Story Discussion: September 14, 2006. Rape on the Delhi Express by Matadore

[Matadore]

Please consider this story for POV. Being male and not knowing much about women's sexuality, I know that I'm on risky ground writing this at all. The events described here really happened to a friend of mine, but the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

I am trying to establish a first time experience for a young woman who is not so innocent as she thinks, seeks adventure, but maintains her self respect. She has been sheltered, yet she is not stupid, just a little ignorant. She does not see herself as a "tease" in that she really does not want to be fucked, and she does not think of herself as "leading the young man on" with the intention of suduction. She thinks that she knows what she is doing, yet she isn't quite up to being able to judge the consequences of her actions. Can any of the women reading this relate or sympathize?

Does this story seem reasonable?

Is it erotic or does it read more like a news article?

Thanks for your consideration, but please spare me no helpful comments because I need to have your input to grow as a writer.

************************************

Rape on the Delhi Express

I had an urgent reason to travel with my father to Delhi during November of my 18th year. He was 45 then, thin and ailing. His health was failing so rapidly that he needed assistance to make the trip and I was the only person who was free to accompany him. We boarded the limited express train (1st class compartment of 4 convertible seat-beds) at about 7:00 pm. I made sure that my father took his medicine as prescribed before the train pulled out of the station. It was a strong sedative to relieve his pain and he was sleeping the sleep of the just in less than half an hour.

I was bored, being alone with only my peacefully dormant father to keep me company as the miles of darkening countryside sped by. The monotonous double clicks of the wheels passing over the rail ends lulled me with their hypnotic rhythm into a contemplative state. My hands were resting in my lap and my brain was filled with the random thoughts that float through the mind of an 18-year-old virgin.

Before long I was thinking of the fit young men who performed military drills on the parade ground near my school. I had never met any of these dashing fellows as I had attended a very strict boarding school for young women of affluent families. Ah, but the more daring of my classmates would conceal ourselves and whisper over the way these boys filled out their tight white uniforms.

We exchanged much speculation over their rippling muscles and other bulges that seemed so obvious to us. The worldlier of us ventured that the certain bulges that all of them had in the vicinity of their crotches (some more pronounced than others) were actually the male organs of sex.

We tried to imagine just how the mechanics of the act was accomplished. The consensus tended to be that both participants lay together with their feet at each other’s heads, legs interlocked, crotches together. After all, our genitals opened pretty much straight down; theirs must be located about in the same area pointing straight down, too. A few of the girls with brothers insisted that when sexually aroused, the male member would increase greatly in size and reverse direction to point toward their navel. But not even with this privileged information could any of us imagine just how lovers could manage copulation.

I felt the familiar warmth creeping in the area of the bottom of my belly. My reaction was to soothe the feeling by rocking gently and messaging the place with my hand. I blushed slightly when I realized what I was doing and stopped immediately before I made my panties damp, yet again.

The train had one stop between our point of embarkation and Delhi, our destination (there were only six stops on that route to Delhi at that time. But once ticket checker checks the ticket, a 4-person compartment could be locked from within until the train reached its final station and the occupants detrained). As it happened at this stop, we took on passengers.

One very attractive young man, only a few years older than I, came on with an older woman. After my one first look (at that tender and sheltered age of 18, I was in my freshman year in the university) I could not remove my eyes from him. He was to me as if the GOD of Sex (we call this god Kamdve) was about to enter our compartment. I opened the sliding compartment door that they might enter.

“Excuse me Miss?” He said with a smile that seemed to warm the room and brighten the fading light of gloomy early winter. “My grandmother and I are bound for Delhi and yours is the most attractive of the remaining choices of seating. Would it be possible for us to share your compartment? We will be no trouble as my grandmother is quite tired and intends to sleep most of the journey while I have much reading to do for my senior exams.”

I took the hand that he offered as I mumbled my assent and he lightly touched his lips to my wrist like the brush of a falling rose pedal. I prayed that he didn’t feel the shiver that shook my hand as he allowed my fingers to slip through his.

He seated his grandmother and stowed their bags in the overhead bin. Being a cold winter evening, he closed the compartment door against the chill of the access aisle. He removed four heavy wool blankets from the under-seat storage locker and handed me two smiling that I might want to use it to ward off the chill that would surely follow the disappearance of the weak setting sun.

“So sorry Miss, I’m afraid that I have been remiss and neglectful in my introductions. My name is Mr. Raj J. Sean, but at the risk of appearing forward, I would ask you to address me only as Raj as my other friends do.” He turned to his grandmother, but she was already dozing. “This is my mother’s mother, Mrs. Ali from Calcutta. Please forgive her; she has not been well and our trip is to the hospital in the city for a series of tests that we hope will help her doctor to diagnose the root cause of her condition.”

“Of course...Raj. My name is Pritti and I’m honored to met you and your Grandmother. This is my father and he too is going to the hospital for treatment.” I managed to reply with a grace and self-composure that I certainly did not feel.

“Gran’mama,” he shook her gently. “You must take your medication now before you sleep. Here is a bit of warm sweet tea to help you swallow.” He gave her a spoonful of medicine, which she dutifully washed down with the tea from his thermos. “Are you warm enough, dear? Can I do anything to make you more comfortable?”

She had barely opened her eyes. She shook her head as he kissed her cheek and tucked the blanket around her shoulders and legs. Satisfied that he could do no more, he pulled a corner of the blanket over his thighs and selected a book from his briefcase to read.

The train moved out again and had accelerated to its cruising speed when his grandmother plaintively asked him to dim the light as it was keeping her awake. Now compartment was dark, lit only by the glow of the aisle lights that filtered through the curtain covering the glass in the sliding compartment door.

Perhaps I should take this time to explain that train compartments in India then were modeled after the British trains with two berths on opposite walls, facing each other, with a space of 2.5 feet in between them. These serve as seats for four passengers during the day. When bedtime comes, another two berths that are concealed in the ceiling are folded down until they about four feet directly above the lower seats. With this arrangement, four people can stretch out and sleep comfortably. Each bunk bed has a thick curtain that can be pulled for privacy, quiet, and warmth.

It was at this point that I came enough to my senses to risk my first daring move of that night.

“Why don’t you come on to my side?” I offered. “We can keep the light for this seat ‘on’ for you to read by and yet leave that light over her seat, the one that disturbs her sleep, ‘off’.”

“But what about your father?” He asked. “He is sitting beside you, asleep.”

