|
Express
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Archive-name: express
The express was running well behind schedule; the tracks had not been
cleared of snow, and the landscape crawled by in an endless succession
of forest and plain, house and farm, covered with a uniform white
blanket: a world packed away for winter, awaiting spring for it to be
brought out again. As you made your way back from the dining car
towards your compartment, you noticed him sitting in the lounge,
reading a newspaper (three days old, the last time the train stopped to
take on water). You slowed your pace as you, moving towards the end of
the train, examined him, facing forwards. Tall, dark hair and beard
contrasting with his pale (although far from sickly) skin, long white
fingers revealing a life of contemplation rather than hard labour.
Slender, yet with a hint of power and strength in a light frame. A
white-haired matron rises from the seat across from him; you take the
opportunity to sit down, and examine him more closely. The more you
see, the more interested you become, drinking up details:
You set your drink down with a soft clink; he glances up and your eyes
meet. At that moment, with steel determination wrapped in velvet
desire, you decide: this one, tonight.
But whatever you felt you seem to feel alone; he glance back down to
the paper with a smile full of appreciation at your long hair, large
exotic eyes, slender frame and face full of beauty and strength. You
start small conversations: he replies politely, wittily, but
guardedly. You sense a deep reserve and even shyness under his
mannered exterior. As you casually stir your scotch, you make your
plans; some require more persuasion to reciprocate your feels, and you
are well capable of providing it.
It is never a wise idea to disappoint a woman. The most dangerous,
however, are those who refuse to be disappointed. You have always
believed yourself one of the later; people who have attempted to
disappoint you tend agree, however reluctantly.
You make your polite farewells, and return to your compartment. With
deft and practice hands you extract your tools: incense, powders,
things with no names. You change from your dark, conservative dress
into silk underwear, red silk robes tied about you with a sash; you
feel more erotic and desirable by the moment.
You clear your mind, and begin to work your will. The smell of the
burning incense, sweet and musky as lovers' perfume, brings a soft
tingling between your legs. Warmed but undistracted, you cast your
mind about, looking, searching, hunting a swiftly and stealthily as the
lioness, for the one you seek.
You find him, and softly surround his mind with yours, gentle as the
lightest touch. You reach into him, stroke that part of him which
holds his (smouldering, intense) desire; you can feel both his mind and
body waken to your ministrations. His reading falters; his eyes no
longer see the words on the page. He rises, to return to his
compartment and sleep: he is confused by the sudden lust that has
arisen within him.
As he steps, you stay with him, feeding his building desire (and you
can feel his mounting erection as vividly as if you had your hand on
it), and you present your image to him: his lover, his mistress and
master at once, a goddess of love. He stops, steadies himself against
the side, and turns to the compartment door, and pushes it open.
But, of course, the compartment he has found is yours. He stops,
stares at you cross-legged and composed on the floor. His murmurs of
surprise and apology fade on his lips as he meets your glance as your
unspoken command rings through him as loud as thunder: I have won you,
and now I give you myself as your prize. Please me, and you will be
pleased in turn.
You rise, and stride to him. His gaze, polite no longer, is burning
with lust and desire; you can feel his eyes on you as hot as a flame.
You reach him, and he pulls you into his arms. His passionate kiss
slides into your mouth, probing and searching as if to find your soul.
You revel in the taste, the smell, the touch of him as your fingers
swiftly undo his clothes, your hands and mouth teasing his nipples,
your fingertips stroking the end of his huge erection.
You pull back from him, amused by the look of dismay as he finds
himself no longer touching you. You lean back on the bed, allowing
your robe to fall open; you raise up your long, slim legs and spread
yourself open before him. Still held by your will, he can doing but
look on helplessly as you gently play with yourself, teasing yourself,
enjoying the look of his lust and the feel of your own arousal.
You bring him to you, and he falls into your arms: he kisses and
nibbles at your ear and neck, biting gently as his expert tongue
descends your body into your waiting wetness. You writhe and moan as
he licks, probes and sucks at you, his fingers sliding deep into your
body and stroking your most secret recesses. You feel the first orgasm
build within you, and you scream with pleasure, flailing wildly as his
tongue and lips stay with you, riding you, bringing you to climax after
climax.
Hungrily, you bring him put onto the bed with you, guide him inside of
you. The feeling of his penetration is too much to bear: another
orgasm tears through you as he reaches your base, and pulls back for
the first, delicious stroke. His thrusting becomes more insistent, and
the two of you are off on the hunt, two nobles animals running
together, thrusting, moaning, flailing, meeting each others eyes with
looks filled with desire too full ever to be satisfied.
You lose count of yourself, of time, of your climaxes. His climax
sends you into fits of ecstasy as you feel his hot seed pour into you,
his cries and moans, his rapid thrusts betraying no reason, his weight
as he falls onto you, as gently as the snow outside...
You awake before him, and send him back to his compartment. Your
vagina is still throbbing from his merciless abandon which was the
greatest mercy of all. As you pull your robe about yourself, favouring
your aching groin with a last caress before drifting back to sleep, you
send your once-and-never-again lover wishes that he enjoyed his most
vivid dream of last night
|
|
