@ 2018 Asmodeus

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The Train


You've to read this part of the tale for now - AND ONLY THIS PART.  You will then wait the length of the train ride (45Mins) before reading the next part.  I perhaps take liberties in this tale, but then again, what's new in that?

Part 1.

Standing back, watching you, half woman, half bird, the cacophony of tattooed birds and the sheer perfection of flesh that is you merging together amongst the flickering lights of the passing night. And the thought, the mental image of the exotic pain that must have coursed through your body as the tattoo artist did his work. It is surreal, invigorating, engorging my cock with each stoke of its powerful imagery, each rumble of the track, each dash of light, each movement from your taut, manacled body. I feast upon you, unable to decide which part captivates me more. The birds? Perhaps. Their power, their beauty, their cruel elegance and singularity of purpose.

Or your cloak? So erotically symbolic. Such a powerful emblem to embrace.

Or perhaps it was what the cloak covered? Hidden beneath its mystery, the power and beauty that I had grown to know, admire, cherish, and dare I say, yearn for control over?

Or was it more simplistic than that? Or more complicated? I let a cool smile cross my face. Enough philosophy, I remind myself. I can think and fuck - as long as I have warm socks on - but there are times when both can be fused into a singularity of their own, as powerfully primal and cruel as any hawk could ever know….

I kiss you. A lingering, sensual, draining kiss. Hard cock, inches from your opened cunt, my fingers running around your tortured aureole, feeling their tension, their heat.  I break contact with your lips for a moment, dropping to kiss each nipple, pulled high by the chain, in turn. As I do, I take my pinkies and run them, nail first, down the entire length of your torso. From your ears, down the side of your neck, over your shoulders, over the front, down to your armpits, down your side, playfully counting rib after rib, then down your side, moving down the abdominal valley and down the inguinal joint towards your cunt.

As they find your clit from opposite sides, trapping it, squeezing it, our lips meet again. As our souls mingle, my hands leave your clit and unclip your cloak, swinging it off you, leaving you naked apart from your stockings, heels and your birds of prey.

"Your cloak is mine now," I announce, brushing it off the side of your face. "Just what should I do with it?" I cruelly tease.  I see your eyes follow the cloak, almost pleadingly, as I crush it up in one hand and draw it melodramatically up to my face and inhale, feeling rather than smelling the faint aroma of you permeate me.


Your tortured breasts swell, their hawks rising and falling as if on the soaring currents over some untamed Savannah. Yet your face shows no emotion, other than a slightly nervous lick of your lips. Perhaps someone could have read it as the unconscious moistening of a dry lip. Perhaps you thought you'd hidden it better than that. But your eyes are afire with conflict. Rage, fear, fuck instinct all at each other's throat in a struggle as primal as life itself. I walk over to the opening in the carriage.

"Should I perhaps discard it?"

I see you tense, a childish fear sparking within you as you see the tails of the cloak flutter in the breeze. I smile, snatching it back in and sweeping it over my own shoulders. In one easy motion, it is around my shoulders, snapped tightly around me.

"No." I say. "This cloak fascinates me. I think I'll keep it. Use it as I want. Find out all its little folds and creases."

I walk back to you, and in a fluid, swooping motion encase myself in the cloak. My clothes take only a few seconds to discard, and soon, I too, am naked, except for the comforting familiarity of the cloak. I kiss you, drawing your tongue into mine. Then, as my cock slips into your held open cunt, I bring the "wings" of the cloak over my prey. I luxuriate in the writhing of my quarry. Like the talons of an eagle gripping a spring ewe, I feel you buck wildly, react to my pressure, try to escape, yet simultaneously open to the inevitable. We are one. Predator and prey. Man and Woman. Cock and cunt. Symbiotic bedfellows, without the one, the other withers.

I feel the warm, brutal orgasm rake you, The way your muscles contract around me, even with the accompanying pain I know must be shooting through you as you are held open for my assault. My hands grab your butt and pull you deeper onto me, lifting you off your feet, dangling you by the wrists to further confuse your senses with a new, differing level of pain. I draw you onto me, into me. Our bodies are held tight, writhing, fucking, your rings, the chains, bite into my flesh. Where I end, and you begin becomes blurred.

