Back on the Track

"I've come from Washington, D.C. . . . on the Capitol Limited. I work for Mark Macefield now."

"I know you work for Mark."

"Returning by the Capitol Limited tomorrow. Leaving at 6:40 in the evening." Why was I giving him my schedule? That should be obvious, even to me. I was checking to see if his schedule could accommodate me.

"I live in San Antonio now. The Texas Eagle leaves at 1:45 in the afternoon."

Our food arrived, and what little talking we did was dancing around the surface of chit chat. He still worked for Edison Oil, high up in their corporate offices. He wasn't married and he was between boyfriends. "Many months between them," he had clarified. He didn't have anything to do this evening. He'd heard of a club he'd like to go to. He'd rather not go alone.

Coffee was served and he extended his forearm on the table again. "Take my hand, Ned," he said. This time I did so.

"If you don't have plans, come out with me this evening. Roscoe's is the club I've heard about. Not too rough or obvious."

"Just to the club?" I asked.

"It depends on what you want to do, Ned. What I'd like to do is bring you back here and fuck your lights out."

The startled me. "Always so direct," I said.

"Life is too short to beat around the bush. You still get my juices going. But it's up to you. The clubbing and fucking are mutually exclusive proposals—unless you want to bypass the clubbing altogether."

"We'll try the club and then see," I answered. I knew the answer, though. I'm sure he did too. He was always supremely confident in himself.

He was right. Roscoe's was obviously a gay club, but it was understated and the dance band was good. Rex could still dance well. He also could attract attention as well as he ever did, and I was happy to see that I could as well. On a slow dance, nearly at midnight, he whispered in my ear, "The offer stands. Come back to my room at the Marriot, Ned. Let me fuck you. Neither one of us has any reason or anyone else to worry about. A night of uncommitted pleasure will do us both good. You can remember how good it was, can't you—for both of us?"

Yes, I could remember. And I couldn't think of one damn reason not to go back to his room with him.

I'd forgotten how inventive and demanding he was. I also had forgotten how seldom he used hotel beds. I was surprised at how he had been able to maintain his stamina, though.

He fucked me, both of us still half clothed, on the floor, doggie style, just inside the door to his hotel room—which I immediately saw was a much plushier room than mine was. He had always been a high roller. Now he was being a demanding baller. He was strong, muscular for his age, and hung like a bull. He took me hard and fast the first time, my trousers down around my knees and he still in his shirt, albeit flapping open, jacket, and tie. He took little time getting it all inside me, and I opened to him as easily as if it had just been yesterday when we had fucked the last time. He knew all of my sensitive spots up and down my passage and he knew where, on my lower belly to the right, he could press his thumb to send me into overdrive.

It was like we'd never gotten off track. He was impossibly long and thick, stretching me to capacity. I fit him like a glove that had been created just for him, and he set my passage muscles to rippling over his pumping dick as no other man was able to do.

He fucked me in long, vigorous strokes with the sounds of his grunts, my groans, and the slapping of his balls on my buttocks reverberating through the room.

When we'd both come and started to recover—with him recovering faster than I did despite his age—he dragged me up, but not over to the bed. He took me to the dresser, with a mirror over it, put my legs into the splits across the surface of the dresser, and I pressed my hands and cheek into the mirror and watched him over my shoulder as he saddled up behind me and fucked me again.

He'd never been shy to say that half of his attraction to me was that I'd been a gymnast and would let him put me in taxing positions in a fuck. The miracle here was that I still could accommodate him in this.

And I could still accommodate him. After he'd fucked me for a while in this position, he pulled me off the dresser and frog marched me over to the floor-to-ceiling window looking out onto a Chicago that never slept at night, where, cheek and hands to the window, I hung in front of him as he completed the fuck.

When at last he hauled me over to the bed and dropped me there, coming down behind me and, still hard enough to penetrate, skewered me from behind, I drifted off into an exhausted sleep. When I woke, with sunlight streaming in the window, Rex was asleep, snoring, but his cock, flaccid, was still lodged in my passage.

