I was taking the night train from Paris to Perpignan. There were no sleeping compartments left, and, as the train pulled out of the station at 7 p.m., I was resigned to spending the night dozing upright in my seat.
That was annoying enough, but what irritated me more was that I had eaten an unpleasant hamburger on the way to the station.
I watched enviously as passengers made their way to the restaurant car. I should have been more patient, because eating on a train is a wonderful way of passing the time. A couple of attractive women caught my eye as they came down the aisle. Leading was a short blonde-haired woman, in her early thirties. She had large eyes, a voluptuous figure and a sexy, dissipated face. She was followed by an older woman, perhaps in her early forties, pale skinned, lean, dark haired, her face sensitive, slightly equine. From the snatch of conversation I overheard as they passed me, I guessed that they had just met, sharing a couchette, perhaps. “Bon appetit” I muttered to myself, enviously.
An hour later, the effects of the MSG that had been the main ingredient of my hamburger had given me a raging thirst, and I made my way to way to the buffet carriage. I sat on one of the high stools and poured the first Perrier down my throat. While sipping the second in a more decorous fashion, I noticed the two women returning from the restaurant. They were closer together than they had been when I had seen them before, their acquaintanceship obviously having been deepened by some over-dinner conversation; that, and the wine that they had no doubt enjoyed with their meal.
That they had been drinking was clear, since their slightly unsteady steps were more than could have been explained by the slight swaying of the TGV. As they approached, the dark-haired woman stumbled and might have fallen, but for the arm that she put out and with long, musician’s fingers clutched at her companion’s arm. The blonde steadied her, and whispered in her ear. The dark-haired woman nodded vigorously, and, releasing her hold, made her way past me down the carriage.
The blonde brushed past me and stopped. She slid up onto the stool next to mine, and said,
This I did not take as a come-on. Unlike in Britain, strangers in France are courteous to each other, and I just mumbled a “Bonsoir” in reply. Though my French is good, my accent is not, and the blonde asked,
“You are English?”
I replied that I was, but I spoke French, and, indeed, in France at least, preferred to do so. The blonde replied that this was fortunate, because her English was rusty.
She went on,
“My friend is an excellent linguist, though. She has to be. She is a cellist, and travels all over the world. We are sharing a couchette, and we have been learning about each other over dinner. Can I buy you a coffee?”
The question came as a surprise. There was an intensity in the way that she asked it that had an erotic quality, quite out keeping with the banality of the words, though even the invitation seemed somewhat unusual.
Before I could reply, she had ordered a coffee, and a cognac. As the barman fetched the drinks – and real coffee, not the powder and warm water combination that British railway catering thinks its customers deserve – I explained that did not have a couchette, and coffee would keep me awake.
The blonde said,
“But that is good, we will need you awake tonight.”
My surprised expression made her laugh.
“Let me explain. I said that we had spent dinner exchanging stories. My friend told me about her life as a musician, about her travels around the world. I told her about my adventures. For me, train travel is the sexiest thing imaginable, and when I travel, I always have exciting exploits. At the end of the meal I suggested that we return to our compartment, but my friend hesitated – she said that my stories had excited her, so I asked her if she wanted someone to share the compartment with us. This suggestion aroused her so much that she could barely stand. We had noticed you on our way to dinner, and I asked her if she would like you. I sent her back to our compartment, and joined you here. So drink your coffee, and let us pay her a little visit.”
I did as I was told, and watched as she swallowed her cognac in one gulp. She slid off the stool and I followed her down the train to the couchette. She slid the door open, and entered behind me, closing and locking the door behind her.
The two beds in the compartment were made up and the musician was half sitting, half lying on one with pillows propping her up. She hardly seemed to notice us entering, and the blonde slid across the bed to sit next to her. She waved at the opposite bed, a wordless invitation to sit down, which I did.
The blonde draped her arm across the musician’s thigh, her fingers casually caught in the hem of the musician’s skirt, which ended an inch above her knee.
“I was saying, over dinner to my friend”, the blonde was addressing me, but her gaze was fixed on the musician’s face, which seemed to be filming over with a gloss of perspiration, “that trains are the most exciting places in the world. Sex in a train is like no other. The rhythm, the intimacy of this small space, the speed, even the smell, is redolent of lust and sex.”
She continued to talk about the way that train travel excited her. As she spoke, I watched in fascination as her hand travelled up the musician’s leg, carrying with it, as if by accident, the hem of the skirt. Stocking tops came into view, then a bare stretch of marble thigh and finally black lace knickers.
The musician was immobile at first, but I noticed that her chest was rising and falling more quickly. Her lips parted, and I could see a rosy flush rise up her elegant neck. She reached a hand to the top of her plain white blouse, and, as though it was a huge effort, unfastened the top button.
The blonde had by now exposed the whole triangle of the musician’s knickers, and the dense black pubic hairs that curled out from the edges made a stark contrast with her milky skin.
Looking at me quizzically, the blonde asked rhetorically,
“I wonder if she is ready?”
and, with her index finger extended, slid her hand down the inside of the musician’s knickers. Although the material was opaque, I could see that the questing finger was making its way unerringly to the musician’s sex.
“Yes, she is ready. Very ready.”
