Stranger on a TrainbyLazyDreamy©
The train was mostly full – it was rush hour, Thursday evening, so there was the usual crowd. I had a seat near the front of the car and was enforcing my private space by keeping my nose in a book. It was a romance novel, and when I read a spicy love scene, I could feel my body heating up. I felt uncomfortable about getting hot like that on the crowded train, so I closed the book and looked up.
I looked straight into the eyes of a guy sitting across the aisle from me on the train. As soon as my eyes met his, it was like a hot, wet washcloth wrapped around my brain. I don't know how else to describe it. There was a sensation of physical heat inside my head – not painful, but very, very warm. I dropped the book on the floor.
I had noticed him, briefly, when I first got on the train, because he was pretty good-looking. He was somewhat older than me – probably about forty – with dark hair that was starting to go gray. Also, unlike most of the commuters on the train he wasn't wearing office clothes. He had on worn old jeans, a long-sleeved shirt with a jacket over it, and scuffed work boots. He looked clean and presentable, but not like a man who worked in the financial district, as I and most of my fellow commuters did.
The eyes that met mine were a surprising, pale mineral green. As the sensation of heat penetrated my brain, I found that I couldn't look away from those green eyes. As I watched numbly, his pupils grew huge and black.
The train pulled into a station. I was still several stops away from home. He got up from his seat. Grasping the pole lightly for support as the train swayed to a stop, he looked down at me and said, "Follow me." And then, as the doors whooshed open, he turned around and walked off the train.
I got up and followed him.
It was the most bizarre sensation I've ever felt. As I followed him, my mind was yelling, "Are you crazy? What are you doing? Don't follow him!" And so on. But it didn't matter. No matter how my mind protested (and it did, vigorously), my body just wouldn't obey me. It obeyed him.
I think I would have trotted right behind him like a dog, but he glanced over his shoulder and said, "Walk here beside me, please." So I walked beside him. He added, "Stay right by my side. Don't say anything. I promise that you are safe. I'll explain everything soon."
We were not far from the convention center, and there were hotels all around. We crossed a brick courtyard and went into a large, expensive hotel. My fear and horror grew with every step. He walked straight up to the front desk, pulling his wallet out of a back pocket. He asked for a room for the night and dropped an American Express card on the counter.
I was in a state of total panic. I was terrified. Although I had followed him here without a struggle, my heart was racing with terror. I felt lightheaded and sick. I couldn't speak or run away, but I was so frightened I thought I might faint. As the desk clerk was processing his request for a room, he put an arm around my shoulders, hugged me close to him, and whispered in my ear, "Take five slow, deep breaths through your nose. Relax your shoulders and hands."
I took five deep breaths and relaxed my shoulders and hands. My feeling of lightheadedness and panic went away, although my fear remained undiminished. His arm around my shoulders was strong, his body warm and solid, but he didn't hug me intimately. I wanted to shrink away from him, but I couldn't. I looked at the girl behind the desk and thought, "Help me please!" But she didn't notice, of course. She smiled and handed him his receipt and a plastic key card. "Come with me," he said to me softly, and we walked together to the elevator, his arm still around me. We must have looked like a happy couple.
We were the only people in the elevator. As we went up I felt anger rise in me, pure fury. I clung to the anger because it was so much easier to bear than the awful fear. I looked at his reflection in the polished brass walls of the elevator and thought, You bastard. Fuck you.
He met my eyes in the mirrored wall and I suspected that he was well aware of what I was thinking. He said, "As you know, I'm controlling your body. But I promise you're safe. I will explain everything in the room, but I promise that no harm will come to you. You are safe."
I wanted to kill him.
We went into the room. It was nice – very large, with a view of the city. There was a mini bar, a large flat-screen TV on one wall, and a cozy conversation area with overstuffed chairs. The carpet was thick and cream-colored, absorbing our footsteps silently. And, of course, there a huge king-sized bed with carved wooden headboard and footboard, covered with a puffy down comforter. The sun was starting to go down, and golden light poured through the windows onto the bed. I just stared around me with disbelief. The whole situation was unreal.
The strange man got a bottle of spring water from the mini bar, opened it, and handed it to me, saying, "Take a small drink."
