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From: callipigiman@hotmail.com (callipigiman)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 18 Nov 2002 21:45:36 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Detachment (or The Train)  (M/F, rom, voy, oral)
Date: Mon, 18 Nov 2002 18:10:02 -0500
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*****  
Author's Note

This story is sexual in nature. It is a change from previous stories I
have written in that it does not involve cuckoldry or perverse sex. It
was written for a good friend - I hope you enjoy it Sherry. I had to
post it or I would have revised it until the day I died.

If you don't like sex stories, or are under age 18, you should head on
down the road and find something else to pass your time. This story is
copyright 2002 by callipigiman-*AT*-hotmail.com.

Please do not repost in other fora without my permission. Do not
include in collections (profit or non-profit) without my permission.

As another author in the alt.sex.stories groups has said, we who write
thrive on your comments and recognition of what we have created. Drop
me a note at the address above (but be sure to replace -*AT*- with the
@ symbol) with your constructive criticism, your kudos, or even your
dislike. If the latter, I'd appreciate knowing *why* you disliked it.
Suggestions for further stories considered. Enjoy the show.
******

Detachment (or The Train)  (M/F, rom, voy, oral)
by callipigiman-*AT*-hotmail.com
copyright (C) 2002 by the author

"It is an elegant mode of transportation, long, sleek, and very, very
sexy."

The speaker was a tall man, his dark brown hair and beard peppered
with gray. Slim and muscular, he exuded confidence and
self-assuredness. His Armani suit proclaimed him a man of substance,
as did his choosing to ride the American-Orient Express, an expensive
rail-cruise train.

His assistant nodded. "Yes, Mr. Corbett, sir, it is a beautiful
train," he agreed.

"John, John," the gentleman said, shaking his head. "I wasn't
referring to the actual vehicle, but to the whole package. I agree,
the train is lovely. It should be, for as much as it cost. But I was
referring to the subtext of the train, as a general idea."

John stood looking at locomotives and cars, trying to fathom what his
employer was talking about.

"You do know, John, that many consider the train and its imagery to be
very sexual in nature?"

John blushed. 

"I see that you do. That is what I meant. Elegant and sexy. And
purported to be a wonderful place to meet women, if you know what I
mean, which thus adds to the mystique of the 'sexuality of the
rails'."

"Yes, sir. I suppose one finds men and women of easy virtue in all
manner of places," John sniffed. The younger man carried the bags to a
waiting porter who took them, and the boarding pass, and led the way
to one of the sleeping cars.

"John, I fear you are a bit of a prude," the older gentleman laughed,
stepping up into the wood-paneled vestibule of the "Evening Star"
sleeper. "Which is neither here nor there, I was simply commenting on
the perceived sexuality of trains, not insinuating that I would be
looking for companionship while traveling. In fact, I intend only to
ride, read, and observe the human condition. To remain detached and
uninvolved makes for the most authentic research." He turned and
leaned down to shake John's hand. "I appreciate you driving me down. I
will see you in a week. Hold things together until then."

"Yes, Mr. Corbett, I will." John stepped back from the train as Mr.
Corbett disappeared into the interior, only to reappear at the window
of his compartment a few moments later, waving briefly to his
assistant.

John turned to go back to the parking lot, but collided with a young
woman hurrying to the train. She dropped the bags she was carrying,
and then began apologizing profusely. John shook his head,
mechanically indicating that the mishap was of no consequence. His
attention, however, was quickly riveted on her, a very pretty woman of
perhaps 5-and-a-half feet, nicely proportioned, with long dark auburn
hair and the kind of sweet face and bright eyes that makes a man
believe she is specifically rewarding him with her smile.

"I am terribly sorry, sir," she was saying, "I'm just in such a hurry
to catch the train. It's the trip of a lifetime for me!"

"Perfectly all right, miss, it wasn't your fault, here let me help you
with that," and John bent down to pick up a small handbag, which the
woman reached for at the same time. Their hands touched and John
gasped before hiding his reaction with a rueful chuckle and handing
the bag to her.

