tagExhibitionist & VoyeurStrangers on a Westbound Train

Strangers on a Westbound Train


He felt her head nestle against his shoulder. Her breathing was gentle, easy—she was in a deep sleep. He wished he could be so lucky. Every few seconds, it seemed, the train would lurch, rattling along the tracks like a tin crate. He'd never taken a train before—and now he knew why. Cross-country travel should only be done through the air.

She let out a deep breath and moved closer to him, her body leaning into his, the scent of her midnight-black hair filling his nostrils like incense. She had boarded the train a few hours ago, in some central Illinois town. When she came to his seat and asked, "Mind if I sit here?" he had just shaken his head.

It embarrassed him that the first thing he noticed was the diamond ring and accompanying gold band on her left ring finger. Why would he note something like that at a glance? Well . . . maybe because Joyce hadn't been in the mood for sex lately—she was recovering from a bad case of the flu. And even before that, she'd been only lukewarm toward his advances. And now, what had it been? Two weeks? Three, since he'd gotten laid? Joyce hadn't even been willing to give him a simple backrub before he left on his three-day business trip. Maybe they were just stale. Fourteen years of marriage could do that to the best of them. . .

The woman beside him shifted, snuggled into him some more, and uttered a soft moan. What, was she having a sexy dream or something? Riding her husband's high hard one as he reached and fondled her breasts? Stop it, he thought. You're a married man. Maybe. But he was a horny married man, and a cranky one. Most of the passengers in the car seemed to be sleeping just fine. Why was he the only one who felt the bumps? He closed his eyes, trying to rest, rest. But his eyes sprang open a moment later when the train lurched again.

"Damnit," he said.

He reached for his carry-on bag, pulled out a novel his wife had packed for him. Some dull piece set in nineteenth century Europe. Good grief. But maybe if he read a few more pages, it would help him get to sleep. Worth a try.

The woman's left hand reached over, settled on his thigh. She squeezed him gently, still moaning. He wondered—was she really asleep? He looked at her, closely. Yes. There was no doubt. She had to be asleep. He looked down at her engagement ring and wedding band, and for some reason, they sent a wave of arousal rushing through him. He felt his penis stiffen.

He'd been struck by the woman's attractiveness. She was younger, probably midtwenties. He had recently turned thirty-eight, and was sporting a stubborn bald spot on the crown of his head. Three months' treatment of Rogaine foam still hadn't made a dent. So, if she was just twenty-five . . . that sounded awfully young to him, just a baby. Perhaps . . . but the baby next to him was as sexy as they came. She had a dark complexion—her skin the color of autumn woodlands, caramelized after a long, hot summer. Her eyes were a deep, dark brown. He guessed that she was from Mediterranean stock, perhaps Greek or Italian. Her nose was long, but not overly so, and her cheek bones were high on her face, giving her the look of a fashion model. When she had approached his seat, he could tell she was tall, with long legs invitingly revealed beneath a short skirt that reached only to mid-thigh level.

They had engaged in a round of small talk, but she wasn't very forthcoming. She had read a magazine for a while, and then just sat there. She told him she was tired, would he mind if she slept. He said, of course not.

"You heading back home?" he'd asked her.


"Me, too," he'd said. "Denver. How about you?"

The train had lurched, and she grabbed the seat in front of her for support.

"It's been like that the whole time," he said. "Gonna be a long night."

It had been close to dusk when she got on, the sun descending low in the open prairie sky. She just smiled, not telling him where she was from.

He took that as a hint, and tried to read his novel. But damn, it sucked. So he looked out the window instead. They were passing through a small town near the Illinois-Iowa border. Long evening shadows spread out like black spider webs as the train sped by the buildings, trees, and pedestrians.

There was a last call for dinner for those who were interested.

"If I'd known a beautiful lady like you was gonna board, I'd have waited," he said. "I already went to the dining car. Pretty good, too. The lasagna is first-rate. You should try it."

She smiled again. "I'm not really hungry."

And that had been about the extent of their discussion. She was reserved, putting up a wall. Well, what would have expected? Here he was, likely a dozen years her senior, wedding band on his finger. Of course she wouldn't be overly friendly.

Except in her sleep.

Her hand began to rub his thigh, soft caresses that caused his erection to stiffen and lengthen. Her breathing was growing more rapid—the vixen really must have been having an erotic dream. How else to explain it?

