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A Story Problem
by Holly Stevens
(2/15/06)
A train leaves the station at 2:50 p.m. and is traveling at 45 miles per hour. You sit directly opposite me in the small compartment, with a minor argument about the cost of the reservations ($1,250 each) still hanging between us. You keep your 2-button suit coat on in protest, even though you are wrinkling the back. Still, I observe you staring at my cherry red, six-inch heels five minutes (3.75 miles) from the station, but you look out the window at passing concrete, pretending to have only glanced past me.
The temperature in the small compartment seems to rise four degrees (2.22 degrees Celsius) when I carefully cross my legs, revealing almost 2/3 of my left leg through the slit in my short skirt. You fumble with the suit coat and remove it, making a joke about the weather and a 69% chance of rain, then catch yourself and blush, ducking away from the vector along which I am staring, eye's 1/2 lidded and full, slightly smiling lips almost as red (a wavelength of 700 nanometers) as my shoes. It is then that you notice my short-sleeve tweed jacket is open, revealing my white blouse stretched taut over a nipple .75 inches (1.9 centimeters) long, and also revealing that I am not wearing a bra.
Your cock grows from 3.5 to 6 inches (15.24 centimeters) as you solve for Y, where X equals high-heels and Z equals no bra. Your breathing accelerates from a resting rate of 12 breaths per minute to slightly over 38 breaths per minute, as my own pulse accelerates to 100 beats per minute, and I feel a delicious pressure deep inside. I uncross my legs to reveal the checksum, confirming your estimation of Y. As the train enters the tunnel, you admit that the tickets were not so expensive after all, and we soon begin to subtract clothing and accelerate, approaching infinity over and over by the light of the public window before reaching Chicago.
Question: Will you argue with me the next time I insist we go by train?
©2006 by Holly Stevens
Reader
Comments
Holly Stevens is a daughter, a mother, a domme, and a member of her cats' staff. While she is certainly willing to deal with reality from time to time, she has worked hard to become a figment of her own imagination.
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