an animated discussion. The guy who's with her looks at me and we share a brief glance of amusement. The other fellow, sitting in the corner, has barely looked up from his iPad since entering the compartment a while back. Not much of a traveling companion, but then again, sometimes silence is nice.

The mists swirl about a bit more and the light outside unaccountably changes -- one moment high noon, the next giving way to the gloaming of approaching twilight. I reach for your hand, looking for substance, wanting to hold onto something, but discover that you're not sitting next to me anymore. Confused, I look at the woman across from us. She seems to read my mind and says that you'd gone to the restroom while I was out. "Out?" I ask, wanting clarification, but she simply nods.

I lean back and stretch out my legs. There's another hitch and suddenly you're next to me again, leaning up against me in a very pleasant way. Your face is full of high color, your eyes are intense, your lips parted. What were you doing in that bathroom, hmm?

You lean close and very shortly I find out, as you begin nibbling on my ear. "I think I may have made a mistake," you murmur to me, your lips exploring, caressing. Tiny electrical shocks run up and down my body; you know my ears are a weak point and always exploit it mercilessly. "You know one time is never enough for me. All it does is whet my appetite for more."

You're whetting my appetite, too, your hot breath on my neck, now licking lightly at my earlobe, nipping at the side of my neck, planting hot kisses along the curve of my collarbone. I feel your fingers trailing down my side, nails lightly grazing my ribs, my belly, making light scritching sounds as they reach the rougher fabric of my jeans. You rub lightly against the outline in my crotch. Heat at your fingertips. Heat against your wrist as you run it down between my legs. Heat in the palm of your hand as you take a firm grasp and squeeze, gently. I sigh softly.

Over your head and shoulders I can see the couple across from us. They are watching intently, not saying a word. Their faces are blank masks, revealing nothing, but their eyes are avid. She leans over and whispers something quietly and he nods, without taking his eyes off you as your explorations become more insistent. Her mouth parts and her tongue steals out to slide around her ruby red lips, just once, the only outward sign of anything at all. I glance sideways and see the guy in the corner shift a bit, aiming the camera eye of his gadget our way. His fingers tap, tap, delicately at its surface. Posting to Facebook? Stealing a shot of us and captioning it with "Compartmentalized Lust"? Filming a bit of video for a private reenactment later? Who knows.

Your hand is now rubbing eagerly against the spike in my jeans. I moan a low moan of need and you murmur something against my throat, an endearment, an exhortation, I can't tell. Your tongue darts out and outlines my Adam's apple; I shiver. I slide my free hand down your back, caressing. Starting my own exploration. You press closer against me and I feel the soft weight of your breasts on my arm. Maddening, fanning the flames. I wind my hand into your hair idly, liking its texture, then tighten a bit and use it to lift your head. You gasp slightly but then understanding replaces annoyance, when I lean forward and kiss you, hard.

I love the taste of your mouth. Your tongue is always ready for a duel, and it slides against mine, heat and wetness, making me want more, as always. I slip my free hand lower down your back, squeezing your ass on the way, then slide it around front and gently nudge your legs further apart. You murmur "mmm" into my mouth and help spread them. Meanwhile, your own hands are still rubbing and stroking me, now sliding along my thighs, now brushing against the throb in my jeans, now toying with the buttons on my shirt. I feel you pull a few of them loose, then slip a finger or two inside and trace random designs on my skin. Goose bumps seethe in your nail's wake.

Soft murmurs from the couple across from us, now. I steal a glance, but their expressions are still enigmatic, unruffled, their eyes pools of night. I get the strange feeling that they're grading our performance in their heads and will assign us a score whenever....this.....reaches its by now inescapable conclusion. She shifts in her seat, crossing her legs; he rolls his head slightly, as if to loosen tension, and then relapses into immobility.

I turn my head, now, and look more openly at the man in the corner. He gazes back tranquilly, not bothered in the least. A slight grin tugs at the corners of his mouth and he adjusts the gadget on his knees a bit, the fabric of his slacks rustling. That sound seems to snap you out of your trance and for the first time you seem to realize our audience; you follow my glance over to him and he nods, as if to say "Don't let me stop you, please." Swiftly, you look over at the couple, but they are no less inscrutable to you than they were to me. Wait -- there, a motion of his hand, a definite "don't mind us; continue" flick of the wrist.

Well, now. I squirm around a bit, freeing my other arm, and slide both hands down your back, hiking your dress up and over your hips, revealing that marvelous ass. I cup its roundness, take double handfuls of firm, warm flesh, glad (not for the first time) that you go bare beneath your skirts, dresses, slacks, whatever. Your scent rises, and my head spins again. The room darkens and everything slips sideways for a second or two; when I raise my head you're in my lap, you've pulled my shirt back and down over my shoulders to pinion my arms at my sides. You wriggle against me, rubbing your chest against mine. I can feel your nipples through the silken fabric, and I want to reach up, to caress; your hands curl around my wrists and hold them gently in place.

You pull back and then reach down between us. Now both hands are working busily at the snap on my jeans. In a trice the zipper is down. I raise up and you pull jeans and boxer briefs down; then your fingers are dancing around my hard cock, freed from its entanglement and now pointing angrily at the ceiling. Your touch is firm and cool, slippery and silken smooth along heated rigidity. I moan your name and you chuckle, low and soft, glancing over your shoulder at the still pair opposite you. Staring over your other shoulder at them, I see the color rising in their faces; they may be good at hiding emotion, but the more normal responses are hard at work, it seems.

