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Of Canes and Men
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On A Train To New York
© 2002 by ezwritr





I stopped flying.  Some phobia had kicked in, underscored by recent events, and there was no budging on this.

I determined that it was not necessary to fly, and that most of my business could be done by phone or fax or e-mail; or if it became essential, I could take a train and be on either coast within two days.

And of course it became necessary, a face-to-face with an important client, additional negotiations, and the signing of contracts; there would be pre-meeting intrigue with my advisors on the East Coast, and nothing would be left to chance.  We were talking serious money.

A train snaked across the Midwest, an overnighter; I watched out of the window, fascinated by hills and towns that flashed by, but not going by so fast that a person could not see that it was another world entirely.  It was a rural world that I vaguely remembered from my childhood.

I had a sleeping compartment to myself, but it was dinnertime, and I went to the dining car, three cars to the rear, if I remembered correctly.

And I had to sit with someone.  I had arrived at a bad time, at the peak of dinnertime, and there was not an open table.  But there was one with just two people at it, sitting side by side; a man and a woman, the man in his fifties, older than me by far.  The woman instantly intrigued me, dressed in black, a long evening gown of a dress.  She was far overdressed for a casual train ride.

I could make out her subtle curves underneath all of that fabric.  I just wondered why she was dressed that way.  Her face was sculpted with high cheekbones, her hair was a tawny brown, short yet not exceedingly so; and from what I could see in a brief instant, she was plainly pretty, or would be so if she only would smile.

"May I sit here?" I asked.  The intimacy of a stranger at their table would not be a problem in Paris or London, but in the U.S.  we certainly liked our space, and we needed our privacy.

The woman looked away, out the window; she was bored, I thought.  The man looked up at me, and understood the situation. "Yes," he said, "Micah and I could use some company."

He was a silvery-haired older gentleman, and I wondered if this might not be his daughter; yet when I sat down, I noticed that his hand rested comfortably on her thigh.

I also encountered a foot, hers, and I glanced down, trying not to get in her way, and I saw that her legs were spread far apart.

"Micah must sit like this," the man explained, not really explaining anything, doing nothing but piquing my curiosity.

I pointed out the window, at the passing scenery. "It doesn't look like this from the window of a 767."

I could swear that the man's hand went between her legs, and it seemed like he was doing something to her; she continued to look out of the window, but what I could see of her face told me that she was affected by the man's touch.

The waiter came by and took our orders.

I don't remember much about what we said, the man and I, but it was small talk, the weather, the sunset behind us.  The girl said nothing.  The real event was what he was doing to her under the table.  I wanted badly to look under there, to drop a fork or a napkin; I am not normally a peeking sort of man, but she was breathing harder, steaming that small portion of the window.  Her hands came to the table and rested there, and she folded them in prayer, clenching and unclenching, as she submitted to the older man's touch.

Slowly she closed her eyes, and turned her head, and I saw consummate pleasure, a smile that was not a smile but the expression of a woman desperately in control, and I knew that she was so close to climaxing that I fully expected a squeal of pleasure, or a loud moan, or at least a muffled "Oh, god!"

The man pulled his hand away, and she gently shook on her chair for several seconds, her eyes still closed, rocking silently, rocking with pleasure.

And just like that, she was looking out the window again.

"Micah would like you to know that she is obedient," the man said.

"Really?" I did not know what else to say.  I felt like a voyeur, not that that was a bad thing, but I was an unsuspecting one, as though I had been passing by a house with a naked woman in the front window, and had accidentally seen it all.  Which is very much what had happened.

"Micah would like to know if you will join us after dinner."

"Yes," I said.  Games.  I can play games.  My life is the continual game of business, of acquisition, of making the deal.  I could play their game.  Especially if it meant playing with young Micah.

I wondered what the hold was that the old man had over the girl.  Was he her father, or stepfather, or some sugar daddy, or more mysteriously, as my imagination ran away with me, did he have something on her? Maybe this perverty guy was making her do all sorts of things that she did not want to do.

We ate in relative silence; I felt the train rocking us gently as we raced through the countryside.  I glanced over at the girl, and it was as though she was again in ecstasy; the acts of tasting and chewing and swallowing appeared to be deeply sensual events to her.  I tried not to look at Micah's face, though I was dying to know her story; and my eyes drifted to her bosom.  The woman's breasts seemed just the slightest bit odd, pointy but not in the excited nipple way, more like from those old bras from the fifties, da boing, pencil sharpened pointy, like the chrome bumpers on a '57 Cadillac.  There was something going on there, indeed.

We finished dinner, and had coffee, and dessert, a chocolate treat that the girl ate slowly, smiling, smiling now at me, and I knew that I would be next, that I would be her next treat, and I will admit that I got a bit of a rush out of that realization.

I allowed the older man to pick up the check.  It was the least I could do.  And then we were off, the three of us, headed toward their sleeping compartment, the older man leading the way, and then Micah, with me in hot pursuit.  She was much taller than I had thought, easily six feet or more in heels.  The gown clung to her buttocks and thighs, and what I could not see, I had no trouble imagining.  She walked just a bit haughtily, a model on a catwalk, and I so enjoyed watching her.

In the next car, midway through it, we came to their compartment, and in.  Micah held out her arms, and the man tied them together at the wrists, and then raised her arms above her head, and tied her, standing, to the higher bed.

