Nude & Wet on the Train

Elizabeth Moore closed and latched the door to her compartment, stowed her bags away overhead and settled into the seat. Glancing out the train window, she noted the cold gray drizzle that hung over the cityscape like one of Whistler's fogs, and reflected that an uneventful train journey was not an unpleasant prospect. She leaned back against the cushion, her slender yet shapely body sprawling in delightful disarray, and enjoyed the solitude.

Gazing out the window, at the little beads of water on the glass, she caught her own reflection and had to admire the regular features and the full lips. Yes, even without the benefit of collagen, Elizabeth had lips remarkably like Kim Bassinger. Strangers looked at her mouth and could not refrain from observing that her lips looked unusually kissable. And the thought of kissing turned Elizabeth's fertile imagination to more lascivious ideas. Elizabeth was, by nature, a passionate person. Not licentious, but she found that every morning cup of coffee seemed to awaken her entire body to its sensual potential.

Elizabeth Moore's figure looked remarkably like that of her namesake, Elizabeth Berkley. Like many other viewers, Elizabeth had rented the video of Showgirls, hoping that it would have a Shakespearean plot and sparkling dialogue. She was disappointed. All it had was Elizabeth Berkley in various stages of undress. It merely featured her lovely, natural breasts, with nipples that begged to be kissed. Oh, the movie itself was spectacularly awful, but she did enjoy watching a figure so much like her own as it pranced and danced across the silver screen.

Alone in the capacious compartment, as the gentle motion of the train rocked her, Elizabeth Moore found her mind turning, unbidden, to fantasies of wild, unrestrained sex. But Elizabeth fantasized, too, about restrained sex. She yearned to find a trustworthy fellow who would tie her up and slowly tease her to multiple orgasms. Oh, Elizabeth shared the modern feminist sensibility, and she had no interest in really being helplessly restrained, but she liked the notion of being "tied" with loose silk ribbons to a four-poster bed and being slowly teased with a feather. In the train, she could picture the feather as it slowly, oh so slowly, taunted one of her nipples.

In her fantasies, Elizabeth would be dressed in a black lace thong and demi bra, with a garterbelt and black stockings. Her male helper -- or sensual assistant -- would gently place her face-down on a big four-poster bed. At her request, he would loosely tie silk ribbons to her hands and feet so that she could feel somewhat vulnerable on the bed. And Elizabeth would be aware, as her face pressed into the 400-thread sheets, the extent of the visual feast she was presenting to her assistant. He would be appreciating her lean, tan form, the slim back, the taut legs her running had given. He would be gazing intently at her black stockings, wanting to kiss the stockings, wanting to kiss the tender skin of her thighs above the stockings. And he would be needing to place little love-bites all over her firm hips, so totally exposed by the deliciously naughty design of her black thong.

Elizabeth believed that a vibrator a day kept the doctor away. She believed that sex toys were healthy and valuable, that they helped blood flow and lessened stress, and that they had a training effect on her body by enabling it to have faster, more predictable orgasms during intercourse. But Elizabeth did not believe that sex toys were merely to prepare her for something else, like an athlete training for a sports contest. She felt that the toys helped her to realize her full orgasmic potential. And Elizabeth was deeply committed to enhancing human potential, as demonstrated by her work with museums around the world.

So, yes, Elizabeth did utilize sex toys on a daily basis to cause -- and intensify -- her daily orgasms. She did enjoy using a conventional vibrator while holding in reserve a little clitoral vibrator to actually trigger the orgasm. And, when she had ample time, as on a lazy weekend afternoon, Elizabeth would use a slender anal vibrator to add a soupcon of spice. Well, she thought, perhaps "soupcon" was the wrong word. For the reality was that such toys increased the power of her orgasms and left her moaning as the waves of pleasure washed over her supple body, leaving her gasping almost incoherently at the pleasure.

And yet, as much as Elizabeth enjoyed controlling her own orgasms, and monitoring her delicious progress toward the next orgasm, she also liked not being in control. Thus, she often fantasized about giving up control, about being a mere recipient of pleasure instead of administering it. She was no Paul Bremer. And this was the thought process, the mindset, that led Elizabeth to envision herself face-down on a big four-poster bed, "tied" with loose silk ribbons, writhing slowly as her male assistant teased a feather over her legs, teasing her mercilessly, making her want an orgasm but not helping her to have it.

