When Elephants Rode in Trains

By: Nicholas Hall
(© 2013 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

nhall@tickiestories.us

The pale yellow, mid-July morning sun was just beginning its assent from the east, peeking hesitantly over the horizon, filtering through the trees, casting shadows on the nearby lilac bush, already drooping from the warm, sultry, breeze-less night, as I lay propped up against pillows, damp from the moisture-laden night air and my own perspiration. Wearing scant else but my boxer shorts, covered not even with the sheet, laying in my bed shivering, not only from my current activities, but the excitement of anticipating the day's activities, not allowing my tiredness from the day before deter my determination, jade my enjoyment, or send my thoughts in any direction but pleasure, yet, I was deterred enough not to leap from my bed, bound out into the house, and seek some sort of sustenance, since it was far too early for small boys to rise and shine, even if they were awake before everyone else- besides, I wasn't done doing what I started to do, yet!

Instead, I was doing as I did many mornings, and nights before sleep for that matter, having slipped my hand down the front of my shorts and engaged my marble-sized balls and my two-inch, stiff as a nail and twitching eight-year old cocklet in my small hand. Once I discovered it served more purpose than just running water through, that instrument of delight became my best friend and companion.

Fondling it, lightly running my finger up from the base, along its short length, up to the little valley on the unadorned head, flicked the end of my finger repeatedly, producing a deliciously, delightful sensation, I succumbed to my ultimate pleasure and began stroking, pumping up and down, using a couple of fingers and my thumb, until the tickling, tingling, titillating, throbbing began, bringing me to a breathless, most satisfying and wriggling state. Although nothing spurted out, as I'd seen older boys behind the baseball diamond dugout at school produce as they played with their much bigger dickeys, I still felt quite fulfilled, for now!

Morning was my time, a time where I could be me, discovering my own pleasures without interference of others; a time to retreat into a world created by me; a place where I could take refuge whenever the need arose. It was during this time of day I could, without the vagaries of the world interrupting, take the opportunity to ponder life's adventures and unsolved mysteries; those oddities found along its path; taste those pleasures which came my way either by accident or design and; puzzle those unanswered questions which foisted themselves on me, such as why do some boys have bigger dickeys than other boys or do all boy dickeys taste the same as the neighbor boy who, at the same age, same size dick as mine, was succulent to suck on while he ministered to mine at the same time.

There wasn't much to do in our small town, in this post-World War II period, yet every now and again, a brilliant light of sunshine would break through the clouds of thought, despair, or doubt and someone, somewhere, would enlighten me, even in our small community. It seemed to exist in its own world, its own cultural island, only informed of the outside world by those who left it, returned, and regaled us with stories of adventures in other lands, of sights and sounds of foreign nations, of strange names and foods unknown to me, of dress and oddities of nature. Seldom would strangers come to our small town, unless it was hobos riding the rails or troop trains passing through on the railroad tracks just a block from our house going to or from wherever troops were supposed to go. Life was fairly consistent and confined in our little river community, with friends, neighbors, and family the major sources of all cultural activities.

There are always exceptions, it seems, to every situation, event, or happening, which defies societal rules or expectations geared to specific cultures or groups of people. These exceptions would occur two or three times per summer when either a carnival or circus came to town and my small world would grow exponentially with the sight of each new person, each wild beast, every attraction displayed, finding myself caught up in the excitement of discovery as the shows would set up on the exposition grounds across the highway, a block or so from the city park, on the huge lot just north of the brown tavern on the corner.

The circus arrived by train the day before with its many performers, oddities of nature, and exotic animals, all of which were especially intriguing to me. I spent the morning, and most of the afternoon, watching the roust-a-bouts unload the flat cars, the handlers drive the many animals to the grounds, workers and elephants erecting the large tents, and all of the activities needed to bring the circus to town. It left me exhausted, but fulfilled, shivering with excitement.

This traveling entertainment extravaganza, promulgated throughout the nation by transportation on long trains of flatbed railroad cars loaded with brightly colored and decorated wagons of equipment, and interspersed with other railroad cars from which the sounds of elephants, horses, lions, and other exotic beasts could be heard. Pullman and sleeper cars filled with performers, roust-a-bouts, and others whose tasks were to construct the arenas where the paying public would be entertained, were attached to the rear of the train, unless there were two sections (two trains), then these cars would be in that second train, apart from the equipment and animals.

