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A Phoenix Fiction Writer Rising From The Ashes of Nonfiction




The Train TEcstasy 
by Michael T. Martin

I awoke in the darkness, nude, feeling a little stiff, feeling a little sore in my pelvis, while also feeling a man's stiffness rhythmically rubbing against my thigh. I felt him spooning me from behind in the bed, presumably his bed, his hands slowly massaging my breasts. I wondered who he was but it didn't matter. I knew as soon as I gave any indication I was awake he would be in me.

Last night I had entertained several men in this bed, I wasn't counting, before I fell asleep. Apparently some number continued without me as I felt a stickiness indicating semen in my face. I rather lamented that; I would have liked to experience a man's swollen penis disgorging itself on me. Of course, I really missed my lips and tongue savoring that throbbing as it gushed into the back of my mouth. I had long ago acquired a sensual predilection for the oral experience of a man coming in my mouth.

I always lament falling asleep during a train. I enjoy the power of watching men becoming inflamed by my body, so consumed with having me that they fairly abandon their sanity. Entering me makes them breathe heavily, tremble excitedly, groaning as they become increasingly frenzied humping against me, their mouth agape as their entire body tenses, hardens, convulses and then they collapse on me, spent.

I had arranged for their serial entertainment and each one knew to roll off, so another could crawl onto me, handling my breasts, often kissing me as he probed my bottom. Sometimes, however, a delicious pause occurs as the next in line just looks at me, running his eyes up and down my body, nearly paralyzed with wonder at his opportunity to have me until he too crawls onto me and reaps his joy.

They all slide easily into me after the first and I enjoy the pleasure waves from their swollen flesh reciprocating in me, one man after the other, again and again, each in turn raising my own ecstatic enjoyment. I am, after all, immensely sensitive to that reciprocating.

But now I lay a little stiff from sleep anticipating the man behind me to be my first for today. His massaging of my breasts had already aroused me. If I have a fatal weakness it's having a man touch my breasts. I get overly excited if they suck on my breasts, which he didn't do, unfortunately, but the massaging was enough to get me wet and eager.

I was eager enough to stretch, rolling onto my back as the man behind me moved on top. I kept my eyes mostly closed, looking through slits to see if I recognized him. I didn't. He was a little older, late thirties, early forties. He covered my mouth with his as he pushed into me. I didn't mind, although his breath could have been nicer. He'll be done soon enough.

He surged back and forth against me, rhythmically, with increasing rapidity, and all the time keeping his mouth on mine, tonguing my lips. If you like men, it was pleasant enough, and admittedly I really, really, really like men. Even strange men in the early morning darkness can be invigorating. I raised my knees and pushed my hips against him, crossing my legs behind his back.

As he rocked back and forth on me I wondered if he was alone, or whether another train would begin in the morning light. He was becoming frenzied, making noises with more earnest thrusting against my bottom. The kissing was over. He slid out and rammed into me, repeatedly, sweating and breathing heavily, and then in the midst of one strong thrust he raised himself on his arms, his entire body tensed, convulsing, groaning loudly as he fell on top of me like an empty sack.

I felt the warmth of him coming inside me. I liked that I had conquered another man, driven him to collapse, consumed him, but otherwise I got little out of it. I wondered who he was, if his wife knew he was with me, in me. Fortunately, he didn't roll off of me immediately, lying atop me breathing heavily.

I grabbed his ass in each hand and worked him in me rhythmically, taking advantage of his remaining stiffness. I liked that feeling of him sliding inside me and since I was now in control it had the added advantage of letting me hump against him when it felt best, while it lasted. I just love draining men. Men are so adorable, so predictable, and so manageable, and yet each one was so unfulfilling. Fortunately I rarely had to deal with just one.

Of course, it helped that I was pretty with a small waist and large breasts. I could see men faintly gasp when they saw me, the little tent in their trousers rising. I had long ago learned that a little eye action and smirk would invariably start them losing control. They would chase after me and for me to remain in control required a little artistry, but while one tented man might be dangerous, several men with tents offered protection as each sought to keep the others at bay. So that's why I love men, not one man.