"Micah will submit to your desires now," the man said.

I had never done anything quite like this before, and I was honestly at a loss.  This was what I wanted to do, in the incredibly quick order that it came to me: I wanted to strip her and put my cock right into her, standing there.  I wanted to find out what was holding up her breasts, because they were so fifties weird.  I wanted to kiss her, taste her mouth and that touch of chocolate still at the corner of it.

I wanted to pinch her, and chew on her nipples.  I wanted to make her moan, the moan that I saw her stifle in the dining car.  My thoughts were increasingly more aggressive, darker, steps down to a dungeon, becoming so strange and dark that they shocked me with their starkness.  This was turning into a journey of discovery for me, of urges not previously recognized.

"Go ahead," the man encouraged.

I took off my jacket and hung it up, and then I went to her, and I was very close to her, indeed.

"Kiss me," I told her.  And she leaned in to me, and kissed me, and her tongue traced my lips, encouraging me to open my mouth; and it was an electrifying touch, my tongue to hers, and I felt the passion that I had been watching for the past hour or so.

She moaned, and I could feel her breath coming a little faster. "I'm going to undress you," I said, and I reached behind her, and unzipped the gown, down past her waist.  And suddenly the girl's breasts were exposed, or they should have been.  I saw the strangest damned sight right then.

She was not wearing a bra.  Shrink wrap and scotch tape were holding up her breasts.

"Peel it off," the man said.  And so I did, strip by strip, and I watched her face, and she was in deep pleasure, particularly when I slowly tore away the tape on her nipples; she gave a shudder and a moan, and I did not know how much longer I could go without putting my manhood right into her.  It had become a game of how long I could hold on.

I leaned down and kissed her nipples.  I bit one, not hard, just put it between my teeth and bit, ever so gently.

"Oh," the girl moaned. "Harder," she said.

"We'll have none of that," the man chastised.

I wanted to ask, none of that meaning not harder, or none of that, her talking?

It must have been no talking, because she did not say another word until we were finished.

And so I nibbled a bit harder, and apparently she was allowed to moan, at least.  I pulled at her dress, still around her waist, and it came away like nothing, like it had been held by Velcro.  As I put the garment on the side, I saw that it was true, that it was some specially made dress, and it occurred to me that this was not the first time that they had done this.

And she was naked, her body beautiful beyond expectations, her hips wonderfully fluted, her legs long but not thin long, again that model shapeliness, and I had to have her.  I found myself undressing; I had not thought to do that, I just started taking off my clothes.  I wanted to lay her down and make love to her.

"Micah would have you take her from behind," the man suggested to me, or perhaps he was telling me.  He went to her, and untied her hands.  The girl bent over, and he retied her, this time to the seat.

"She needs to be tied better than that," I said.  I don't know where that came from. "There must be bonds holding her legs apart for me."

Micah moaned at the suggestion.  The older man produced more rope from a bag, and tied her ankles, making the woman spread her legs so that they were far apart.

"Tie her breasts," I instructed. "Wind the rope around several times."

The man tied her as I had said.  As I watched, my cock grew harder than I thought possible.  Watching the woman in her submission had awakened something in me.  I went behind Micah, and I rubbed my manhood against her labia, and she moaned again.  I slapped it against her pussy, gently at first, hearing a muffled "Uh!" with each slap.  Slowly I eased my prick inside of her, feeling her heat, and the woman's incredible tightness, and I could not tell at first if she was tightening herself for me, or if she was naturally that tight.  It was difficult, delightfully difficult, and I found myself gripping her hips, clamped on to her, pushing myself into her.  I had never felt anyone so tight in my life.  I almost came right then, like some adolescent who had no control.

The older man sat down and watched as I slowly stroked inside of this beautiful woman, and I tried to ignore him, though there was a satisfied smile on his face.  Each stroke produced another small grunt from Micah, *that* sound, the one I wished that I could record and play another day, the ultimate erotic words from an earlier time, from a primitive time before there were any words at all.

And then she released her grip on me, and I realized that she was a master at this, that she was more the athlete than I had ever been.  Her pussy tightened again, and using nothing but her internal muscles, she milked me, bent over with her feet far apart, tied almost so that she could not move except for the contractions of her pussy.  I was lost in her tightness, as she strangled my cock over and over again.

Micah made me come far faster than I had wanted.  Not that I am complaining.

And I thrust a dozen more times, coming, not wanting to end the beauty of the moment, pursuing that tightness way beyond the end, going on until I was soft, and I simply fell out.

I had to sit down.  I was next to the older man, and I was still breathing quite heavily.

"Very good," the man said.  He stood up, and began to untie the young woman.

"What's the deal," I asked, my desire spent, but not my curiosity. "Why are you doing this to her?"

"I have a name," Micah said, and rubbed her wrists, mildly chafed from the experience.

"Sorry," I said. "Micah, why is he doing this to you?"

"Because I told him to," she said. "That is his job."

I did not see them for the rest of the journey, or ever again.  I wondered about the woman, and that outfit, and the older man; her servant is what he had been, obeying her commands.  I wished somehow that I could have gotten her number or her email address or something.  But I do believe that this is how she operates.  It is a onetime thing, a hit and run. As onetime things go, that one was the best.

I also wondered about the things that I had learned about myself.

Copyright 2002, ezwritr. All rights reserved.


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