White Silk & I Belong to You

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

I’m aware of what I feel as I approach the train, and am having flashbacks of that other life inside my dreams. I wonder what it means as I embark on what should be an innocuous mission.

My compartment is small, drenched in the art of another time: gaslight fixtures, pearl handles, and inlaid woods etching patterns in the paneling that lines the walls with warmth. I’ve dressed in red, elegantly. My producer insisted we remain in keeping with the mood—I believe the tour company suggested this strongly. We’re supposed to blend in with the wealthy crowd of travelers. I’m sure I don’t blend at all in my brightly colored suit. I stand out from the other, drabber looking passengers. But this is a designer suit and I look damn good in it. Its deep neckline plunges almost to my navel, and the black lace beneath is nearly transparent. My blonde hair falls to my shoulders in a sensuous smooth cascade. I wear pale make-up, red lipstick, and dark mascara to highlight my sapphire eyes. These high heels will be killing me if I wear them all day, but they add to the effect of haughtiness. I smile to myself thinking that all I need is fur; but I do well to affect the mood without it. My dreams must have been proud of me as I boarded the train feeling as though I were stepping into that other world of the Orient Express.

I find some peace in the close confines of my antique compartment.

I’m glad to be leaving Paris. Sometimes big cities scare me when I travel alone (alone with my crew)—which seems pretty silly since it’s been my job for nearly seven years to comb the globe looking for interesting things to say about the places I land. Paris always unnerves me—I think because I want to stay forever in its decadence. It jars my cunt and reminds me of Andre.

I look forward to the sound of that first cachug as the train strains to leave the station, heading east. Until then, I will be thinking of my Frenchman, and the first time my body was bound for s*x.

His face was reassuring and his animated eyes thrilled that I’d consent. I climbed atop a high four-poster bed in a tiny Parisian Inn, and lay belly down as he tied my wrists and ankles with silk scarves—two blue, one green, the fourth one gold. There was a pattern of birds in flight on the pale blue one, as though these tiny creatures were battling the wind on a sunny summer day.

With each extremity circled in silk and tightly fettered to a mahogany post, I slipped further down in lust. My heart reverberated like a marching band as he fixed my left hand, with sensation moving to my belly as he gave my right a hearty tug and secured that, too. By the time he had my ankles ready, my p***y was beginning to throb, pressing itself into the tousled sheets beneath me. It was ready for c**k, but that’s not what it received.

Andre shocked me with a slap to my ass. The sting was sweet, but not the ones thereafter, when he kept spanking my cheeks until I was moaning for him to stop. My pleas only encouraged him to change his aim. Targeting the other cheek, I got the blistering ritual on that flesh until my whole behind was warmed and my cunt fondling itself with the mattress.

Thrashing frantically, I went nowhere. No escape, I only had the sensation; and there was little else to do but submit. In time, there was no pain or sting, just the happy hope that Andre would get me off with this alone. In that hour, tied between those posts, I learned about the miracle of restraint. I discovered that contentment finds a place to breed in me when I’m tightly bound.

Andre disappeared from my life as swiftly as a summer rainstorm. I sometimes think he was with me only for this simple exposition of s****l desire. Being tied with scarves, or rope, or the heavenly feel of leather became a compulsion after Andre vanished. Though after Andre, Jordan was the first man who didn’t look me in the eye suspiciously when I suggested my desires. I’m sure he was as pleased as I was, and perhaps relieved to find a lover who volunteered to be submissive during s*x. Being naturally dominant by nature, Jordan needed a woman to yield to him in bed. And this was easy for me. Though yielding otherwise has never been simple—or even necessary. Now, though, with my dreams and my appetite for submission clawing at my insides, I begin to wonder if my life isn’t leading to complete abdication—even if that makes no sense knowing how much I love my work and my independence.

I gaze from my window on the countryside of France, as we travel from Paris to Frankfurt. France is resplendently verdant this time of year and my eyes get lost in the middle of the cool color and the fast passing fields that clothe this earth. My heart seeks the mountains. It’s been months since I’ve seen such vistas—I almost arranged a trip to Aspen, then this opportunity appeared and instantly grabbed my gut. But it’s more than the mountains that draw me to this trip—it’s the realization of my dreams. Do I have some precognition of the future? I ask myself. But I’m left without an answer other than my agitation.

As the kilometers pass by, I write copy, work with the camera crew and my producer. Though most of my time I spend alone, thinking; or if not thinking, feeling the lure of my past, and this history we’re dwelling amidst, push me deeper. From Frankfurt, the Orient Express takes us toward Budapest. I hear the name and my body responds erotically.

One afternoon, I move into the main observation car where I can see with greater scope the landscape that’s seducing me. My mind floats free, the dreams come; I’m drowsy, eyelids beginning to close. I feel the train start to slow as if it’s coming to a halt, and opening my eyes, I’m surprised to see a woman sitting in the seat across from me. The train picks up speed again.

She wears a peculiar look of longing in her chestnut eyes. Her ebony hair brushes her cheek line, so that I see the aspect of an Oriental woman inside its lines. Her skin is notably flawless, her cheekbones high; yet, hers is a wide open Eastern European face and supremely sensuous. It almost feels as though there is a cloud about her, weaving through the air like vapors through a mist. The thought is so strong that I look down at her hand expecting to see a cigarette with a trail of smoke rising toward her face. There is none.