Unfortunately it was only one man on me now, breathing heavily but inert in the darkness. I didn't know who he was because I arrived as the guest of a few men I'd met at a bar. They said it was a party for some occasion. I didn't care what occasion, I just like parties and men. It was quite a party, with rousing music and ample food and drink. I set about gathering the attention of several more men for safety's sake. Wiggling my chest in their face was all it took. Some couldn't resist touching but I could always pivot away to the safety of another man, giving the first a remonstrative glare and jaw clenching purse of the lips.

Naturally there were other women there, but few bold enough to challenge me. I knew how to play games too well and they knew it. One of my favorite games was to sidle up to a couple and start a conversation that ended up with the man and I laughing while rubbing against each other. Then I would slide between them putting my breasts in her face while behind my back my hand helped erect his tent pole. Invariably he'd be like a deer in the headlights as I twirled away with a wink to him, leaving the couple together to commiserate.

Such games are not only entertaining, but exhilarating as well. I'm not immune to my own poison. My hand on a man's tent pole sends fire up my arm as well. If I seductively brush my breasts against some man they begin inflating with heat. My suggestive enticing wiggles become more heated as I become more excited until at some point the tables start to turn.

The heat I've generated starts erupting into flames within my body. Invariably, what starts out at a party as me taunting men, leads to the ignition of a sensual bonfire consuming me that has to be hosed. I can't help transforming from Ms. Jekyll to Ms. Hyde with the classic frothing of intense desire.

My skin can become only so taut, my blood only so hot, my trembling muscles only so restrained, until I absolutely have to feel a man's body sliding against mine. I need his hose to spray on that fire in my loins. When I'm on fire I shiver in restless carnal desire and I need more than just a man to relieve me, I need men to consume one after the other as I build toward a crescendo finish.

One man is never enough, individual men always come too soon, every effing one of them. Just as I begin to consume each of them their brains and body crap out completely within minutes. As each mounts me in his frenzied delirium it's like I'm draining the very life from them. Just as I start ascending in pleasure they descend from their intense thrusting convulsions to collapsing like a rag on me, merely whetting my appetite to consume another. I don't have the time or patience to entice another man, I need another man ready at hand to keep me ascending.

I can do two or three at a time, but having several men one after the other provides the best entertainment. I enjoy the enthusiasm of a train. It's one thing to get some man aroused, rather simple in fact, once I massage their egos, entice their arousal, wasting time playing the game of seduction.

It's entirely something else to have a line of already aroused men eagerly anticipating me. But then, it is the ultimate something else to lie comfortably in a bed while one by one each haughty man, burning hot with labored breathing, literally flops like a fish between my thighs as I drain him and discard him.

I love the intense interaction of draining a man, but then it's particularly satisfying not to have to deal with him afterward. In a train the men know once they collapse to roll off so I can consume the next guy. One after another, consuming them like candy while their stroking inside my vagina arouses my own burning fire of carnal desire with increasing exhilaration. So once I round up my passel of men at a party I need to arrange for my journey to ecstasy.

Fortunately there's almost always a convenient bedroom adjacent to the party. I've been known to use a couch, but other women freak out as the train forms. They hate it when the men they're with get in line, cheering. So it's better done discreetly in a side room, or upstairs bedroom. Besides, if there are enough men to satisfy me it will take a while and men can get impatient. So a solitary bed with easy access and exit lets me lounge on my back as one at a time the men exhaust themselves.

I'm fighting fire with fire, of course, my firebox fueling the train. My own orgiastic release is the one thing that makes a train really rumble, and I can feel that it's on its way. Still, there is nothing quite like watching each man's face go from lustful determination to panting exhilaration to fiery ecstasy to frantic delirium to uncontrolled orgiastic spasms just from rubbing himself inside me. That is pure entertainment, and then there's that extra something to watch him deflate while you discard him for another man.