As Elizabeth looked out the train window, her mind was still firmly entrenched in fantasy. Her male assistant was teasing a feather over the soft, delicious flesh of her inner thighs. Wickedly, he was running the feather right along the edges of her thong. She could feel the little feather tickling and teasing. She tried to stop her hips from undulating, but she could not. She needed to feel more contact with the feather, but all she received was the teasing. It wasn't far from maddening, even though the room in her fantasy was uncrowded.

It was with these thoughts in mind -- her firm, ripe hips retreating from the feather, then seeking contact with it -- that Elizabeth's eye was caught by a figure striding down the platform, raincoat flapping behind him as he hurried to board before the train left the Rome station. He had an arresting countenance, arresting in that he looked much like the actor for whom Diane Lane carelessly tossed Richard Gere away in Unfaithful. The same aquiline nose, the same glossy black hair, the same laugh lines hovering faintly about the mouth. All in all, a visage to equal any that she'd seen in any painting from the Middle Ages to Macchiato. Indeed, all the way to Matisse and Magritte, though without the disturbing cacophony of either.

But such thoughts were extraneous at the moment. Elizabeth stretched out her legs and propped them on the oppposite seats, admiring her new stockings, silky with a touch of shimmer in the weave. They went so well with the black bustier and garter belt underneath the pinstriped suit she wore to offset the impact that her voluptous body and innocent face had on museum curators everywhere. She continually faced the assumption of curators that she was a work of art herself, available to the highest bidder, but she never failed to make it clear that she was no woman of negotiable virtue.

In her work as Renaissance specialist for the museum, Elizabeth often traveled, and today she was headed for Arezzo to view the Pierro della Francesco frescoes and the bronze Chimera kept there. If she found the work of the local goldsmiths impressive, she intended to purchase some examples as well for the museum's Etruscan collection. Until she arrived, however, her time was her own. Elizabeth turned her attention toward her book, put on her headphones, and inserted a Neil Diamond CD into her player. Humming along to "Thank the Lord for the Nighttime", she lost herself for an hour.

When she looked up, however, she realized the motion of the train had both soothed her and made her faintly restless. Her body thrumming with the rhythm of the rails, she stood and stretched, thinking to go in search of a cup of coffee. She opened the compartment door, and a lurch of the locomotive rounding a curve propelled her with unexpected force into the corridor, where her projectile was halted with a thump by the same man she'd glimpsed from the train window. She looked into his startled eyes, a mere inch away from her own and forgot what she had meant to say. In fact, she forgot words in general. She groped for Italian, for English, for French, and came up with zip. She opened her mouth, hoping for inspiration, and instead her breath mingled with his, faintly scented with cinnamon, and warm as the summer breeze across the Adriatic. She clutched at his raincoat to steady herself and was relieved to see amusement and interest in his deepset eyes rather than annoyance. "Coffee," she blurted, her power of speech coming back. "I was looking for coffee. Please pardon me."

"Mais oui, Mademoiselle," he replied. "Allow me." He extended a styrofoam cup toward her, and she realized that coffee was the last thing she needed. She felt a rush akin to caffeine simply from her proximity to him. How to lure him back into her compartment so she could learn more about the attractive stranger? Hmmm, what pretext indeed? She settled on a fail-safe plan. She opened the door and gave him her best alluring glance. It worked.

Once inside, she accepted the proffered coffee and sought to make small talk, though Elizabeth found Alain's accent distractingly seductive. Coupled with his striking looks, it was hard for her to concentrate, and for the next half hour, she really couldn't have said what they talked about. It was enough to have him across the train compartment as they left the cloudiness of Rome behind and traveled swiftly into the sunny hills of Tuscany. Out the window, she could see the gray-green trunks of the olive groves and noted that the stranger's eyes were exactly the same color. Upon further reflection, she revised her opinion and decided that his mere presence was not quite enough. No, she wanted more.

Though sunny, the weather remained chilly and the windows had decided drafts coming through. Elizabeth stood and retrieved her coat from the minuscule closet. It was both her one great extravagance and a tell-tale indication of the sensual potential lurking beneath her poised exterior. It was, in fact, the star prop of many a fantasy, along with the ribbons and feathers. All of these, it might be interpreted by one who had maximized his or her own orgasmic potential, were key indicators of her achievement. The coat was mink.