I extricated myself, padded to the bathroom, and took a shower. He was still asleep and snoring away when I came out of the bathroom. I pulled my clothes on, took one last look at him, debating whether to wake him. But I had no idea what I'd say if I did. I had no idea what this fuck meant to me . . . to him . . . to us—if anything. I'd have to think about that.

I went back to my room to order room service, change my clothes, and get a taxi for the meetings I'd set up for the day. The meetings were a godsend. They kept me from thinking about what had just happened and where, if anywhere, it might lead.

I couldn't hope that I would be getting back on the track with Rex. I didn't know if it was too late for us. I didn't know if he had been able to discern how much being with him again meant to me. I was never very good at telegraphing my true emotions. Chances were good this was just a convenient toss in the hay for him and he had no interest in getting back on that track.

* * * *

Thank god for scheduled meetings, I reiterate. I worked nonstop for the rest of the day and only thought about Rex maybe four times in an hour. I arrived, panting, at Chicago's Union Station at 5:30 p.m. for a 6:40 p.m. on-time departure of Amtrak's Capitol Limited for Washington, D.C.'s Union Station, arriving at 1:00 p.m. the next day. Naturally, I'd booked a roomette compartment, although the concept of one bedroom didn't really denote adequate space, even for one. Once the lower bunk was down for the night, there'd be practically no ability to move around in the compartment.

I didn't have time to catch anything to eat. I hadn't gotten lunch because of my meeting schedule in Chicago. Dinner on the train wouldn't be until we were well on our way. Happily, the plush waiting room for private compartment passengers at Chicago's Union Station featured vegetable and cheese and cracker trays and they had a wine tasting on. So, I was able to nosh.

As I was doing so, I heard a familiar voice and the bulky, hunky familiar form of Rex Helgerson loomed before me.

"Try the red too," he said, remarking on the glass of Chardonnay I was sipping, "it's quite acceptable. It's sturdy and has power to it. I know you appreciate that." He indeed was standing there, holding a glass of red.

"Rex?" I said, surprised. "Didn't you say the Texas Eagle was leaving around 1:00?"

"As far as I know, it did," he said, with a chuckle. "I decided I missed Washington, D.C., and the lobbyist's whirl there. I called my office and got switched to our Washington office at least for a while. They were delighted. They've been trying to get me to go back for some time. I thought I'd give that another try. What do you think about that?"

"Suits me fine," I answered. It suited me more than fine, but I'd never been good about revealing all of my emotions and hopes.

"I thought there might be a chance that you and I could give it another try too—to try to get this train back on track." He paused. I could tell that he was nervous and unsure of himself. I was flabbergasted at that; I'd never known Rex to be anything but fully in control of himself—and of those around him. It made all the difference. It's what told me he was serious. "I wonder what you think—"

"That suits me just fine," I said.

"My compartment, of course," he said. "I'll pin you to the bunk with my cock." The old Rex was back. That suited me fine too.

I was wrong about there not being enough space in an Amtrak train roomette compartment to do much of anything. Rex fucked me through the night in his compartment, only using the unfolded three-quarters lower bunk toward the morning when we were sleepy and nearing exhaustion. Once there, though, he did pin me to the bunk with his cock and it didn't matter how much space we didn't have outside the bunk.

He took me in the seat outside the door to the combination toilet and shower three ways—me hunched over the seat, with chin on seat back and hands gripping the armrests, Rex fucking me doggie style from behind; me huddled in the chair, ankles on his shoulders, and him squeezing and raising my buttocks to him and pounding my passage; and him sitting in the chair, with me saddled on his cock and riding it. And he took me with me on my back on the bed and him standing on the small square of space between the bed and the entrance to the toilet/shower, with my legs spread and feet digging until the edge of the upper bunk overhead, him fucking me in a missionary position. And he did me with me standing on the floor next to the edge of the lower bunk, bent over, grabbing the edge of overhead bunk, arms and legs spread, and him grasping my hips and pounding me from behind.

If the train ride had been any longer, he would have murdered me with his cock and his idea of how the cramped space in the roomette could be used for challenging sex.

In time, we went to the lower bunk and he fucked me in every position he and I could get into as the trained raced through Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Maryland as it steamed into Washington, D.C. And I swear that the train hit its whistle every time either Rex or I achieved an ejaculation.

And it all suited me just fine.