As she went on to board the train, John watched her go with far more
interest than he had shown Mr. Corbett. She was quite attractive, he
thought to himself as she disappeared into the dark entry of a
sleeping car, and what a delightful smile!

He turned his gaze to the long, gold-blue-and-white length of the
train, the locomotive's headlight burning brightly into the gathering
dusk. How lucky his employer was to be riding the same train with such
a lovely creature, though one so celebrated for his clinical
detachment probably wouldn't even notice.

John returned to his SUV and began the long drive home, not realizing
he had confirmed the musings of Mr. Corbett about the sexuality of
trains...

-----
Diary of Arthur Corbett 
Aboard the American-Orient Express
9 p.m. Sunday, near Seattle

We glided out of the station just before 6 this evening. John had
already left for home when I boarded, a bit flustered by my comments
about trains, the poor fellow.

I situated my things in my compartment and was just going to sit and
rest a bit when the steward came through, ringing the chimes for the
evening soiree. Recalling the rules of the journey, I dressed in a
smoking jacket and cravat before making my way to the lounge car at
the end of the train.

No dinner was served that first evening aboard, and so we went
straight to the evening activities, to wit: a welcoming ceremony in
the lounge followed by drinks and dancing and the practicing of the
social etiquettes. Of course, there would also be the inevitable
pairing off and more than one berth would be the site of shared
intimacies this night, though the more sedate of the travelers would
take a day or two to acquaint themselves with potential lovers.

The passengers are the usual mixed lot, from the middle class through
the nouveau-riche right up to the old line families of both east and
west coasts. I thought at first that my journey of observation would
be wasted, but then I saw her.

I would come to know her name as Megan, a sweet and lovely name
redolent of lush green hills, wandering sheep, peat bogs, and a
peanut-whistle English-style steam locomotive rolling by, so smooth
and clean yet full of fire and the wet heat of steam.

At the time though, I could only go by what I could see: dark hair
with hints of copper, an attractive face, skin of a fresh whiteness,
with a scattering of freckles that made her look engagingly young, a
delightfully rounded body, legs and feet to drive a fetishist mad. She
would be a treat for anyone who might garner her attentions, even if
for mere conversation (not that any conversation is "mere"--good
conversation is a dying art).

I had the opportunity to watch her as the evening progressed. She
appeared to be alone on this journey, and sat by herself on one of the
overstuffed, leather-covered chairs. Yet one so attractive as she
could no more be left alone than flies could ignore a black forest
cake left out on a warm sunny day. More than one man approached her
(and two women as well) but she politely refused their attentions.
Shy? Particular? Who can say?

I did not go to her myself. At my age, I desire neither the thrill of
conquest nor the agony of rejection. But I did smile at her and nod my
head when she noticed me watching her. She smiled back and I daresay I
fell under her spell.

She does have the most enchanting smile, as if she had a secret. As if
we were sharing that secret. As if she was pleased to share an
intimacy with me, though we never spoke a word. That is a dangerous
weapon for a woman to have, to convince a man with a glance that he
has entered into her inmost thoughts and feelings. How delightful! I
wondered who would capture her attention to the point of joining her
in her compartment during this trip.

And then he appeared.

He was a thoroughly unprepossessing specimen. Perhaps 6-feet tall, he
was rather heavy-set. "Baby-faced" is rather trite, but it did apply.
Brown hair, mustache and goatee did not help. He wore evening dress
not well at all.

I supposed he would be brushed off as easily as the others who had
vied for the lady's attentions, but remarkably, he was not. He sat, he
spoke, she replied. He rose and took her glass and returned with an
entire bottle of the expensive champagne. He poured, they chatted, and
time unwound slowly as the train began the climb into the Cascades,
the long, winding, struggling climb from near sea level high into the
clouds.

