On A Train Bound For Nowhere

On a Train Bound for Nowhere

I met a woman who'd been rode hard and put away wet.

by

Donald Mallord

Copyright November 2023, all rights reserved.

Author's Notes

This is a short story for the Winter Contest 2023 writing event.

____________________

You can grow old gracefully among friends or grow old, onery, and alone — onery — that's close to horny. That's how you get if you spend the end of days alone. My fate ran to the latter, being both onery and horny the older I got. Us old war dogs are like that. It was that 'bah humbug' time of year again. All that warmth and fuzzy well-wishing crap, sorry — stuff. I promised my neighbor I'd turn over a new leaf — and swear less the rest of the year and try to be nicer. I must have had a few too many cups of eggnog when I made that promise.

I watched out my frosty winter window as the snow swirled across the yard and fell in soft, shifting mounds upon the driveway. It would be one hellish trip across the icy walkway to the doctor's office today. I dreaded that excursion, wishing I had put the car inside the garage — or cleared it out so I could put it inside, at any rate. But I was glad for the remote start feature that kicked in the climate control and would begin thawing out the frost on the windows and warm those leather seats to keep my gonads from shriveling any further and getting sucked up my ... well, wherever they go up inside you when they get hit with frigid-fricken cold air.

Walking up to the doctor's office with my cane and a backbone out of alignment made me look like a tipsy old timer's eleven o'clock swagger out of the corner bar down the street. It didn't help that the walkway was nearly as slippery as a damn, pardon me, darn ice-skating rink. Except it was one o'clock in the afternoon and I hadn't a thing to drink. I would have, except I had to get behind the wheel and make the thirty-five-minute drive to the physical therapist's office for yet another treatment.

See — I'd been watching too many New Year's commercials about not drinking and driving — doing my best to help save souls. Still, at my age, my driving was hit-and-miss.

However, I made it to the doctor's office okay, though a few other drivers probably had wet their pants watching me motor down the freeway, and at least one saluted me with one finger as I wheeled across his lane to make the turn a bit too rapidly. See, turn signals aren't how I learned to drive. You stuck your arm out the window and signaled that way in those days. [If you aren't familiar with that technique, that's okay — it's like bicycle traffic hand signals. Do you get the idea?] Anyway, you can't roll down a window and stick your arm out to signal a lane change in fricken twenty-two-degree weather.

I hung my coat by the others lined up down the hall and signed in. Every damn holiday color coat lined that hallway. A — darn Christmas tree occupied my usual corner, so I looked around for a seat that would keep me away from the others—but had to take the only empty chair next to a codger in a knee brace; it was that, or stand against the wall. I had a funny feeling about that seat. No sooner had I sat down than he started in. Right then, I knew I should have tried to hold out and stand up against the wall. Geezers, er, I mean older adults, all seem to be alike. You don't ask, but they'll chat you up just the same.

"Hurts like hell," he breathed heavily, fixing his sparkling blue-green eyes on mine, making sure he had my attention. He wore a damned elf's hat with a bell on it. It was like I was looking into a mirror: no hair except over the ears, age marks over his weathered face, and skin as sallow as death — or close to it. He looked a damn sight like the guy I watch in the mirror at home: the one that hadn't shaved since he got out of the hospital in December twelve months ago, with a wild slivery look, like Einstein's head of uncombed hair and a beard to match that touched his chest. [Me — not him.]

I knew better but blurted out from habit, "How'd that happen?"

Hell, I couldn't not have asked, rubbing my knee, feeling sympathy pains — my ache was in my back, but you know how you wince in pain when you see someone get hurt and feel it in the same place? You're looking and feeling like a guy getting kicked in the nuts down on the football field — on live television? You feel his pain.

'Whenever will I learn to keep my lips zipped?'

He proceeded to tell me, "Skating down the ice with my eyes on the goalie out of the net, I was about to slap that biscuit into an empty goal when — wham — got body checked by an asshole."

"Damn, shame you didn't see that coming. Hockey and old age can kill you. You know that, right? Like that American guy who died playing hockey in England," I mused.

"Gonna be off the ice for a while?"

'Damn, why did I continue this inane conversation?'

Why couldn't I seem to keep my mouth shut?