It was a time, during and after the Second World War, when radios, movies, newspapers, magazines, and neighborhood gossips served as daily news sources, heralds of fashion, and entertainment and; a time when fantasy worlds came to town a few times each summer to relieve the stress, the tensions of everyday life, allowing people to escape into a world not wracked with havoc and distress. This was much more than I cared to contemplate as I cautiously laid my head to rest on railroad tracks still damp from the overnight dew not yet burned off by the just rising sun, gently pressing my ear to the steel, listening for the sounds of a faraway train the older boys said permeated down the track telegraphing the trains eminent appearance.

Placards and brightly colored posters with artistic renditions of elephants, trapeze artists, (those flyers of the big top), clowns, and sword swallowers adorned store windows and were tacked onto light poles. These tantalizing notices were placed in every possible location in order to catch the eye of passersby, intended to alert them of the impending arrival of the magnificent show, began appearing several weeks prior to the circus's arrival. The anticipation, excitement, the tension would build as the time drew nearer while each playbill was studied with intensity, seeking a glimpse, a hint, to old and young alike of the drama, the thrills awaiting each and every person who had the necessary admission fee.

The most popular person in our small town a couple of days before the arrival of the circus train was the Station Agent and a man knowledgeable concerning all things dealing with trains – especially circus trains - I hoped. The Agent, his wife, and teenage son lived across the street from the depot. Youngsters, such as I, would pester continually inquiring when the train would arrive, to which he'd give a knowing nod, but only reply "soon." His son couldn't or wouldn't offer any more assistance even after I offered to suck his dickey for him. He either had no clue as to when the train would make its appearance, he was sworn to secrecy by his father, or had idea how good having your dickey sucked felt!

Finally, sometime after sunrise and generally not later than shortly after breakfast time in our house, chugging down the tracks, whistle screaming out, shrieking its arrival, the Circus Train, puffing great billowing puffs of smoke discharged from the blazing, boiler furnace in the engine and venting clouds of hissing steam, slowed to a crawl, entered town, and stopped in front of the station. After a few minutes, the mighty engine standing idle as if catching its breath, wheezing puffs of steam, huffed and belched smoke and steam as the engineer maneuvered the great train onto the siding, placing the sleeper cars and Pullman car portions of it on the section of the siding just a block or so from our home.

After safely settling those cars in their temporary home, the great engine was just as skillfully guided again, maneuvering the many flat cars and box cars into position near a railroad crossing close to the depot where, once the cars stopped, barebacked, strong, muscular men, attached great ropes to horses, elephants, and tractors, began the methodical, but practiced, job of unloading the many brightly colored wagons perched precariously on the flat cars. With ropes attached to the front of each wagon, they'd be progressively eased forward by machine or beast, while roust-a-bouts would attach a rope to the rear of it, then frap the hemp line about a pinion on the railroad car in order to brake the forward motion of the wagon while one of their fellows, using the wagon tongue, guided it down the ramp to the ground so it could be trundled off to the exposition grounds.

As the last wagons were being unloaded from the train, the animals, those caged and not caged, were driven, ridden, or hauled to the exposition grounds. I, not wanting to be left behind, traipsed along while keeping a respectful distance from such wild sounding beasts parading down the street. Most fascinating to me were the mighty elephants with their handlers either walking by their sides or mounted on the neck of those leviathans with their human legs tucked behind the large, flopping ears of the humungous grey beasts. These magnificent pachyderms seemed to be controlled by no more than a shouted direction from their handlers as they guided their animals with short, stout poles, a steel hook attached to the end, prodding the giant forward, encouraging it to grasp the tail of the one in front of it with its flexible trunk, keeping all in an orderly procession as they shuffled their way to the Circus grounds.

Arriving at the exposition grounds, observing what appeared to be organized chaos as wagons were placed in such an order as to make their contents available to the workers, performers, and others, I witnessed a ballet of activity, a smooth performance of people and animals, choreographed to the rhythmic hammering of metal against metal as the great canvas tent under which the performances would be held began to take shape. Huge swaths of material were laid out on the ground where roust-a-bouts laced them together in a quilt-like garment of gargantuan proportions while about the perimeter of this blanket of canvas, half-naked young men, jeans riding low on their hips, the upper cracks of their asses visible as they bent over, black, brown, white, all with torsos muscled, biceps bulging, and brows exuding fountains of sweat, wielded large, heavy, metal sledgehammers, drove iron anchoring posts into the ground where guy ropes attached to the poles holding up the side walls of the canvas theatre would securely anchor the big top once raised to its illustrious, dizzying height.

During these tasks, others workers placed the large center poles into position, made ready the canvas of the big top so it could ascend to its zenith, when the elephants, harnessed with strong ropes and chains to the poles and canvas comprising the Big Top, could do their herculean job of slow, magnificent, powerful movement forward, leaning against those stout, canvas straps, transforming a quilt-like hodge-podge of material into the hippodrome of joy and pleasure for visitors. The strength, the size, of these magnificent beasts easily hoisting the heavy, flapping canvas, mesmerized me!