The cap to the evening was when she turned to face him fully and
smiled. This was not just the winsome smile she had rewarded me with
earlier. No, this was the fullness of her womanhood, the opening of
the steam locomotive firebox (perhaps not the most romantic image but
apropos to our means of travel), a bright and potentially searing
beauty that shone on him with such intensity that I wanted to return
to my Russian roots and shout "Slava!" [authors note: "Glory!"]

Whatever else had happened between them in these brief hours, this
woman had just made promises to this man.

I could take no more. For the first time in years I felt my own desire
rising within me. I therefore arose to return to my compartment, to
set down my thoughts and observations. Such activity would allow my
return to equilibrium: undisturbed, detached, unmoved. But my
deliverance from veiled passions and unspoken desires was not to be so
simple.

They too chose that moment to leave the lounge, and following close
behind me, turned into the room next to mine. I looked back at them
from my door, my own champagne still in my hand. I caught her eye as
she stepped into his compartment and the door began to close. She
paused a moment and smiled, and I lifted my glass to her in silent
tribute.

Closing my door, I sank into the seat beside the window as we flew
across a high trestle and the valley below sparkled with lights
beneath the deep purple twilight in the west.

---
Diary of Arthur Corbett
Monday - nearing Essex, Montana

A lovely morning as the train rolls up into the majestic Rockies, with
the land falling away in folds of gray-green, looking damp and
inviting in the early sunlight.

My night was peaceful, though I could not help but think of the lovely
woman and her chosen in the compartment next to mine. Ah, fortunate
man, to spend a night of passion in the arms of such a one!

For a few minutes after closing my door I stood and listened, and
could hear the gentle murmur of voices from the other side of the rich
oak paneling, intermingled with the clink of glasses and what I
presume was the bottle of champagne, and occasional soft laughter.
Then the sounds died away.

I disrobed and settled into my bed, neatly turned down by the staff,
complete with mint on the pillow. I turned off the lights and opened
the curtains, which covered the window, and lay watching the darkness
beyond as the train rolled over the endless miles high in the
mountains.

 From time to time, we would pass a remote homestead where a light
would burn in the darkness, or we would speed past a signal casting
its red warning toward any following conveyance: "Halt! Someone is
here before you!"

Every so often I would hear a brief sound from the next room, but
unidentifiable. A moan? A gasp? Muttered demands? Whispered passions?
I cannot say.

Eventually I slept, and dreamt of her smile.

I awoke at 6, as I always do, rose and exercised before stepping down
the corridor to the shower. As I came out, I spied the back of her
chosen as he went forward, presumably to his own compartment. He
appeared content, without a look of guilt at his rail-borne fling, or
arrogance at conquest. How unique; my experience is that men go one
way or the other, but rarely are merely content after a night of
"illicit" passion.

I dressed and went to the dining car for breakfast.

The train was rolling beside a mountain stream as I was seated, and
the shadows of our passing flickered over the tumbling, white-capped
waters. I opened a copy of the Wall Street Journal while I waited for
breakfast steak, eggs over easy, and a brimming cup of hot coffee. I
had just finished the lead article.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" a delicate, feminine voice inquired. I
looked up into a pair of deep gray eyes, and that intoxicating smile.
I rather believe I was speechless for a moment, then nodded.

She was clad in a light, mottled gray and green dress, with a scarf
around her neck, nicely setting off her complexion and auburn hair.
Her hair and skin glowed damply from the shower she had clearly taken.
She seemed a rusalka, a water-nymph, just risen from the stream the
rails paralleled, looking particularly inviting. Gathering my
composure, I invited her to sit.

Thus I enjoyed a delightful breaking of the fast with the Woman of the
Smile, whose name as I have mentioned is Megan.

I explained my joy in travel, and my delight in observing the
interplay of humanity with the world, and with each other.

She explained her long-held desire to take a rail-cruise, and how she
scrimped and saved for it. She was delighted with the train, and with
the scenery, and with her fellow passengers, and with life in general.
Her only disappointment was that her husband could not join her.

