Strangers on a Westbound Train
But the darkness outside the window wrapped the two of them in its secret embrace, the constant bump-bump of the train on the tracks had a hypnotic effect, when you listened to it. It sounded like a mechanical heartbeat—bump-bump, thrump-thrump. . . . And that heartbeat matched his own. And hers. He touched her left breast, and her heart was racing. She wanted him. And he wanted her. And it was all just a secret, a tryst, a transitory thing as they sped along through the Iowa cornfields, the few visible stars peeking through the cloud cover, watching them, eyeing them like voyeurs.
You only live once, he thought to himself. Go for it.
"Turn around. Rest your arms on top of the seat," he told her." I'm gonna take you doggie-style."
She kissed him, lingering, lingering, and then did as told. He settled in behind her, lifted her short skirt, and nearly passed out at the sight of her black lace panties, her perfect, taut butt, her long, shapely legs. With trembling hands, he pulled her panties down, sliding them off her. Not wasting any time, he kneeled on the edge of the seat, nudged her forward a little, making sure there was room enough for both of them. He didn't want to fall back off the seat the next time the train lurched.
He positioned his dick at her opening, and slid inside. She threw her head back, and he kissed her. She was soaking wet, and very tight. It was unspeakably arousing to him that his dick was the biggest one she had ever accepted. It was almost a miracle. That his six inches felt so massive to her. . . .
He had to grab the back of the seat for support, so his hands were not able to roam her body as he fucked her. But he kissed the back of her head, smelling the perfume of her coal-black hair, nibbling her ears and neck. They got into an easy rhythm, their hips gyrating together. Her vagina felt like a vice, and he worried he'd come too soon. When she used her vaginal muscles to squeeze him, he was sure he'd lose control. But he didn't.
Three seats away, the old woman still stared at them. Thankfully, no one else close by seemed to take note of what they were doing. But the old lady was boring holes in them with her eyes. He worried that she'd get up in a moment and report them. It was enough of a distraction that he paused with his thrusting.
"Fuck, don't stop," she moaned. "It's just getting good."
"Sorry," he said. "That old bat is really creeping me out."
"I haven't even been looking at her," the woman said. "Just forget about her."
"I can't. She's screwing up the mood. You mind if we change positions?"
She shook her head.
He backed away, sat back down by the window, and he motioned for her to sit on his lap. She did, with her back to him, and quickly positioned herself just so . . . sliding onto his dick.
"Mmmmmm," she purred as he entered her again. Now his hands were free, and now they were facing front. The old woman might still be glaring at them, but . . . out of sight, out of mind. He reached in front of her, slid his hands underneath her shirt, cupped her small breasts.
She wasn't wasting any time, bouncing up and down on his penis. The incessant bumping of the train actually served as a stimulator of sorts, adding to the grinding, steady rhythm. He looked out the window, and saw the two of them reflected in the dark glass. He could see her hair spilling over her shoulders, in front of his face; could see her long legs draped over his, the bulky, moving mounds of his hands covering her tits, beneath her shirt. He loved watching them like this. It was almost like looking in a mirror. He thrust up as she pushed down, and the sensations were out of this world. She was so tight! Joyce had been tight at first, too, but not like this. The friction was sending bolts of pleasure through him. And apparently he wasn't alone. She was panting and moaning—loudly enough that he worried someone might wake up and join the old lady in watching. But they were past the point of no return. He didn't care who watched. He needed to cum inside of her, needed to make her cum, needed to bring her pleasure.
"Oh fuck, fuck!" she said. "God, yes. That feels so fucking good."
He pinched her nipples, thrust in to the hilt again, and yanked on her hair. She turned her head sideways and he leaned in to kiss her. Her tongue lashed and thrashed, and they made love to each other's mouths as they had sex. She moaned into his mouth, and he moaned into hers. Never had sex been this erotic with his wife. Not even close.