His mind sent out a signal—Danger! Danger. He had never cheated on Joyce. Oh, he'd been tempted, many times. What guy wasn't tempted, from time to time? But he had never so much as pecked another woman on the cheek. He loved Joyce. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was hurt her, deceive her. But God, he was horny. Three weeks with no action at all. And now this sexy young thing beside him, rubbing him . . .

Her hand climbed up his thigh, worked its way to his crotch. Slowly, but surely, she twirled her fingers around the tent that had formed in his jeans. Without hesitation, her grip tightened, and she moaned again. He looked at her—her lips had parted. They were exquisite lips—rich and full and sensuous—meant to be kissed.

She squeezed his dick through the fabric of his dress pants, and his erection grew yet again. He wasn't big—six inches, but it felt like his dick had stretched to at least seven. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this turned on.

The train lurched, and he knew, he just knew, that she would wake up, glare at him, maybe slap him. Somehow she would twist things around, and blame him. Maybe even claim he had taken advantage of her. But she didn't wake up. She really had been tired, hadn't she? He didn't know how anyone could sleep through this ride.

He glanced around the car—which was almost full of passengers. Surely most of them would be awake now, jarred by the incessant bumping. But they weren't. He saw heads resting against pillows on the seat-back, people slumped over, leaning against the windows. A few seemed to be awake—but they were few and far between. One old woman with blue hair was reading a newspaper three seats back, on the other side of the car. A little boy was fidgeting around near the front of the car, occasionally waking up his parents, and a fat bald guy near the rear of the car had just returned to his seat—probably from taking a smelly dump in the bathroom.

"Mmmmm," the beautiful woman with the long black hair purred, and she increased the pressure on his cock. He half-expected her to reach for his fly and unzip him. But no such good fortune.

Her lips were right there, so close, so inviting. He swallowed, his heart racing, and tried to think of Joyce. Joyce, whom he loved with all his heart. Joyce, who was his best friend, his life-companion. Joyce—who had been a cold fish lately! Not even kissing him before he left for work in the morning. . . .

He leaned in, slowly, slowly, closed his eyes, and kissed her. It was just a kiss . . . big deal. One lousy kiss. That didn't constitute infidelity, did it? What could it hurt?

But the kiss was definitely not lousy. Her lips tasted wonderful. She didn't kiss him back, of course, she was asleep. But he lingered, savoring the kiss, savoring her taste. He thought of pulling away, but why should he? Her grip on his penis stayed firm, as she squeezed, squeezed. . . .

He stuck out his tongue, just a flick, and brushed it against hers. As he kissed her, he reached over, and ran his fingers through her hair, stroking it. She moaned into his mouth, and that only served to make him bolder. He kissed her more deeply, more forcefully, inserting his tongue deep into her mouth, and was surprised when she responded in kind.

She was panting in his mouth, her breath warm and moist. He felt her hand leave his crotch and go to his neck. She sat up, drew him closer, and they continued with their kiss. He had forgotten all about Joyce, all about Denver, the kids, the job, the bills. Where was Denver? He was in Iowa now, somewhere on the vast, rolling prairie, deep in the bowels of the night. He was—

Suddenly she pulled away, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging open.

"What the hell is going on?" she said.

He shrugged.

"You . . . I was asleep. You fucking pervert! What did you do?"

He knew she wouldn't believe him if he told her the truth. Besides, could he really defend himself? Yes, she had snuggled into him and felt him up in her sleep. But then he had gone and kissed her. Nothing he said would defuse the situation. More likely, it would just pour gasoline onto the fire.

So he went with his gut, his impulse. His dick. By the flush on her cheeks, the spark in her eyes, he knew it wasn't merely outrage she was feeling. She was turned on, too. He had no doubt about that. He grabbed her behind the head, pulled her to him, and kissed her again. She fought back, trying to pull away, but he continued to kiss her. He reached behind her, caressed her back through the thin fabric of her white short-sleeved shirt. Then he reached down, feeling for her exposed thigh, and stroked it, his hands moving up and down, up and down, admiring how smooth she was, how thin and toned.

And a wonderful thing happened then. She ceased her struggles, kissed him back, wrapped her arms around his neck. Amazed, but elated, his inserted his tongue into her mouth, and she reciprocated. They tongue-wrestled, moaning into each other's mouths. And he told himself, again—I'm not really cheating on Joyce. It's just a kiss. That's all.