As your orgasm ebbs, I withdraw. Desperate to fill you, but equally in control to stretch the moment for every sinew popping moment I can. I watch your cunt reach out hungrily for me as you push your hips forward to try and regain contact.

"Don't be so impatient," I tell you, running a finger over your engorged clit. "All good things come to sluts who wait…. Or beg."

You smile. "Oh, you wouldn't make me beg, would you?"

I put a finger to your lips. "Oh, you wouldn't believe what I'll make you do…" And with that, my finger slowly slid away from your lips.

Still unsteady in your heels, still stretched by the cuffs, your nipples held high and painful by the chain round your neck, you fight the motion of the train as you stand, clit pouting in the half light. Your eyes bore into me, changing focus from one part of me to the other. From my tattoo, to my eyes, to cock, to my legs, to the cloak.

My attention turns to the bag. Rummaging quickly (I'm aware of the rather tight schedule we have to run to, trains being the irksome things they are.) and finding a few toys to work you with, I quickly improvise something that both pacifies my need to fuck, and the desire to stretch the moment beyond time.

I "waste" five minutes preparing. It is an annoyance, but necessary. Precision is important, and doubly so when the stage you are performing on is as unstable as the train.

Then I am ready.

I see your eyes widen as you see the tape around my fingers of my hands. Then they grow even wider as you see what is taped to them.

The "claw" is pretty basic. I had taken three short insulin needles, and taped them to the top of my fingers, just below the fingernails. No more than a millimetre of the needles showed beyond the length, but they would be enough. More than enough.

I walk up to you, watching you as your eyes fix on the claws. It is all you have in your universe. The claws. The train, the cloak, the pain in your nipples, even me. Everything has receded into the background now. You can probably melt steel with the laserlike gaze you fix my hands with.

When I'm only a few inches from your face, I stop, and throw the cloak over my shoulder. I take my left claw and rake my own chest with it. Three long cuts open in the half-light of the carriage. It looks black. Blood. In this light, robbed of hues and subtleties, the rich redness is robbed, but that is perhaps a good thing. The cuts are not deep. Superficial, but the chest is a very well supplied area, and any cut is a visual experience more than a truly damaging one.

But you are horrifically mesmerised. Like a rabbit, seeing the hawk start its dive from above, you are frozen, unable - or unwilling - to do the logical. I can see your body swim in the uncomfortable waters of nausea, but I will not slacken unless I hear the words that can stop this. You have them in your armoury, and while I know your mind is awash, I know it is still functioning enough to remember that much. You wrestle the bindings, but you are too securely laid open before for me to escape. You try to clench your legs closed, but I order you to open yourself and you hesitantly comply.

Teetering on your heels, legs spread, the light and the birds flashing over you, the look in your eyes, I watch every nuance of your body. From the tense twitch in your shoulder, the reflex motion in your thigh. That way you have of biting down on your lip slightly when resolve is needed from within.

I raise my hand, watching the knot in your throat dance in the moonlight.

Fear cascades in your eyes. A tear appears, and I kiss it away, letting the salty taste of fear float over my tongue before swallowing it.

I steady myself against the wall for a second, then, happy that the train is once again stable, I pinch your windpipe with two fingers from the claw. Squeezing lightly - but hard enough to pierce my prey. Like an eagle, I have you. Fixed in a firm, inescapable lock.

The orgasm is immediate. As convulsive as any cock induced one, but with an added dimension.

The other claw starts to move down. Starting from just below the left claw. As it clears the windpipe the third finger comes into play, now drawing three black talon lines down your front. Between your breasts and over your stomach, the claw rakes over you. And all this time, I keep the firm pressure on your windpipe.

I hesitate over your pubic mound. Extracting energies from you that you were perhaps unaware that you had.

Then you feel the claw descend.