Stranger on a Train

It went on and on. I don't know how long he pleasured me and tortured me. It was exquisite. It was torment.

He would have made me come a dozen times, except that I was so relaxed. When I orgasm, my whole body goes rigid. The muscles of my legs and buttocks and abdomen, even the muscles inside my pussy, clench tight as I come. I wanted and needed to come so badly; it was so close, the pleasure was so intense. But I couldn't.

He had told me to relax. My legs lolled on his shoulders, my hands lay open and vulnerable. I couldn't come. I couldn't move. I couldn't beg. I wasn't even breathing hard – he had told me to take deep, slow breaths, and I did. But with every exhalation I moaned. I didn't know when I'd started moaning, but I couldn't stop. It was an animal sound coming out of me, long and low and loud, uncontrollable.

Finally he lifted his head just a little – fingers of one hand buried inside me, face wet with my juices, lips swollen from sucking on me – and he said, "Michelle, tell me. Tell me what you need."

"Let me move," I groaned.

"God, yes," he said. "Move as much as you want, baby." And he lowered his lips to my clit again, and licked it into his mouth.

My whole body responded like a plucked guitar string. I grabbed the coverlet of the bed with my hands, tightened my thighs around his head, lifted my hips up off the mattress. Uncontrollably, writhing shamelessly, I rubbed myself against his mouth and face, again and again. I heard my voice sobbing with pleasure and need. And orgasm rose up in a long wave and gripped me, and I screamed. I went totally still, every muscle in my body clenched, as wave after wave of delight swamped me. It lasted a long time, and I milked it, clasping the back of his head with my hands and making him give me more, more. And then the shuddering spasms of release went through me, and I relaxed back on the bed, moaning, gulping for air.

He held my hips in his arms, his face against my belly, while I recovered. It was the most powerful orgasm I had ever experienced; now my pussy felt so oversensitive and overstimulated, I didn't think I could bear it if he touched me down there just at that moment. And he didn't. I suppose he knew; he could feel it in my mind.

I still had the power of movement; he hadn't taken it away from me yet. I dropped a hand to his hair and stroked it, a little timidly. His hair was soft, a little curly. I ran my fingertips along his scalp and felt that he was sweating.

He looked up at me. "What?" he asked, a little smile on his face. "You don't hate me any more, all of a sudden?"

I took my hand away. "Damn you," I whispered, huskily. "You son of a bitch." In the aftermath of that long wave of delight, it was hard to summon up any real anger; I felt dazed, wrung out, throbbing with pleasure. The strongest negative emotion I could summon was resentment; but I had to be honest with myself. He hadn't told me to grab his hair and fuck his face like a bitch in heat; that had been all me. How much could I really blame him for that?

He crawled up the bed and put his arms around me. "Relax, sweetheart," he said, and cuddled my unresisting body against his chest. He combed his fingers through my hair, then stroked down my back.

His cock was thick and hard, trapped between our bellies, and I could smell and feel that he was fully sexually aroused. But again, he didn't seem to be in any hurry. There was no rush to get inside me. Of course, I thought; for him, the pleasure is being inside my head. He is fucking me; he's been fucking me all along.

The idea, which had been horrifying before, now struck me as erotic; I felt another deep pull down inside me, a quiver of need. I didn't want to come again – it was much too soon – but suddenly I was swamped with the need to please him, to be penetrated and possessed by him, to grant his wishes. I gritted my teeth against the urge to wrap my legs around him and fuck him; instead I groaned, "Are you making me feel this way?"

"No," he said. He sounded as surprised as I was, and kind of amused as well. "No, I'm not doing anything at the moment. That's all you."

"Damn it," I mumbled again. I wondered if I were a shameless slut; and then I decided that I really didn't care. I found that I had the power of movement. I twined my legs with him, and reached down and caressed his rigid cock, all the length from oozing head to thick base, and he drew in a long breath. "You don't seem to be in too much of a hurry to come," I said curiously, wrapping my fingers around him and beginning to rhythmically stroke him.

"Baby, I've come half a dozen times since I met you."

I drew my head back and looked up into his green eyes, surprised. "What?"

"I'm not like other men," he reminded me. "It's different. Sometimes I don't ejaculate. It's a release of chemicals in the brain. It's just as intense, sometimes even more so. You've been getting me off since I first saw you."