Suddenly her body shook, the muscles in her vaginal wall tightened on his dick, and she threw her head back. Before she could let loose with a shriek, he put his left hand over her mouth. She did scream, but his hand muffled it. Surely no one heard it. . . .
"Uhhhh," she said, as she sank back into his chest. "I haven't cum like that in so fucking long."
But he didn't intend for that to be a one-time thing. They still had a night to kill, and many orgasms to come.
"Ha. Not bad for an old man, am I?" he said.
"Not at all," she said. "You can definitely teach my husband a few things."
His ego sufficiently stroked, he resumed thrusting inside of her. She responded by kissing him.
Again he looked around the car, wondering who was watching. He didn't turn around . . . didn't want to see old Blue Hair's glare. But he scanned the people in front. Most still seemed oblivious. But several seats ahead, the little boy who had been pestering his parents earlier was grinning at them. He had his elbows resting on the top of his seat-back, and his eyes were wide. Great. Just what they needed. A six-year-old perv.
He winked at the kid, and placed his thumb and forefinger together. The kid responded in kind. Hopefully he'd be so fixated watching them that he wouldn't bother his parents.
He looked to his left. Sitting in the seat next to them were two guys, a gray-haired man who sat by the window (and who appeared to be asleep), and a young, blond guy. The blond guy was awake. Was he ever! He was looking at them, his pants down, his dick (and it was a big dick) out. He was jerking himself off as he watched.
They were passing through a town now, the street lights illuminating the train car's interior. They whipped past a small movie theater, a post office, a gas station. Small-town America. He wondered how many guys in this town, this small cluster of homes nestled in the middle of the Iowa farmlands, were getting lucky tonight. How many were bringing their woman to orgasm even now? How many were frustrated, their wives telling them, "Not tonight, dear. I have a migraine." How many of them had gone to the bar a couple of hours ago to get hammered, to drink away their troubles? How many slept in bed, alone, wishing for a soft, smooth body to embrace . . .?
He didn't know, couldn't know, of course. But what did it matter? He was the lucky one tonight. Fate had smiled on him, and he was taking advantage of the opportunity. He wanted to cum himself now, he wanted to cum long and hard. And he was close. Very close.
He thrust in, as deep as he could go, then pulled out. In, and out, in and out. The woman was panting again, gasping, moaning, writhing on his lap.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she kept repeating.
He reached out in front and stroked her long, sinewy thigh. She had such magnificent legs. With his other hand, he yanked on her long mane of hair, until her head was thrown back, looking up at the ceiling of the train car.
And the whole time, the drone and thrump of the engine, the wheels on the tracks, as the train rushed ever westward. It lurched, and she was nearly thrown forward. But he held her in place, pulled her into him, closer.
Now he reached under her skirt and massaged her clit. That sparked a new round of fireworks. She began to shake again, and he knew what was coming. Just in time, he covered her mouth again, as she screamed into his palm.
She gasped, went limp, threw her head back onto his shoulder.
"Fuck," was all she could say.
"My sentiments exactly," he said.
"You are a fucking stud," she said, again puffing up his self-esteem. He needed it, too. The sight of the blond guy's dick in the seat next to him had temporarily awakened his insecurities. The blond guy's dick had to be nine inches long, and thick. "My husband always cums in a minute, and then falls asleep."
"We more, uh, mature men know how to please a lady," he said.
"Fuck, I guess so," she said. She was sweating, but that only made her more desirable, not less. He wished they could steal off to a private room, get completely naked. "You feeling guilty at all?"
The question nipped into him like a gust of icy wind coming down from the mountains in January. The elixir of her body, her arousal, had been so complete, so savory, he hadn't even had a chance to feel guilty. Until now.
"Yeah. A little, I guess. But once I get back home, I think I'll be able to separate what happened here from my real life. I mean, hell, this almost feels like a dream."
