The impenetrable blackness of windows
By Maximilian Cummings
Sarah was perturbed. She had not seen anything through the train windows for a long time. Indeed, she realised, she had seen nothing during the latter part of what had been a particularly dreary and tedious train journey. Of course it was dark, it was night after all, but surely there should be some light out there—a cottage perhaps with a homely yellow window, trackside signals, the headlights of cars on a road—but there had been nothing; just the steady rumble of steel wheels on track. A monotonous regular sound. Were they crossing a particularly empty piece of moorland, were they within a long cutting, perhaps travelling through a forest or simply traversing a singularly dreary and deserted tract of country?
It was eerie, it was unearthly, it was unnerving. Sarah’s black nylon clad knees held close together and she looked up and down the railway carriage but it too was strangely deserted – deserted, that is, but for the man seated opposite.
He was not large, not small, not old, not young, not fat, not thin, not dark, not grey. The man seemed almost defined by what he was not; a man of such ordinariness that it was surprising. His voice was almost accent less but might have been Scottish.
“They’ll have to come off you know.”
The sound of his voice broke the hypnotic regularity of the steel wheels on the track. It was almost an intrusion into her thoughts.
Sarah was puzzled and looked puzzled. The ordinary man had not said a word the whole journey. Why now and what would have to come off?
“Sorry?”
“Your clothing. Your clothes will have to come off.”
It was unexpected, such a strange thing to say out of the blue. What did he mean?
“I’m sorry?”
“Your clothes. They will have to come off if I am to examine you.”
Sarah was quite taken aback. She was not in a doctor’s surgery: quite the contrary, she was in a railway carriage. Should she get up and walk away?
“I really am sorry... I thought you said... are you a doctor?”
His head bent in affirmation.
“But I’m not unwell.”
“Good. I would not know about that.”
“But you said you wanted to examine me.”
“Oh... I see, my dear, but I’m not a medical doctor.”
The conversation was bizarre. Sarah thought it better to get up and move to another carriage. Outside the window was nothing; the train trundled on, making its steady way through the blackness. Inside was silence except for the steady sound of the wheels on the rails.
Sarah pressed the button but the door to the next carriage would not open. She tugged at the door but it would not budge.
The man nodded to Sarah as she walked back past him.
Diddly dum, diddly dum, diddly dum.
The door to the other carriage did not open either.
“They really will have to come off.”
He was not close behind her, not even standing in the aisle but his voice carried down the carriage. Sarah turned,
“Why? If you’re not a doctor why do you wish to examine me?”
There was a wrinkling of his forehead as if of puzzlement. “I enjoy the feel of the flesh of young ladies, particularly the intimate flesh and the moistness.”
Perturbation! Outside the darkness slipped by. It was impossible to judge the speed of the train, all she could hear was the regular rumble of the steel wheels on the track—an almost hypnotic sound.
What he had said was so creepy and yet so true. Sarah knew it.
She knew she would have to stand as he slowly undressed her like a Barbie doll; wait patiently and permit his fingers to move carefully over her body, touching and exploring before he did other things. And all the while the train would trundle through the darkness.
So long as the wheels kept up their steady sound she was helpless. If only the driver would apply the brakes, if only she could reach the Communication Cord; not that it was a cord these days but a handle behind glass and it was quite beyond her to reach for it. She could not do that.
What had he done—or the train done—to sap her will, make her subservient to his wishes and take away the power to act on her own volition?
“Why don’t you come back here?” He had stood and was looking back down the carriage at her.
She could but comply.
“I do so like tweed,” the man said feeling the material of her jacket’s lapels. “It drapes well.” His fingers stroked down the lapels and across her breasts. “A warm material; but we are lucky—it would have been unfortunate for us if the carriage had not been well heated. It would not do for you to get cold as you undress.”
It was warm but Sarah shivered. Why did she have to let him touch her? Why was she complying when he eased the jacket over her shoulders and folded it on a seat? The care he took with it surprised her—he did not simply drop it onto the seat but shook it out and carefully folded it to ensure there was not the slightest risk of a crease. His finger tips seeming to linger on the fabric before turning again and touching her blouse.
“Ah, Egyptian two fold cotton—so soft and such a pretty pale cream. You choose your clothes well. I would take great pleasure in helping you shop for clothes. A delightful day amongst the clothes racks and fitting rooms. Choosing and trying on. Decisions, decisions, decisions. A size 10 or perhaps 12? Somewhat in between, I should think, but don’t they vary just so much between one label and another? And who is this blouse by? May I unbutton? But of course I may.”
His chatter was in strong contrast to his earlier silence.