You're hard at work too, pointing, adjusting, caressing. You hike the dress up further in the front and slide two fingers into yourself. I manage to worm shoulders and arms free of the shirt, and then I can wrap them around you, run fingernails down your back, dig furrows into you, marking you. I shudder all over as you pull your fingers out and then use them to rub your wetness all over my cock. Slick and shining, coated with your excitement, it throbs like a piston, like something barely in check.

My eyes close of their own volition as you lift and then settle firmly on me, something so familiar, the pulse of heat old as time, that feels new and incredible every single time we enact this little scene. The aroma is more piquant, the bouquet made more spicy this time by our watchers, who still have made little sign of their presence other than faint murmurings or rustlings as they shift in their seats. I open my eyes and stare straight at the woman behind you, who nods in approval as you begin the age-old rhythm, hips pumping slowly, so slowly.

Heat. Delicious, delicious heat, radiating outward from my groin. My heart pounds. My lips close on a nipple and you gasp my name. Deliberately, I close my teeth and this time you hiss sharply...but your hips' slow pumping actually speeds up. I slide one hand down to your ass and clench it there, grab a handful, an anchor to help hold you down, keep you from sliding off the earth, balanced precariously on the precipice of pleasure.

Mists swirl through my brain again. Grunting angrily, I shake my head to clear them; when things resolidify, you're no longer in my lap. Instead, I've rolled on top of you, pressing you down with all my weight. Your legs have come up and are over my shoulders, ankles hooked round my neck. Steady pressure there urges me onward. Now it's my hips that move with slow deliberation; I pull back, slide forward, pull back, slide forward, an aching grinding rhythm that's making us both moan and whimper.

I shift a bit in response to pressure from your arm on one side, realizing that you're moving my shoulder out of the field of view of the camera in the corner, knowing that it must be fixed on your pleasure-dazed face, the hair straggling over your eyes, sweat beading on your forehead, mouth slack and open, wet with lust. I'm transfixed by it myself. You've given yourself over to it, let the sensations take control.

Control. We've never been out of control like this, coupling shamelessly, rutting like a pair of animals in full view of three total strangers. I can feel their gazes traveling over our bodies, fixing on my cock as it emerges briefly from your tight cunt before sliding home again, watching with slow approval the swaying of your breasts with each thrust, trailing down my back as you score red welts on it with your fingernails. I feel you clutching at me, your excitement shifting into a higher gear, your pussy opening still further, inviting me to use it, take it ruthlessly and roughly.

It's not just your pussy that's urging me, either. Your voice reaches me through the fog that's closing in again. I hear the words that never fail to wring me out and drive me wild with lust, those filthy phrases you love to tease and taunt me with: "Oh yeah. Give me that big cock, baby. Pound my hot pussy. Mmmmmyeahhh, ohh yeahh. Fuck me so good." You don't stop as I wrap both arms around you and pull you upward, lift you off the couch till we're in a bridge position. I mold your body to mine, thrusting harder, feeling your wetness splash and drool down your thighs and mine. I gasp with each new thrust. The pleasure builds and builds and builds.

One more thought flashes, dimly, in my head: let's give them all a real show for the finish. With that, I pull back and out of you. Your eyelids fly up like windowshades and you moan a slow "Noooooo" but it's cut off; I wrestle us around until you're on my lap once more, this time sitting on me as if I were a chair, both of us staring, defiantly, in turn, at our watchers. They smile and nod encouragingly, drinking in the sight, licking their lips now: at last, clearly and obviously enjoying what they see. And they should -- your pussy clenching around me as I thrust upward and into you, my hands squeezing your breasts, your fingers alternately stroking your clit and the length of my shaft as it emerges briefly at the end of each stroke. Your head rolls back on your shoulders and a low "aaaaaaaaaaaaa" of pure sensation emerges; through the haze, I register that you're coming, one of those full-body orgasms that leave you as limp as a wet dishrag. Your body gets heavier in my arms before your head snaps up again and you start bouncing up and down on me, forcing yourself down to meet each upward thrust, growling deep in your throat, a repeated refrain: "Come on. Come on. Come on. Oh, come on."

I feel stretched to the breaking point. Ribbons of light spin and twirl through my head. My cock twitches, my balls tingle, and almost before I can even gasp out your name, I'm coming myself, spurt after spurt, mauling your breasts hard enough to leave bruises, grunting a low "uh, uh, uh, uh" sound in time with your own exhortations. Your hips slam down on me in hard approval, your body pressing against me in unutterable zeal. I thrust and thrust up into you, the mists rising again, wanting only to prolong this agony, this ecstasy, this far too temporary union. The fog drifts higher and soon it covers us completely.

I open my eyes and sit up. Alone, in my hotel bedroom. Tangled sheets, damp with perspiration, wet and messy with sticky precum. My cock throbs angrily, annoyed at having been denied its release. I sigh, sinking back on the pillows, heart still beating hard. I close my eyes and say your name, emptily.

I swear I can still see their admiring gazes, can still smell you, hear that low moan of delight as you came and came hard.

A dream? Or a memory?

-- PB