[This is a work of fiction. The story is an unadulterated and unabashed attempt to tickle male fantasies and perhaps some female fantasies as well. As such, the story may or may not totally conform to reality. With some occasional historical exceptions, all other locations, events, and characters are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.]
******
My Christian name is Clara, Clara Klackenbush, but for most of my life I was called Summer Rose, or just simply, Rose. 'Tis hard, hard indeed to believe that tomorrow, January 30, I will be ninety-six years old. But then, I'm a survivor, always have been. Still, ninety-six is something. I wonder how much longer I'll continue to "survive."
Not much remains of the looks I once had. My flaming red hair is red no more. My once very well endowed chest--well, let's just say it went south and flat. My green eyes are still green, but the sparkle has dulled. Skin that once was compared to the creamy white soft skin of a baby is now loose and wrinkled, including my once beautiful face. And my waspish waist? Let's just say it's no longer waspish by any stretch of the imagination. My drab house dress is a far cry from the outfits I wore seventy and more years ago.
Ah, but I do remember--almost all of it. Life began for me in January of 1854 in Peoria, Illinois. My thirty year old father worked in a brewery and my twenty-five year old mother was, of course, a housewife. Life was good. Good that is until 1867, when mother died of consumption.
The next five years were bad. Father always had been a drinker of sorts, but after the death of my mother, he really hit the bottle hard. Beer on the job at the brewery, beer in one or more saloons on the way home, and then beer at home. I tried to keep things together at home, but it was a losing, downhill battle. But, I survived.
Father died of alcohol induced liver disease in 1872 and I found myself to be an eighteen year old orphan. The authorities had been threatening Father to place me in foster care for some time before he died. Now, I was sure they would do so.
I had another strike against me as well. I did not think the way society said girls my age, or of any age for that matter, should think. Unrestrained by lack of a mother and an indifferent father, I was a free thinker. My independence and willfulness to break convention or anything else, was boundless. I was "unrestrained,' to say the least.
One saving grace Father had was to aid my escape now. He spent most of his wages on beer and women, but he unfailingly saved one dollar a week for me. Over five years, after skimping on the household, I had a small nest egg of two-hundred-thirty-five dollars and fifty cents. That may not sound like much to you now, but let me tell you, in 1872, that was quite a sum of money.
I packed what few belongings I had in an old carpet bag and headed for the train station. For those who needed to know what a young lady of my tender age was doing alone, I told the story of going to see a spinster aunt in Wyoming. The aunt was, of course, nonexistent. What I would do when I got there, was still up in the air. I didn't have the slightest idea.
"Where in Wyoming?" asked the ticket agent.
"Cheyenne."
It was the only place in Wyoming I could think of quickly enough to answer his question without arousing suspicion. It was also a place I knew the transcontinental railroad went through.
"Well, young lady, this ticket will get you a ride on the Burlington to Iowa. There, you get a ticket on the Union Pacific at Council Bluffs and that will take you to Cheyenne."
"Thank you, sir."
After paying for the ticket, I had some money left over, but not a lot. I'd have to hoard it carefully. There was no food available on the train, so I'd have to buy some along the way. I knew there were places that served train passengers, but I couldn't afford to buy very much.
"Train leaves in thirty minutes, Missy, noon sharp," the ticket agent told me.
"Thank you, sir."
As I said earlier, I'd no idea what I'd do once I reached my destination, but I knew I did have to get out of Peoria and the clutches of those who would put me in foster care. I wouldn't be considered "legally of age" until I reached my twenty-first birthday. I was far too independent in nature and had been more or less on my own with Father far too long to put up with that.
Only after the train was on its way to did I begin to relax and think that I'd once again survived. I was lightly dozing when I felt a tap on my shoulder
******
"Pardon me, Ma'am, my name is Abner. I couldn't help but see you are traveling alone and wondered if I might invite you to join me for lunch?"
I was groggy, but not that groggy. I was well aware no eating facilities existed on the train. "Lunch, where?"
"Why in my private car, of course. I'd gone back to the observation car for a cigar and was returning to my own car when I saw you again."
Only then did I really look at him. He was ten or fifteen years older than I, extremely well dressed, and quite handsome. It must have been that old survival instinct cutting in again and overriding other concerns, because, without much hesitation, I said, "Yes."
We didn't speak as we threaded our way through two more cars to his private, Pullman built palace car. I was stunned. The car contained a huge, guilt parlor, sleeping quarters, and a small galley for fixing meals. It truly was a palace on wheels.
"My home away from home. My father owns two railroads and several manufacturing plants. I use this car to shuttle between those businesses. But right now, I'm on a holiday/business trip to California."
"It's just gorgeous."
I said that out loud, but I was thinking that I could come to like such luxurious surroundings quite easily. How to obtain them was the still unanswered question.
"Let's sit and eat. Jaffey will serve."
A Negro servant placed a tasty lunch before us and we fell to with gusto. I was starved. However, two minutes into lunch, I was faced with a decision. With a hand lingering on mine on the table top, with verbal innuendo, and with eyes all but undressing me, the message was clear--I want you. Sleep with me.
It only took me seconds to respond--my survival instincts again, I suppose. I spontaneously raised his other hand off my knee where he had just placed it and replaced it higher up on my inner thigh. Of course the clothing of the time was quite an impediment, but he got the message. I wasn't even embarrassed enough to blush.
I had never experienced intimate sex with another person to that point, but I wasn't ignorant of "the birds and the bees." I'd seen the dirty French pictures and stories that Father had hidden away and I'd pleasured myself in private quite a lot for some time. Now, lonely and emotionally vulnerable, I wanted to experience what I'd seen and read about. And, who knows, maybe this guy would make it worth my while in some way beyond just pleasure.
We finished lunch in a leisurely fashion. My thigh was quite warm by that time. At the conclusion of lunch, Abner rose, took both my hands in his and drew me up into a tight embrace. I could easily see the circle of light skin on his finger where his wedding ring should have been.
"Naughty, naughty, Abner!"
I said that as I held his left hand up before his eyes.
Ignoring my gesture, Abner said, "You are so very lovely, Clara. Your beauty takes my breath away."
"I bet you say that to all your girls, Abner."
"Yes, I do as a matter of fact," he said with a knowing smile, "but you are far and away the most beauteous of them all. With your flaming red hair and green eyes, you remind me of a summer rose."