The first button, not the one at her collar—that button had not been done up—was undone. A little of her white lacy bra revealed; his fingers eased the next button and then the blouse was truly open, her cleavage spilling into the yellow light of the carriage; the light giving a slightly tanned look to the swell of her breasts above the cupping of the white lacy bra.
Sarah had rather expected the man’s fingers to move to her breasts. She knew this would happen but it seemed the man was in no hurry as his fingers continued to carefully undo the buttons of her blouse, easing the mother of pearl through the eyelets, his nail drawing the material to one side to let a button slip through. A slight tug and the tail of one end of the blouse slipped up within her skirt followed by the other tail so the blouse swung open.
“It is surprising—perhaps—how pretty tummies and the tummy button is. Such a pointless leftover from birth but there it remains; the navel; a funny little dip perhaps useful for adorning with a jewel or drinking fine claret from—but what else? It would have been so much more sensible of nature, really, to have put the vaginal opening there rather than tucked it away between the legs don’t you think?”
That thought had never occurred to Sarah any more than permitting a stranger to undress her on a railway train would have come into her mind. Outside, the dark was impenetrable; there was nothing there, her world had shrunk to the railway carriage, the man and the rolling steel wheels with their steady rhythm.
The neat pile grew.
He seemed content to leave her bra alone as his hands moved to her skirt. The tweed matched the jacket—a suit from Jaeger he had noted with approval. His fingers eased the skirt around her waist, rotating it until the twin buttons and zip were before him.
“It is a lovely tweed. It sets off your hair so well. Did that seduce you into purchase? I wonder if your other hair will match or if it is a slightly different hue? We shall see – in good time.”
The musing was strange, was he speaking to her or himself? And disturbing; an unsettling interest in women’s clothing and her clothing in particular.
Carefully he hitched up his trousers and then knelt in front of her, his face level with her hem. The man seemed completely unhurried in the undressing, no adolescent hurry to get the new girlfriend’s clothes off. He took his time with the buttons, first one and then the second; slowly slipping the zip down before stepping back to watch the tweed skirt slide to the floor and lie around her feet. It was the matter of seconds before her slip joined it leaving her standing in white lacy bra, green panties and black pantyhose.
He seemed a little disappointed in the pantyhose, a slight down turn of the mouth. Had he been expecting stockings and garters or a suspender belt—hardly the thing for the modern business woman. His fingers stroked the fine nylon mesh down her inner thigh,
“Hmmm, 15 or perhaps 20 denier—very sheer indeed.”
Carefully he picked up the skirt, having got Sarah to step out of it, shook it out and folded it neatly. His fastidiousness did him credit. Sarah could not imagine any man she might go out with being so careful.
“Perhaps, on reflection, the pantyhose and knickers should have come off first. Aesthetically pantyhose just does not cut the mustard. The idea of a woman naked beneath a fine skirt, particularly of such a pleasing tweed, is much more the erotic idea. I am sure you think the same of the man in a kilt, knowing that beneath all that pleated wool his tackle hangs free and easy. All you need to do is reach under the heavy material and... yes I think the same about a skirt. Think how much more pleasing, how much prettier it would have appeared if instead of black pantyhose the fluttering down of your skirt had revealed your womanly charms in all their nakedness.”
Sarah swallowed. Could he really be talking to her like this, discussing not just his own thoughts but what she might or might not find erotic?
The man began to ease the hose downwards bringing Sarah’s panties into full view unobscured by the nylon.
“Let’s take this off for now.”
Diddly dum, diddly dum, diddly dum. The regular sound of the steel wheels both held and soothed her. Sarah glanced at the window. There was no change in the soft blackness.
Sarah was puzzled. The man’s odd conversation had had an unexpected effect. She had been resigned to doing his bidding but the image of the Scotsman in a kilt had been strangely pleasing. As the pantyhose slowly slipped down her legs and in her mind as she stared at the blankness of the carriage window came an image of a Scotsman, almost a caricature with red bushy beard, kilt, sgian-dubh, ghillies, sporran and strong legs but what came strongest was the knowledge he was ‘commando’ under the kilt; she imagined him leaping with a similarly Celtic fellow in a wild sword dance; both kilts flying free and perhaps, just perhaps, the chance sighting of red, hairy ‘wedding tackle’ all a swing with the promise of a more intimate association later. A late night meeting, perhaps, with the two of them; she taking the initiative and unpinning their kilts; it was pleasing to imagine them pooling around their ankles in great folds of tartan material to reveal their matching red hairy hardness—all for her. Her hands reaching to grasp and hold...
Sarah was surprised at herself. Here she was about to be raped, presumably, and she was thinking of randy Scotsmen with big, big penises and getting wet in the process. She could feel the moisture coming. It would not do. She did not want to encourage the man. When would they come to a station, why were there no lights outside the carriage, why did the rumble of the wheels not stop? All she could see now in the blackness of the windows was not erect hairy Scotsman but herself reflected there in bra and panties. Something she might see in the mirror back in her flat but not on a train. How had this happened?