“Oh my father won’t mind shifting seats. In fact, we could arrange the compartment for sleeping and both of them can rest more comfortably. Father is a little groggy from his medication and might need some help moving, that’s all.”

With surprisingly little effort, we moved my father across the cubicle and into the bunk above Mrs. Ali’s, both tucked under blanket their blankets. Each was nestled in snugly, their heads atop their smooth white pillows.

Raj thanked me for my consideration. Before he sat down by my side, he pulled shut the two floor length privacy curtains that covered their bunks.

Soon the soft but consistent sound of snoring told us that his grandmother and my father slept. We had lowered both of the upper bunks, but propriety prevented either of us from considering sharing a bunk for sleeping! However, since neither of us were ready to sleep, we instead sat on the lower berth and chatted. It never occurred to me that he had forsaken his studies.

Being a girl with a too, too charming boy, my heart started racing. (Even right now my heart races just from the memory.) Judging from the way that I caught him looking at me; he must have also found me attractive. (To be honest, I was considered to be a college queen, with vital statistics 34c-25-35, 55 kg, fair-skinned, and possessing a very cute face.) He started to talk first on general topics of mutual interest.

When he learned that I was a First Year in college, he asked me how I was feeling about being at the university, how different was it from my boarding school, were my friends were much different from my Upper School level pals. I told him about some of my college experiences, ideas, and beliefs of my girl friends. He asked if I noticed any differences socially that came from attending a co-ed institution. Although I was very innocent, my accounts of friends, my activities, and observations all seemed to have a little erotic undertone.

He was a senior (4th year college student). He very discreetly hinted at some of his amorous experiences, of which I gained the impression that he had had many.

What I found different with him, separating him from every other boy that I had ever known, was that he was very, very witty and funny. I can’t remember all of what he told at that time, but I became quite relaxed with his talking. Another special thing that he was capable of was taking me with him in his talk. I could visualize his tales.

I was thoroughly amused and entertained with him.

I don’t remember when it was that he started touching my thigh, my hand, and my shoulder. He seemed so natural and I was so at ease that I was simply unaware that he had been stroking and that his touches were lingering longer and longer. With the pretext of being cold, he took the blanket and covered both of us, still continuing to make little jokes about me, about himself, about the train, and about sex. Then he pulled the curtain, again to preserve the heat.

Now he was sitting very close to me. I could feel the heat of his body through our clothes against my thigh. Suddenly he faced towards me and looking directly into my eyes, told me that I was so very beautiful that he had never found any girl in his college so attractive. My heart again thumped and jumped into my throat. But I felt very proud, too. (What woman would not at 18?) His hand was constantly pressing my thigh under the cover of the blanket. His hand was also advancing toward my waist and into my lap.

Then it happened. He told another sexy, racy joke. It was a bit more risqué than I had ever heard before. I felt the flash of fear at the butterflies in the pit of my stomach. I became little serious and did not responded. He immediately took the opportunity to tickle my ribs, saying, “Why is my joke not worth laughing at?”

With the tickling I just burst out in laughter (I’m to this day very sensitive to tickling.) His hand continued to roam over me under blanket, ostensibly for tickling. I responded in revenge by tickling him back. Blanket slipped off to the floor and the tickling became more intense. I had to turn away from him giving him my back. This only served to give him access to put his hand around my body to my breasts, again in the guise of tickling.

I was flat on my stomach pinned to the seat by his weight. He was on top of me from behind, his hand pressed between my right breast and seat. I could feel his erect penis poking at my back, forcing open my buttocks through my skirt, camisole, and panties, his breath against the back of my neck, stirring the hair around my ears. His rough gasps sweet over the skin of my temples and cheeks.

At this very moment he kissed the nape of my neck and my knees slipped apart as if having a will of their own. Kneading my right breast from below through my clothes, but his other hand was busy lifting up my chemise, slowly moving towards my left breast (I was wearing a chemise, with skirt, as all modestly dressed young women of that day would).

I was in great confusion. My body and mind were struggling against each other uncontrollably. Body was responding to his touches. My panties were all wet. But mind was warning not to go ahead, silently screaming not to allow any further of this play. Fearing where this was leading toward.

I was almost in a state of shock and panic when his hand lifted up my bra. He was already holding my left nipple and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. Both my nipples were harder than I had ever felt them. My chest was covered with waves of radiating electricity centered from those traitorous nipples. I felt the skin on my forearms prickle with goosebumps.

It was at that point, that my mind reconnected with my body. I rolled, slid from under him, and fell down to the floor on my back. He tumbled down with me. Before he could regain his grip and pull me to him, I squirmed from under him, sprang up, opened the door, and ran to toilet at the end of the car. My heart was running faster than that express train. I stood in the toilet and leaned against the tightly shut door to catch up my breath. I was so excited, frightened, and confused that I forgot to latch closed the toilet door .

Of course in a moment he pushed in, and latched door behind him. He pleaded, for my love. “Just once, just once.” He kept repeating as he pressed me against the door; the locked latch was poking into my back. His hands now knew no boundaries, and roamed my face, my neck, and my breasts, everywhere. Continuously he was pleading for my love. He kissed me again and again on my lips, cheeks, forehead, ears, and neck. I was in shock. I felt faint. Blood pounded in my temples. I couldn’t speak, let alone move to defend my virtue.

I was so distraught that I could not give him an immediate response. The words stuck in my throat. He took my silence as positive acquiescence. His mouth lingered on my lips before he forced his tongue into my mouth for a long, wet kiss. I tried to push the intruder out from between my teeth. He tasted sweet. Then he slipped down my body to kiss and lick my cleavage. I involuntarily shivered as the goosebumps on my arms rose, spreading to my shoulders and breasts.

His free hand now lifted my skirt to hold elastic top of my wet panties. I cried, “No. No, Raj!” But by this time he had lowered skirt, camisole, and panties to my knees. Up went my blouse, chemise, and bra in just one movement, exposing both my breasts and my pouting womanhood to his ever-hungry tongue. He took my nipple into his mouth and sucked half my breast in along with it. I shivered more from the fire in my loins than from the chilled air in the small room. I must have tried to escape in my mind because I remember thinking that the glass in the window was steamed opaque from our exertion.