She broke the kiss, looked him in the eye.

"That was fucking whacked," she said. "I can't believe I just did that. I should have you arrested. That's what I should do."

Again, he felt like he needed to be bold. This all felt like a dream, anyway. Why act rationally?

"You not getting much sex at home?" he said.

Her mouth dropped open, he thought she would punch him. But then she closed her mouth, looked down, shook her head.

"He hasn't even touched me for over a month," she said. "He's . . ." She snickered. "He's been getting ready for his fucking fantasy football season. He stays up late every fucking night 'studying,' as he calls it. And he wants to be a bigshot someday at his job. And he plays a lot of golf." She shook her head. "I guess I just come in second place. Or maybe tenth place."

He was flabbergasted. Even if her husband did take her for granted, even if he was an asshole, how on earth could he not engage her sexually? She was smoking hot. And lonely. Very lonely. Just like him, lately.

"I'm sorry," he said. It sounded lame once he said it, but he couldn't take it back now.

"It's okay," she said. "I'm used to it."

"I know how it feels," he said. "I haven't had any for weeks, either."

The train lurched again, and it felt like it would be derailed. But it stayed on the tracks. Several seats behind them, someone swore loudly.

"I've never cheated on my wife, you know," he said. "I'm not one of those guys."

She nodded. "I've never cheated either."

They looked at each other, and he felt a jolt, like a surge of electricity. Her negative charge pulled in his positive one, and before he knew it, they were kissing again. He had his hands in her beautiful hair, she had hers in his hair—what was left of it. And they engaged in another round of tongue-wrestling. She was a lovely kisser. Joyce had never liked French kissing, and he missed it.

Any notion that this was just a kiss, what harm is there in a simple kiss, soon faded. Because, when he reached underneath her shirt, slid his hands up to her bra-encased tits, and fondled them; when she reached down for his zipper, undid his fly, unbuttoned his pants, reached into his briefs and grabbed hold of his dick; when he unhooked her bra and removed it from beneath her shirt, like a magician's trick . . . it was way more than just a kiss.

"Oh fuck, I need this," she said. "I am so fucking horny."

He reached underneath her shirt again, caressing her now-naked breasts, pinching the nipples. She responded by squeezing harder on his dick.

He glanced back, and, three seats away he spotted the old lady with blue hair. She was no longer reading the paper. She was staring at him, at the two of them, an expression of extreme disgust etched on her face. Incredibly, he felt his erection deflate, just a little.

The woman beside him noticed.

"Hmm," she said. "You need more stimulation, huh?"

He kissed her again, again using a lot of tongue. "No. God no. You're incredible. It's her, that's all." He motioned with his head, toward the old woman.

"Oh," she said, though her grip on his dick had not softened. "Yeah. That is, umm, not exactly stimulating. Well, just try to ignore her."

Once again, waves of unreality rolled over him. He didn't have an inferiority complex, but he didn't carry illusions about himself, either. He was an average-looking guy, pushing forty. Nothing to be ashamed about, but still. This woman was out of his league—a sexy, twentysomething doll who any guy with a pulse would lust after. How on earth was she attracted to him?

Suddenly he felt her lips on his dick. He looked down and saw her long black hair spread out over his crotch, her head bobbing up and down. That was another thing Joyce didn't do—she had blown him on their honeymoon, said it felt repulsive, and never again had engaged in oral sex. It felt unbelievably good. This young woman was very talented, and she clearly enjoyed giving head. She was purring softly as she blew him.

He decided this wasn't the time for questions. Why was she attracted to him? Who the hell cared?? All that mattered was that she was here, in his seat, as they traveled over the dark prairie. She was sex-hungry, and so was he. He wasn't about to look this gift horse in the mouth.

He felt his juices stirring, and he knew he was close to coming. Should he warn her, or could she tell how close he was? He decided to ride it out, let her determine what to do. She continued to suck him, her lips lingering at his penis head, teasing, stimulating, driving him wild.

"Arrgh," he groaned, and shot his load. It was heaven, it really was. For a moment, every care he had washed off of his shoulders, borne away by the stream of his cum. And if she was upset by his eruption, she gave no indication. She took all of him in her mouth, and swallowed, then returned to his dick, again taking him in her mouth.