My mouth was dry with fear. I drank. Then he took the water from me, put it down on the bedside table, and told me to give him my jacket, which he hung up in the closet along with his own. "Sit on the bed," he said, so I perched there, knees together, hands on my thighs. He sat in a chair and bent forward, beginning to unlace his boots.
"Tell me your first name," he said.
"Michelle," I told him.
"Michelle," he repeated. "That's a nice name. I'll tell you what's going on now, okay?" I didn't answer. He hadn't told me to.
He looked so normal, even handsome, with his slightly rumpled weekend clothes and his soft dark hair.
"Obviously, I have the ability to control you," he said. He pulled off his boots and sat back in the chair, his arms on its rests. "I've taken control of your body; you can't resist me. I'm sorry for that – I know you're scared – but you don't have any choice, and neither do I. I'm in charge for the night, and there's nothing you can do about it, so try to relax. Okay? Is anyone waiting for you at home? Answer me truthfully."
I really tried not to answer that question. I wanted him to think that I was married to a policeman who was searching for me. But it was simply impossible to not obey his commands, no matter what I wanted. "No," I said.
"That's good," he said. "Look at me when I talk to you, Michelle."
I met his strange, pale green eyes.
"I want you to know that I'm not going to hurt you or kill you. You are safe with me. When I'm done with you, I'll let you go, and you'll never see me again. There won't be any lasting damage from anything I do. I promise."
I didn't believe him. We were sitting face to face, him in the chair and me on the bed, and I could see the large, solid bulge of his arousal pushing up against the worn denim at the fly of his jeans. He sat with his legs apart, hands relaxed on the arms of the chair, making no effort to hide his erection from me.
He said, "My control over you is basically a sexual function," he said. He said this very matter-of-factly, meeting my eyes. His voice was deep and soft, a little husky. "You were sexually aroused on the train, which means, among other things, that certain receptors in your brain were open; that's what allowed me to take control. This thing I'm doing to you – my grip on your mind – is as much a sexual act as if my penis was inside your vagina. From my point of view, I'm having sex with you right now. Even though you're not aroused any more, I'm still in possession; I can maintain control for several hours. I won't lie and say that I'm not enjoying it."
Oh, dear God, I thought. He was going to rape me, and there was nothing I could do. It was a nightmare. He was right – I was not sexually aroused any more, not by a long shot, and the sight of his hard-on did not turn me on. If anything, my fear made me feel shriveled and dry inside. My mouth felt dry, too; my pulse was hammering again.
"Take a few deep breaths, and then drink a little water," he said. I obeyed.
"Notice," he said calmly, "that my control over you has limits. I can't touch your emotions at all. I tell you to drink some water, but I can't tell you to stop being afraid. Michelle," he said, gazing straight into my eyes, "don't be afraid."
I was still afraid.
"See?" he said. "Here's another thing – I can have sex with your body, but I can't make you like it. Michelle, be wet for me. Michelle, have an orgasm right now."
He got up from the chair and knelt at my feet. I was sitting with my knees together; he knelt in front of me and rested one hand, gently, non-threateningly, on my thigh.
"I wish I could do that," he said softly. "I would make you not afraid. I would make sure that this night is good for you. I can't do that. I promise that I will be kind, and that I will do my best to please you. But even if I can't, I have to do this. I can't let you go until I've had you, Michelle. Stand up and take off your shoes and stockings, please."
I stood up. I was wearing a knit sweater dress that crossed over in front and tied at the waist. It was short, ending a little above the knees, and with it I was wearing knee-high boots with heels. It was one of my cutest outfits – the dress was an autumn-leaf color which set off the color of my reddish-brown hair and fair skin, and the knit material clung to my curves in a way that was eye-catching but not too risqué for work.
I bent over to unzip my boots. He was watching me, kneeling on the carpet in front of me, and I knew as I bent over that my breasts were falling forward, bulging over the v-neck of the crossover dress, giving him an eyeful of cleavage. I hated this, but there was nothing I could do about it. I took off my boots, leaning against the footboard of the bed for balance, and tossed them aside. I was wearing knee-high hose under the boots, which I stripped off, and then straightened.
He knelt at my feet the whole time I was doing this, watching me. As I'd guessed, his eyes were on my chest – the front of this dress crossed over kind of low, so he would have seen a lot when I bent over. I watched him as his gaze wandered down my front, taking in my waist, hips, thighs, and then finally lingering on my bare legs and feet. I didn't move, because he didn't tell me to.