Deftly he undid his trousers and ripped opened his fly to release his cock –(we call that part of a man Lund), slipped it under my crotch, and started to press up onto my naked pussy. How can I allow him? I wept, pleading with him to let me go. I felt the swollen head of his cock begin to move back and forth until my sopping lips opened and the head lodged at the mouth of my vaginal opening. I felt the head move back out and up, pushing against my clit, my knees went weak, threatening to buckle beneath me.

In desperation, I grabbed his slick cock to push him away. My hand slipped or he pushed his cock through my fist until I felt his pubic hair against my fingers, then I quickly loosened my grip slightly to pulled back my hand for a new grip around the head of his cock and prevent it from reaching my pussy.

Now, when I can recall that situation clearly, I realize that I was actually masturbating him. He was trying to push towards me to get into my pussy; I was trying to push him away so that I wouldn’t be penetrated by his long, thick cock. The total effect was to masturbate him, giving him a hand job.

In the attempt as explained above, he let go of my hand and his cock. He continued to thrust his hips to me but he embraced me gently, lovingly, his arms around me tenderly. I rolled my hand each time I felt the huge head slip into my palm. Soon he began to tremble, to make little whimpering sounds, and then to gasp just before he shot his cum onto my crotch filling my hand, and covered my belly from my navel to my pussy. He sagged against me breathing in deep shuddering gasps. His cock shriveled and went limp in my hand. He slowly came to his senses as his normal breathing returned.

“I am so sorry. I love you, but I am sorry that I have abused you so.” Then he and went out.

I was still shaking with fear, relief, and sexual excitement. My hand went to my cum covered clit. I smeared the slickness on and around my clit few times. The feelings that had begun, built as I rolled my hard clit back and forth sliding the hood up and down.

Soon my knees were so rubbery that I sat on the toilet with my eyes closed, my hips began to arch as I thrust without thinking. Waves, one after another washed over me, each lifting me higher. I heard little squeals and realized that the sounds were coming from my own throat. Suddenly a stream of warm liquid flowed out and down my butt. I came hard.

After what seemed a long time, I recovered enough to clean myself, remove my wet panties, go back to my compartment, take new panties with jeans, to change into back in the cold toilet before I returned to the compartment once more. I crawled into the remaining bunk to sleep, wrapped in my blanket until the train reached our destination early the next morning.

I awoke after he and his grandmother were gone.

There remained no sign that they had ever been there except one small piece of paper.

Written on it was, “I love you Pritti, Raj.”

Even though I am now old and married with grandchildren, I still have that scrap of paper in my collection.

 

[Penelope Street]

Hi Matadore,

Interesting title. How can I phrase this in a delicate manner? I'm not sure I can. Rape is an ugly word and it conjures ugly memories- if not from our own experiences, then from those related to us by friends. I'm not at all certain this particular word is a good ingredient in any erotic recipe- even a mild n/c tale. What's wrong with just "On the Delhi Express" for a title and let the reader decide what to label her experience?

The events described here really happened to a friend of mine...
I cringe when I read something like this, because my experience has been that it's usually an excuse for the boring story that will follow. Yours, thankfully, is not boring. In the end, it really doesn't matter if the story is true. What matters is whether it's a good story.

I am trying to establish a first time experience for a young woman who is not so innocent as she thinks, seeks adventure, but maintains her self respect. She has been sheltered, yet she is not stupid, just a little ignorant. She does not see herself as a "tease" in that she really does not want to be fucked, and she does not think of herself as "leading the young man on" with the intention of seduction. She thinks that she knows what she is doing, yet she isn't quite up to being able to judge the consequences of her actions.
You didn't do a bad job of describing her internal conflict, but a lot of it was unveiled in a telly manner. Revealing her dilemma with more action and dialogue could have helped me share her experience.

Can any of the women reading this relate or sympathize?
Sympathize, certainly. Relate, I'm not quite sure.

Does this story seem reasonable?
Very. If anything, it's probably too benign to be real- but that's a good thing in this case.

Is it erotic or does it read more like a news article?
Neither. It does read like a story, but it wasn't really arousing, partly because I never shared her attraction for him. For instance: One very attractive young man, only a few years older than I, came on with an older woman. After my one first look (at that tender and sheltered age of 18, I was in my freshman year in the university) I could not remove my eyes from him. He was to me as if the GOD of Sex (we call this god Kamdve) was about to enter our compartment.
What is it exactly that makes him a sex god? Does he have a ruggedly handsome face? Not likely at his age, lol. Or is it an athletic physique? Or just the way his eyes twinkle beneath his bushy brow? Could it be something as simple as his smile? It's a personal thing, so there is no right answer, but it would help me share her excitement if I could understand what's the right answer for her.

Later...
What I found different with him, separating him from every other boy that I had ever known, was that he was very, very witty and funny.
I need to see him being witty before I'm really going to believe it. Plus, how much more would I share her experience if he amuses and entertains me at the same time that he's amusing and entertaining her?

Much of the conversation is paraphrased and I'd like to hear it all. Such as:
Then it happened. He told another sexy, racy joke. It was a bit more risqué than I had ever heard before.
I want to hear this joke. This too: Suddenly he faced towards me and looking directly into my eyes, told me that I was so very beautiful that he had never found any girl in his college so attractive.
Ok, I admit it. I want to hear *everything* they say.

Being male and not knowing much about women's sexuality, I know that I'm on risky ground writing this at all.
I think you got most of the big things right, but maybe missed a few of the subtler ones, especially when things got hot and heavy in that most romantic of retreats.

Ah, but the more daring of my classmates would conceal ourselves and whisper over the way these boys filled out their tight white uniforms.
Although this sentence reads a little awkward to me, I still smiled, recalling when my sister and I sat on my bed discussing boys... and, yeah, speculating. For a flashback exposition, this was pretty well done.

With the right buildup, it might have worked better for me, but the action moves a little faster than I'd like: I rolled, slid from under him, and fell down to the floor on my back. He tumbled down with me. Before he could regain his grip and pull me to him, I squirmed from under him, sprang up, opened the door, and ran to toilet at the end of the car.
One moment she's under him and the next she's in the toilet. I know it wasn't that fast! If I was in her place and really frightened, I'd have screamed. Instead, she runs to the one truly private place in the whole train. Why? The way it's related, it seems like an arbitrary choice. If I went with her down that aisle, it might really help me understand why she makes that decision. And I really need to know why- to me this is the most important moment in the story.