"Yeah, but that don't bother me much, now. I kinda like getting that cutie home therapist who comes to tend to me."

With that said, he stuck his tongue out like a lizard — with a wicked grin and raised his curly eyebrows. It looked like there was some fairy dust over his brow. Maybe he hit the bottle before he came. I figured he was bragging, hinting at doing her with that lizard tongue he had stuck out.

I'd be damn proud of one that long tongue too, and whip it out like that every chance I got — unfortunately, mine isn't so memorable in length or nowhere as damn pointy as his.

"Listen," he tells me, "I got a tip from a gal long ago ridin' on a train. You might learn something from it from the looks of you. I mean no disrespect to you, just sayin.'"

"None taken," I answered; it didn't bother me. I gave up being annoyed by damn insults after gettin' home from the war. Well, I was in one, not the newer ones.

I watched as he leaned left, and he took out a harmonica that bulged in his front pants pocket and proceeded into a familiar tune I'd heard long ago — some guy named Kenny, Kenny Something, oh, Kenny Rogers, I believe. It wasn't a bad rendition, but when he stopped and began to sing. Oh my, the magic spell he cast over that waiting room was astounding. That gravelly, whiskey voice of his began to sing:

On a warm summer's evening

On a train bound for nowhere

I met a woman who'd been rode hard

And put away wet.

We were both too tired to sleep

Boredom overtook us,

So we took turns a-starin'

I watched her skirt ease up

She watched me lick my lips,

Soon, she began to speak

She said, "Son, I've made a life

Out of readin' men's faces

Knowin' what their thoughts were

By the glimmer in their eyes

So, if you don't mind me sayin'

I can see lust in your eyes

Come, taste my pussy and

I'll give you some advice."

So I knelt between her thighs

And I licked her 'til she came

Then she pulled me off the floor

And asked me — for a fuck

And the night got breathy and quiet

And her face lit up with passion

She said, "If you're gonna play the game, boy

You gotta learn to love her, right

You've got to know when to hold her

Know when to bone her

Know when to walk away

And know when to run

You never pay upfront

Nor when you're naked on the bed

There'll be time enough for paying

When the deed is done

Every man knows

The secret to survivin'

Is knowin' which whores to throw away

And knowin' which ones to keep

'Cause every woman's a winner

And every lady's a loser

And the best that you can hope for is to die

Beside either one in your sleep

And when she finished speakin'

She groaned aloud as she came

Crushed my head against her tits

And sighed in the stillness of the night

And somewhere in the darkness

The rode-hard woman broke even

But in her final words

I found a pearl that I could keep

You've got to know when to hold her

Know when to bone her

Know when to walk away

And know when to run

You never pay upfront

Nor when you're naked on the bed

There'll be time enough for paying

When the deed is done

He finished up by rendering another harmonica serenade for the silent room. Well, almost silent. The Christmas tree's limbs seemed to droop for some reason, and some ornaments had fallen off. Five women were weeping; four were fanning their faces like from hot flashes, three were breathing heavily, and two were bright red-faced. And the young one in the corner with skin-tight size eightish pair of Alo Yoga high-waist airlift legging in anthracite grey [I peruse ladies' wear online — just for Christmas shopping purposes, you understand] she was shamelessly stroking her prominent camel toe in time with his playing. Damn quiet otherwise.

As he finished, they called his name ... Mr. Harry Cumlikker. He whispered to me with a smile, "Ask the doctor for a referral for that cutie home therapist." He stood and then hobbled in for his therapy treatment. I could see he was amused by just thinking about her and talking about it from the stiff curve in the front of his pants. He stopped by the young thing's chair and whispered in her ear. She nodded yes, and it spread into a wide grin.

That grin, and the bend in his pants, not the harmonica one, had me thinking some horny things by the time I landed on the therapist's table for a round of pretzel moves ... but I did remember to ask for a referral.

_______________

Christmas Evening-ish

I felt the stiffness deep in my bones as my head struggled to clear the knocking boring into my ears and rose against my better judgment from an afternoon nap as the snowstorm outside raged on. I'd barely made it home, leaving my car out again. As the haze cleared, I realized the knock was real, not some plot bunny creeping around my mind seeking a pathway out of my fried brain. [You see, I'd written a little outline for a Christmas-themed story for Literotica before that — not a Pantzer guy's writing style.] The pounding was at my front door and insistent. It wasn't going away as I lay in bed, thinking the annoyance would eventually go away.