I must admit to surprise at this. One, she was not wearing a wedding
ring. Two, she did not seem so disappointed when she spent her first
night aboard with a man she had met in the lounge. Yet she expressed
great love for her husband, and for a few moments had the wistful look
of one who is homesick.

I was, of course, not such a boor as to mention these things to her.

I allowed that train travel was a delight in and of itself, and that
such journeying was conducive to brief but intense relationships. I
reiterated my acceptance of the doctrine of trains and sexuality, just
as I had shared them with John the previous day.

Megan blushed at my comments, but also shared that "we-have-a-secret"
smile. And of course, we did. We both knew I had seen her enter her
compartment with a fellow passenger, and I suspect she knew that I had
listened through the night. So perhaps we did have a secret.

The train chose that moment to plunge into a tunnel, hurtling into the
darkness. We said nothing in the lamplight, just looked at each other.
Her smile, my arched eyebrow, a low chuckle from her, a wry pursing of
my lips, but not a word more was said.  By the time we emerged into
daylight once again, we had reached an understanding.

I would say nothing. She knew that I would be watching.

Thus we parted, she to a morning of reading in the library, I to my
journal to record my thoughts and observations.

Her smile burns into my mind's eye, blinding my observations of the
others aboard.

---
Diary of Arthur Corbett 
Thursday - at Livingston, Montana

I stand beside the wall that divides my compartment from Megan's and
listen to the sounds of passion that filter through the rich paneling.
Since our breakfast, she has not spent a night alone, welcoming her
friend from the first night into her boudoir as the music wafts from
the lounge car and the clock chimes midnight.

Since that first night, things have not been quiet. The murmurs, the
moans, the stifled cries. I know what is happening, and I am strangely
aroused, sharing this intimacy. She knows that I am listening. Does
she increase the volume of their passion for me?

We have spoken only briefly since our breakfast. I commented on the
book she has been reading. She offered her opinion of musicians who
travel with us and provide light entertainment during the cocktail
hour. Such inanities pass the brief times when we come into contact.

We have dined together each day, breakfast on Tuesday, luncheon on
Wednesday, tea today. I suppose we shall share supper tomorrow.

Our meals are silent and non-interactive but for her knowing smiles
and my bemused, rather sardonic grins. I believe we enjoy each other's
company.

In daylight she sparkles amongst the other passengers, at ease,
friendly, sharing herself in brief flashes of delightful wit and fire.
I can see she is already beloved of most men aboard, and more than a
few women. I am honored that she chooses to join me each day for a
time.

Her young man, whose name is Nick, is seen at a distance throughout
each day. He does not join her until the dancing in the lounge car. He
is a pleasant fellow, not averse to sharing Megan's attentions and
stepping out without argument when others wish to dance with her.

But at night....

I always seem to precede them to her compartment, and she follows Nick
into the room and our eyes meet as I enter my own. That secret smile
flits across her lips momentarily, to be replaced by cool challenge
(what would she do if I did?) as she closes the door.

In my mind I imagine them.

They embrace just inside, hands sliding over shoulders and arms and
sides and back. Eyes meet and passionate kisses rain down on her
upturned lips.

Fingers fumble with his jacket, his shirt. Hands push the thin straps
of her gown off her smooth shoulders and it falls to the floor. She
wins, for she has been nude beneath the gown all evening. He gasps and
steps back, letting the moonlight shine through the window and bathe
her lovely form in milky white.

Her breasts are high and pointed, full, with deep pinkish brown
nipples that beg for the kiss of passion. Her belly is delightfully
round, the belly of a fertility goddess, her navel a dark and
mysterious presence in the midst of glowing flesh.

Between her thighs is a goblet of pure rose, begging to be filled and
sipped and tasted. Her legs delicate pillars of pale marble, worthy of
adoration, her arms encircling, wrapped around herself, lifting those
precious globes for his view.