The explicit scene is pretty well described. I liked your pace and level of detail. Some of the ingredients though, felt a little off. All those clothes of hers- they're off just like that. No boy has ever seen her before, right? That's an emotionally charged moment, and we missed it and all the anticipation leading up to it. More on her clothing later. After she's undressed, I think her focus may be a little too much on body parts and not enough on the whole person. I know that's kinda subtle, but it's kind of important too, at least for me. For instance: I quickly loosened my grip slightly to pulled back my hand for a new grip around the head of his cock and prevent it from reaching my pussy. Ok, I picked another awkward sentence for an example, go figure- but let me ignore the rest and just change the end of it: I quickly loosened my grip slightly to pulled back my hand for a new grip around the head of his cock and prevent him from reaching me.. That's how I would have said it, and I think she would have too. I do hope I'm making sense without seeming petty!

And this:
To be honest, I was considered to be a college queen, with vital statistics 34c-25-35, 55 kg, fair-skinned, and possessing a very cute face.
*Gag!* If he finds her attractive, that's all that matters. I'd have been more inclined to identify with her if she didn't think she was pretty. That would have made attention from a boy even more special.

Ok, this too:
Suddenly a stream of warm liquid flowed out and down my butt. I came hard.
You might leave off the 'I came hard' since it's kinda obvious. Is this her first orgasm ever? Doesn't seem like it from her reaction. She's like, "Ok, came, guess I'm done, time to clean up" instead of "Hey! What was that? Can I do it again?" Also, unless she puts her feet up, I've a hard time picturing how she is seated so that anything is going to run down her butt.

I also had a little trouble picturing her apparel. This may be because I don't know much about Indian fashion of the mid-twentieth century. It might not be such a big deal, except she made a big deal of it. To start with, how long is her skirt? I pictured it pretty long, and if so it seems her chemise would be pretty long too. Would she really be wearing a chemise, a bra, and a cami? I think that may be one too many and I'm not at all sure how he's going to get his hand under so much fabric to reach that elusive left breast. Later, all this clothing is out of the way in one easy sentence. Reading it again, I think it's her camisole that's the issue for me. Either the garment is a different one in India than it is in the west or she's wearing hers in a most unique way. I'm thinking it might be what I would call a petticoat. Also, if all proper young women wear skirts with a chemise, why does this proper young women even have a pair of jeans?

And I bet she knows exactly how many grandchildren she has.

Ok. Done nitpicking! Overall, I think it's a decent little story and I don't think you're on shaky ground writing from a female POV. You really did get most of the big things right. A little more showing and a little less telling and I think it could be quite steamy- that is the idea, yes?

Take Care,
Penny

 

[Matadore]

Ms Street, Thank you

My delightful Ms Street...

Thank you for your hard work, frank but honest comments, and balanced observations of this little experiment. You’re timely response has helped me grow as a writer.

I was thinking that my choice of title was an amusing play on A.C.’s Murder on the Orient Express and honestly didn’t think that “rape” was any worse than “murder.” I will attribute my error to my lack of experience and foresight. I obviously did not understand my audience.

Please accept my gratitude for your opening my mind and rearranging my values. I will be more sensitive to women's POV because of your kind insight. You have raised my awareness of my boorishness about an act of degradation that in some ways and in some cultures is worst than death, and that it is not unique to females and children.

Your suggestion that I rely on action and dialogue was particularly stinging to me because I have often offered that same advice to others. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.

I was trying to write from a woman’s POV for the purpose of arousing pleasurable (if conflicting) sexual feelings in my female readers. How could I have given so little attention to the attractive qualities of the object of the protagonist’s desire? Good point...TY.

Again, I need to spend more time leading up to the physical action...I forgot that most of the excitement is not the heavy thrusting with the salami in “the grotto of love” but the tantalizing, tender, and fun activities that builds respect between participants before, and then the phases of cooling down, closeness, and tenderness that can follow a love making session.

This was not meant to be a rape, but would have been better if considered as two sensual young people sharing an awkward series of moments that more because of their situation than any malice, they allowed events to get out of hand (ok...pun intended, sorry). (i.e., They were usually chaperoned and were not quite ready to assume full responsibility for their strong sexual feelings and behavior.)

I appreciated your kind words of support regarding those parts of my work that were successful throughout the story.

Also, you refer to some of your comments as being or seeming "petty." I would have to disagree on your assessment of the importance of those observations.

IMHO, if these passages disturbed your enjoyment as reader enough to push you to describe the fault and to suggest alternatives, then they are weaknesses in the art and as such need to visited again and revised or rewritten or cut or elaborated until the reader’s attention and focus is on the enjoyment of the story without overtly realizing any technical or mechanical aspects of the work.

I have learned several things on different levels from your response and I look ahead to more insights in the future. I will try to return your favor soon.

Matadore

 

[Verdad]

Hi, Matadore. I'll preface my comments by saying I'm but a lurker around here, and not an author myself. Seeing Pure's efforts to open this board to new people, I've decided to step out and contribute when I can. I have a lot of admiration for writers who agree to have their work dissected in public, so if anything I say comes out less than respectfully, please ascribe it only to my own being new at this.

You indicated in your questions that you're primarily interested in hearing about plausibility, but since you also expressed interest in improving your writing in general, I figure you won't mind if I go in more detail. I'll admit too that I found your original questions a bit difficult to answer, and maybe throughout it'll become clear why.

(So far I only read your first post, containing the story and the original set of questions. I'll check out the latest developments afterwards.)

Overall, I found your story quite promising, a nice erotic short with all the potential for being steamy. Depending on your ambitions, though, some things could be done by way of improving the execution.

I'll start at the very beginning. You open by setting the narrator and her sick father on a train, which I found interesting enough to keep reading. The setting appealed to me, as well as the heroine's voice, as well as the promise of a conflict in her father's being sick.

However, upon reading the entire story, I saw that you never came back to the father, which really makes him a mere prop on the stage. If that's all he is, it's maybe unfortunate that you gave so much importance to a guy that will bear no relevance for the story. Opening is the place where main themes/motifs are usually introduced, so you might consider starting straight away with Raj's getting on the train, and only mention the father in describing the situation in which Raj's appearance finds the heroine. That might seem like a subtle difference, but it's quite important in establishing expectations. It's, after all, a story about how Raj introduced her to her first sexual experience, and not a story about her father's sickness.