Well, perhaps not, an annoyance. Yet, in my mind, it was. Who comes knocking on a geezer's door in this retirement neighborhood in a snowstorm? It is always some house siding salesman, a window salesman, or those damned 'I can get you cable TV at a lower rate' salesmen ... sometimes it would be a youngster with her mom or, more rarely, a dad in tow pushing those green box cookies to 'help out the girls.' Yeah, who gets that money? But that begs for another tale.

I rose off the bed and shuffled toward the front door. It's good that I was dressed before I laid down for a nap. The physical therapy doctor labeled his pretzel twisting as 'range of motion moves' trying to rejuvenate my body or increase my mobility — and align the backbones again; the doc had twisted me like a damned German pretzel. [Pardon my French.]

Yes, I needed the PT. Yes, I was in pain. Yes, I was too damn sedentary for my own good. But ... hell, I didn't need to spend the mobility wearing out the oak flooring on the road trip to the front doorway. Yet ... the knocking remained insistent... perhaps the house was afire, I impulsively thought and hurried my pace. I yanked the door open, and an abominable snowwoman stood in the blizzard facing me.

"Yeah?"

"It's me, Mr. Mallord, Jennifer. Remember? From the therapist's office?" she asked as I stood squarely blocking the door and scowled.

I blinked and rubbed my eyes with one hand — trying to remember not to scratch down below with the other. That kind of thing really didn't go over with the cookie sales moms. However, Jennifer was far younger than a cookie mom — about twenty-five, maybe. And nice looking with curvy features to boot.

"We've met? You say?"

I asked as I moved over to let her in, studying a vibrant youth model with a proud chest that you could hang your hat and coat on. Slipping out of a parka, damned, er, dang, if she was dressed in a pair of Alo yoga high-waist-airlift leggings, though hers were black—molded ones that formed and fit every inch of her body. I swear it was like a second skin — not a damn zipper anywhere to be seen. She looked just like that gymnastic woman turning backflips on the beach in that commercial .... I don't remember the commercial, just that agility to do handsprings backward like a graceful Sunisa Lee in the Olympics.

"Kinda. Mr. Mallord," she answered, "you were facing the wall, and the doc had your leg bent one way and your shoulder the other. You were ... grunting out, 'Faruk!' I believe when I introduced myself," she said, her words spilling like sultry golden honey on a hot July day.

"Ah. I remember that sweet voice now," I replied, "Yeah, Faruk, he's my ... neighbor." I lied. "I was telling the Doc that he should visit him."

[Well, between you and me, From the wry grin on her cute face, I think she knew it wasn't Faruk I cried out, but I'll let that one go. Yeah, Faruk is on the well-known Christmas list of words not to use — along with Bullspit!]

"Come in, Darlin'," I grinned, reflecting on what that oldster with the knee brace had whispered before he went in for his physical therapy session. I could feel the old tent pole starting to twitch.

"How do we do this?" I asked, watching her rosy-red grin and her twinkling eyes on my pants.

"Best to lay down and take the pressure off your ... back, Mr. Mallord," she said.

"Call me Donnie, Hun."

"Call me Jennie, Handsome."

"Did you say, 'Call me Horny?'" I asked, surprised by her boldness. [My loss of hearing, caused by a hand grenade going off inside the hootch I was in, had me asking for clarification.]

"No ... I said 'JENNIE,'" she replied, "but I see you — seem to be — Mr. Mallord," she giggled, pointing out the bulge in my pants.

"Well, once in a while, an old cooter can still raise a sail ... especially looking at someone as gorgeous as you," I smiled as modestly as I could, given the situation and my bad hearing.

"Flattery can get you almost anything, Donnie. Why don't we start by just getting you lying down." With that, she followed me to my bedroom, helping to steady my wobble as I went.

"First things first," she announced, beginning to remove my socks, "let's get you comfy." In short order, my feet were bare, and those two strong hands were working their way between my toes, massaging away years of arthritic pain. It felt damn near orgasmic all by itself as her thumbs worked the tendons and muscles in my feet to loosen them up.

