tagText With AudioConfessions: Union Station

Confessions: Union Station


Author's Note: All characters depicted are 18 years of age or older.


Click Here to listen. (5.5 min/mp3)


It's been over ten years ago, now, that my ex and I were separated, and I flew to Chicago to meet a cyber lover. Dan was a former DJ, charming, arrogant, cocky, and a staunch Republican. We were like gasoline and a match-- the sparks flew. I was twenty-five, separated with two kids. He was thirty-something, a year out of a serious relationship with the "love of his life" and liked kids... the way some people like cats... "with a nice honey glaze sauce." (Those were his exact words.) I don't know what I was thinking. Okay, I know. I thought I was in love. I probably really was. But it was doomed from the start. Still, love doesn't pay attention to that, does it?

Perhaps my body knew, because I got my period the Friday I left. It started heavy and fast and I called him in tears, because of course, after all the cyber sex and phone sex, real sex was definitely on the menu. I had new lingerie and had planned not to wear any panties on the forty-five minute flight. My body had other ideas. He comforted me on the phone, said it was okay, we'd just spend the weekend together doing... other things.

And we did. We kissed the minute I got off the plane. We kissed a lot that weekend. We cuddled a lot. I certainly alleviated my oral fixation more than once with him. And Chicago was a fine town to play in. It really was a good time, and I remember it fondly. In fact, when Sunday rolled around, neither of us wanted to go home. We walked, hand in hand, through Union Station, where he was going to meet his train. It's very stately and beautiful, and we spent an hour or so on one of those benches. We didn't talk much - but we felt a lot.

Considering how things ended up, I'm glad I had an excuse not to have sex that weekend, but at the time, I was simply aching to be with him. I spent the whole time in a constant state of arousal. The anticipation for our meeting was incredible and I didn't know how I was going to make it through. But I did - the entire 48 or so hours - with no orgasm. He had a few, and giving him those made me so filled with lust I thought I was going to burst. But I just rode the waves, let them ebb and flow. The problem was, each time, the water got higher. And higher. And higher.

Until I put my head in his lap on that bench. He stroked my hair and told me how beautiful I was. I rested my cheek against his crotch and felt him beginning to harden. When I smiled up at him and asked, he admitted, yes... seeing me curled up on the bench was turning him on. It was winter, and I was wearing jeans and high suede boots and a little black sweater that my nipples poked right through - and not from the cold. When his hand brushed one on its way to my hip, it made me shiver.

"Are you turned on?" he whispered, glancing around at the people milling through the station.

I nodded. "Since the first time you kissed me..."

He smiled. "You once told me you could make yourself come without using your hands..."

It was true. I'd done it before, in certain situations, when I was extremely aroused and couldn't, for whatever reason, touch myself. I hadn't climaxed once all weekend, and my whole body was on fire with need. I glanced around, unsure, seeing the light in his eyes. There was no one sitting on our bench, but there was a man reading the paper across from us. New people were constantly coming in and out of the station, up and down the stairs. He wanted me to make myself come... in such a public place? Could I do it, without touching myself?

"Do it for me." His hand moved upward, cupping my breast. The movement of his thumb over my nipple was hidden, as I was curled up toward the back of the bench, my cheek resting against the line of his zipper. The sensation went straight to my clit, making my pussy come alive almost instantly, like a cat who had just been waiting for its prey to make a sudden move. My body pounced on the idea and I began to squeeze my thighs together, moving my hips in almost imperceptible circles.

He watched me, his eyes shining, his thumb moving faster over my nipple through the fabric of my sweater. I felt my clit rubbing against the seam of my jeans - a useful stimulant under the circumstances - and tried to control my movements. I wanted to writhe and buck and twist on that bench, to come so hard people on the incoming train could hear me. But I stayed quiet... my breath coming faster, growing shaky, my face flushing with the heat of my pleasure.

The shadow of someone passed over us and I slowed, biting my lip, but Dan encouraged me, tweaking my nipple, making me sigh and gasp. I wanted to tuck my hands between my legs, to rock against my palm, but I didn't dare. My clit was throbbing as I nudged myself, bit by agonizing bit, toward orgasm. My thighs were flexed so tightly that three days later, I would still feel the soreness in my muscles - but I didn't notice it then. His cock strained against his jeans - I could actually feel it pulsing through the denim - and that turned me on even more. I longed to take him into my mouth, to make him come, too...

But he was focused on me, whispering things I could barely hear, "That's it, good girl, do it for me, come on, baby, that's so good, you're so beautiful, don't stop, don't stop..." I couldn't have stopped if I wanted to. The delicious, winding spiral that had been stretching between he and I all weekend was pulled to its maximum, taut and trembling with such force that my thighs, my breath, my whole being shook with it. I knew it was going to snap back, and the sensation would send me into orbit.

"Oh god..." I whispered it. I think I whispered.

My hips moved faster now, my thighs squeezed together so tight they hurt, my little clit rubbing over the seam of my jeans again and again and again. Dan moved his hand surreptitiously to my other breast, shifting his weight, his thumb touching my nipple and that did it - the feeling reached its limit and my whole body stiffened with pleasure and I quivered in his lap, burying my face against the hard, heated length of his shaft as I came, feeling surge after surge shuddering through me.

We didn't talk afterward. He stroked my hair as my body began to relax and the flush in my cheeks began to fade. I didn't open my eyes for a long time, too afraid of what - or who - I might see around us. Later, Dan said he didn't think anyone had noticed, and considering how busy it was, he was probably right.

I didn't sit up until it was time to go to his train, and we walked, hands swinging, to where he would start his part of the journey home. He kissed me goodbye. It was the last time I'd ever see him, although I didn't know it at the time. Things didn't work out... relationships often don't.

But I'll never forget that weekend. Or the time we spent together on that bench in Union Station.




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