After all, variety is the spice of life. There is something special to each initial penetration by an eager man, a new hard throbbing penetration oozing into me. All varieties of men get me excited and I enjoy exhausting their taut muscles into limp flaccid flesh and discarding them to acquire a new conquest while I become increasingly hotter, increasingly sensual, increasingly dangling on the verge of my own eruption into trembling ecstasy. It's that soft sizzling sensation of taking a new man into me, ratcheting my pleasure upward into new heights, that makes a train unique.

One man cannot do that. One man is just the beginning of something larger. One man is just pulling taut the anticipation. A second man sliding into me starts the tension building process, then a third gets me going, a fourth has me trembling. One by one I build on sensual stimulations, each soaring into greater heights of passion. More men sliding into me rubs me the right way, and the rolling sensations begin sloshing through my body in waves of pleasure. The men become blurs of escalating excitement, like passing landscape to a train rumbling for joy, each man a clickety-clack on the journey.

That's why I need the train, the relentless rubbing and thrusting that continuously energizes my body and mind into a whorl of ecstasy without pausing to consciously acknowledge or entice. With the train we maximize our pleasure. They just enjoy themselves within me and I enjoy them with abandon, feeling their lips pressing mine, their hips pressing mine, their wonderful engorging reciprocating thrusts exciting sensitive regions of my vagina.

Sensitivity that grows until at some point I experience the ultimate of intense sensation, my vagina hardening into a pipe pouring raging heat into my brain. Presence abdicates, tumultuous delirium seizes my mind and I'm carried away from now into a timeless coma of bubbling ecstasy.

While the men continue to mount me, their ejaculate continues to warm my loins but I'm beyond any earthly realm. There is nothing in the world remotely comparable to a train to ecstasy. I'm in a place without time or form, just the trembling heights of sensual delirium. I never know how many men it takes for the coma to engulf me but when it does I never know when the men stop or how many others continue to satisfy themselves inside me.

I'm beyond awareness of the men when I'm in that coma, and it can take me hours to get back. I awaken sometime later, often alone, or as now with some insignificant man preparing to own me in his bed. After a train, the heights of residual delirium surrounding my mind dwarf any sensations he provides. He cannot conceive of his unimportance.

The one on me now kissed me and I responded in kind, being kind, and brought him to a frenzied finish. Pushing against his dead weight I roll out from under him and begin looking for my clothes and shoes. I'm always careful at the start to put my purse in a safe place, but I almost never remember where that is in a strange bedroom, so after donning my clothes and shoes I look around and discover it under the nightstand next to the bed.

My immediate conquest continues to lie there, a lump on the mattress. I'll have to get breakfast on my own; there has to be a coffee shop nearby where I can call a taxi (you can't let the men know where you live by driving you home, it's not safe). I'll just have to ignore the wait staff staring at my disheveled clothes, smeared makeup and the semen in my hair and face. You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs; just bring me food to satisfy my morning hunger. A hot bath to soak in at home will complete my satiation.

Yeah, I know, I'll make an appointment to be checked for STDs, but at least I don't have a concussion from playing soccer or end up in a body cast from being hit by a car while cycling. There are risks to everything, and I've played soccer and wear a helmet when I bicycle, but those activities lack anything anywhere near the enjoyment, excitement and sheer physical and mental exhilaration of the train.

Sure, there will be those times out and about when I encounter a man who looks at me amused, and I figure he must have been in a train I pulled. I just smile and wrinkle my nose at him. It gives me the opportunity to flaunt myself again and then snub him. After all, he is just an unimportant clickety-clack I experienced on a train to ecstasy somewhere.

But seeing him, knowing that I consumed him once, brings a rush of remembrance, not of him but of the coma of ecstasy that can only be reached by the train. Then I experience weak knees, a warm rush in my loins, and a feeling of overwhelming joy engulfs me momentarily before I look away, walk away, in reverie.


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