Louisiana Days Ch. 05

It was the first weekend of December, about a year or more after I had left the Daily News, when I went to Houston to stand in my friend Burke's wedding. He was marrying a former girlfriend of mine, and since I introduced them he figured he had no choice but to invite me. (We never made love, by the way, but Burke didn't know that.)

That month also saw my TR3, Margaret, in her deaths throes. In fact, she succumbed Christmas Day in the left lane of I-10, on the bridge just as you pass into St John the Baptist Parish. With Margaret on life support I decided to make the trek to Houston on Amtrak. The passenger service was still new, so the Sunset Limited still bore the marks of the not-so-passenger-friendly Southern Pacific.

That Friday afternoon the cars were dirty, the bathrooms rough and in the areas where smoking was permitted the air too foul even for a chain smoker like me. This, naturally, could be made tolerable with a little money – a room or roomette in a sleeping car at a cost of three or four times that of a seat in coach.

For the extra fare one had a private compartment with two oversize facing chairs, which with the pulling of a handle or two converted into a bed -- reminiscent of the Pullman berth of yore, I guess. They had curtains to block views from the corridor as well as the street, and doors with locks. The restrooms at the end of each sleeping car were much cleaner than those in coach and included showers. If one were traveling between New Orleans and El Paso or any other journey that required an overnight run, the sleeping car might be worth the extra cost. And, in fact, if one had the money, a roomette was quite superior to my seat in coach for a shorter run.

My seat in coach was roomier than those in a 737 or a Greyhound, and one could always walk to the diner/café/bar car at the end of the queue for a drink. Makers Mark cost the same for those in coach or those in roomettes.

That Friday afternoon, suitcase in hand, I boarded the Sunset and spent half an hour finding my seat, storing my luggage, having my ticket punched and finding my way to the back of the train for a drink.

Somewhere between Lafayette and Crowley, where the cane turns to rice, I downed my second drink and began walking back to my seat. Out the door, through the vestibule and gangway into the sleeping cars.

Then, I heard that Lauren Bacall purr, that raspy, sexy drawl: "If it isn't Mr. Strange."

Her scent, Chanel, which I remembered so well waffed Into the corridor. Everything came back, along with the electric feeling that passed through my hips that night at Tony's. I hadn't realized how much I wanted to "nail Doris" again. I had tried hard to put ideas like that out of my mind when still at the Daily News because I had to work with the woman. Her having said this was a one-time thing, made it a easier.

I thought about that one-time thing and how its reasons may not apply in this situation.

"Ah, Ms Loro," I said, trying to be overly polite.

She just stared at me in silence through the opened door for the longest time.

"Williamson, Loro Williamson" she said, almost as a reprimand. I think she really was angry even if only a little. "Join me and tell me what you've been doing the past year."

Now, even I was able to catch that hint." And so I stepped in to the roomette and took a seat facing her. It wasn't much of a spider to the fly. I knew – or at least hoped I knew – what I was getting into. It was a good guess, a correct one.

Doris was as I liked to imagine her. Even at 47 (I checked) she was as beautiful as she was that night out on the Feliciana Highway, or as beautiful as my lecherous mind had fantasized. Today, a single standard strand of pearls hung from her long neck. She was wearing a light green silk blouse, which made her green eyes sparkle -- or was I just hoping they were aglitter? The first three buttons of the blouse were undone, letting her shoulder length red hair tickle the tops of her freckled breasts and the thin border of green lace that was her bra, a green just a tad darker than her blouse.

Her skirt was a gray, heavy wool, a bit shorter than what I remember from my days at the Daily News, rising almost to mid thigh as she crossed legs. Despite the darkness of her black, thigh-high stocking, she knew her legs were getting her message across. She toyed with the four-inch heeled shoe on her left toes, and crossed and re-crossed her legs, each time broadcasting her green lace panties. She stared at me over the tops of her glasses.

"I don't have any whiskey for you. Makers Mark, if I recall right. But I did have the porter bring me a pitcher of martinis a few minutes ago. You know how much I like martinis, of course. I think you'll take one. An Irishman never refuses a drink." And she laughed as she reached for the pitcher, poured the gin and vermouth into a plastic cup. It was quite cold and actually tasted good, surprising for someone who doesn't like gin. But, then I was drinking for effect and affect, not taste.

"A toast to our trip?" she asked. "Didn't we toast in my living room?"

"Of course." I was thinking of something special to toast but I thought at the time that it probably should wait. "Chin Chin."

"Where are you going? I'm going to do some shopping in Houston."

"Houston. Stranding in a friend's wedding."

"A friend from Tulane? We did discuss your college days?"