From the tip of each large post which held the Big Top erect, a triangular flag fluttered, announcing to one and all, the circus was open for business. Of course, it wasn't, since there were still rows upon rows of bleachers to assemble in order to provide the audience a place to sit while viewing the show in the three concentric rings where the actual performances would take place. The center ring, the most prominent circle of wooden blocks assembled under the Big Top, was where the premier or star acts, including the lion tamer and those wonderful high flyers, the trapeze artists, would perform.

While the Big Top was being raised, other smaller, but no less important canvas structures were set in place and prepared for occupancy. The menagerie, where all the animals were housed for viewing by a paying audience and later used for performances in one of the three rings of the big canvas emporium, would be raised in order to provide shelter to the many beasts. The cook tent, where circus performers and workers dined; the performers' tent, a private place for them to prepare and costume up for the upcoming shows and; the sideshow tent where the wonders of humankind would tantalize, perplex, and amaze a paying audience, would follow.

Finally, hearing others stirring about the house, slipping away from my reverie of the day before, I quickly slipped off my underwear, slid on a pair of shorts, sans underwear, donned a t-shirt, and headed to the kitchen for breakfast. Somehow, I don't really know how, I made it through the morning and ate my lunch without getting a swat on the butt, then, after lunch, being admonished to wear shoes so I "wouldn't step in something," I journeyed out to the circus.

The day was warm, quite stifling in fact, the Midwest in the summer can be not only hot, but muggy, with moisture-laden air fueled by the mighty river bordering town, bringing sweat to the brow and the entire body. Aided by gravity, those ripples of moisture would slide down my body, settling in my shorts waist band, soaking it, until flowing further onto my dickey and balls and down the crack of my ass, soaking my little dime-sized pucker. Baseball cap secured to my head, I wandered about the midway, embracing the sights and sounds, allowing the smells to waft through my nostrils, willing my small legs take me where they chose. It happens, those modicums of propulsion, chose to lead me to the menagerie tent where, beautiful white horses, tethered on a rope line, grazed on piles of hay and handfuls of grain tossed in front of them; huge, ferocious lions and tigers, pacing, panting from the heat, roaring loud, complaining, growling warnings from their cages built into sturdy wagons, cautioning little boys not to venture closer, yet daring one to do so, and; elephants, gargantuan, grey, massive, majestic beasts, the tractors of the circus, performers of endless feats while controlled by their driver or handler, each pachyderm secured from escape by a huge chain clenched about one front ankle and anchored in the ground by a strong metal stake.

Standing there, in the heat of the tent, at a respectable distance, awestruck by the height, the girth, the very strength of the behemoths, these leviathans of nature gently swaying to and fro, suffering from what I should suppose was either the heat or boredom, I felt a hand gently grip my right shoulder, not painfully but firmly, reassuringly. Turning, looking up, I discovered the owner of the hand, a much older lad than I, younger than my father, but still my senior, at least fifteen or sixteen years of age.

A tanned, bare-chested, lithe stripling, faded blue jeans barely held up by almost non-existent hips, settled just above where I thought his dickey ought to be, stood closely behind me. Not skinny, muscled, but not overly so, dark haired, a gold hoop earring adorning his left ear, and a smile brightened by white, white, perfect teeth looked at me in a knowing, but protective way, he was most handsome in my young eyes. Speaking with a bit of accent, giving me every indication he was from some far-away land like New Jersey or Louisiana, he proceeded to tell me the particular elephants name I was looking at, how he helped his father take care of all of them, then revealed he was the lad dressed as a mahout, riding the back of the elephant during the pageantry parade under the big top for each performance. How exciting, I thought, to be in the presence of such greatness and such beauty.

Returning my gaze to the elephant in front of me, my new friend explained this particular beast was a bit "tossed" at the moment due to something called "must" or "musk". Well, I didn't understand what he meant until, moving me a bit, pointing under the beast toward its rear legs, I then nodded, in quite a mature fashion I thought, my understanding what he meant as I compared mentally what I saw displayed there with what I was personally most familiar with. Hanging pendulously just forward of the beasts rear legs, mottled grey and pink, was the biggest dickey I'd ever seen on any creature, man or beast. No doubt about it, according the young man, "the brute was a randy bastard," as the elephant's male part wobbled back and forth.