She had not expected it but the man picked up her skirt again and motioned for her to step into it. Why was he re-dressing her? She could but comply; the rumble of the steel wheels told her so.
Delicately his fingers pulled up the zip and tucked the buttons through their buttonholes one after another; he even smoothed the tweed down seeming to take great pleasure in the feel of the material on her thighs.
Standing he stood looking at her, Sarah dressed in frilly white bra and tweed skirt. Still modestly dressed – just.
“I think, now, the examination.”
Sarah swallowed. What was he about to do? His hands reached out and touched her either side of her ribcage. His fingers had touched her flesh before, an inevitability in the disrobing, but this was something more—much more. His fingers travelled upwards, running over the corrugations of her ribcage, over the strap of her bra right up into her armpits. It had never occurred to her that he would do that, indeed that the feel of a man’s fingers right up under her shoulders in the often damp indentation between upper arm and body could feel a violation—an intrusion into intimate space.
Carefully he lifted her arms up until her hands were held right over her head.
“You shave,”
It was matter of fact, but with a hint of sorrow. “I had hoped but... well; let us hope your razor has not been so effective lower down.” His fingers were caressing the smooth, hairless skin. It both tickled and appalled her. How dare he! If only she had kept working at her laptop; if only she had tried harder to finish that report rather than giving up and packing it away; perhaps if she had done that then she would not have been struck by the blackness outside the window and not noticed how very cut off from the world she had become; perhaps the laptop and her work would have kept the man from speaker to her; perhaps the laptop would have been a barrier and its quiet hum a defence against the steady steely rumbling of the wheels.
Gently he turned her so she faced back up the carriage. She could not see him but the feel of his fingers on her back were clear; fingers touching firstly the nodules of her backbone right down to where her skirt began, moving to her shoulder blades and ribcage before, with just the hint of a tug, undoing the double eyelets of her bra. Released, it fell forward. Sarah glanced down—she was almost falling out of it. It was uncomfortable holding her arms above her head.
A slight pull and push at her shoulders and Sarah knew she was to rotate once more and turn and face the man. Still with arms upraised she turned.
“You can bring your arms down, if you like.”
It was a choice but not much of one. She had not been given choices before. The rumble of the wheels had not allowed that. It was uncomfortable holding her arms up: if she brought them down her bra would probably fall. Not much of a choice. Her arms fell.
Her bra slipped forward off her shoulders onto her dropped arms exposing the rounded flesh of her breasts, the pale pink areolae and her little flat nipples. Sarah did not need to look down; she knew her own breasts well enough and knew what the man was seeing. It was awful, she had not wanted to show her body to him and let him, to use his word, examine her. And she knew what form that examination would ultimately take, it was not difficult to foresee, indeed it was clear to her what he would wish to probe her with and what cervical embrocation he would prescribe.
“Very nice, very nice. May I?”
It was not really a choice: the answer ‘no’ would not have done and Sarah said nothing as he lifted the warm, white lacy garment from her arms and carefully folded it, cup against cup and set it atop the pile of her clothes. Her eyes followed his actions. A man folding her undergarments, her intimate clothing, still warm from her body.
Once more he rotated her away from him but his hands did not move straight to her breasts, instead they went to her hair, removing hairgrips and slipping off the band of her ponytail so her severely restrained hair swung freely about her shoulder and neck. Like her breasts not even her hair was going to be permitted restraint.
Sarah stared ahead as the man carefully arranged her hair before his fingers slipped onto her shoulders and downwards. She knew what was coming and her nipples responded to the anticipation. How much better, so much, much better if it had been the Scotsman in a kilt behind her, his big hands slipping down her skin to hold her breasts as he pressed his, yes, big manhood into the crack of her bottom. Instead, this stranger, this ordinary man was about to touch and fondle. The fingers slid closer and then up and over her breasts.
He was close behind her, his hands enclosing her breasts but, unlike the kilted red bearded Scotsman, he did not press himself against her rump. He was cupping her breasts, feeling their weight, lifting one against the other as if judging which was the bigger. She hated the fact, and she could feel it, that her nipples had hardened to little peas in his palms. There was no hurry in what he did. It was as if he knew he had all the time in the world... but the journey could not go on forever. There must be a station; there must be an end to the endless blackness in the carriage windows.
The man turned her again and his fingers went to her breasts but this time where he could see them—yes, examine them. Not for him a grab and rough manipulation. He was slow and deliberate, taking great interest in the minutiae; a gentle unhurried examination with his finger tips just lightly touching her areolae, at first, teasing the nipples into greater prominence.