“I am Amie,” she says after she sees me looking at her.

“Shelly,” I reach out my hand for her to shake. She does so listlessly, with an air of withering charm as if she’s just had s*x. Perhaps, that’s what she’s telling me with all this simply stated beauty.

Her clothes intrigue me. She wears a close-fitting purple dress with a high neck, long sleeves and a provocative cutout that shows the tops of her full bosom and a soft tawny cleavage. The dress might graze her ankles if she stood—she’d be willowy and graceful like me, though not as tall. I see that grace as I stare at her shapely legs. With a slit cut nearly to her crotch—and this Amie is not modest—I admire a good deal of her flesh as she carefully crosses her legs at the knee and the skirt falls away so I can gaze at her muscled thigh.

“And your destination?” she asks carefully with a slight accent. It would seem to be affected for the purpose of being alluring. She manages it well.

“To Istanbul,” I reply.

“I am, too.”

“I’m with my crew doing a documentary on the Orient Express.”

“I’m with no one,” she replies rather strangely.

I would think she might be sad saying this, but she’s not.

“You’re American?” she asks me.

“Yes, and you?”

“I try not to be as much as possible, but I was born in Queens.”

“Really? And you’ve spent a lot of time in Europe?” This seems obvious to me even if she wasn’t born to her European sensuousness. The way she speaks, dresses, even the way she carries her body give her foreign air.

“Most of my last several years.”

“You came for college?”

“No, to travel.”

I wonder about her occupation—a question she answers quickly.

“My father died, leaving me, his only relative, a substantial insurance benefit. I live in Paris, Tuscany or London.”

“And all you do is drift?”

She smiles with her bright red lips forming an enchanting grin. I get the feeling that she’s hiding something, not only from me but everyone. A girl from Queens traveling like royalty on this train? It’s an odd thought.

As we settle back into our quiet, I note a sudden change of expression on Amie’s face. She rises, then walks past and behind me with an alert gaze as though she recognizes someone at the other end of the rail car. When I finally turn to look, she’s gone.

Following her trail some minutes later, I leave the observation car, passing three private compartments. I stop at the fourth with a startled gasp, seeing Amie beyond the slim compartment window in the arms of a man. They paw each other frantically, with Amie’s ass toward me so I can briefly see the man mauling her behind. He pushes away her skirt at the slit to show her naked from the waist down. I stare, unable to take my eyes from the picture they make of ravenous lust. More fascinating still, I’m intrigued by a flaw in the skin of her ass—not a tattoo, but not an accidental mark.

The man’s skin is a natural brown; his black, wavy hair clipped short. Though I can see little of his face, I know he’s handsome in a way that would entice me. And for one brief second I see the light and dark of his eyes, and his heavy brows. Then, as his lust takes over, his eyes droop and his lids turn heavy. He has a hand at her back, clutching both of her wrists in one fist. Amie swoons to be controlled just as I would.

He’s in the position of taking as though he might rip away her beautiful purple dress. He wants her naked.

With this eroticism clutching at my crotch, I take off, certain that he’s seen me and will accuse me of spying. My belly churns erratically.

Once in my own compartment, I lock the door, making sure that the blinds are closed, and then tear off my clothes to find the throbbing sliver of skin between my labia. It will not be content until I’ve played the fantasy my friend from Queens, Amie, has nurtured in my s*x hungry brain. I hadn’t realized how horny I was, or how much this trip had fed my lust until I saw her ass naked and his hand holding her struggling wrists.

Reclining in my seat, my whole Venus mound throbs—not just the c******s but the whole of it. I slip the fingers of one hand inside the hole while caressing my thighs, my belly and my breasts with the other. I moan unwittingly. Why bother to contain the noise, with the anxious, endless chug of the train playing as background music for my m**********n?

Seizing my c******s, I draw it out, pulling with desperation, then begin to rub in earnest along that wet and tender inner fold. I see myself barreling toward this great unknown in me. The closer we get to Romania, the more my dreams turn into visions of s****l horrors, ones with Shelly at the center engrossed in nightmares of seduction and depravity.

Jordan hovers over me leering half the time; other times I’m alone with dangerous strangers. I’m bound, flogged and physically abused by lovers who don’t know the meaning of love. Their love wounds me. I see myself suspended in chains, my arms stretched, my feet dangling but shackled, and some bald-headed brute, half/Jordan, half/nightmare strutting with a cane before me. My eyes must remain on him, wide open to his plans, so that I see the beginnings of each cut he lands, and the end as it sears the flesh of my thighs.

As these pictures develop in my brain, my cunt floods juice over my hand. My rubbing becomes frantic. I squeeze my n*****s to make them hard, and then arch my back as the first burst of climax darts through me like an arrow. I must look as though I’m offering myself in sacrifice. All this while the train moves on, cachug, cachug, cachug into the mountains, taking me to Bucharest, Bulgaria and finally Istanbul. These names are lovers, their sounds like lips upon the crest of my mound and lower at the doorway of my p***y where they lap my body’s hungering home.