As the young man leaned over my back, bringing his face and lips close to my face and ear, settling his crotch up against my pert, little butt, it was obvious the elephant wasn't the only "randy bastard" in the tent. My new friends stiffness, even though enclosed in his jeans, pressed into my shorts, settled in my butt crack, and brought me to an equally, hard state. He whispered in my ear, "You're so fucking cute, Sweet Boy," and slid his hand down the front of my shorts, encountering, stroking, and fondling my hot tumescence, "and so damned sexy, with such a hard, hot, nice cock." Now, that's a word I didn't use, but would from now on, except at home.

I nearly passed out from ecstasy, but didn't because I wanted to feel with my hand what was wandering around my back door. Reaching behind me, stopped by the blue jeans from seeking my pleasure, the lad moved my hand, unzipped his jeans, and allowed me to maneuver his growing appendage, his `cock' as he referred to it, out into the open air. Warm, soft but hard, velvety smooth, head barely covered with skin I didn't have, and much, much larger, at least five inches in length, and thicker than the stub I possessed, his cock became my personal plaything, as I stroked it in rhythm of his ministrations to me.

He leaned over me even more, saying sensuously, softly, but invitingly, "I want to fuck you so bad Sweet Boy; is that o.k?" Well, that's another word I didn't use, but would from now on, and I knew very well what it meant and I felt my little bung-hole tighten, relax, and tighten again wondering how he would ever get such a wonderful piece of him in there.

I heard the metal button on his jeans pop open and felt his pants slide to the ground as he dropped my shorts to my knees, exposing my little butt to the open air as his probing, stiffness, sought a place to settle itself. My perspiration, settled in my butt crack, made his first, slow, gently entry into my ass, relatively easy, but not painless. After all, the biggest thing I ever had in there was a turd and that was on the way out, not on the way in. Grimacing a bit from the intrusion, I pushed back, realizing I was about to find out how he was going to do what he wanted to do.

He hesitated, waiting for me to become accustomed and adjust to his twitching cock, now located just inside my little, stretched bung, before slowly pushing forward, until I could feel the hairs surrounding his staff, brushing my butt. I sighed, feeling much better and so much more aroused, as his length seemed to penetrate clear up to my outie bellybutton. Pushed in to the depth, pulled back almost out and back in again, he began the dance of love in my bowels, rocking slowly, gently, slipping and sliding his grand fuck tool in me. Each forward and back motion, as I pushed back to impale him even deeper, nicked a special spot inside me, sending tingling sensations to the tip of my cock and down into my little nuggies.

Faster and faster, but determinedly, lovingly, he fucked me until, with one final push, I felt his rod swell and pulse, not once, but five, six, seven times, as he seemed to reach the height of his pleasure, pumping a warm, somewhat filling, wetness into me. Arms around me, clutching me tight, breathing heavily, gasping for each new breath, resting on my back as his hardness, wiggling and throbbing, remained inside me, he kissed my neck and licked my ear, whispering, "Now my Sweet Boy, I have spermmed you and fucked you proper."

I was about to say, "do it again," when he withdrew suddenly, spun me around, kneeled in front of me, inhaled my little cock in his mouth, and began sucking me. Using his talented tongue, he lapped around the bouncing head, then down the root, and back up until he engulfed the length deep into his mouth, drawing my very soul into his throat. I was wiggling and jiggling with excitement as I got that "feeling" when I jacked off or the neighbor boy sucked me, although the neighbor boy couldn't hold a candle to this far more experienced new friend.

After giving my cock-head a kiss, he stood, pulled up my shorts and his own pants, and said "You really cum hard, dry, but hard, don't you?"

Another new word; defined quite adequately by the lad and evidenced by his contribution to my body, the remnants leaking out my asshole until he wiped me clean with a cloth.

During that warm, mid-summer afternoon, we continued viewing the animals in the menagerie tent, including magnificent lions and tigers, many horses, camels, and other creatures housed there. Then, when I assumed I'd seen all things marvelous and wonderful, he and I attended a sideshow. Costing us not one farthing to attend, since he was part of the circus retune, under his tutelage I became acquainted with strange, but delightful people!

The sword swallower, standing on the stage, waving his sharp, long, blades of steel, upon the command of the barker, inserted one of those deadly, lengthy knives into his mouth, relaxed his throat, swallowed, allowing the length of it to penetrate deeply into his gullet, until only the hilt of the sword was visible, then withdrew it and slid the next one down in a similar manner. After each withdrawal, he flexed the blade, offering proof to the skeptics in the audience of the absence of chicanery, that the deadly devices were indeed whole and complete. During the show, held inside, he swallowed and withdrew all sorts of articles, then to my utter and complete amazement, slid some sort of long electrical light down his throat and with a click of a switch, it lighted, giving his chest and stomach an eerie glow.