“Slightly elliptical, how charming and what a pretty wrinkleness to the areolae and such lovely little bumps—Montgomery glands don’t you know?”
Sarah didn’t. Nor did she like the way her nipples were standing.
The man spent long minutes on his examination, his fingers stroking, his nails just lightly brushing, his occasional words admiring and then he had Sarah walk up and back down the carriage so he could see how her breasts moved as she walked. The man tried bouncing them a little in his hands to repeat the movement of her walk. He seemed pleased with what he found.
Sarah had never had such compliments paid to her breasts. She was not flattered.
Kneeling once more she felt his hands within her skirt; hands up her skirt and on the smooth skin of her legs, fingers reaching for her panties; fingers slipping under the material, not to touch her most intimate areas but to gain purchase. Slowly the fingers pulled and slowly her panties came down, sliding down her thighs until, reaching her knees, they just fluttered to the floor, leaving her sex still hidden from view but unprotected by even a scrap of silk.
Standing the man began to undress. His own disrobing was not as slow as her own but as careful. The man made a separate pile of his own clothing on a seat, even folding his socks. Clearly not for him the absurdity of wearing short socks whilst naked and engaged in intercourse. His aesthetic sensibilities were obvious to Sarah as, indeed, was his lack of morality in relation to her. Sarah had expected the man to finish with his pants but it was his shirt he left until last, retaining a semblance of being clothed right to the end. Not in fact a real semblance of modesty, for very clearly, through the hanging tails of his shirt, poked the mauve, shiny, streamlined head of his erection. It was wet at the end—just touching her had clearly excited him greatly. Her eyes seemed drawn to it. Almost examining what she could see as much as he was examining her. The smoothness of the head, the purple band at the very edge of the glans, the wrinkled foreskin on the shaft and the pink slit at the very end which was seeping—ever so slightly. Her eyes stared. She knew what it might or could or, rather, would do to her.
All she was now wearing was her skirt—and he had taken that off before.
The wheels hummed on the steel rails and the train moved on through the darkness, a darkness Sarah could not fathom. There she was in a railway carriage heading north, naked but for a tweed skirt and alone but for a near naked man displaying the sexual arousal of the male. His arousal was not something she could miss sticking out hard, potent and surprisingly large. As he moved the shirt tails parted and the shaft came into view all craggy and veined; beneath it the hanging scrotum and testes swung.
It was now Sarah’s turn to kneel and she knew why she was doing that. The wheels told her.
She hated kneeling for a man, hated fellatio that way. She was not sure sexual intercourse was any the better either. Why did men do the penetrating and not the woman? Why was it that way round, making the woman the receiver, the penetratee? It seemed to emphasise the wrong subservience of women—as if it was in some way natural that the male was dominant. It was simply that he was usually the physically stronger—and did the penetrating of course. The semen had to pass from the man to the woman.
Sarah hated kneeling but she knew she must with her bare knees on the carpet.
The soft cotton of his shirt tails brushed her face, the smooth skin of his penis head touched her cheek. Warm and soft on her skin.
It was not that she was a stranger to fellatio; not as if she had not sucked on a penis before; not as if she had not felt the sudden invasion of her mouth by the hot, thick, salty fluid of a man; not as if she had not let that slip down her throat. Oh yes, she had swallowed: but that had all been of her own volition, her own choosing, in a loving relationship with boyfriends – and not kneeling. This was completely different.
It was coming closer, the smooth skin of the penis head sliding easily on her cheek towards her mouth until it touched her lips; lips still with the pale pink lipstick she had applied back at Kings Cross in London, back where the lights were bright and it was not just blackness outside. The man pushed, just a little and almost instinctively her lips parted and the tip of her tongue slid over them, wetting them but just catching the tip of the penis. The man would have felt the sudden soft rasp across his penis: she, in her turn, tasted a wet saltiness on her tongue.
He was watching. His eyes looking down as hers looked up at him.
She subservient; there to do the unnatural act; her mouth opened and she accepted the head; her lips sliding over the smooth dome. Sarah paused. She knew how much he was enjoying this both in terms of sensation and image. She, kneeling with naked breasts before him, his penis connected to her—the knob in her mouth but the long shaft visible—and her eyes looking up at him. Such a picture of erotic subservience—not her view of eroticism but it would be his.
The man was very much watching the gradual sliding in of his penis into her mouth, millimetre by millimetre. And it just kept sliding in, deeper and deeper, until it touched the back of her throat and Sarah gagged. The man withdrew. The penis now covered in her saliva; the spittle making it drip and look like it had actually come. It hadn’t—Sarah would have known.