Damn you, I thought helplessly. Damn you, damn you, damn you. Why do you have to do this? Why me? Why?
He said, "You hate my guts, don't you?" He smiled a little, for the first time. "I can't read your mind, Michelle, but I can feel your emotions, a little. I could feel it when your brain's sexual receptors opened up on the train, letting me take control. People like me – this is how we mate, you see. I used to have a ... partner ... who was like me. We did this to each other, willingly. That's the way it should be, of course. But it's been years since she died, and for someone like me – there isn't any choice. I have to do this every few years, or I'll go crazy. Literally. Can you imagine what a person with this power could do, if I were insane? I've run out of time, Michelle. It's been a long, long time, and I've been searching for so long ..."
I thought, for a moment, that I could almost feel his emotions, too; a sense of intense longing, of aloneness too awful to bear.
"Lie down on your back, in the middle the bed," he said.
I crawled onto the huge bed and lay down on my back. I knew he was going to rape me. I wanted to cry, to beg him to leave me alone, but I just lay still and gazed up at the ceiling. I heard the rustle of clothing, and I saw, out of my peripheral vision, that he was stripping off his shirt. When he lay beside me on the bed, he wore nothing but his jeans. He didn't tell me to look at him, so I stared at the ceiling. I was more frightened than I'd ever been in my life. My heart was pounding. I was trembling. I felt tears gather in my eyes.
His voice was soft, almost a whisper. "Shh, don't cry, baby. We'll go slow. There won't be any pain, I promise. I promise, Michelle. Relax, now. Relax all the muscles in your legs, relax your stomach muscles, relax your shoulders and neck. Take nice deep breaths, nice and slow."
I obeyed. My eyes fluttered shut. I breathed deep, slow, and I felt calmer. He couldn't make my fear go away, but he could make me control its physical symptoms, and that did seem to make me feel less frightened. He said, "I'm going to touch you now. Just a little. Relax."
I felt his warm, broad hand on my chest, above and between my breasts, just over my heart. He stroked the skin of my chest, very gently. I wear a c-cup, and as I lay on my back, my breasts bulged a little above the v of my dress. He caressed me there, then slid his hand up over my collarbones to my throat, then back down between my breasts. "So pretty," he said softly. "Look at me, Michelle."
I opened my eyes. He lay on his side next to me, not touching me except where his hand stroked the skin of my upper chest. His body, I reluctantly admitted, was extremely nice -- he was brown and hard, well-muscled without being bulky, mostly smooth with a whorl of hair in the center of his chest. I averted my eyes from his bare torso and looked into his eyes. They were green and glowing with intensity. Because he was so close, and because he wasn't wearing a shirt, I could smell an odor rising off his skin – sexual arousal, intense, heady.
"When I felt your sexual receptors open on the train, it was such a stroke of luck," he said. "You are so beautiful. Your mind is so receptive and sensitive. Taking control of you was like ... I can't describe it. It felt so good." He met my eyes. "Do you understand, Michelle? This is sex to me. This grasp I have on your mind. I've been fucking you nonstop since we were on the train. It feels so good."
A curious thing was happening to me while he spoke. I was still afraid, but – something inside me was melting.
I liked dirty talk. When a man tells me exactly how he feels, in rough language. This man's use of the word "fuck" – the gentleness of his hand – the smell of his body – the look in his eyes – something in me was responding.
But I refused to respond. The idea that he might "open the sexual receptors in my mind" was abhorrent to me. He could tell me what to do, but he couldn't make me like it. Go straight to hell, I thought.
"Does your bra hook in front, or in back?" he asked. "Answer me."
"In front," I said.
"Oh, good," he said. "Unhook it for me, please."
I lifted my hands and reached down the front of my dress and unclasped my bra, my knuckles grazing the plump sides of my breasts. "Pull the cups out of the way, but don't pull down the front of your dress," he said, and I obeyed. "Now lie still," he commanded, "with your hands relaxed up above your head. That's right," he said, as I lifted my arms and rested them above my head.
I could feel my breasts, free from the bra, bulge out to the sides a little. They were quite firm, though, so they didn't flatten out entirely. The soft knit of my dress clung to them.
"Nice and relaxed, now. Relax your whole body. Take deep, steady breaths."
