White Silk

Chapter One-3

Jorges rubs along my snatch with the heel of his hand. I clench—but there’s only air inside that emptiness. When his thumb fingers my rear hole, I shriek to myself, a sound drowned out by the winds of this charging beast of a train and its melancholy whistle. The late afternoon outside the window passes us by, too quickly for our eyes to see.

In seconds, Jorges has positioned himself with this clothed thighs pressed to my naked ones, and his c**k poised for the rape of my cunt. I bear down as he enters, hearing his deep sigh follow. The plunge begins my orgasm, which comes quickly, unexpectedly violent and brief. He sweeps me clean of thought so there is nothing but the beautiful pleasure of climax.

Jorges is not so swift to climax. His thick c**k batters me until I ache. I clutch, I squeeze, I shudder long. As he works me, my p***y begs for more, having moved full circle from frenzied to calm to frenzied again. All in split seconds.

My rapist gathers speed as he duplicates the motion of the train. Then the fire in him flares hotly just before he’s about to shoot. I sense this with my entire body and bear down hard to milk the c*m from the spewing stalk. Pulling from me, his wet d**k taps the dripping remains on my ass, then Jorges stuffs the wilting thing back into his pants. Zipped, he releases the belt around my hands and pulls me to my feet.

I’m hotter and hornier than I was when we started. I know Jorges sees this in my eyes and he thinks it’s validation for his efforts.

“So sorry we’ll be stopping for the night,” he says.

I’m sorry, too.

As he threads his belt inside its loops, I sit on the train seat looking up at him, longingly and lonely. My skirt is still a tangle at my waist. My hair’s a mess, my make-up smeared and I’m out of breath, while Jorges looks remarkably serene and immaculate. There is some crude thrill indulging myself this way, being f****d and left with no thought of tomorrows or intimate poems of the heart.

“Have I told you anything that wasn’t true?” he asks me.

I shake my head, “No.”

“Good, then. It will be a f**k to remember, Mademoiselle Monroe.”

“Yes, certainly.”

He leaves with the nonchalance to tip his hat politely—if he had one.

When he’s out the door and the train begins to slow, I smile. This is maddeningly good inspiration—I think even would be proud of me, that is, if he didn’t want to spank my ass for being this careless with myself.