"Did you know twenty-nine muscles are associated with your foot, Donnie? Nineteen of them are intrinsic, and ten that crossover to the ankle. We have a lot to do to get these back in good working order — Doctor's orders."

"But ... what about what old Harry Cumlikker said?" I moaned, feeling the pleasure shooting through my toes as she worked the joints.

She smiled as she ground a thumb into the arch of my left foot, eliciting another pleasing sensation running up my spine. "Harry is quite a tall-tale spinner ... Why? What did he tell you, Donnie?"

"Uh, just to ask for you 'cause ... you would ah, make an old guy feel better?" I managed to say as delicately as I could.

"Told you I was good in bed, did he?" she asked as she reached up to unfasten my belt.

"Well, not exactly in those words," I replied slowly as she removed my pants. At that point, I was glad I was wearing underwear. If he were wrong, that would have proved to be awkward, my thing flying up in the air like that, you know?

She shucked my pants with skill and precision, then lifted my right leg, setting in on her shoulder. Her fingers worked magic, stretching my leg muscles and kneading them like dough.

"Ah, Faruk," I groaned as her firm grip sent waves of feel-good sensations from my ankles up to my glutes. Damn nice. After what seemed like every muscle had turned to jello, she eased my leg down and went after the other while kneeling between them. It felt equally double damn lovely.

Midway between the two-leg massages, she grunted and twisted out these words as she worked a hamstring, "I'll have to have a few words with Harry about his motor mouth skills. Can't have him ruining my reputation — right Donnie?"

"Certainly not Jennie," I acknowledged. What else was I supposed to say? Me in my uncertainty and Jennie kneeling smack dab in the middle of my legs with my cock bulging up in my underwear like that? Anything else would probably have gotten me a taste of the feelings of that football player lying on the field with his hands holding his nuts I told you about.

"Mmm, ah," I breathed out deeply as her fingers worked my groin muscles. My dick twitched in response. "Sorry," I managed to get out between pleasurable sighs.

"Not to worry, Donnie, that's just a natural response," she whispered, working her magic fingers up and down the leg muscles as my right ankle rested upon her shoulder. Damn nice. The view, too, as I watched the valley, between the hills under her tight Alo yoga top, flex in response to her arms working their magic. Their rhythm matched the undulating waves of pleasure rippling up and down my leg muscles. It felt divine, running like electricity up my spine. Something about the movements of unseen breasts bobbing beneath that cloth sparked more erotic thoughts.

"So, you don't mind if a man's prick seems to ... "

"Seems to what, Donnie ... go ahead ... spit it out ... I'm a big girl. Don't be bashful."

"Seems to get in the way of your therapy?" I finished my thought politely as I watched her blue eyes twinkle, and her rosy cheeks glowed redder. They seemed brighter now than when she first crossed my threshold and shook the snow off her fluffy, abominable snowwoman's coat.

A sly smile crossed the twenty-six-year-old's face. She leaned forward and touched the throbbing tent in my shorts, delicately gliding a crimson glittering fingernail up and down my bobbing member and crooned for me:

"Donnie, I've made a lifetime

"Out of readin' men's faces

Knowin' what their thoughts were

By the glimmer in their eyes

So, if you don't mind me sayin'

I can see lust in your eyes

Come, taste my pussy and

I'll give you some advice."

_______________

Well, I didn't have a harmonica to blow, but I had a lot of experience with peach eatin' below the waist. Even though my back had been bad earlier, surprisingly, it didn't cause me any pain now. Hell, I mean, dang, I felt like thirty years better. My Christmas Spirit even returned with a grin.

I blinked in amazement at how much I had transformed. Jennie eased my underwear off and finished unbuttoning my shirt. Like magic, it was on the floor. I don't remember even rising to slip it off or her taking off those Alo leggings and her top disappearing. It was like she had just touched her nose with her forefinger, and off they all came.

Whatever or however, I found myself on my knees between Jennie's thighs and my tongue lazily roaming up and down the ridges of her valley. She tasted like honey mixed with ginger spices, as tasty as homemade pumpkin pie.

"God, Donnie, you're pretty good at this," she huffed as my tongue dipped deeply into her channel.