Night Train to Mandalay

I felt the military officer’s eyes boring into me throughout the meal in the train’s dining car. He was tall and muscular, his uniform elegantly cut to his powerful body. I found him both very attractive and arousing. Somehow my need and acquiescence conveyed to him, and he undressed me, caressed me, used me even as we assessed each other from across the dining car. He had that commanding presence that I always let dominate me. He had been accorded such subservience when he bordered the train in Rangoon that told me he could do and have what he wanted on the journey in this isolated warlord-controlled country. He assessed me, openly, knowing he could have me. I didn’t even consider that he wouldn’t have the right to have me. When I got up to return to the sleeper car and its corridor running between banks of curtained bunk berths, he followed me at a distance.

In the coffin-like lower berth, my breathing jagged in anticipation, I stripped naked, turned my head to the window, and followed the flashing lights of whatever rice-paddy-world civilization was awake at night outside the lurching train.

And, willing my breath to be shallow, I waited.

Then he was there, the military officer, pulling the curtain aside only long enough to join me in the confining space, coaxing my legs apart and kneeling between them. His hands glided up my inner thighs, causing me to tremble and shimmer, and he cupped my balls.

“Take my cock,” he growled.

“Yes,” I acquiesced.

He made an adventure of using his hands and mouth to get me worked up to begging for the cock even before he had managed to strip himself in a space where you couldn’t even raise your arm very far over your head without hitting the underside of the bunk above you.

I whimpered, “Do it. Do it now. Fuck me,” as I heard his belt being released and his fly being unbuttoned. I arched my head and chest back and did what I could to stifle my groans in a coach that wasn’t full but was occupied enough to worry about those in surrounding bunks knowing there was a fuck fest going on in their midst, as his finger entered my hole—and then another and another, almost up to the knuckles as he opened me up. My legs still bent, I placed my feet flat against the underside of the bunk above me and pressed up each time the fingers invaded to the knuckles. I rocked my pelvis on his hand, whimpering and panting.

Was he going to fist me? He could if he wanted. I couldn't stop him.

“Now. Now. Fuck me now!” I sobbed, needing the penetration of man’s cock and worried that he would fist but not fuck me—that he would take his total pleasure in that exotic way and leave me wounded and unsatiated. I knew if that was what he wanted, that was what he could—and would—do.

And then he did fuck me—or at least he and the train did. He provided the cock. The moving train provided the friction. I had never before been fucked like that—by the combined efforts of a man’s cock and a train’s motion. I have never been fucked like that since.

After pulling his fingers out of my ass, he arranged my body—and I let him manipulate me as he wished, me babbling, “Now, now, now,” as he did so. He palmed my lower back and raised my pelvis, my legs bent and spread, supporting the rise on my feet flat on the surface of the bunk. He murmured for me to stay in that position, and I did. Whimpering “Please be good to me,” but knowing he would do whatever he wished, I turned my face to the window.

He moved over me, between my spread thighs, nimbly, considering his bulk and the confining space. I’m sure his back was pressed into the underside of the bunk above. He planted his knees between my thighs. His fists were pressed into the surface of the bunk on either side of my chest. His face was looking down into mine, although in the darkness of the space, I had to strain to discern his expression. Eyes full of lust. The soldier, going into battle. Take no prisoners.

His cock went into position, and I moaned and arched my back as he entered me and slowly pushed up into me. He was thicker than most I had sheathed. I gritted my teeth, unsuccessfully trying not to groan. I looked into his face, almost involuntarily, because I didn’t want him to see how afraid I was of what he would do but how much I wanted this. He smiled, a knowing, victorious smile. He knew. He knew I had to have him inside me now. My hands went to cupping his buttocks and pulling him deeper into me, surrendering all.

And then he held, buried in me, as we both felt me opening at the center, going spongy for him in the core, relaxing to prepare for the pump. I moaned and whispered, “Now, now. Work me now. Make me come.”

He held, hard, filling, possessive. I grabbed his biceps and tried to rock against him, but he whispered, “No. Hold. Tune into it. Feel it. The train is doing it.”

And, indeed, when I tuned into it, I realized the train was doing it—providing the friction of the fuck. Both the military officer and I were just maintaining position, and the motion of the train was moving him inside me—in and out, in and out; forward and back.

The train was rocking and lurching over the uneven iron rails and crossties, rhythmically providing a motion that had his cock moving deep inside my soft core and my pelvis moving with him. I relaxed and when I did, his cock dug deeper. I gave a little cry and tensed up. But I managed to relax again and the cock sank deeper yet. He was built huge. Surrendering totally then, I let the cock conquer and went with the natural rhythm of the train.

He dipped his face and took my lips in a deep kiss. When he pulled away, we were both going with the natural rhythms of the wheels running on the rails. I turned my face to the window, concentrating both on the passing of flashing lights in the darkness of the night and on the natural movement of the train, the train using the military officer’s hard, steady cock to make love to my soft core. I was moaning deeply and he was humming.

The clacking of the rails, my groans, and the rhythmic slapping of his balls on my tender skin were the predominate sounds of the night on the train to Mandalay.

“Now we’re there, aren’t we, baby?” he murmured, he sensing as I did that we had reached nirvana in the fuck.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I whispered in affirmation.

As I got into the rhythm, he loosened his hold on me, coaxing me to remain supporting my pelvis raised on my feet planted on the bunk surface but letting me rock my pelvis on his shaft to the sway of the train carriage. Then he, almost imperceptibly, went into motion too, building to where he was driving hard inside me, punishing me cruelly at the core. It couldn’t be so, but it seemed the train was picking up speed and intensity too. He and the train were locked in a building cadence. His buttocks were almost hitting the underside of the bunk above as he pulled back to gain momentum in the cruel thrusts into my core. Slap, slap, slap of his balls on the curve of my buttocks.

I cried out, “Please, please!” But that didn’t please him. He slapped me across the face, stinging blows, and took my throat in his hands and once more controlled my breathing to the rhythm of his vigorous thrusts.

Until he had gone wild in this way, the motion of the train had lulled me into relaxing, opening, giving him my spongy soft core as his bulb kissed and caressed me deep. He didn’t need such aid from me now. He filled and possessed my core. Completely open and vulnerable to him now, as he went into action, I had no defenses left to him fucking me brutally at the core, thrusting, biting, punishing, conquering, ravishing—moving into La Petite Mort—a little death.

I was overwhelmed by the passion of him. I whimpered, “Yes, yes, yes,” to let him know he could kill me deep, and he did. I was totally open to him; he completely took and took and took. I latched onto the material of the pillow with my teeth, dug my nails into his biceps, and gave it and gave it and gave it. He was one with the train, though. It was still the train fucking me. The train had just broken into straight-line, empty territory and was running free.

I came with a cry and collapsed, letting the military officer—and the train—do what they would with me. Later I came again—and yet again. The officer was virile, vigorous, everlasting. After hours of using my body, he dressed and left me, panting and babbling, totally exhausted, staring out of the window. He deserted the vanquished with nothing said and no sound other than the rustling of the curtains separating my berth from the corridor as he melted from view and as I, unable for now to close my legs again, watched the sun rise up in the field of ancient temples that the world knew as Pagan.