Not thirty seconds later, he was fully erect again. He thought she would stop now, but she didn't. She continued to suck him, continued to purr and pant. She was insatiable.

The train jostled again, and she nearly fell over, onto the floor. When she got up and joined him once more on the seat, she smiled at him.

"You like that?" she asked.

"Like it? My God, it was awesome."

She frowned. "The last time I did that for my husband, he pushed me away and said he needed to call his buddy. Can you believe that? Right in the fucking middle of it!" She shook her head, muttering under her breath.

"Forgive me for saying this, but you're husband sounds like a grade-A prick." He looked down at his lap. His penis was still hard, standing straight at attention, pointing toward his belly button.

"He is," she said. "He gets me so mad sometimes."

"Is he, uh?" He couldn't believe he was going there. Why risk ruining things? But his insecurities over his cock size always seemed to get the better of him. "Is he well endowed?"

She laughed. "Him? He's tiny! I definitely didn't marry him for his dick, I can tell you that."

"You mean, I'm . . .?"

She licked her lips. "Fuck yeah. He's a pencil dick. You're huge compared to him."

He really did think he was dreaming now. His six-inch dick huge? How could such a notion be real? But when she leaned in close and French-kissed him, he knew this couldn't be a dream. No dream ever felt this damn good.

"It's too bad we didn't know about this ahead of time," she said when she broke the kiss. "'Cause then you could've come fully packed."

"You mean condoms?"

She snickered. "Um, no. I mean Triscuits. You know, those garlic and herb ones? Mmmm. Of course I mean condoms!"

Now it was his turn to snicker. "Well . . . you see, getting together with an old guy like me has its advantages. My wife and I knew a couple of years ago we didn't want any more kids. Three was enough. So, you know, eighteen months ago, I got . . ."

"Fixed? Snipped? Affair-ready?"

He laughed. "I guess that's a good way to put it. Kind of funny when you think of it. It was my wife's idea, initially, that I have the surgery. But the way my marriage has been lately, I don't know why she even cared. I mean, if you don't have sex, you can't have any more kids, right?"

She reached down, stroked his dick again. "One last hurdle to get through."

He loved the way her fingers felt, caressing him, playing with him. And she was so damn beautiful. He could get hard just looking at her. Joyce wasn't bad—she'd put on some weight after their third child and hadn't lost it yet. She was still attractive, though. But this woman was a bona fide knockout.

"You sleep around a lot before you get married?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I wish. I went on my fair share of dates, but only scored once—until I met my wife. How about you?"

She looked down, blushed. "I've only ever been with my husband."


She nodded. "So that's why I asked. I know I'm clean. I don't wanna fucking catch any diseases, you know?"

He held up his hands. "Hey, no worries here. I'm clean as a virgin's whistle."

She shook her head, but laughed.

"Nervous?" he asked her.

"Yeah. Now that I'm pausing to think about it. Y'know, when you kissed me, when I first woke up. . . . I mean, I was having a dream. . . ."

"Thought so," he said. Through the window, he saw a porch light pierce through the darkness. They were in desolate, open country. For a moment, he had a strange sensation that he was a nineteenth-century pioneer, going West to settle on the frontier.

"I was dreaming that I was having sex," she went on. "God, it was fucking hot. And you know what the weird part was?"

He raised his eyebrows, questioning, inviting her to go on.

"In my dream . . . I was having sex with a stranger. Someone I didn't even know. And then, next thing I knew, you were kissing me. What are you? A damned mind-reader or something?"

"No. But you were doing more than just dreaming, you know. You snuggled up against me and wrapped your hand around my dick." Fitting, he thought. Since that was what she was doing right now, too.

She blushed again. Not noticeably—the lighting in the train car was muted, and her skin was dark enough that the flush on her cheeks was hard to discern, even if it had been fully bright. But he could tell, even so. He leaned in, kissed her. "Look," he said. "We're both lonely. We met on this train. I'm not real big on coincidences. I think people meet for a reason. And you know, I don't think it takes a rocket scientist to figure out why you and I met tonight."

She kissed him back, leaned in to him, wrapped her arms around him. He could feel her melt in his arms. The preliminaries were over. The only thing he needed to make sure of was . . . could he bring himself to go all the way with this woman? Could he break his wedding vows, and have sex with another woman?

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