We prattled on: What do you do in your new job? (Same thing as before.) Do you have a new girlfriend? (Yes, a couple of them, really.) Are you still bedding my daughter's tennis coach? (No.) Did you ever get to make love to the waitress at the Dyn-o-mite Grill? (Yes, once.) Did you ever hook up with Diane Barr afer you left? (No.) "I knew you were screwing her. Everybody in town knew that, even Elliot."

"Did everyone know about us, too?" I asked.

"There were rumors. Everybody thought Elliot's bet was a joke, and the spades at Tony's are always making things like that up. I am after all a bit older than you. You kept quite about us. But that's the way you are. You're different."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Different: You love pussy."

"Well, I would think most men do."

"Not like you. You're different. You're short. You stutter. You're clumsy. Your ugly glasses don't even fit. And, that dueling scar on your right cheek. Yet you screw two-thirds of the women you meet. You just love pussy. Women sense that. They know how much you enjoy them. They are flattered, and you turn that flattery into a fuck."

"Fell off a bicycle," I laughed, pointing to the scar. "And, yes, I love ass."

"See." And she continued her questioning: What was I reading? What movies had I seen? What stories I had written? Great taste or less filling?

My answers weren't all simple, of course, nor were her answers to my own questions: How goes the Daily News? (Elliot was fired.) Who replaced me? ( Fat girl just out of LSU.) Are you dating anyone? (Will Sharp asked me to dinner once.)

We were killing time, of course, though I think she enjoyed the lecture.

We sat in silence facing each other as the train rambled past the rice fields and silos. I stared, trying to drink in as much of her as I could. She really was quite as I remember in her I-want-to-feel sexy mode: a touch more Chanel; lipstick a shade deeper; skirt just a bit shorter; bra a mil thinner, heels an centimeter higher, hose a shade darker and one additional button unbuttoned on her blouse.

Without breaking the silence, she stood, locked the door to the compartment and closed the curtains. She sat back down in her chair, looked straight at me, and unbuttoned her blouse and unhooked her bra. Her breasts were taut and young, with freckles across her upper chest and shoulders

"I think we should not even try to pretend," she broke the silence. "I've fancied you since that day in the parking lot when you and Elliot were making that bet." she said. "And I know you've been fantasizing about "doing" me."

I was a little piqued about her claim, but she was right. "You know?"

"Of course," she continued, and leaned over my chair, put her hand on my shoulder and pulled me toward her: a kiss, a long, tongue filled, wet kiss, the kind I remember from that night last year. Our kiss was marathon and delicious. She bit my tongue, maybe a bit harder than I remembered.

She reached over me to pull a handle on the side of the chair that made the back recline. Then she pushed me back into the seat and proceeded to fall on top of me, legs spread just enough to lift her skirt and to rub herself against her my knee. My dick was getting a bit stiffer every minute. In fact it had been growing in starts and stop since seeing Doris from the corridor.

I touched her bare breasts. One, then the other, then both together, massaging, pressing them together, pulling on the nipples with my fingers then my lips and teeth. She unbuttoned my shirt and ran her hands across my chest before reaching

down to hold and stroke my dick.

"Oh yes," I said. I was enjoying the moment and anticipating those moments to come. Not anxious, not hurried. Just enjoying.

"I've been dreaming of having you inside me for more than a year now," she whispered in the Lauren Bacall purr that drove me crazy then and was having the same effect now.

I reached my hand down over her gathered skirt and touched her wet, green lace panties. She twitched, kicking the door. The sound of the rails muffled any noise we made, but the kicking and banging on the walls was another story. We had to be at least a little careful.

Our legs were still hanging off the seat when she slid to the floor and knelt. She undid my belt and button, and unzipped my jeans. My cock sprang out to greet her, so to speak. I was hard, damn hard.

She pulled my pants and shorts down to my ankles and with my cock wrapped in that delicious red hair began stroking me. With the tip of a diamond-ringed finger she picked a drop of precum from the tip of my penis, looked up and tasted me. Then, she went down.

She may have been dreaming of my being inside of her and I much the same, but I also fantasized, while fully awake of Doris' unzipping my pants, fondling and kissing my hard-on, and balls and taking every ounce of me. My fantasies were being fulfilled.

She kept moving up and down, sucking, blowing, caressing me with her lips, taking me to the back of her throat. I sighed and groaned a bit in pleasure but also to try to contain myself. It was a difficult fight.

As I throbbed getting ready to explode, she moved her lips away from my dick, and still on her knees between the seats, grabbed the edges of her blouse to better expose her breasts: "On my tits."

And I did, pouring streams of white cum all over her breasts. It trickled down her chest in drop and streams, as she backed into the seat that was still upright. She mopped up the cum with her fingers, which she licked clean one by one. All except the index finger, which she offered me.