Having said that, though, I can still see how the father could be employed now that he's there. This could be more than you planned for the story, in which case ignore it, but if you feel like imbuing the story with a deeper meaning, there's a lot of space for playing with the juxtaposition of the frailty and decay embodied in the two old people (father and grandma) and the sexual imperative ruling the young ones.

Even if you don't feel like that, there are still ways in which the father could come handy. Surely his proximity adds to the girl's feelings of shame and confusion? Is it just shame and confusion, or is it fear, too, speaking of her patriarchal upbringing? At the very least, the old guy could stir at some inopportune moment, if only to remind us of the physical reality of the setting.

Still staying with the opening, I'd like to mention something in the very opening sentence that sparked a bit of suspicion. It was the "an urgent reason to travel" formulation. An unspecified reason kind of suggested to me that you boarded some girl on some train only so she could have some hot train sex. Even if that is basically true and you have no interest in deepening her character, I'd like to believe as a reader that I'm reading about a specific girl on a specific "journey", and the way to achieving this is in being, well, specific.

Once again depending on how much you want from the story, maybe you'll find that the reason for the journey could be tying in with the story on some level, but even if it doesn't, it could serve the credibility better to spell one out than to make the reader feel like you couldn't be bothered with details. If you don't care, who will, right?

The next thing I have to mention is the flashback of a sort in which the story slides right after the opening, stopping dead in its tracks just as it'd only begun. On a less patient day, that would have been enough to stop me from reading further.

It's not a secret I'm not a fan of the flashbacking technique, which doubtlessly colors my view, but I still wonder if it was necessary in this case? It only provided a quick characterization of the heroine as young, inexperienced, and horny, all of which could be established just as easily through her interaction with the guy, without stopping the story and testing reader's patience.

I'd personally like to see her character revealed that way, gradually and dynamically, but if you feel it's important we know these things about her in advance, there's another way around that, too. Rather than trying to "deceive" the reader that she's conveniently recapitulating her penis musings on the train, you could opt to let her start the story a bit earlier, telling us some things about herself and her 18th year before she lands us in the here-and-now of the story.

All of these are entirely your choices, of course, but I'll allow myself to harp on it a bit further because I think it's more than just a structural question. In unloading all this stuff about the heroine in the opening of the story, I fear you might be losing some of the erotic potential it could have later. What is sexier: our learning in advance that the heroine hasn't seen a penis in her life—a dry piece of information we need to store and apply to the later events—or a chance to experience the shock and the thrill along with her?

I, for one, wasn't much interested in her speculations about the nature of bulges in male trousers as idle musings, but I couldn't help but wonder how much more tension they could create if going through her mind as she steals involuntary glances at the particular guy's crotch. How much more curiosity we could feel if we could follow her thoughts/emotions/reactions first hand?

Even if not for the purposes of eroticism, you might want to consider this for the purposes of immediacy. It's immediacy, as well as a part of story's pull forward, that's really in jeopardy when characterization is separated from action.

As I read on, I found some more quibbles. The suspicion sparked by the "a reason" formulation proved true for me. I indeed found the narrative lacking in engaging detail.

The heroine pretty much remained "a girl" for me as a result. Who she is beyond young, inexperienced, and horny, I can't tell. Granted, that could be all you were aiming for, and I don't have a problem with that. It's still the details with which you endow this generic character that make for a more or less vivid read, though.

Take her physical description. I'm a kind of reader that requires little in that regard, but what there is, should help me form a picture. The numerical description you used did no such thing, and describing the guy as a sex god was only slightly better. Something concrete, no matter how little, would have done a better job.

Take their personalities. The guy is supposedly witty, and really, it's not that I don't believe you, I do, but I'd get a lot more reading pleasure out of it if I could observe it for myself. Not only his character could come alive that way, but some color, too; wit with a naughty flavor as it was in that time and place. Not only that, but the girl's character, too, through her reactions. Etc, etc.

Which is all to say that I feel there's been a lot of telling where it could have been showing. Most notably, in the way you tried to entirely do away with the dialogue between the protagonists. I can see how glazing over it could have been a deliberate choice (i.e. consistent with your trying to give the story an "as told around the campfire" feel), but even so, if you don't tighten your focus on at least a couple key moments, I'm afraid it results in reader's disengagement. With nothing but your word to go by, no way of experiencing the tension for ourselves or forming our own impressions about the characters, our involvement in the story remains lesser than it could be.

Finally, in the sex scene itself, at places I felt I could have used more insight in the girl's emotions interspersed with the action, but on the second thought, I decided, no, you did just right. Too much internal focus would slow down the action, whereas the way you went about it corresponds perfectly with the feel of the scene; fast, breathless, blurry with confusion. Too colorful graphic details, on the other hand, would also be a disservice to the scene because they'd stick out from the narrator's rather chaste voice, which you mostly kept up consistently. Your pacing was very good, too.

All in all, I really think you did well. None of the "flaws" I mentioned is fatal, but I figured I might as well give you my best (and nitpickiest) shot. I'd even venture a guess beyond the confines of the story as to the root of the complaints I listed. You mention in your notes that the story is a recount of a true event. Could it be you didn't develop the heroine's character much simply because you know her and it's obvious to you? Could it be that the same fact inhibited your imagination in regards to some other details? It's not at all uncommon for a writer to have more difficulty writing a "true story" than an entirely fictional one, and precisely from those reasons.

It's, of course, equally possible that you simply had no interest in these details. As I said in the beginning, it all depends on your ambitions and interest in the story. I can see how some digging deeper could be done or just some vividness added to what's already there, but I can also say that the piece works as it is. It has the plausibility, the eroticism, the coherency. Provided you fix some minor mechanical errors, you could be pretty much good to go.

Leaving your original questions for the end, let me reiterate that no, I found nothing unreasonable about the story or the heroine. You made no missteps I could notice in writing from the opposite gender's point of view. I have no problem understanding any of the girl's emotions. My initial reluctance to answer these questions had only to do with the fact that by going tell-y you left me little controversy to ponder in the first place.

Best of luck,

Verdad

 

[Verdad]

A note about the title

After reading Penelope's comments: addressing the title was a good point, and I'll add my opinion only because it differs. In my case, it was in fact the title that attracted me to the story. I hope I don't need to especially elaborate on my abhorrence for the reality of rape, yet the fact remains that I chose this story between the two currently offered for the discussion partly based on the title.