I was stroking his cock from tip to root all while he said this; his voice was breathless but he was clearly in control. He liked it, though; he tilted his pelvis towards me to give me more access. I cupped his testicles with my other hand and asked, "When?"

"Uh ..." He nuzzled my neck; he was sweating lightly. He hadn't told me to do this; I was pleasuring him from my own free will, and enjoying it. For the first time, I felt as though I had a tiny amount of power over him, and I liked it. "The first time was on the train, the very first minute I took control of you. I came so hard I thought the damn train would catch fire. Again in the hotel lobby. Then when I was touching your breasts. That time I came physically, too, in my pants. I couldn't stop myself. Jesus, Michelle, you're damn good at that." His hips were moving in time with my hands; he was breathing harder. "Twice more when I was going down on you because that was so fucking hot. When you came. I could feel it all through me. Ah, baby, stop now, stop." He pushed my hands away. "What time is it?"

"What?"

He looked at the alarm clock beside the bed; it read 8:51. He reached for the phone and dialed zero.

"Hi, I want to talk to the concierge please?"

I could not believe he was talking on the phone. I slid down on the bed and licked his rock-hard cock, and then swirled my tongue around the very tip, tasting the thick bead of precum that had formed there.

His voice was a little strained, but he continued talking into the phone. "What time does the drugstore in the lobby close? Nine? Damn!"

I could hear the concierge say, "Is there something I can get you from the store before they close?" I sucked the head of his cock into my mouth and worked it in and out, salivating on it freely, using the ring of my lips to stimulate the rim of his head all the way around.

"Yeah, would you?" he said to the concierge. "It's kind of embarrassing ... Well, if you could pick us up some Astroglide?... Uh huh ..." He was breathing hard through his nose, trying not to pant into the phone. He burrowed his fingers into my hair and hung on while I took him deeper into my mouth, using the flat of my tongue hard on him. "Whatever kind of sex lube they have, but Astroglide would be best ... No, my girlfriend will be down to pick it up in a while... Mm hmm ... Thanks ..."

He managed to fumble the phone back into the cradle. "They'll charge it to the room," he said, and then dropped his head back onto the bed, his eyes closed, both hands in my hair. I looked up at him, eyebrows raised, his cock buried deep in my mouth. But he didn't explain why he wanted the Astroglide; he was too busy having his seventh orgasm of the night.

Act 2

"Michelle, there's something I want you to do for me."

He grinned at me. He looked utterly wicked – naked, sprawled in the tangled bedclothes, with those green eyes glinting. We had talked a little, and I had slept a little; but now he was awake and alert, obviously ready for more.

"What?" I asked.

"I want you to go take a shower," he said. "Try not to get your hair wet. Clean yourself thoroughly. Especially back here," he added, letting his finger glide down between the cheeks of my bottom.

"No!" I said indignantly.

"No?" he asked, sweetly.

"I don't do butt sex," I told him firmly. "It's not my thing."

He just looked at me for a long minute. Then he said, "Michelle. Go take a shower. Try not to get your hair wet. Be sure to clean your anus thoroughly with soap and hot water. When you're done, don't dry off; just come straight back to me. Go now."

I felt the control in my mind, warm and foreign; and I immediately got up, went to the bathroom, unwrapped some soap, and took a shower.

I was furious. I had gone from terrorized victim to willing partner; now I felt like an angry, betrayed lover. I couldn't believe he had taken control again. I didn't think he'd want to control me any more; but I was wrong. My body obeyed him, but my mind was calling him every name in the book.

When I got out of the shower, I didn't dry off. I went, dripping wet and naked, back into the bedroom and stood before him. He sprawled in bed and looked at me for a long moment, big and naked and hard as a lead pipe, and his gaze on my body was an incredible turn-on. Standing there in front of him, I could feel every drop of water on my body, running down my breasts and belly and legs. I felt a flush of wetness, not from the shower, fill my pussy, making me feel hot and ful. He handed me my wraparound dress and said, "Put this on."

With some difficulty, I pulled the stretchy material over my wet body. He didn't give me my bra or panties, so I was completely naked under the dress.

I realized that he wasn't keeping me from talking. "You son of a bitch," I told him.

"Don't you understand?" he whispered. There was a little smile on his face; his eyes looked dark and wild. "It feels good to touch you, and to be touched by you. It feels good to me when you feel good. But it feels really, really good to make you do something you don't want to do."

