Journeying

The train has compartments. The seats are old and have a musty smell. The heating, turned on full and not to be changed, makes the air cloying and presses the cause of sleep and release. The misted windows offer us only vague reflections. The darkness outside says "stay in your warm bright cave and wait for me to be gone".

Our minds are numbed by the cradling rattle and rumble of the train. Our eyes open and close with no change in what we perceive. Your head rests on my plaid covered chest as you curl up against me like child hugging her oversized teddy bear in the glow of the night light. My arm around your shoulders has long ceased to have feeling but I am loath to move it and break the spell.

But you are not a child and your hand and my penis have plans for each other. We know the moment is fading but we move on from it drowsily, almost replete, seeking one more comfort against the winter cold.

You head is sliding slowly towards my lap, to secure the alliance between our extremities. My now tingling hand slips over the ridges of your wool clad spine and burrows beneath your waistband seeking its own resolution.

Are your eyes closed when you take me languidly in your mouth? Is it you or me I hear sigh as I slide my big hand inside your pants and my fingers nuzzle your wet recesses?

The train sets the slow but purposeful rhythm of our coupling. Each movement repeating the last but taking us further. I need but don't want the release that approaches. This motion, this journey, seems enough. Destinations and arrivals only disrupt the tidal flow of desire. I want to swim and swim and never make land.

But the undertow of need and must is strong and soon consumes me in the hot urgency of your mouth and my seed.

Afterwards, as you slept, my soft cock still under your cheek, my fingers still given sanctuary by your cunt, I watched the blushing entry of the dawn.

(c) Mike Kimera 2000 Do not reproduce without permission