On one level, "rape" is, whether we like it or not, a pretty powerful buzzword. It promised some drama, just like the "Delhi" part promised some mystique. Although I haven't immediately recognized it as a play on Agatha Christie's title, she obviously had the formula right. It worked for her, and it worked quite well here, too, if by working we mean catching attention of at least one reader.

On another level, again whether we like it or not, "rape" is the word that's established itself as shorthand for non-consent stories. Since the sex in the story is of the non-consent kind, I'd say the title worked in the sense of accurately representing the content, too.

A portion of readers that would otherwise enjoy the story could still be put off by the title, granted, just like Penelope suggested, and perhaps the morality of using such buzzwords could be discussed as a matter in itself; it's just something more for the author to weigh in.

Regards,

Verdad

 

[Pure]

comments

hi matadore,

welcome to the SDC.

you've started with a fine little erotic story that really *is* a story and is pretty hot in parts. it does seem like the sort of thing that happens. it generally moves along nicely and has plausible transitions. i think the characters come across well, as does her 'female' pov, though there are oddities of language, i note below. it does not have one of my bugbears: it is generally free of 'purple prose,' overuse of modifiers.

one quibble i have is the abrupt change of language to modern slang.
you have to decide if she's using grandmotherly talk or her talk as an 18 year old. it sounds more like the latter. there's penis and vagina. also the old fashioned 'womanhood.' also it's vague. this is how young people are, because of ignorance. She talks about bulges in pants.

when it gets steamy, the lingo is modern, like a present day high school

Deftly he undid his trousers and ripped opened his fly to release his cock –(we call that part of a man Lund), slipped it under my crotch, and started to press up onto my naked pussy. How can I allow him? I wept, pleading with him to let me go. I felt the swollen head of his cock begin to move back and forth until my sopping lips opened and the head lodged at the mouth of my vaginal opening. I felt the head move back out and up, pushing against my clit, my knees went weak, threatening to buckle beneath me.

In desperation, I grabbed his slick cock to push him away. My hand slipped or he pushed his cock through my fist until I felt his pubic hair against my fingers, then I quickly loosened my grip slightly to pulled back my hand for a new grip around the head of his cock and prevent it from reaching my pussy.

Now, when I can recall that situation clearly, I realize that I was actually masturbating him. He was trying to push towards me to get into my pussy; I was trying to push him away so that I wouldn’t be penetrated by his long, thick cock. The total effect was to masturbate him, giving him a hand job.

We've got 'cock' and 'pussy,' and 'clit' and in the end 'hand job.'

Compare this with the earlier:
I felt the familiar warmth creeping in the area of the bottom of my belly. My reaction was to soothe the feeling by rocking gently and messaging the place with my hand.
This realy sounds like an 18 year old virgin (not sure of the time period, but lets say 1950s. She would be vague about clit and the operations of a 'pussy.'

Probably she doesn't know she's masturbating him and that that might satisfy him. You hint at that. My suggestion is that I'd have stayed more in her head. "I had his manhood in my hand, trying to keep it from penetrating me. He pushed against my hand, and somehow I released by grip slightly; perhaps i sensed he'd be happy to rub himself into my hand. I didn't know what would happen, so i was suprised when he moaned and lots of sticky fluid coated by belly. Then his body relaxed, though i was still excited and tense." If you want the grandmotherly view, then add, "In fact i'd masturbated him and given him some satisfaction without consciously intending it. Now i'm glad that i did."

One other odd line is
He took my silence as positive acquiescence That sounds like her lawyer talking "Her silence cannot be equated with positive acquienscence." I'd have said, "he apparently took my silence to be permission to go ahead, and certainly i wanted to.


--
Incidentally, this type of story in an Indian setting was done excellently by Ginu Kamani, who i think is a woman.
"Fish, Curry, Rice" in "Best American Erotica 2000" ed. Bright. So if you want woman's point of view and very fine writing, have a look.

--

As to 'rape'; well it's pretty close, since there was no consent; yet she did not apparently regret it, after. So it's a gray area; technically prosecutable, but with the 'victim' NOT inclined at all to do so. she didn't really mind the mild force, nor the outcome, which at least kept her virginity (a real gentleman, he).

IF i kept the word rape in the title, i'd be inclined to say early on. "This happened a long time ago and i suppose some would call it rape; sometimes i think it was, but I don't know if i blame him. Here's the story, you decide."

A fine story, well told! All quibbles minor, and easily fixed.

 

[Matadore]

Responses to Pure and Verdad

Verdad,

I appreciate your response for two reasons. Primarily that you were motivated by my story to assume the initiative to make your first comment and take your involvement in Lit to a more active level, and secondly, your comment reflects considered thought, and a knowledge of communication. The fact that each of your well reasoned points was couched with a gentle tact that indicated your enjoyment of the work without gushing, but also made your pinpointing of specific problems much more palatable. An often-underrated addition to the criticism was your ability to suggest solutions.

In answer to your second posted response regarding the title choice, I am inclined to rejoice that you admittedly understood the rationale behind the wording that I used to draw in the reader’s interest. Still, I underestimated the power of the concept and the difference in emotional meaning that the act of coerced sexual violation produces in women as opposed to men. (Perhaps that is a worthy topic for a thread-poll of its own?) This is one of the POV questions that I couldn’t quite articulate in my preamble paragraph requested information.

I suppose that near or at the root of the differences is that male-rape happens rarely enough that most heterosexual men have never had to face the threat directly, and first hand information (threats) cannot be compared to or understood in the same way as the identical danger vicariously. At least now I’m aware of the possible differences in conceptualization between males and females on this issue.

Your observations including examples about my handling of the father and his role in the story plotline are on the mark and were insightful to me. Thanks.

Your references to my lack of adequate character development are also well taken. TY again

At no time in my reading of your entry did I think of your critique as being “nip-picking” in anyway. As I have come to expect from this thread, your comments are supportive, insightful, tough, clear, and original.

Improvement of my execution of the craft of writing is my primary motive for my involvement with the site, so thank you for your valuable input. I hope that it isn’t your last.

Matadore
*******************

Pure,

Hearing constructive criticism from experienced writers has been a great benefit to me.

Thanks for your reference to G. Kamami’s work. I have scant experience with India and the literature from that highly diverse sub-continent. Never having traveled there also puts me at a disadvantage. I tried to touch on only what I was sure of and consulted native-born in an effort to gain a feel, lazily without doing sufficient research to adequately establish a sense of place.

Your examples have been most helpful. I am more confident of the expected out come of raped women in other cultures; however, some of these to be expected consequenses are shunning, excommunication, stoning, and suicide, depending on the culture.