“Oh dear. Are you comfortable with this?” His face had the look of concern.
The wheels hummed and Sarah looked up from the spittle coated penis right before her eyes, nodded once and opened her mouth again. Why had she done that? She was inviting him in. She was anything but comfortable with what she was doing.
The man moved forward and Sarah’s lips closed around the edge of the glans, holding just the shiny bulbous head within. It was smooth to the touch of her tongue; big in her mouth; she could not fold her tongue away to avoid it. Automatically her tongue moved, the bulb of his penis was there and she had to explore. The tip of her tongue finding the fraenum, the little ridge or ribbon of skin running from the underside of the glans penis to the shaft; she could feel its shape – feel the ribbon move as she pushed at it. She knew men were sensitive there. She had done that before. Perhaps she could make the man release his semen before he moved to sexual intercourse—as he inevitably would. It seemed the better choice.
Her work became vigorous. A sliding, slurping, sucking on his cock. Action meant to produce a result.
“No, no, my dear. More daintily. That is not right at all. A very gentle toying. A lovely lingering pre-cursor to intercourse. A subtle teasing of the penis and a pleasure for you.”
Sarah stopped; her plan awry. Slowly she let her lips slide up the shaft, the knob slipping deeper as the man watched and smiled; and then, when she thought she could take no more, a slow withdrawal until the penis left her mouth. It bounced upwards, the wet head knocking against her nose.
The man stepped back and looked down at the kneeling girl. Her naked knees upon the carriage carpet, her sex modestly covered by her tweed skirt but naked from the waist up; her breasts very visible. He smiled and put out his hands to help her up.
“The rest of the examination now, I think. The table perhaps would be useful.”
Gently he turned her and she felt his hands at her waist, undoing the clasp of her skirt, easing the buttons through their holes ready to release the last vestige of modesty and leave her naked. The zip moved down and all that was protecting her were his hands holding the waist of her skirt. Not even the swell of her hips could hold it—if he released it.
His hands let go and the skirt fell, the course material slipping down her thighs. Sarah stepped out of it. She was doing his bidding. Why?
Instead of a sudden grasp of her naked buttocks, the man seemed more concerned to fold her tweed skirt and add it to the neat pile of clothes. Sarah waited and then a gentle pat on her behind propelled her forward to the table.
“If perhaps you could lie down?”
Sarah knew it was not really a request; there was no option but to settle her bottom on its edge and lie back with the top of her head touching the window glass—touching the glass which revealed nothing but blackness. It was cold on her head and she moved fractionally forward, moving her sex closer to him, and then, as she knew she must, raised her legs up until she could rest her feet on the edge of the table leaving her legs wide splayed and her sex as open for inspection as it possibly could be.
Unhurried and with his usual care the man now removed his shirt, folding it neatly on his pile of clothes before turning to look closely at her.
He had not yet touched her there, his fingers had not yet felt between her legs, had not yet stroked her intimate flesh nor slipped into her sex. Sarah braced herself for what was to come and what would follow.
Once more there was no hurry on the part of the man. He stood for a time just looking, occasionally moving in closer to examine something more closely. There was no let up in his erection. He was standing looking, completely naked and with what Sarah had to accept was a very presentable, large erection.
Sarah tried to think of anything: anything but what was happening but her mind kept slipping back to the dark windows and the steady rumble of the moving train. The sound was soothing, the blackness a comfort—no one could see her so exposed with her legs so wide.
It was not the touch of his fingers but the sudden soft hint of his breath on her sex, as he looked closely, that did it. All at once she felt a greater arousal, a feeling of real wetness coming to her sex as her body secreted lubrication, a stronger feeling in her already hard nipples. Sarah could not believe what her body was doing. It seemed a betrayal.
The man’s fingers finally touched—not her sex but the soft inner thighs; places no man should touch without permission. His fingers stroked.
“Soft, very soft.”
It was wonderful, the sensation, but the reality, the cold reality of being exposed to and touched by a stranger was quite different. Her body craved sexual gratification: her mind desperate to escape.
His fingers came up her thighs and rested in the creases between thighs and mons veneris—twixt skin and curly pubic hair. They lingered in the sensitive crack just before where her sex begun. Clearly he was examining, looking closely at her sex. She had never watched herself in a mirror but were her lips really puffing up with blood as he watched; could he really see a change in her sex as he watched; see her body involuntarily and definitely without her permission preparing itself for intercourse? He seemed to be waiting. Sarah tried her hardness not to move; not to give even the hint of a squirm; not to give any clue that she would like his fingers to touch her.
“Your curls do indeed perfectly match your hair. Unusual. So often they come a little darker though sometimes these charming little curls do come a shade lighter.” His fingers moved lightly through her thicket seeking the little divide, the slit of a girl. “Very soft too—sometimes pubic hair is just so wiry. And here is your little valley.”