And she smiled: "That will help get you back soon, better than the first time. We know that, don't we?"

I couldn't disagree with anything she said. If her physical seduction were not enough, the mental images she wove were. I tried to sit up, but lost my balance and nearly fell off the seat.

"Might have been easier in your little red sports car. (Gawd that Becall whisper!)

"Blue."

"Oh, shut up, and get over here." And she grabbed my opened shirt and pulled me to my knees as she spread hers. I bent over to put my face between her legs and lick those wet panties, burrowing my nose into her pussy. I took them between my teeth and attempted to remove the lone obstacle to my goal. I was rather clumsy about it, though. and Doris lifted her ass and removed them for me.

"You should be much smoother than that if you are to go around making love to older women."

I didn't answer, but plunged my face into that red hair, certainly all aglitter now. Her love juices were ambrosia. I was now as excited as before, if not more so. I don't think any of my young partners ever did that to me. I could hear Doris moan and sigh, and when she pushed her skirt over my head and pressed me into her pussy in the dark, I was the one moaning and groaning. An inmate in Doris woolen prison.

"I want you now, Mr. Strange. OH god yes, now."

Trying to get up, I moved back into the seat for a second. Doris rose, stepped out of wool skirt and turned around. She bent over the seat, her hands on the unshaded window. And so, as we pulled into Jennings, I entered her from behind. She gasped and let her head fall on the window, face against the glass, breathing hard. It was awkward at first, Doris' being so tall, but oh so good. She put a foot on a seat making it easier for me to slide in and out and in and out. I was very hard, and she very wet, and lubricated by her love juices. My strokes were soft at first, getting stronger with each stroke until I was now pounding and pounding and pounding as her moans and purrs were coming quicker and louder. As she reached another orgasm, I moved as close as I could and put my hand over her mouth to muffle her calls as she was about to scream, which would have attracted attention in the car and at the Jennings station.

The train jerked as we left the depot. Separating us and tossing me into the tilted seat. I was still rigid when I pulled her toward me. Facing the opposite wall she steered me into her as she sat. Then she did all the work. Maybe not all the work, as the train moved in fits and shakes past the rail yards and through Lake Charles, swaying left and right.

I bit her neck and held her breasts in my hands as the train crossed the lake. She lifted herself up and down as I did the same, rising to meet her in rhythm with the sway and the clang clang clang of the rails. Each stutter, each stop, each pass of a switch made our moves different, maybe unique.

With the noise of the rails now louder and the jerking stronger, Doris' moans and groans and even screams were muffled as she reached climax after climax, each preceded by my name, "Jack, Jack, Jack... Take me. Take me. Do me. Do me. Ooooooooooo, in the office... at Tony's ... in my car... in... in ... in me!"

I believe we were passing over the river into Texas when I responded: " Doris... Doris... Doris... I claim you. I claim you." I had no idea what that meant but I exploded along with her, and had we not been on a rickety old bridge over a river, I am sure we would have been heard throughout the entire train.

I fell back into the nearly flat seat and pulled Doris with me. We lay there, her atop me, our feet and legs dangling off the edge of the seat, arm in arm, exchanging an occasional kiss, some of the passionate kind, others of the romantic version. We turned on our sides somewhere before Beaumont, and caressed each other's worn parts.

"We'd best get dressed," Doris broke the silence. "We have about an hour before Houston. And I'm going to have to change."

"When are you returning to Opelousas?" I asked.

"Willie is picking me up next Tuesday on his way back from San Antonio. I think he will be disappointed, though."

Needless to say I was disappointed – hell I would have called in sick for a week to be on the same train with her.

"I'm going back Sunday night," I said as I struggled to get my jeans on. "Can I buy you a drink tomorrow night or breakfast Sunday?" (I knew I could never afford to take someone like Doris Loro to dinner.)

"No. You are going to a wedding alone tomorrow, and single wedding guests never go home alone. You'll have more fun."

"But, will..."

"You see me again? Of course. One day. And it will by accident just like this time. I'll still dream about our little affairs and you will fantasize about 'doing Doris,' but not now. Not so soon."

I got dressed, and we shared a fantastic kiss – a kiss to build a dream on, you might say. I walked to the diner/café/bar car for a Makers and a chicken salad sandwich. As I walked back to my seat I passed Doris, sitting primly in a blue dress and reading a book.

"Let's not greet each other at the station," she said. "Never know who may be there."

And so, I walked back to my seat, where I quickly fell asleep. Don't remember if I dreamed of Doris or how we would meet again "one day." But, when the conductor woke me as we pulled into the station at Houston, I had to wait a minute before getting up. I had a huge hard on.

And, by the way, at the wedding I found Burke's sister quite delicious. But I remained sober and very sore... and my mind was still crowded with Doris.