The Capitol Limited

I don't know how long he'd been sitting there, across from us, in Washington, D.C.'s, Union Station waiting room before I saw him. Denise was off, checking out the shopping concourse because she couldn't sit still for the two-hour wait before we could board the Capitol limited bound on an eighteen-hour, one-night run to Chicago.

The senator was pacing an eight-foot path between the banks of benches in this row like a caged lion. The pacing wasn't the only leonine aspect of the six-foot-six, powerfully built politician with a mane of gray hair and a commanding presence that had sent him to Congress four times. Neither of us had thought it wise to let Denise, seven months pregnant, go off on her own. In fact, neither of us had thought she should be taking this "check with the constituents" quick trip back to Chicago at all. The senator had certainly done everything he could to cry her off on the trip. But no one successfully told Denise what to do—not even the senator.

He was dark—swarthy—and muscular, the man who caught my attention and who kept looking at me. He was dangerous looking, with an olive complexion, long, black hair gathered in a ponytail behind his head, a close-cut beard and mustache, and steely black eyes. His mouth was set in a cruel, knowing smile, which made me feel that he could see through my Joseph A. Banks congressional aide clothing and look into my soul, discern my deepest hidden desires—know what I wanted, what I would do for a man like him.

It wasn't just the aspect of danger and cruelty about him that had attracted me or the way his intense gaze kept coming back to me and that cruel smile. It also was the black leather he was wearing: a form-fitting black vest, emphasizing his muscular torso; a thick, many-stranded belt, with the ends of the strands hanging down at his side in a tassel; and black motorcycle boots, with heavy silver buckles. The total package looked arousingly devilish.

Black leather. A smoky room, men swirling around, in black leather. Black painted walls and ceiling and floor; raucous noise, catcalls, dares, and challenges; macho posturing; a spotlighted X frame. And me, naked, willingly being tied to the X frame. A whip. The delicious sting of the black leather strands. Going hard . . . knowing I was going to be fully used . . .

"I found this beautiful cashmere shawl in a shop right over there. Feel it, Chad, isn't it the softest you've ever felt? I wanted something for the train. I get chilled so easily of late."

"You're not cold, are you?" I asked her, coming quickly out of my reverie to respond to Denise now that she was back from the absence that had had both the senator and me on edge. As charismatic as the senator was, Denise was always the center of attention wherever she was.

"No, I feel fine. I . . . oh, oh my."

"What is it Denise?" I asked, in a slight panic. I still thought she should have stayed here in Washington. We only planned to be gone for the long weekend. If the senator would fly, we'd just be gone for a few days. But the senator wouldn't fly.

"Denise?" This time it was the senator, turned back to us, a look of slight concern mixed with not-so-slight irritation floated across his face.

"No, it's all right," she responded. "He kicked. Here, Chad, feel my belly. Can you feel him kick?"

Tentatively, I placed a hand on her belly. I didn't feel a thing, but I said, "Yes, maybe," as I knew that was expected of me. Denise was holding my hand to her belly and giving me a look that I hoped the senator didn't see. My eyes went to the man sitting across from us. He was still staring at me, knowingly, a slight look of amusement on his face—amused at my embarrassment.

Almost anyone else in the waiting room who viewed the tableau of Denise and me, me with my hand on her pregnant belly, would, I'm sure, think we were a couple. The man sitting across from us knew otherwise. He knew what I wanted, what I would do for a man like him.

The knowing look, and the amusement at my embarrassment, put me under the stranger's power. Ever so briefly the scenario ran through my mind and imagination of being restrained, wrists to ankles, and that man, naked as I was save for a black leather chest harness, hunched over me, his body between my spread legs, inside me, filling me and working me cruelly. Black leather gloves on his hands, his hands on my throat, choking me in rhythm to his thrusts inside me.

"You, Daniel? Do you want to feel your son kick too?"

That should give any others who overheard her pause, I thought—that it was the senator, not me, who was the father of this child.

The senator just gave her a disgusted "What? Here? a senator, with everyone looking" look and said, "There will be other, more private and dignified opportunities for that, Denise." He turned and strode off a couple of paces, as if he wasn't part of this family setting—me still with my hand on his wife's belly, although I removed it, somewhat forcefully, as soon as I realized that. Denise was his third wife. It was quite evident to me that he hadn't planned on raising a third family.