Sarah knew he could see where it lead; knew he could see everything. There was no real need for his fingers to explore to discover what was there like they might in a darkened bedroom or if delving into the unzipped jeans of a girl: all was exposed and revealed and he could put his finger straight on whatever he wished. And, awfully, Sarah wished he would. Her body wanted the man to put his finger on her clit and diddle it. She knew her clit was standing—standing like his penis—all wet, red and inflamed. She wanted his fingers touching it, stroking it, pulling gently at it, rolling it between his fingers—just frigging the sodden thing.
She could not help it, her body was not quite still and her tongue kept licking her lips. He could not but see this evidence of her arousal and, of course, the man could already see her wetness and the rising scent too was unmistakeable—a woman in heat.
The man’s fingers slipped down the little divide and ventured out into the wet marshlands of her sex. The searching fingers skirted the little hillock and explored the wet folds, pulling up and out the wet slippery labia minor. His finger work was delicate, exacting and very noticeable.
“Excellent, like the wings of a butterfly, and so long. I should have examined them as you stood and when they were hanging below you but I did not know; did not imagine. Wonderful, I can actually make them flap like wings.”
And he did, holding them separately in his fingers and moving them. It was both exquisite and awful at the same time.
The man seemed like a little schoolboy playing with a new discovery—and somewhat that was what he was—though perhaps more an adult collector of adult things. Despite the shuddering pleasure of his actions, Sarah was steeling herself for what would come. Like the butterfly in the Lepidopterist’s collection she was about to be pinned, not literally with a silver pin through her breast, but with the unwelcome long pin of his penis entering her body rather lower down and pinning her to the table.
To Sarah it felt like a pool of wetness had come between her legs—as it occasionally did—was she dripping on the table? In her prone position she could not see. She was amazed and disappointed at her body’s own excitement. She was enjoying being felt so much more than she could have conceived.
“And here we have your special passage.”
It was if he was explaining, demonstrating her naked body to an audience.
His fingers circled.
“No babies yet, I think but...”
A finger slipped in. Such an intrusion.
“... hardly virginal. You have been mounted?”
It was an odd, animal husbandry term, as if she had to be lead to the stallion or bull to be served rather than being a free woman to do as she willed and choose who she did or did not sleep with.
“Yes.”
The word escaped her. Sarah had to answer him and do what he willed.
“Many?”
“No.”
“Three?”
“Four.” She hoped he would not ask about them. Not about the second.
As he talked he kept inserting more fingers. Sarah was slippery and wet and could accommodate but how awful to have this stranger doing this—how awful it would have been had it not actually felt so good? It felt almost like having a cock inside. And he moved his fingers in and out like a cock. It felt good; if only he would touch her clit as well then she might just come.
He was playing with her, playing with her sex, enjoying watching his fingers opening her, seeing how he could stretch her.
Of course he did come to her clit. Fingers withdrew from her vagina; at least the fingers of one hand withdrew whilst others stayed and, excruciatingly slowly, they moved across her sex until almost there.
“Please.” How awful. What she had been thinking had escaped from her lips. Why not go the whole hog and say, ‘please fuck me.’ It was what her body—but not her mind—wanted.
He obliged and he was expert. Perhaps it was just him examining—pulling her little button this way and that—but it was wonderful; so wonderful that Sarah’s orgasm came easily as she lay on the hard table, exposed and with a stranger manipulating her.
As she shuddered through what was an exceptional orgasm Sarah was conscious of the man watching her face. Was this actually part of his examination? An inspection of a girl in the throes of coming?
“Excellent, excellent.”
Lying on the table she looked up at him, framed between her wide splayed thighs and so plainly in view, rising above her own curly and now rather damp pubic hair, was his erection. It rather dominated her view. Sarah was sure it would now disappear—within her.
But no: he made her get up, turn around and kneel on the table with bottom raised and knees on the hard surface. Not easy as her legs felt a little jelly like from her barely completed orgasm. The man had clearly not finished his examination. Quite awfully he was inspecting her bottom and not simply the smooth roundness of her cheeks but the divide. In the position she was in her anus was totally exposed to view—was this stranger allowing her no modesty? Worse did he plan to bugger her? Would his fingers now toy with her anal sphincter and then attempt to insert his erection. Sarah felt awful but there was nothing she could do. No way she could stop him. His hands were stroking her cheeks, feeling their way across the smooth skin, she braced herself for the touch of a finger on her bottom hole. Could he actually see her clenching her muscle, would the tightening of her anal orifice be visible to his eye?