The fire eater, equally as fascinating, popped flaming brands in and out of his mouth, then extinguished them without apparent harm to himself. The most amazing feat was his "fountain of fire", created with a gust of expelled air, mixed with some sort of flammable liquid held in his mouth, and lighted with one of the flaming torches held in his hand. The roar of fire, the heat, the light from the flames shooting from his mouth was frightening, yet thrilling, exhilarating, a dynamic sight for one as young as me to see!

There were so many performers to see, as I stood witness to their specialties, enjoying their talents; the poor "fat lady", suffering in the summer heat, sweltering in the hot tent; the snake charmer lady allowing a huge python to wrap, twist, slither itself about her scantily clad torso, and while poking it's head between her legs tucked up tight to where her cock would be if she were a boy, flicked its forked tongue in every direction, as if seeking a small boy for a meal; the tall man, the very short, little people, the knife thrower and his young assistant, and my favorite; the turbaned, elderly gentleman, bronzed, wizened, clad only in a pouch-like piece of cloth not entirely covering his private parts and allowing one wrinkled, brown ball to expose itself, was held in place by a string about his waist and another running between his legs, up the crack of his butt, and secured with a band crossing his back at the waist.

Stretched out flat on his back, reclining on a bed of sharp spikes, a concrete block positioned on his chest, awaiting a smashing blow from a very muscular man wielding a large sledge hammer, the old gentleman opened his eyes, just momentarily, just long enough to wink at me. My friend leaned forward, bringing his head close to mine, placing his hand down the back of my shorts and slipping a finger up my cum-lubricated chute and twitched it a couple of times before withdrawing, very softly whispered in my ear, informing me the man on the spike bed was his grandfather and he had a really, really big cock! When the smashing blow came, descending on the concrete block and the grandfather beneath it with such great force it sent chips and shards of concrete from the shattering block flying into the air, bits and chunks falling from his chest, it startled me, causing me to wince in shared pain, but strong arms held me steady, reassuring me no harm had come to his grandfather.

Later I discovered he could other amazing feats such as insert large, silver nails through his cheeks, poke slender, long needles through his arms, his chest, and the fleshy parts of his stomach, all with no apparent injury or pain to him. What amazed me most about him and the rest of the performers in the sideshow, when I had the opportunity to meet them after their performances, was they were someone's mother, father, grandfather, son, or daughter just like the rest of us, only doing something they really enjoyed and were expert at it in order to provide for themselves, their families. These fountains of human talents didn't belong to a lower social order as I had previously been led to believe, but only different in what they did and how they lived.

I enjoyed my new friends' company the remainder of that afternoon until he had to perform, escorting me about the back lot, his arm casually about my shoulder, holding me close to his bare side when we approached something he perceived as harmful to me, finally introducing me to various performers and workers, educating me on their vagabond lives. He led me to his curtained section of the dressing tent, motioned me forward, placed a blanket on the ground, bade me lay down on my back, and undressed me, except for my tennis shoes.

Stripping himself to his sleek, brown nude self, his cock poking north toward his belly button, he raised my legs to his shoulders, hawked a gob of spit on his dick, leaned forward, and began that exciting journey into me again. Once fully seated, pumping in and out, he kissed my neck, my face, my lips, announcing, to my delight, "You're such a good fuck, Sweet Boy, and delicious to feast on. I just had to have one last go before my Matinee performance," and with a moan and a satisfying groan began unloading another voluminous amount of his "cum" into me.

He withdrew, wiped the leaking, white, sticky viscous liquid from my bung, stood, pulled me up by my arms and dressed me. Watching him put on his costume, beguiled by his hooded cock, until he let me touch it in its soft state, he explained he wasn't circumcised like me so that's why there was extra skin on his. I loved it! I asked if we could do this again the next day, but he replied sadly, "The show tonight is the last show and we'll be gone in the morning."

During the pageantry parade at the beginning of the matinée performance under the Big Top, he entered the great tent astride his elephants back, riding his mount regally while dressed in splendor with turbaned head, jeweled vest exposing his bare, brown chest, pantaloons covered legs gripping the elephants thick neck, smiling to the crowds, looking directly at me, giving a soft wave of his hand, a wink, and a blown kiss, then signaling the elephant to lift its trunk in greeting to me The rest of the show that afternoon was splendid, but paled to the attention given to me by my new friend.

The next morning, the train was gone from the siding and so was my new friend, but my oh my did he ever opening a whole new world for me to explore and experience, all of which I intended to introduce to the neighbor boy across the street, as soon as I finished breakfast!

***

The End.