Denise was preparing to give him a sharp retort, which came easily to her, but she changed gears and gave me a warm smile instead. I moved a bit away from her and turned my eyes toward the man sitting across from her. Denise hadn't been shy with me. I had gotten the impression ever since the senator, for whom I was a legislative assistant, had married her that she would have been pleased if I had been the father of her baby. But I wasn't. If the senator wasn't the father, I had no idea who was. My preferences were elsewhere.

When my eyes went to the man in the black leather sitting across from us, he still was staring at me. I knew that somehow he had deduced what my preferences were—and was willing to fulfill my fantasies, given the opportunity. Even as I watched, he widened his stance and dropped a hand to hanging down over his bulging basket.

Soon thereafter an Amtrak official approached us with a porter and a cart in tow and addressed the senator. "Perhaps you'd be more comfortable boarding now, Senator Dobbs," he said. "The Capitol Limited is in early and ready. We could board you before the others."

"That would be fine, James," the senator answered. He was a regular VIP passenger on this run. It took him back to his constituents. Amtrak officials knew who to curry favor with.

As I helped to gather together our suitcases and carry-ons to pass over to the porter loading his cart, I looked across the aisle to where the leather man had been sitting.

But he was gone.

As we moved toward the train, the senator was moving deliberately and at a quick pace, with the Amtrak official sweating in his wake. Denise and I brought up the rear. Denise laced her arm through mine, controlling my pace and, with a coy smile for me, giving me the impression that wasn't the only thing about me she'd like to control. "You know, you remind me a lot of Sean Barkley—same sweet, 'oh my gosh' good looks."

If I hadn't already thrown my guard up when she took my arm, this was enough to do it. Yes, I remembered Sean—the senator's spokesman, held over from his recent campaign. Sean had suddenly disappeared from the staff roster four months ago—about the time that Denise's pregnancy would have become obvious.

"Do I?" I asked noncommittally.

She swerved in her line of thought. "Wasn't Daniel thoughtful to have specified three separate bedroom compartments on the train? He's self-conscious about his snoring, you know. Besides, I couldn't see him climbing up to the upper bunk—and I certainly couldn't be expected to sleep up there. It's nice that I'll have a compartment all to myself."

But it wasn't really a change of thought, I realized. I answered with only a clearing of my throat, looking up and down the platform now that we had reached the train. I only briefly wondered how a man went about fucking a woman who was seven-months pregnant.

I looked around again with a different interest, but I didn't see the leather man anywhere. I wondered what train he was taking—where he was headed, who he'd be fucking tonight.

* * * *

The light was dimming outside the train and we were nearly clear of Pennsylvania as I drifted off from the monotony of the blurred landscape, the rocking motion of the observation car, and the clickety-click of the wheels on the rails. Thoughts of the leather man I'd observed in the Union Station waiting room floated into my half-conscious brain and my musing went to that night at the DC Eagle in Washington and, afterward, at the nearby Rocky's hotel, a gay-insistent flea bag with thin walls in the rooms but no cares about the sounds the walls didn't trap. Nor did they care how many men piled into one of their rooms. Six or seven men, all leathered up, the hotel obligingly providing the sling, where I was trussed up, wrists and ankles bound high on the chains, as, one after the other, with one guy always holding my head and waving poppers under my nose, the men fucked me, some with condoms, some without.

I'd been drunk, but not too drunk not to have gone willingly with them and having the experience lodged into my brain as a want—and, increasingly, a need.

Taken out of the sling and rebound to the chain, high up, by my wrists, given a taste of the whip on my back, buttocks, and thighs before another round of fucking. And I was aroused by and melted to that as well.

A laugh across the aisle from where Denise was sitting beside me and the senator across from me, a table between us, drinks on the table, brought me back from my reverie, and I looked out into the aisle—in time to see the leather man passing by. He'd had his eyes drilling into me, a cruel little smile on his lips, even before I looked up. When I did, and we made eye contact, I flinched but didn't look away from him. As he passed, I swiveled my head around, and sucked in breath. His belt, the strange bunching of strands of leather, wasn't really a belt. I could see now that he was showing his back to me that it was a whip, gathered around his waist. The black leather handle of the whip was at the small of his back.