As I lay flat on my back, arms raised, he rose up from the bed and straddled my hips. His erection was a thick bulge straining at the front of his jeans. "Relax," he said again, and my eyes drifted closed. I felt his hands begin to massage my breasts through the cloth, slowly and gently, squeezing and kneading them, pressing them upwards so that the nipples flattened against the soft material of the dress.
He was patient. It didn't happen right away. But slowly, after a while, the slow, firm kneading of my breasts was having an effect. The peaks of my breasts didn't stay soft and unresponsive; they swelled, and the aureoles puckered, so that the sensitive pink nipples rose up and hardened, tenting the soft knit cloth. And then he stroked them with his fingertips through the cloth, and darts of pleasure went through me, sharp and pure.
My entire body was deeply relaxed and motionless; I was breathing with slow, deep breaths, just as I had been ordered to do. Oh no, no, no, I thought. His fingers circled, drawing the nipples up. No, no, no, I pleaded in my mind. He cupped my breasts in his hands, squeezed them together, and rubbed the erect nipples firmly with his thumbs. The sensation was exquisite. He groaned.
Abruptly he got off me and stood up. "Take your dress of, Michelle," he said huskily. I sat up and untied the dress at my waist and opened it, pulling it off. Now that I wasn't lying still, with his hands on me, I was trembling with fear and anger and self-disgust. My stomach knotted. I wiggled the dress out from under me and tossed it aside. I was wearing my bra, now open in front and twisted around under my arms, and a pair of embarrassingly-wet thong panties. "Take everything off," he said, and I obeyed. He was pulling off his jeans. His body was lean, without an ounce of extra flesh on him – except for his large, erect cock, its heavy purplish head shining with wetness.
He made me lie back again, and we went through the same relaxation procedure – he told me to breathe deep, relax all my muscles, close my eyes. When I was boneless and breathing deep, he said, "Spread your legs now, Michelle. Wider. Lift up your knees a little more." I obeyed, sliding my feet up towards my bare bottom, opening myself to him. How can I explain the mixture of arousal and fear that I felt? The air in the room felt cool on the wet, exposed flesh between my legs.
I thought he would climb on top of me and penetrate me, but he didn't. He lay between my legs and supported himself with one hand while he kissed my stomach all over, running one hand up and down my legs. He nuzzled kisses into my navel, down my belly to the beginning of my pubic hair, over to the hollows of my hip bones, nibbling and licking. I quivered all over when his fingertips stroked the bottom of one bare foot. Normally I would have giggled and squirmed, but I was totally relaxed, totally still, as commanded.
"Put your hands on your breasts," he said. "Stroke your nipples. Try to do just what I was doing to them earlier." I obeyed. The skin of my breasts felt soft and creamy against my palms; the nipples were large and taut, and I circled them with my fingertips, then rubbed them with my thumbs. It felt good, and deep inside me a little spasm of pleasure gripped and released: an almost-orgasm, a pre-climax. "Oh, that's good," he groaned, kissing the flesh of my inner thighs. "I can feel that."
Damn him. The idea that my pleasure was giving him pleasure infuriated me; a hot rush of anger swept through me, momentarily blotting out my sexual excitement. He felt it, of course. "I know, baby," he said. "But I gotta have it whether you to like it or not. And it's better for us both if you like it. One night only, Michelle. Now relax and put your legs over my shoulders."
I did as I was told, letting my hands fall back onto the bed. His back was smooth and warm against my calves. He pressed my legs apart, scooted down, and gently kissed the wet, hot opening to my pussy.
He was incredibly patient. He tenderly sucked my swollen lips, licked all around them, then opened me up with his gentle fingers and licked inside, too. Moisture flowed out of me, making me slick and hot, and he licked and sucked it up. Around and around, again and again. He avoided my clit at first. He didn't seem to have any intention of causing me to climax. Without hurry, without anxiety, he used his mouth to explore and stroke and stimulate and fuck me, eating me like the juiciest peach.
The pleasure started out easy and sweet, and grew and grew until it was unbelievably intense. After a while he began to allow his tongue to circle up and caress my clit, too, licking it leisurely and slow, first stroking it with the broad flat of his tongue, then flickering it with the tip. Up and down and around and around. He began to use his hands on me, too, fingers fucking deep inside my aching, slick pussy, while his lips sucked, gently, gently, on the hyper-sensitive tip of my clit.