"You're a colossal prick."

"I know," he said. "Now look at yourself in the mirror," he said, and I did. The knit dress clung to my wet body like a second skin; my breasts jiggled, obviously unsupported, and my nipples were visible points. I turned around, and saw that the material adhered clammily to the curves of my ass as well. He got up and stood behind me, looking at me with obvious appreciation. Then he put his hands on my breasts, fondling the nipples expertly. I glared at him furiously, but my body was attuned to his now; my nipples puckered, standing up firmly under the hugging cloth.

He ran his fingers through my tousled, steam-curly hair, making it even wilder than before, and looked at me in the mirror. "There," he said. I looked like a woman who had been fucked hard, and wanted more. "Go down to the concierge desk and pick up the Astroglide," he said.

I resisted. "I'm not wearing shoes," I managed to say, before he clamped down on the controls.

"That's because you're in a hurry to come back up here and get fucked some more," he said. "And they'll all know it. Go."

I went. Barefoot, damp, hair wild, breasts bobbing, my body fully aroused. I rode down the elevator with a middle-aged balding businessman with a wedding band on his finger, who tried not to stare at me but failed. I walked across the lobby. More men looked their fill.

It was strange. I would never have done it if he hadn't forced me. But I didn't have any choice; I knew I couldn't fight it; so I enjoyed it. There was a secret wild thrill in the way people reacted to seeing my exposed, wet, barefooted body.

The clerk behind the front desk gaped at me. I wondered if the sight of me was making him hard. My body felt languorous; I had been deeply pleasured and would be again soon, and I knew it. I could feel my pulse beating rapidly right against my swollen, sensitized clit. I felt the eyes of men on my body. They could tell I was aching for sex by the way I walked.

I went to the concierge, an attractive woman in her thirties who looked at me with eyebrows raised and handed me the tube of Astroglide Gel. "Thanks," I said, and sauntered back to the elevator. I made no effort to hide the lube.

Back in the room, my lover and master was obviously very excited. He grabbed me, turned me towards the bed, and began stroking my back and backside. "Did they look at you?" he asked.

"Yes. I felt like a total slut."

"You are the hottest thing any of them has ever seen," he said. "You look like liquid orgasm. They all wanted you, didn't they?"

"Yes."

"Jesus, baby. I can't wait to take you up the ass. Hang on to the footboard."

I braced my hands against the sleigh-shaped footboard of the bed, which was about waist-high to me. From this position, I could see us in the mirrored vanity on the other side of the bed. He nuzzled his erect cock against my backside, and then peeled the front of my dress down from my shoulders, baring my still-damp breasts. My nipples, already aching and hard, contracted further as the cold air hit them. He commanded, "Hold out one hand. Good." He squeezed a dollop of Astroglide onto my fingertips and said, "Rub it onto your nipples, baby. Make it feel good."

As he stripped the dress right off me, I stroked my breasts, letting the slippery gel roll over the soft white flesh. My nipples pointed straight up and I teased them with my slick hand. I made a V with my fingers and used it to fuck my nipples; my body began to hum and arch with pleasure. I could see myself, white, naked, shameless, in the mirror; one hand braced on the footboard, the other working my red nipples. And his eyes were on me, too.

Oh, it did feel good. I was furious with him. I was apprehensive about what he intended, because I really didn't like anal. I knew that my dislike for anal was part of what was exciting him, and that infuriated me. But he had commanded me to make it feel good, and my hand was obedient; my nipples lengthened as I stroked them; my body was taut with pleasure. We both felt it when the muscles in my pussy began to quiver with need.

He was breathing hard. He was watching me in the mirror. The head of his cock was pressed against the center of my ass; it felt as hard and round as an apple.

"There's no way I'm taking that thing in my ass," I said, trying to sound firm even though I was panting with arousal. "Seriously. I really don't like it."

He didn't bother to answer. He just pulled back and began rubbing lube on himself. I met his eyes in the mirror; his eyes were bright with excitement.

He said, "Make yourself wet, Michelle. Hang on to the bed with one hand and touch yourself with the other one."

He was still rubbing lube on his cock. Masturbating, I realized, while looking at me. My hand, still slick with the gel, went to my pussy. I slid one finger through my lips, opening myself up; the lube on my hand mingled with my natural juices as I pressed my middle finger inside myself, then pulled it out and circled my clit with it. I was breathing hard as I pleasured myself, looking into his eyes in the mirror.