"Excuse me," I murmured to Denise, rising. "I have to use the restroom."

As I moved across her to reach the aisle, one of her hands was inserted between my legs, high on my thigh, and she smiled up at me. It was probably a knowing smile, as she surely could tell that I'd gone hard. She didn't really "know," though, as it wasn't for her that I'd gone hard.

"I think there's a book in my compartment I want to have. So, maybe I'll go back with you to fetch it."

"Isn't

that

the book you were reading?" I asked, pointing to a Donna Leon mystery that was wedged between her rump and the side of the bench.

"Why, yes, it is," she answered, her voice sounding a bit chagrinned. "I think I also need—"

"The senator shouldn't be left alone," I said, turning her attention to him across from us. He'd drunk a bit too much. Indeed, someone needed to be here to make sure he didn't make a scene that would be memorable enough to make the papers in Illinois. There already had been some rumblings about his drinking and not showing up for many votes in Congress if they were taken in the morning.

"I'll just be a few minutes," I said. "Then I'll sit with him and you can fetch whatever you need from your compartment."

I didn't wait to see the disappointment and ire on Denise's face, but I already was pushing to the end of the car and through the connector compartment between this car and the sleeping car.

The leather man was near the end of the car. He had turned and was looking at me, expectantly gesturing with a hand at the door of a compartment, which I took to be his. Indecision caught up with me. This was dangerous. I couldn't let it be this easy. I couldn't even be sure that I was reading the man right. Instead of walking down the corridor to him, I turned right and went into the lavatory just inside the door into the compartment. This, after all, was where I had said I was going. I just didn't think I was ready to fall over the edge yet—not without some second thoughts.

But I didn't lock the lavatory door.

The door opened, and there he was, entering and locking the door behind him. He grabbed me and pulled me into his chest with one strong arm around my back, his hand gripping the back of my neck and pulling my face into his for a possessive kiss. His other hand went directly to my basket, assuring himself that I was hard for him, which I was.

Pulling his lips off mine, he growled, "You want it." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," I murmured.

"From me."

"Yes."

"You want the whip too."

"Yes," I whimpered.

"Hands on the wall high over the toilet, butt jutted out to me," he growled.

As I turned, with a moan, he pulled my Polo shirt over my head, and I palmed the wall over the toilet and jutted my buttocks back to him. The space was so confining that there barely was room for him to fit behind me. He jerked my trousers and briefs down to my ankles and went down behind me, attacking my hole with his mouth, and my cock and balls, which he pulled back between my spread thighs, with one of his hands. He palmed my belly with the other hand, holding me steady as the train car swayed.

Standing and leaning back so that his shoulder blades pressed to the wall opposite the toilet, he cupped my chin, forcing my head back, and arched my torso painfully back to him. I cried out as he invaded me with the fingers of a hand—one, two, all four, up to the knuckle, and spread them, forcing me open for him—for which I was grateful when I learned how thick he was. He penetrated me to the depth of only an inch or more with the bulb of his throbbing cock. He'd pulled the whip that had been functioning as a belt from around his waist, and gave me a few lashes on my back and buttocks with it.

Near to sobbing, I begged him, "Fuck me. Please fuck me."

More lashes, none cutting deep, all asserting control and mastery, and then the whip was gone, his arms were snaking around my sides, his hands were palming my pecs, fingernails digging into the flesh around the aureoles of my nipples, and he plunged his cock deep inside me and plowed me. I had opened well to him and took the fucking with sighs of appreciation and encouragement. He was thick and long—and cruel in his thrusts. I uninhibitedly voiced my testing, confident that the noise of the train covered my cries unless someone had an ear pressed to the door. The train wasn't crowded; I thought nothing of giving him the surrendering acknowledgement that he was gloriously torturing me.