And her face glows with an inner light as she smiles at him.

He slowly drops his shirt to the floor and his pants slide down his
legs. His chest is broad and I imagine that I see what attracts
her--he may be a big man but there is a both a gentleness and a
firmness that pours from him, the kind of thing I imagine makes women
wet and willing. He is a MAN, and for this brief time, he is HER man.

His manhood stands erect as he moves into the moonlight with her, and
once again they slip into each other's arms. They kiss, a joining of
lips that grows, blossoms, bursts into flame, throwing off sparks. He
grips her hips and lifts, and she is willingly impaled upon the spike
of his desire, standing there.

Their moans of passion grow louder as they couple, she riding, he
thrusting upward, supporting her in his arms. His head dips to nibble
at her breasts, she buries her face against his soft, brown hair.

They tumble to the bed, wrapped around each other, and continue to
make love as the miles roll away beneath the sleeping car.

Yes, I imagine how it is each night. I imagine how she turns that
smile upon him and inspires his climax, which in turn drives her to
paroxysms of need, and her velvet goblet grasps his shaft and they
climb the heights together. The gasps and cries that seem to echo in
my compartment tell the story. My mind provides the images.

I cannot write more. I can only watch, and listen, and desire.

The train rolls on, sleek in the warm, rainy darkness.

---
Diary of Arthur Corbett 
Saturday afternoon  - Seattle

I have not written until today as we pull once more into the station
at Seattle. I could not. I dare not. I pride myself on detachment, on
being the quintessential observer, and yet the influence of one woman,
and her smile, has reduced me to romantic maundering...and I am content
that it is so, so long as I do not write on a daily basis. Still,
there is a need to document what has happened, and thus I write now,
to have it out onto paper and perhaps, to relieve the curious
admixture of pain and pleasure in my soul.

My days and nights have continued as documented in earlier pages of
this diary: meals with the fair Megan, evenings watching her and her
chosen intimate, nights laying in my berth listening to the sounds of
passion. Over and over, without surcease.

Yesterday, the proprietors of the rail-cruise arrange a "Final Night"
party and opened all the stops. I had not intended to go, and I almost
retreated beyond the dining car to the dome, to sit under the
starlight as we rolled along the Columbia River. However, the
insistence that I attend the party, under normal circumstances
something that could be ignored, was not something to be denied when
coupled with Megan's intoxicating smiles.

She came to me when I entered the lounge, a sleek blue, gold, and
white gown accentuating her curves, her hair very nicely arranged, her
makeup perfectly applied and exactly the right amount, her eyes bright
with excitement and her smile so radiant that every light in the
lounge was dimmed by it.

She handed me a flute of champagne and pulled me over to the
leather-covered chaise where she had been sitting. She leaned close to
me and whispered that she wanted to dance with me before the evening
was done. Of course I nodded my agreement, and she touched my cheek
with a sudden look of something I could not identify.

Then she was off, circulating among the other passengers, laughing,
flirting, a gleaming vision of American-Orient Express colors, with a
verve and a smile that put the bulldog nose of our diesel locomotive
to shame. I watched from the chaise, sipping my champagne and enjoying
(for once) the party. It was her presence that made it from an
intolerable bore to an entrancing fete.

Someone settled next to me, offered to refill my glass. I lifted my
flute and turned to see Nick looking at me. I smiled.

"You, sir, are a most fortunate man," I said. His eyes laughed, though
his return smile was a bit thin-lipped.

"More than you know," he finally summoned. The first time he spoke to
me. A mellifluous voice; I suspect he is a singer or otherwise uses
his voice to make a living. I would gladly listen to this man speak
about things, his is a voice that soothes and delights. I imagine that
Megan finds the sound of him whispering sweetness and desire in her
ears very exciting.

At that moment, she swept up to us, leaning down to kiss Nick on the
cheek, and then me, to my great surprise and sudden rigidity. The
touch of her lips on my flesh was highly erotic, and I was flustered
for a moment, not hearing what she was saying.

