tagMind ControlThe Impenetrable Blackness of Windows

The Impenetrable Blackness of Windows

byDrmaxc©

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.

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byDrmaxc© 6 comments/ 28991 views/ 8 favorites

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