"Spread your legs a little more," he said breathlessly. "That's it. Stick your ass out. Yeah." He put a dollop of gel on his fingers and, with gentle fingertips, rubbed it into my anus. "There. Don't stop what you're doing, Michelle."

I didn't. I continued stroking my pussy rhythmically, first stimulating myself inside, then pulling out to caress my clit. His fingers were gently, insistently massaging lube into my hole. I was more sensitive there than I'd realized. "Relax this muscle right here," he said. "Keep everything else the same. Relax this." His fingertips were slipping in and out of me; I could feel how tight I was back there. I softened the muscle of my anus while my fingers played with my clit. "Good," he said. "Lean forward, Michelle."

The head of his cock nudged my tight hole. It felt huge. I said, "No—" and he said, "Don't talk. Brace yourself against the bed." I fell completely silent and, very reluctantly, took my hand away from my clit and put both hands on the bed. I was mad, and upset, and sexually frustrated. I held onto the footboard of the bed with both hands, my whole groin feeling heavy and aching with need – I had been on the verge of another orgasm.

His cock pressed against me, stretching me apart. It felt enormous. He penetrated me with just the head, just the first few inches. I whimpered.

"Oh hush," he said. "I'm not hurting you. Oh Michelle. Oh God. You're making me come again. Oh fuck. Fuck. God." He leaned his forehead against my back, his eyes closed. It was a mental, not a physical climax, but it was obviously very real, and it lasted a surprisingly long time. "Oh my God, baby," he whispered again, his voice ragged with gratification. "I swear they're getting more intense every time."

I realized that I'd given him multiple orgasms just like that one, just in the last several hours. The realization was thrilling, as was his language; I whimpered again, this time with need.

He pulled out and shoved me down on the floor, growling, "Spread your legs. Lift up."

I lay panting face down, knees and elbows on the carpet, thighs spread wide open, my hair falling over my face. He pushed my head down, pulled my pelvis up, and I felt the head of his hard cock pressing into my wet, aching pussy. "Tell me what you want," he commanded, breathing hard. "Tell the truth."

"Fuck me," I moaned. "Fuck me."

He drove in, hard, all the way to the hilt. I pressed my forehead against the carpet and screamed as I climaxed like a firecracker, the muscles of my vagina grasping and releasing him. He kept pumping into me, his hands hard on my hips. "Oh yes, oh yes," I panted.

The pleasure from my orgasm began to subside in shuddering waves, but I wanted more. I writhed, clutching the carpet, arching my back, keeping my ass high in the air to give him deep access, while rubbing my nipples mindlessly against the carpet. He gave it to me hard, and I took it all. "God, you are hot," he groaned. His voice was gravelly with lust; he was pumping me with long, punishing strokes. "You are so fucking wet. You are hot as a fucking furnace."

His words took me over the edge and I began to come again, pressing my face against the floor, crying out with pleasure in long, animal moans. He was grunting with each thrust, and when the powerful, full-body orgasm took him I could feel it radiating through us both. The eruption of his semen inside me was hot and thick, the volume far greater than any human man's, and as he pumped into me it spurted out and ran down my legs in sheets.

Act 3

Afterwards, we lay panting on the floor, his body heavy and sweat-slick on mine, his cock finally softening against my leg. He was breathing deeply, stroking my hair, my face, with one big, gentle hand. My body felt like it was glowing with satisfaction.

When I was just on the verge of sleep, he said softly, "Get up, Michelle. Go clean yourself up and get dressed. Make yourself look presentable."

I obeyed. In the bathroom mirror, I looked disoriented, deeply pleasured, slightly strange. I sponged the thick semen from my legs, washed my face, and brushed my hair. I went back to the bedroom and put on my underwear, bra, and dress. My stockings and boots. He was getting dressed, too. Soon we both looked just as we had on the train – almost. His eyes were dark, pupils dilated, shadowed underneath.

I understood that we were done. I stood and faced him, and felt him release my mind: the warm sensation that had wrapped around my mind withdrew and was gone, and I was entirely my own person again. His face looked pale; he swayed a little as he let me go, and reached out to brace himself against the wall.

"I'll walk you to the train station," he said.