When he was in deep, I realized that he had a leather studded cock ring circling the root of his cock that both kept him rock hard and punished my rim. He took me in powerful thrusts, and I felt myself go soft and spongy inside for him, fitting my walls to his thickness, feeling his entire circumference as he worked the muscles of my walls. I cried out for the lash again, but even in this he was cruel, denying me the exhilarating sting of the whip with a guttural laugh and a "later; more later."

He wasn't sheathed and I knew the instant that he tensed and came, spouting forcefully deep inside me, giving him even more friction as he continued to thrust for nearly a minute. I'd already come, to the stroking of one of his hands. I whined for more and for another taste of the whip, but he was finished—"For now," he said. "I know which is your compartment," he said. "I know you are alone in it."

"Yes, yes, please," I murmured, only later having second thoughts about what he'd do, given more privacy and time.

As if he anticipated my thoughts, he growled. "You will suffer. You want to suffer."

I couldn't say he was wrong.

I took a few minutes to pull myself together after he'd come, pulled out of me, and slipped out of the lavatory, with a muttered, "Later. I'll do you royally later," which made me shudder and my expectations soar.

When I regained my composure and had put my clothes back in order, I returned to my seat. Denise was gone, having left the senator to lean over in his seat, head against the vibrating window of the carriage, and snoring loudly.

I looked at my watch. I'd been gone less than twenty minutes. It seemed like an eternity. And I was both satiated and tied up in knots. I knew what I wanted. But I also wanted my job in the senator's legislative office, and there was no one in Congress more aggressively antigay and down on perversion than Daniel Dobbs was.

* * * *

The dining car was nearly full by the time Denise had gotten herself together and joined us in the club car before we went in to dine. The senator used the time to imbibe a couple more scotches on the rocks. He had gotten his second wind, though. The nap had done him well and, apparently, opened up the hollow leg where the liquor was going rather than to his brain. There were no empty tables in the dining car, but there was one with just one guy at it, and the waiter slid us right in beside and across from him.

He was a college basketball player, Christopher Somethingorother, on his way back to Chicago to attend Loyola University. He was a good-looking kid, which wasn't lost on Denise, and I was happy to see her transfer her charm to him. After dinner we went back to the club car, with Denise dragging Christopher along, and Christopher and I got roped into a poker game, with Denise looking on and rubbing Christopher's shoulders and who knows what else. The senator sat to the side, went through some papers in his briefcase, and chugged more scotch.

Christopher and Denise were the first to disappear—together. I had little doubt where they were going, and I wondered whether Christopher had learned the knack of fucking a seven-month-pregnant woman. If not, I'm sure Denise would be able to guide him. I'd already heard from her how it could be done with her sitting in my lap and me palming the baby, lifting her belly enough to get my dick inside her. I was just glad that he was there to do the honors and to keep her off my case. I was busy trying to spot the leather man. I hadn't seen him in the dining car for the supper service and I was getting antsy. I kept telling myself that I wouldn't put myself in his hands again on the train—that it was too dangerous to do that here—but I knew I was just kidding myself. I wanted more than the taste he had given me. I wanted to feel the sting of the welts on my back and buttocks. He had been too gentle with me. I wanted him deep inside me. I wanted to know if I could take his fist.

At last, there he was. The leather man walked through the club car toward us, from the direction of our sleeping car. I saw him as soon as the door slid upon, accompanied by the increase in the decibel rate of the train sounds until he'd slid the door shut again. He looked around until he saw me, and then did "the stare" as he walked the length of the club car and went into the next section, a coach car. A few minutes later, he came back. He didn't look at me this time, although he could have demanded eye contact. I was sitting with my back to the side of the carriage and had a sweeping view of the club car. But as he passed, his hand went to the small of his back, and he stroked the handle of the whip he was using as a belt. I had already gone hard at his appearance, but I felt myself shudder and moan and had to quickly look at the others at the poker table to ensure that they hadn't heard me. They were making noises of breaking up the game, though, which was just fine with me.

I heard the senator snort as the leather man reached the far end of the carriage, looked around, and this time captured my eyes with his for a fleeting, but understandable, moment. The senator's papers went back into his briefcase and he stood, said to me, "I'm for turning in," and headed for the sleeping car in the leather man's wake.