With eyes tight shut she waited but the touch never came. It was not that his stroking fingers did not come close: but not that close. Instead they once more entered her wet middle passage – not one but many. Sarah opened her eyes and looked under herself; past her hanging breasts, past her tummy to the mounding of her hair covered mons. She could see his fingers working—both see and feel them—and beyond that his erection both close and potent. Sarah was cross—the touch still felt pleasurable to her.
“Very good. My examination is almost complete. I am pleased, yes, extremely pleased with your body. It is very fine indeed, particularly the intimate flesh; that is so very tactile and moist. If, perhaps, you could lie down on the table again?”
Sarah was relieved. It was not to be her bottom after all. But was vaginal intercourse, actually, so much the better option? Once more she was flat on her back on the hard table, once more her legs were wide spread and her moist, engorged sex splayed to the stranger’s view.
The man peered closely at her sex, “Such an enchanting scent. Just two more matters to attend to and we are done. Is the taste as pleasing as the sight, touch and scent?”
Sarah shuddered. She had endured his fingers playing, had actually come with them inside her but now he was proposing to apply his lips and tongue to her sex – a further invasion she could not stop. She watched his face moving closer as the gap between it and the apex of the vee of her legs closed and his tongue made contact – the feeling electric. His tongue did not just touch but it explored and probed. If any of her boyfriends had been half as good, indeed half as ready to take their time pleasuring her that way then perhaps... Against this pleasure was the knowledge of what this strange man was doing to her; that he had not just poked his fingers into her but was now doing the same with his tongue and rolling it around in the most satisfying way
She wanted to wrap her thighs around his head and pull his tongue even closer to her. It was marvellous sex and, with his eyes unable to see her, she allowed her own fingers to play at her nipples bringing her even closer to a second orgasm.
Of course the way the man’s tongue slid around her clit, what he did to it with his lips and tongue did bring on that orgasm. Sarah was more vocal this time, she could not help herself, could not stop the long drawn out sigh.
Finally the man rose, smiling and with his tongue sliding over his lips.
“The taste is indeed pleasing and did I detect another little tremor from you, perhaps?”
It was a question. Sarah had to answer. “Yes.”
“Was it as strong as the first?”
“Stronger.” She did not like admitting that.
“Good. Now, the final matter to attend to; you do, I am sure, know what that entails?”
It was a quick nod from Sarah. She knew what that was.
“I am going to probe you a little deeper. I do not think this will cause you any discomfort. Are you ready to accept that?”
Another quick nod, though Sarah did not want this, did not want the stranger’s penis invading her body. But it was already positioned between her widely spread legs, the man could see exactly where to direct it and, wet as she was, he would hardly need to push with any effort to make the penetration.
Of course he took his time. It was never going to be a quick thrust of the pelvis. That was not the way of the man, indeed would have been completely out of character from the rest of the examination. He would watch the entry millimetre by millimetre until the mingling of the pubic hairs obscured the joining from view.
The man spent a good minute just staring at her sex, holding his erection in hand, before she felt the first invading touch; knew that already the shiny head was part within her body; and slowly more followed.
Was it really that fascinating to see the gradual absorption of the male member into the female? Sarah had never thought of looking. She almost pulled herself up to peer down between her legs. It was not that she did not know what was happening as she could feel the slow progress and the way she was being opened: the sensations were quite clear. What seemed to annoy her most—and she could not fathom that—was the very clear feeling and knowledge that this, the fifth penis to have travelled that way, was the largest. Somehow it would have been better if it had been the smallest but it was not: quite the contrary and it really did seem to Sarah that she was being expanded more than with her former lovers. To use the strange man’s word, as the erection continued its travel, she was also being probed deeper than before.
Finally the man came to rest, body pressed against body and with the stranger’s penis bulb way up inside her and, she could feel, his balls hanging against her bottom hole. The penetration was a shocking and intimate intrusion but there was one more thing to come – and ‘come,’ Sarah knew, was the word.
“Very good, very good, indeed.”
Grasping her thighs the man began the motion of intercourse, the steady piston like sliding of penis in vagina undertaken with long, steady strokes making Sarah slide a little to and fro on the table. It may have been undignified but who apart from the man, the man who had seen all, was there to see? Intercourse may not at all have been of her choosing but it was not unpleasant—far from it—Sarah’s body was, once again, responding to and enjoying the sex.
The steel wheels rumbled on, a steady metallic noise, but from the end of the table came a very different organic sound: the wet, squelching, slapping sound of human sexual intercourse. If asked about the sounds of intercourse Sarah would have thought of the creaking bed, the sound of bedsprings moving in the night, but the wet sucking sound of penis moving in and out of a vagina was really the true, intimate sound of sex.