Um, mink. So soft against her tender flesh. No, Elizabeth was not one to inflict cruelty upon animals, nor was she insensitive to the political uncorrectness of her coat. However, it was an inheritance and given its superior sheen and warmth, she was not about to give it up. Often she wore it and nothing else; only in private, of course, but the combination of the silk underlining and luxurious fur sliding against her bare skin was incredible.

Occasionally, she flung the mink coat on her bed and lay back against it as she employed her basic Aerotech vibrator, with its soothing, almost hunter green color. On other occasions, Elizabeth found that the Nubby Satisfier provided a perfect counterpoint to the softness of the mink against her skin. Perhaps her favorite new toy was the Impulse Gyrating Beaded Dolphin, with its ultra-powerful clitoral stimulator featuring 7 patterns of vibration, pulsation, and escalation. Its 40 beads were in synchronized rows for an experience that took her breath away.

As Elizabeth pondered her sensuality, there were times that she felt some lingering guilt. Perhaps she should feel guilty about her desires? Perhaps she should not fall so readily into fantasy? In idle moments, Elizabeth dreamed of oiled, fit bodies in fantastic orgies, gasps of delight, sinful scenes. Of course, in an age of AIDS, she could not participate herself in such events, nor would she. She was, after all, an educated, responsible person. But what was more harmless, in a difficult and dangerous world, that the simple luxury of delicious mental pictures?

As Elizabeth made polite conversation with Alain, he was no longer just a stranger on the train. She found that his presence seemed to heighten the fantasies which typically ran through her mind. She thought how nice it would be if Alain could simply sit and watch her, simply gaze upon her activities on a lazy Saturday afternoon. For Elizabeth relished the times when she had an afternoon free from her many occupational duties. She would place her mink coat on the bed, disrobe in leisurely fashion, and then enjoy its unparalleled softness on her bare skin as she writhed on it.

As Elizabeth writhed, her soft skin moving easily against the silk lining, she enjoyed the sensation. Or was that understatement? She loved the feeling of the mink. It was a tactile delight that left her shivering in pleasure. And this tactile pleasure increased her hunger. On such days, Elizabeth employed her oiled Hidden Treasures anal beads, each latex-coated ball encasing a smaller ball that vibrated as she moved, then added her blue Water Dancer. Finally, she would push herself over the edge into orgasm using the Insatiable G vibrator or the Cliterrific Complete vibrator. After she had coaxed herself to orgasm over and over again, she lay back against the sumptuous fur, suffused with a glow of well-being that PETA members could never grasp.

While the train's rhythm made her almost languid, Elizabeth found herself excited by the thought of Alain watching her take such a sensual journey. She could imagine him watching her writhing on the mink coat. He would be rigid with excitement, watching her in such wanton pleasure. Yet she would just make him watch, make him wait, at least until she had arrived at her first orgasm. While using her toys, Elizaeth would now and then look up at him, catch his eyes as they glittered with lust, and then briefly smile before her own pleasure made her frown as she reached climax.

The mental picture reminded her of that time she had taken a bus tour of Paris which commenced at midnight. The journey took her to the usual and expected places, to night clubs and to dance clubs and to strip joints. But the last stop on the tour was at Pigalle, where the tourists were directed by the guide into a small club. There were chairs around a U-shaped stage and Elizabeth was shocked to learn that it was a live sex show. Smiling to herself, she wondered if the laborers in the show were unionized, if they griped about the lack of warm air on cold nights, and so forth. But, as the shows went on, Elizabeth's humor vanished and she was mesmerized by the acts. She realized, of course, that such acts could easily cross the line into the merely vulgar. And she wondered if she should feel somehow soiled for even being present as a viewer in such a place. And yet she supposed that she could see the allure, for poor college couples, of such temporary evening employment.

As the train hit a bump, Elizabeth made the transition from her little mental journey to the real train trip which was ending. Pleasant images always tended to lessen the inevitable inconveniences of travel. And, in due course, the train arrived. As luck would have it, Elizabeth and Alain were at the same place, the Hotel Patio on Via Cavour. They shared a taxi from the station, and Elizabeth learned her companion's full name was Alain Dalone. He carried her bags to her room for her, and once settled, Elizabeth felt less distracted and more in control of her vacillating impulses. The chalky sky-blue of the walls and the celadon of the painted ceiling made Elizabeth feel calm, serene, and at the same time invigorated. When Alain suggested they have a look at the Estrucan coral sculptures and follow it with an aperitif, Elizabeth was tantalized by the thought of what might follow.