I am sure that traditionally in many areas of India, death or involuntary seclusion in communal residences apart from family was standard because the expectation of virginity for a new bride was so important, even for widows.

The distraction of the change of language was intentional, but I was trying to in a subtle way, increase the discomfort level of the reader and the loss of poise with the accompanying regression to a baser level in the girl. It was a sort of sympathetic stress reaction in the reader...but the technique needs more work if it is so “put offing” to actually pull the reader’s attention away from the action. Maybe it won’t work at all, but I haven’t discarded the notion, yet.

Thank you for your contributing to my “education” by your suggestions and the time it took to offer them. I learn from each story that is published and critiqued, but the experience is much more intense when the work examined is one’s own!

Thanks for your work on acting as moderator for this thread.

Matadore

 

[Pure]

a quick note.
those are interesting points on the outcome of rape in various cultures.

what might be worth noting, however, and incorporating into the story, is that actual rape is not required for the penalties; virgins have been 'offed.' BEING with a man unsupervised is enough. (IOW opportunity for sex = sex --true for many men, but much fewer women)

in the present case, the actual diff between jerking him off and fucking him might well have been trivial from, say, her dad's POV. In short, if her subsequent life was peaceful, she must have kept it a dark secret (not just a paper stashed at the back of a drawer.).

 

[Penelope Street]

when it gets steamy, the lingo is modern, like a present day high school

I confess I didn't even notice this, but now that I have a look back, I think it would be better to maintain the earlier voice.

what might be worth noting, however, and incorporating into the story, is that actual rape is not required for the penalties; virgins have been 'offed.' BEING with a man unsupervised is enough. (IOW opportunity for sex = sex --true for many men, but much fewer women)

in the present case, the actual diff between jerking him off and fucking him might well have been trivial from, say, her dad's POV. In short, if her subsequent life was peaceful, she must have kept it a dark secret (not just a paper stashed at the back of a drawer.).

So true. And so sad.

If you decide to keep the title, I really love the idea of opening with something like this:

IF i kept the word rape in the title, i'd be inclined to say early on. "This happened a long time ago and i suppose some would call it rape; sometimes i think it was, but I don't know if i blame him. Here's the story, you decide."

I'm afraid I'm a bit lost here:

I am sure that traditionally in many areas of India, death or involuntary seclusion in communal residences apart from family was standard because the expectation of virginity for a new bride was so important, even for widows.

How can anyone expect a widow to be a virgin?
Regardless, these cultural expectations are such an easy way to inject tension, but it's a double-edged sword- the more the possible consequences for Pritti are emphasized, the more of a villain Raj becomes. He would come across as less of a predator if you could work in that he's never been with a girl either- although I'm not going to believe it just because he says so.

However, upon reading the entire story, I saw that you never came back to the father, which really makes him a mere prop on the stage. If that's all he is, it's maybe unfortunate that you gave so much importance to a guy that will bear no relevance for the story. Opening is the place where main themes/motifs are usually introduced, so you might consider starting straight away with Raj's getting on the train, and only mention the father in describing the situation in which Raj's appearance finds the heroine. That might seem like a subtle difference, but it's quite important in establishing expectations. It's, after all, a story about how Raj introduced her to her first sexual experience, and not a story about her father's sickness.

Having said that, though, I can still see how the father could be employed now that he's there. This could be more than you planned for the story, in which case ignore it, but if you feel like imbuing the story with a deeper meaning, there's a lot of space for playing with the juxtaposition of the frailty and decay embodied in the two old people (father and grandma) and the sexual imperative ruling the young ones.

Wow! Great observation and idea.


I know all three thusfar have said so, but I wouldn't want it to be forgotten amid all the discussion of quibbles, culture, and terminology- this really is a good little story, with believable plot and characters and lots of potential.

 

[dr_mabeuse]

First thing I would say is that I was put off by the title. Rape is an ugly word here, loaded with strong connotations of violence and sadism, and by the standard US understanding of the word, what happens to her on the train is hardly rape at all, but what we pornsters call "non-consensual sex"—that is, sex in which one person initially resists but soon is swept ip in the act. So a lot of readers will be put off by the title, fearing the story will be about brutality and violation. Those who are drawn to the title (and there are plenty of those) will probably read it specifically in search of these things and be disappointed.

But that's a minor problem and easily fixed. "Incident on the Delhi Express" or somesuch would do just as well.

I was impressed with your narrator's tone. I take it you're Indian yourself, and so perhaps you naturally write in that British style, which to American ears sounds formal, precise, and perhaps a bit archaic and even prissy. In this case, though, it works perfectly to reveal Priti's character better than anything she might tell us herself. She comes across as educated, well-bred, and very ladylike, all of which make the idea of her being ravished by a stranger even more erotic. It reminds me of the tone of a lot of Victorian and faux-Victorian porn, in which the formality and reservation of the heroine's demeanor make her descent into sexual abandon all that more extreme and delicious.

But I'm afraid that, for me at least, after a while her formality and emotional detachment worked againt the eroticism of the story. She remains above the action and removed from it, and so the sex itself comes across as rather cold and passionless. We get a story of what happened, but not of what she really felt. Maybe this was because you were afraid of trying to write a woman's emotions without first-hand experience, but that's something we all have to do, and believe me, the sexiest stuff always happens in the head, not in the genitals. You can probably guess what she was felling, and your guesses will probably be pretty close to the truth. The sex lacks emotional involvement and conviction.

It also lacks immediacy. Her tone of detachment works while she's talking about the train, but once the action starts, I think it's vital for the heat of the story that you put us in there with them in real time and let us share her experience. It's the difference between, "And then he lifted my shirt and fondled my breasts" and "His trembling hands fumbled at my chirt, urgently pushing it over my breasts until he could take them in his strong hads and stroke them tenderly, sending unexpected thrills through my body." That's an exaggeration, but you see what I mean.

That's the other thing abut porn and portraying sexual heat: vividness. Vivid language, vivid imagery. I think of it as concrete sensual imagery—things the characters feel and taste and smell and see that the reader can share. That's what brings a scene to life. And surely a scene like this—her first sexual experience, would have left her with a host of images like that.

Anyhow, I think it's a promising story. I think you need to spice up the sex part and get a little more emotional there, but the bones are there.