As if echoing her thought the man said, as he worked her, “It’s such a pleasure to examine and enjoy you with all five senses—sight, touch, scent, taste and now our ears can catch the sound of your intimate, moist flesh. I wonder—will the sound change if you clasp me a little tightly with your vaginal muscles?”
So peculiar but Sarah complied and, yes, the sound did change!
“Ah, interesting. We can learn much by experiment.”
The train trundled on, the regularity of the wheels on the track matched by the steady motion of intercourse. Diddly dum, diddly dum, diddly dum. In, out, in, out, in, out.
The intercourse carried on. Like everything else there was going to be no hurry about that; Sarah did not expect a few quick thrusts and a grunt: rather she expected, and got, a leisurely session. He talked, he paused, he varied the rhythm and on occasion held himself very still. Any woman would have been delighted by the length of time he took in coming, would have been delighted by the way he held off emission, would have enjoyed the lengthy intercourse had, of course, the whole thing been voluntary between consenting adults. Her nod had been one of acceptance not invitation.
There was nothing Sarah could do, no protest she could make as the man finally came. It had been inevitable since he had first stroked her lapels. Sarah could feel it: knew exactly when the first spurt came as deep within her as it was possible to go, knew what and where he was coating with his semen, felt every spasm as it came and there were many.
She had taken quite a battering; it had not been quite enough to make her come a third time but it had been close. Finally the man slowed and stopped tight up against her. There was a pause and Sarah could feel the fullness within her begin to abate.
“I don’t believe I know your name. How remiss of me.” He stepped back from her, looked closely at her still widely splayed sex and smiled.
He had just had sexual intercourse with her, had slipped his penis into her and released his semen without asking or even finding out her name and now, with drooping penis, he was opening her handbag—her private handbag—and looking through it. It had personal things in it—women’s things—photographs, her diary and all sorts of details about her.
“No, I...”
“Ah, yes here it is, Sarah. A pretty name. Be a good girl now and sit up and look at the window. I have finished my inspection and it has been satisfactory. It has been a long journey and I expect you are feeling sleepy.”
Sarah certainly was. She sat up naked on the table, her naked bottom on the Formica and her breasts so very visible in the yellow light of the carriage. Outside the world was so black but perhaps, yes, there was just a point of light out there—maybe the bedroom window of a cottage where someone like her was just going to sleep, perhaps after a tumble between the sheets, and...
Sarah was at the terminus. There was light on the platforms coming through the window, there was noise from the platforms but a stillness on the train. She seemed to have been sleeping. Opposite her, the man, the very ordinary man, was getting his coat and bag from the rack. Her eyes dropped to her body – she was fully clothed. Had she been dreaming or had she been part of his dream?
The experience seemed so vivid, the memory of her orgasms so strong. It could not be, it must have been a dream: but, if it was a dream, it had been a very real one. A girl’s wet dream for, undoubtedly, it had been sexual and very wet: she could not deny that her panties felt soaking from her wetness. It could not really be that the wetness was anything other than of her own making; it could not be that the ordinary man now walking down the aisle had really contributed to it. That would be simply awful and, if so, she would have to do something about it. The police or something of the sort.
Sarah glanced around—there was no one there. Her hand slipped under her skirt and into her panties beneath the hose; she winced as her fingers touched her clitoris—it was almost sore from being so sensitive, and then slipped them inside herself—so easily done. Removing her hand she held it before her face. Her relief was palpable, there was not a hint of semen—but of course there would not be—it had all been just a dream. Her fingers, though, revealed just how wet she was. She hoped the man had not scented her arousal whilst she slept, hoped her face had not betrayed what she was dreaming and, even more, hoped she had not moaned in her sleep. She waggled her fingers in the air to dry them and thought of her hotel; a long hot bath and then to bed perhaps to masturbate to thoughts of wild hairy Scotsmen, their kilts and what lay beneath.
Another day, another week, another month found Sarah travelling northwards once more by train on business. She kept to the well occupied and lit carriages—still unnerved by her dream – and kept hard at work on her laptop. There was no repetition, no trundling through darkness, no unwanted examination of the very fine new suit she had bought from Selfridges only the day before and no interference with her person. Alighting at Waverley Station Sarah walked out, turned right and made her way through the streets of the New Town to her hotel. A well remembered route through the elegant streets. Only, when she got there and stood at the door, she realised it was not her hotel; not even a hotel at all but a private house. The door was slightly ajar. She was puzzled and pushed against the door and it swung easily, opening on well oiled hinges.
“Ah Sarah, my dear, and what are you wearing for me today?”
It was the ordinary man of her dream, the man on the train, the man of the blackness dressed in full Highland dress; face smiling a greeting; hand outstretched to take her coat—at least as a preliminary courtesy.