Certainly, she was not disappointed in the sculptures, and when they got to the gallery where the famed bronze Chimera was displayed, it proved to be no more ephemeral than her growing determination to seduce Alain. It stood alone, in a small room at a distance from the corridor of the museum, stunning against the velvet draperies. Elizabeth took an involuntary step backwards and found that Alain was directly behind her. As she became alarmingly conscious of his legs pressed against hers and his breath on her neck, he put his hands on her waist to steady her. Very gradually, as she held her breath, they slid down her hips. She closed her eyes as they went further, caressing her stockings, and when he moved his hands upward, tracing the seams, she turned toward him. His fingers explored the tops of the stockings, the straps of her garter belt, and then caressed the silky flesh there, tracing the lines of her wispy thong and running over her tummy with an almost imperceptible touch.

In tandem, they moved to one of the velvet-covered benches in a shadowy corner of the gallery and sank to the soft surface. He kissed her deeply, parting her lips with his tongue and kissing until she gasped for breath. As he moved on to her neck and down to her breasts, he left a scorching trail interspersed by delicate bites, until she was gasping with desire. She buried her face in his shoulder to muffle her cries, but her body moved of its own accord, twisting beneath him. She felt his pulse racing, too, saw the throbbing in the hollow of his throat and knew he felt the same muted ferocity as she.

Elizabeth almost began to feel a sympathy for victims of Stendahl Syndrome as her eyes opened. She gazed out at the gallery, filled with beautiful art. And, as she writhed and moaned upon the velvet fabric of the bench, Elizabeth experienced the beauty of an inner sensuality. As Alain kissed her right nipple, as his tongue teased and taunted it, Elizabeth shivered with pleasure. She had embarked upon an old, familiar journey, and the destination would be spasms of unbearable pleasure. But the journey itself was filled with delightful stops along the way. She paused to revel in the feeling of the wooden slats under the soft velvet covering of the bench.

Having felt Alain's tongue on her right nipple, she seized the opportunity to watch his tongue fall upon her left nipple as well. In some strange way, the tactile pleasure was amplified by the accompanying visual feast. She saw his tongue lazily move out, and then she moaned as the delicious feeling struck her left nipple. The visual thrill was reminiscent of those times Elizabeth employed mirrors as she played with toys, first witnessing the toys nearing her luscious flesh, and then feeling the toys taunting her. As she watched Alain's strong, firm jaw approaching her left nipple, she noticed that her ripe, tan breast seemed almost pearlescent in the artificial light. She drew in her breath, and then luxuriated in the sensation as his mouth enveloped her nipple.

But the real, immediate warmth and weight of Alain's body was much better than her toys. She arched her back, delighting in the texture of his skin against hers. Still, she reflected, with the remaining rational fragment of her mind, the toys and Alain were not mutually exclusive. His teasing tongue would merely intensify the pleasures she was accustomed to experiencing. She let her hands roam over his back, then teasingly, lower, noticing that the light touch of her fingers seemed to excite him as well as her. She ran her fingers up the backs of his thighs and was rewarded by his sudden intake of breath. Gently disengaging his mouth and pushing his shoulders up until they were in a sitting position on the bench, she straddled Alain's hips as earlier experiences flashed through her mind, her thoughts reflecting upon wild Jamaican mirrored sex and waxing rhapsodic about Brazilian interludes during Carnivale season when unruly behavior ran rampant.

But this was an entirely different sensation, the mountains of Arreza providing a backdrop to the dim, velvet-hung gallery, the aesthetic pleasures coupled with physical delight. Elizabeth drew her still-gartered legs up and leant back on her hands, letting her long hair fall back and surrendering herself to complete abandon. How many sculptors had crafted such timeless works of passion? Rodin with The Kiss, Manet's Olympia, even Bernini with his Ecstasy of St. Teresa. If only Elizabeth had her camera, a timer, and a tripod, she could preserve the moment on film. Even as the thought occurred to her, she remembered she had all three in her hotel room, and then the thought was driven out of her mind by the sensation of Alain's tongue again, this time tracing the undulating curves of her breast and teasing her with its light touch. She put thoughts of erotic photos out of her mind for the immediate present, but a lingering image remained. The evening was young.