Then she was tugging at my hand and I focused on her again. "Come on,
then," she said. "I want to dance." And I followed her out onto the
intimate little wood parquet flooring.

The first dance was a fast two-step, one I mastered long ago in a day
when such dancing was much more common. Then followed a waltz. It
wasn't Strauss (more like the Tennessee) but holding Megan in my arms
was as delightful an occupation as I have ever had. Finally, a slow,
sensuous melody weaved its spell and she moved close and enfolded me
in her arms.

Alas, the observer dethroned. I embarrassed myself, growing stiff with
desire and aching at the closeness of her. I savored her closeness,
the scent of her, the warmth of her and, I am sure, she felt my
excitement hard against her thighs. Her face turned up to look into my
eyes with a knowing smile.

Gad, that smile! My lust (for thus it was) trickled down my thighs and
I colored as she looked at me. Her delighted laugh relieved my
embarrassment, and she kissed my cheek again as we returned to the
chaise. As I sat she leaned over me and for a moment I had a view of
such indescribable sexuality that I could barely contain myself.

A delicate white lace brassiere, the kind that has no straps (after
all, the gown was off the shoulder), sweetly embracing her round,
flushed breasts, and the dark, musky warmth of the valley created by
the pressing of the fabric. And as she bent over me she whispered, "We
must dance once more before the night is done."

Then she was off again, this time with Nick, with whom she danced for
the remainder of the evening. I sat and watched, with eyes only for
her.

Too many glasses of champagne, and my detachment continued to crumble.
I was no longer observing the ebb and flow of humanity within the
confines of the train. I was only half-present as my fellow passengers
stopped to speak with me, most of my attention on Megan.

At some point, I was distracted, and when I looked up again she was
gone. More accurately, they were gone. Nick and Megan had disappeared,
and I found myself distressed. I must have surprised my rail-borne
friends leaping to my feet and looking around wildly, then hurrying
from the lounge.

They were not in the diner, where small groups of passengers played
cards. Nor were they in the darkened dome car where passion-laden
travelers kissed and petted under the stars.

Moments later I reached the door to her compartment...and the hem of
her gown was caught beneath the doorjamb, and a moment more of
listening brought the murmur of their voices to my ears. Foolish me,
they had grown weary waiting for me to lead them, like a chamberlain
before a royal couple in some European castle.

I slipped into my room, not bothering to switch on the light, and
moving to the door that separated our compartments. And when I stood
there beside it, I felt a tremble of intense emotion, for it was ajar.

The noise of Nick and Megan's passion was louder than it had ever
been. I heard her moans of pleasure as she begged Nick to kiss her
there, to move his tongue against her sex, to bite on the hard nub of
her clitoris. I heard the wet, sweet sound of his mouth on her, and I
was uncontrollably erect.

I edged up to the door and gently touched it. It opened just a
fraction, just enough for me to see her, laying on the bed, her nude
body glistening with the sweat of her passion, her hands pressed on
the head of the man between her thighs. Her breasts heaved with her
desire as she caressed Nick's hair, and I could see her nipples waving
stiffly in the cool air.

Lights shining through their window played across their nude bodies,
creating patterns of light and dark, an eroticism that drove me to
loosen my own pants and let them fall as I slid my hand around my
aroused member.

Nick rose then and for a moment stood sideways to the door. His was a
shaft of beauty, one that even I could enjoy, heterosexual as I am. No
wonder she found him a worthwhile lover for the entirety of our rail
journey. Then he was leaning over her, lowering himself, entering her.

I could see it all, the rosy lips parting around his thick manhood,
the wetness of her excitement glistening in the play of the lights.
Her moans as he entered her grew more insistent as she begged him to
fill her, to drive her to the heights, to make her explode.

My hand moved rapidly on my own member, stroking, sending waves of
erotic pleasure through me such as I had not felt in many years.
Watching Megan taking this man, this person whom she had met on the
train, and passionately sharing herself with him, was a greater
inspirer of lust than any I have ever experienced.

