The Train

Chapter One The clack-a-tee-clack of the track and the click-a-tee-click of the wheel couldn’t be heard within the car, but she could feel the miniscule vibrations along her legs and up her spine as she moved along the corridor. “Take the Zephyr,” her Grandfather had written, sending a ticket and a note. “It’ll take four days, leaving the Grand Central in the city, down toward Manassas in the south, west across the midsection to Chicago, up through the mountains to the Salt Lake, and then on to Emeryville. Grandmother and I will be waiting. Enjoy the trip and free yourself of New York. Layovers in Washington D.C. and Salt Lake City, great hotels, have a fun vacation. Poppy.” Daughters get in the way sometimes when families break apart, she guessed, noticing the tears clinging to her mother’s eyes as they hugged goodbye at the station. “It’s only for the summer,” her mom said after the embrace. But Kelli, anxious to leave the battlefield and the fighting behind, hardly heard the exchange, wanting desperately to lose herself in the fiction of the novel she carried. A train ride. She had never been on a train before and she had never met her grandparents. She felt exuberant and flushed with trepidation as the ancient man led the way to the stateroom she would occupy with other travelers. As they passed the various doors and compartments, she gazed at reflections dancing on the chrome trim, pleased at the ballet they offered. He was an old black man, gray in the temples, spectacles on his nose, and dressed in the white cloth coat conductors wear. Kelli was clad for fun. Below the flowing caramel hair, browner than gold, styled to her shoulders, her plump ruby lips led the way to a cream colored blouse and black mini skirt, long enough to barely shield her matching panties. She was pleased with her appearance, feeling sexy, alive, and hopeful. She was slender, with long legs and a flat tummy, and she knew she was pretty. It was her breasts, however, that commanded attention. They weren’t overly large, but they bounced when she walked, and when unencumbered they jiggled. Her berry- sized n*****s poked out the silk of her blouse like tiny moving top hats. “Madam, let me introduce to you Mister John Thompson,” said the conductor while pulling open the door to an upgraded compartment. Thompson appeared startled at their entrance but still extended his right hand in friendship “Miss.” “Kelli. Kelli Stapleton,” she stammered. She had not expected to share a compartment with a group that included a man— a middle- aged gentleman, no less— perhaps twice her age. He had partially graying hair, a mustache and an attractive beard. He was a well-dressed man in striped dark suit, with a power-red tie, white shirt, and wing tip shoes. He was a handsome man. After placing her bag above the shelf, with a wave of the hand and a wink, the conductor vanished like a magician’s practiced trick. “Miss Stapleton,” Thompson pointed. “If you want to freshen up, this door leads to a small lavatory. One never knows who else will join us, so you had better use the facilities while you can.” His eyes persuaded her to do as he suggested. Not knowing previously that it was there, she was embarrassed at the bruise perched above her silk collar, now reflected in the lavatory mirror. She remembered the afternoon and the hickey. She prayed that John Thompson hadn’t seen it, nor the conductor, or her mother for that matter. Robert had been overjoyed her mother had not yet returned from work, while she had a premonition this would be their final time together. He was going to college and she would probably end up burnt-out and alone, f*****g shopkeepers as her mother did for some sense of happiness. Excited as usual, Robert was rushed, anxious to squeeze the eraser size n*****s on her unblemished breasts and to explore to her body. He yanked away her clothes. He pulled down his jeans and briefs and tore away his shirt. Restless to pummel her body, he pushed her to the bed and quickly mounted. He sucked and chewed on her neck until it hurt and there placed his mark. He groaned. His c**k grew rigid, and then he blasted his seed up inside her with callous disregard. He abruptly disengaged. He pulled up his britches and offered some lame excuse about needing to get home—his customary method of escape. Kelli wondered if it would always be like this: being pumped full and then left wanting. At least she was not at risk of having babies. Her mother had seen to it. “Be safe, darling,” she counseled, months before Robert had discharged even the first dollop of sperm inside her body. When young, lust has a way of becoming “love.” She and Robert had been “in love” for more than two years, more often than not arriving at similar finishes. Whether in his car, or hidden under the football field bleachers, or after the senior prom, he was always hurried, forcing her to complete a rushed coupling. She supposed it was his way, but wished for better consideration, for more fulfillments, for him to be more lasting, and to give her more pleasure before withdrawing and then making a retreat. Once he used her mouth. She hadn’t minded; but, overcome with excitement, he discharged prematurely. “Oh, s**t. It’s your fault Kelli!” he had screamed, covering her face and clothes with the warm fluid before stomping away enraged. Returning from the lavatory, she recalled his outburst, the shock and embarrassment of it, of being cast aside, and finally the excitement of humiliation. She recalled the pungent taste of discharge as her fingers traveled between his splotches and her mouth, and she remembered how her bells had chimed after m**********g. Was she wicked? Did other girls pet their privates as often as she, and did they conjure up s****l dreams and mysterious adventures? Did they fantasize about handsome strangers and intimate rendezvous?