She smiled. "I know what you mean. 'Specially 'cause I was fucking dreaming when this all started. But you know, I'm not guilty. Not at all. He's such a fucking asshole sometimes."
"Think you might get a divorce?" Nosey. He didn't mean to pry.
She shrugged. "I don't know. I do think about it. But . . ."
"I know. It's a drastic decision to make. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to poke my nose into your business."
"No, you only wanted to poke your pecker into my pussy."
He laughed. Joyce was always so proper. She never swore. This woman's raw language was a real turn-on.
"Well, I'm not done. I can go a few more rounds if you're game."
"Damn," she said. "You are a horny old bastard, aren't you?"
"Turn around," he told her. "Face me this time."
She did, and in no time at all, they were fully at it again. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and they kissed as they made love. He rammed her harder than before, wanting desperately to cum, to let loose.
Before he knew it, she had thrown her head back and was on the verge of another orgasm. He lifted her shirt up, kissed her hard nipples, chewed on them, and ran his fingers through her hair.
He was close, so close.
"Uhhh," she said, and her body started to shake. This time he didn't cover her mouth. He was too busy focusing on his own body, his own pleasure. Almost there, almost there. And when she shrieked, when her vaginal muscles squeezed his penis like silken pliers, when he felt her fingernails dig into his neck, he came. He came with a vengeance, squirting his cum deep inside of her, draining himself dry.
She melted in his arms, as they held each other, savoring the glow of their post-coital pleasure. He held her tightly, looked in her eyes, kissed her.
"Thank you," he said. "I'll never forget this."
"And you think I fucking will?" she said.
They laughed, still holding each other. She still sat in his lap, his dick was still inside of her, soft now, spent.
He dared to look back. The old lady's head was hanging down. Drool was dripping down her chin. Imagine that. She had fallen asleep. Miraculously, most of the passengers in the car were asleep, too. The blond guy next to them still fiddled with his dick, but even he appeared to be close to nodding off now. And the little kid up front was no longer looking back at them over his seat. They had gotten away with it.
The train rushed on, through empty fields, dark farmland, towns with names he'd never know, and wouldn't remember if he did. She put her bra and panties back on, settled in beside him again, put her head on his shoulder.
He leaned back against the seat, closed his eyes, and replayed the events of this night. He thought about the way her lips had felt on his penis, sucking him dry. He thought about her tongue in his mouth, the electric shock of their attraction to each other. He thought about the moist, slick feel of her vagina as it gloved his erect dick, the way her body, smooth and lean, rose and fell in harmony with his. And he thought about the way they held each other afterwards, two lovers joined together through need and circumstance.
And now, he enjoyed the feel of her nearness, the weight of her head resting on him. He put his arm around her, and finally, finally, drifted off to sleep. . . .
He woke with a start. The train was slowing down, crawling over the tracks. They must have been arriving at a station. Could it be Denver already? Looking outside, the first glow of dawn was painting the sky a soft shade of pink. They were no longer in the open country. Tall buildings, storefronts, bus terminals came into view. If not Denver, they were in a city of some size. . .
Next to him, she stood up, reached for her carry-on bag.
"Hey," he said.
"It's my stop to get off," she said. "Omaha."
He blinked, trying to orient himself. It was happening so fast. She had been snuggled up against him just moments ago. And now she was . . . leaving?
"But . . ."
"Bye," she said.
Several other passengers stood up, too, and before he could stop her, she walked down the aisle. Once she looked back, blew him a kiss. Then she turned around, and descended the steps toward the lower level, where she would disembark and mix in with the crowds, join the just-waking-up city of Omaha, go back to the rhythms and routines of her regular life. Just as he would need to do in a few hours, a few hundred miles to the west.
He saw her walk away onto the platform, and then she disappeared into the train station. And that's when he realized. He had enjoyed the best sex of his life with her, pleasured her to three orgasms. And yet. . . he didn't even know her name.
He hadn't asked her. And she hadn't told him.