Then she was crying out her orgasm, and I could see his muscles
clenching as he too peaked, and filled her womb with his seed. Her
legs wrapped tightly around him, she urged his continued motion as
they slowly wound down from the mountains peaks of desire, and her
hands ran teasingly up and down his broad back.

He rolled off her and she leaned over him, kissing him deeply. My eyes
were for her body, revealed fully now, and as beautiful or more so
than the mirage I had constructed in my mind.

I had not reached my climax yet, and my hand began to move again as I
gazed at her full, round breasts, the curve of her belly, and the
pink, shaved wetness between her thighs where her lover and she had
spent themselves minutes before. I moaned softly.

Then I was aware of her gaze. She was looking at me, a little smile
playing on her lips. I realized she could see me, could see what I was
doing, and I flushed. That she could not see in the semi-darkness, but
she watched for a few moments, eyes traveling down my body to the
shaft protruding from my thighs.

To my utter amazement, she rose from the bed and crossed to the door
in two quick steps. She pushed it open and pressed against me, kissing
me deeply before sinking to her knees and engulfing my throbbing shaft
in her most glorious, velvet mouth.

Her hands stroked my flesh and I stifled a groan as she moved her lips
up and down my manhood. Her tongue twirled and teased against my
heated member and I gasped as she brought a hand to my buttocks,
slipping a finger between them, and then probed into my tight,
clenching anus.

It was too much. I moaned, "Megan!" and climaxed, my thick hot seed
exploding from deep within me, filling her mouth as she swallowed, her
throat working as she drank me. Not a drop missed her attention, and I
was left looking down at her smiling face, now with a naughty grin and
a dribble of my white juices at the corner of her mouth.

I stared down at this woman, this goddess-rusalka-elf-succubus who had
done this to me, removed me from my ivory tower of objectivity and
observation, and made me another of the myriad of men who must needs
admire her from afar. Except I was allowed into at least one small
place of her sanctum, a blessing I shall not soon forget.

Without another word she rose, kissing my cheek one last time, then
slipping back through the door and closing it. And I was left
standing, half dressed, with a powerful memory of a beautiful smile
and the now fulfilled promise of "one more dance this evening" rocking
my once impregnable dispassion.

God bless dear Megan.

--------

John stepped forward to take the bags from the porter as Mr Corbett
climbed down the steps of the sleeping car.

"Was it pleasant journey, sir?" he asked. The older man nodded.

"Tolerable, my boy. I'm afraid the end of a journey is always
bitterwseet, especially a journey such as this. But as I was saying
last week, there is much about a trip by train that is deeply sexual."

John nodded. "I am inclined to agree with you, sir, especially after
seeing this incredible young woman boarding the train last week after
I dropped you off. Perhaps you saw her on board?"

"It is likely," Arthur replied, a little stiffly.

"Ah but for the eternal observer such as yourself, such passions
obviously must be disdained," John went on, not noticing the pained
expression on the older man's face.

They started up from the platform toward the waiting SUV when someone
called Corbett's name. Both men turned as one of the stewards
approached, holding a long, small box.

"I was asked to give you this, Mr. Corbett," the man said, placing it
in the gentleman's hand.

He opened it slowly, and gazed at the single rose it held, wrapped in
white lace....a woman's brassiere. With it was a small piece of paper.
He read it in silence, then folded it and placed it back in the box.

John's eyebrows rose. "Sir?"

Looking back at the train, Corbett spied a couple stepping down and
stopped himself from raising a hand in farewell. Her husband, indeed.
No wonder she spent each night with him. He wished he knew the whole
story, more than her note thanking him for willingly aiding their
fantasy.

Shaking himself clear of his reverie, Corbett turned and resumed
walking up the hill.

"Pure observation is over-rated," he said. "Never forget to live life.
It can surprise you, if you let it."

THE END

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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