One last thing— Forget about the "This is a true story" business. Readers really don’t care if a story is true or not. They just want something exciting and well-done, and most of them won't care whether it's true or not.

All the best,

---dr.M.

(Posted in haste. Forgive the typos)

 

[Verdad]

just a note

Arriving late and in haste and without reading the last critic:

Matadore, I'm glad you accepted the (dubious) luck of being my first review-ee with grace and in the spirit it was intended. I'm even more glad that my appreciation for the story hasn't been lost in my ramblings. As feeble excuse as it is, I have the unfortunate tendency to pick apart a story that sparks my interest more than I'd do with some other.

I too would like to use this opportunity to make it clear that it's a really nice little piece we're talking about. Most of my observations, while hopefully useful to Matadore as learning experiences, aren't indispensable for making it work.

Also, I too think Pure has offered some very good advice and easy to put in practice. The switch in language had escaped me at first, although I recall "hand-job" rasping my ears. It was the only one I'd noticed on the quick read, so I didn't think it worth mentioning.

On the other hand, I recall very much liking the appearance of "lund" (one learns something new every day!) and I generally wouldn't be adverse to seeing more touches of the local color, be it through word usage or other means. (I think there's a thread about the use of foreign words somewhere on this board. I'd side with the "pro" crowd, as long as it's in good measure.)

Some more attention to culturally specific ramifications of rape (or sex, for that matter) would be another way of enhancing the color, as well as tension and credibility, so I have to express my agreement with what everyone else has said about that, too.

Matadore, thanks again for the kind words, and my compliments for your grace in receiving criticism. Penelope and everyone, cordial thanks for making me feel a part of very interesting discussions.

Regards,

Verdad

 

[Verdad]

On the subject of rape

After reading Dr's comments and with some reluctance:

Defining rape isn't of real relevance for the story, so I have some trepidation that maybe I'm derailing the thread with this. This has no real implications for the story. The story just portrays the event, it doesn't need to define it or provide judgment—that's up to a reader. It has no real implication for the choice of title, either, because that's ultimately an aesthetic question and a marketing question.

(A propos marketing, I feel a need to add that I wasn't attracted to the story in hopes of a violent rape, but of pretty much exactly what is in there. Maybe that was naivety on my part, maybe a part of general confusion in the rape/non-consent area.)

All that aside, had I been that girl, I think I'd have felt raped, today as well as fifty years ago, in Delhi or on a deep space station.

The eroticism still works, because the girl enjoys it. It works that way in our fantasies of control, (which is what non-consent stories are mostly about), and some parts of it can work in reality, too—which is what makes the whole issue complex.

For instance, I don't have one bit of difficulty believing the girl was aroused and that she did get off. Neither have I trouble believing that as a crone she thinks of it as a fond memory. What's beyond the confines of the story and what we don't know for sure, is whether she regretted the experience, suffered emotional trauma, etc. These would indeed make it a rape, and not only on the technical level marked by the lack of formal consent.

I'll repeat once again that it has no real relevance for the story, but I somehow couldn't let it go on rape, in reality, being necessarily too dissimilar to what happens in the story.

Regards,

Verdad

 

[Penelope Street]

So a lot of readers will be put off by the title, fearing the story will be about brutality and violation. Those who are drawn to the title (and there are plenty of those) will probably read it specifically in search of these things and be disappointed.

I was expecting a violent story when I read the title and it was a pleasant surprise to me that it really isn't mean spirited. I guess I didn't think about those who would read the story seeking brutality, but that's another good point.

On the other hand, I recall very much liking the appearance of "lund"...

I liked that too. If she called his penis a lund throughout, I think it would be a nice touch.

Is it just me or would a simple handjob be pretty sexy here? Never having seen a lund, I think she'd be thrilled to just hold him. Can't you imagine her smiling while she squeezes him and feels him changing in response? I don't think it would be anywhere near as traumatic as having him trying to enter her. Plus, he would be so much more sympathetic if he wasn't trying to take her virginity, and all that entails. Maybe you're looking for something a little edgier, but I think that would be a sweet scene- and realistic too.

 

[Pure]

what i want to know is where all these hot, handjobbing virgins were when i needed them?

 

[wishfulthinking]

Hi Matadore, it is the first time I have read one of your offerings.

I haven't read the other comments before posting this, so they may have already covered what I want to say (and probably a lot better, knowing penny and doc!)

So...

I found a lot of telling rather than showing.
Eg my brain was filled with the random thoughts that float through the mind of an 18-year-old virgin
> this could be interesting. what does an 18 yo virgin think of? Is it all sex (gutter, yes ) or all love and romance or something else or in between?

You use big words. I don't know if this is your style, or you want to create an old-fashioned feel for the tale. But I feel that in doing so, you helped with the 'telling' and distanced the reader from the story.
Eg. he needed assistance to make the trip = Father could no longer make the trip alone. Was this good or bad or routine? eg I was forced to leave school because mother had to look after my younger brothers and sisters etc

The conversation is very proper and straitlaced - with no hint of hidden meanings or looks that hint at improper - eg. she catches his eyes dropping to her lips or buttons or flash of her ankle etc.

I would like some more research - I couldn't see the train or the toilets [and am left wondering how they aren't cramped, or if it was loud because the toilets weren't enclosed or whatever].

You got it across very well that it was a re-telling of a memory - but I don't think success it what it is cracked up to be It is too easy to sound flat with the telling. You never let me forget as well - eg In the attempt as explained above - and it was offputting.

I really enjoyed that it was a masturbation [however unintended ] and she was left wondering what might have been. Very nice and original.

WT

 

[wishfulthinking]

Yes, rape in the title. The audience attracted to that type of title are probably the ones looking for fantasies about drunken coeds "asking for it". I mean no disrespect to these writers or readers - but you want the readers on your part of the spectrum to find you

I don't know what you could use to replace it - indiscretion perhaps?

 

[Matadore]

Hi Matadore...

I found a lot of telling rather than showing.

I really enjoyed that it was a masturbation...Very nice and original.

WT

WT,

Thank you for your critique. I find if each individual comments before reading the prior posts, those items that get repeated are important and need to be worked on first.

I am justifiably embarassed that I would be reminded to "show" the story and involve the reader in the action because I have so often made this point about other's work! Maybe because my inspitaton was first in the form of a recalled memory? That is not an excuse, but does explain a bit.

I'm glad that you took the time to respond. All your points were well taken. I'm glad that you enjoyed the story.