In one fluid movement, as though this was a rehearsed act, she slid the musician’s feet to the floor, turned the woman over and raised her bottom. Although seeming passive, the musician was co-operating; she knew what was going to happen and she was participating.
Now the musician had her feet on the floor, her head and upper torso on the bed and her bottom in the air. Her dress had fallen to conceal her legs modestly. Not for long, though. With a sweep of her hand, the blonde threw the full skirt over the musician’s back, and with another sweep had the black knickers lying in a puddle on the floor. The musician was exposed. I was staring at this incredible sight. I was transfixed. It had happened so quickly, it was so graceful and so – choreographed, that was the only word for it. It was like a ballet, a dance of sex performed for an audience of one.
In a way, I literally could not believe this; it was like a dream, the kind in which one wakes just before anything really happens. The musician’s bottom was white, a perfect contrast to the darkly-pigmented skin of her anus, below which a pair of swollen vaginal lips were parted invitingly. As I watched, a drop of fluid fell from her vagina.
It seemed as though we were holding our poses, the exhibitor, the exhibited and me, the spectator, for an eternity.
However, it could have only been seconds before the blonde spoke again,
“Very, very ready. I have not seen anything like this before. To work, monsieur”.
She leaned across the carriage and palmed my raging erection. I stood, as she did, and waited passively as she unbuttoned my jeans, and pushed them and my pants down to my knees. My liberated penis stood erect, throbbing with desire. The blonde daintily encircled it with forefinger and thumb and tugged it, with delicacy and determination, so that I took a step forwards. With precision, the blonde guided me unerringly till the head of my penis was resting between the outer lips of the musician’s vagina. The pungent aroma of her arousal wafted to my nostrils, causing me to gasp with lust. I wanted to bury myself in this secret haven, to immerse myself in the turgid folds of hidden flesh.
Out of my sight now, the blonde had moved behind me, and placing her hands on my back, pushed firmly, so that my engorged penis slid inexorably its full length into the musician’s vagina, like a train entering a tunnel. The sensation was indescribable. It seemed mere seconds ago that I had been sitting alone on my bar stool, the prospect of a long and uncomfortable night stretching before me. Now I was embedded to the hilt in the hot wet darkness of the vagina of a strange woman. I did not even know her name, but she had welcomed me into her like a long-lost lover. I wanted to move, to begin the thrusting that would bring my release, but the pressure on my back suggested that the blonde was still orchestrating this dance of sex, and that she had other ideas.
“Wait, monsieur!” she commanded sharply.
I waited. The musician, who until now had been completely silent, started to make a vocal contribution. A little sigh. Then a moan.
“It’s so good, so very good.”
Then her words became incoherent and she started crying out. Together with these sounds came movement – but not mine, I was still being gently restrained, impaling the hot turgid petals in front of me. No, the movement came from the blonde woman behind me. Her left hand maintained its gentle, controlling pressure on me, sliding down so that her palm was flat on my buttocks, bridging the cleft between them. Her right hand snaked around to the front of the musician.
I could see little other than the swan-like neck of my lover, but I could sense that the blonde was dancing her fingers in the groin of her friend. She responded by making a keening sound, eerie, but devastatingly erotic. The blonde was moving her hand more vigorously, because I now could feel something. A tiny but rhythmic stimulation started at the base of my penis; though as gentle as a butterfly alighting on a flower, it was rocking my world. I desperately wanted to plunge and plunge into the warmth and wetness that was sucking me in, but the restraining hand seemed to warm me that me time was not now.
I sensed that the blonde knew what she was doing, and I trusted her. Though every fibre in my body wanted to thrust, I forced myself to hold back. I knew that the blonde was stimulating her friend harder, because I could feel her arm moving across my hip. The musician was making loud music now, sometimes moaning obscenities, sometimes squealing. Then I could feel the walls of her vagina twitch around my penis, alternately clutching and releasing it with powerful contractions. She was howling now, incoherently releasing her passion.
The blonde was encouraging her, “Yes, come for me, let yourself go, that’s good, it’s good having a big cock in your fanny, squeeze his cock with your fanny.”
Even though I had barely moved my penis, the contractions, the rank sweet smell of sex and the whole situation threatened to make me explode into my own orgasm – I wanted to pour out myself into the dark stranger in front of me. However, the blonde sensed this; her right hand slid down from my buttocks and grabbed my testicles. She gripped them with enough force to cause bring my impending orgasm to stop in its tracks. I cried out, not with pain as much as in surprise. This was enough tip the musician over the edge – I could feel her whole body tense, and she cried out,
“Oh my God, I am coming, I am coming, oh my God, it is too much.”
A warm wetness flooded over my groin, as she ejaculated her orgasm.
For what felt like an hour, but could only have been a second, we held our positions, locked into the sexiest tableau imaginable. Then the musician collapsed face down onto the bed. She lay there, shoulders heaving. I stared with fascination at her dark engorged labia, much larger than any I had ever seen before. Then, my eyes panned down to my penis, glistening with the vaginal juices that coated it, and had made a small puddle on the floor.
The blonde broke the spell.
“That was most satisfactory, monsieur. You are most patient. Not all men would have restrained themselves.”
I smirked inwardly, but of course, it was not my patience, but the blonde’s control that had been responsible for my restraint.
The blonde released my testicles and sat on the bed opposite the musician, who was still face down, her swollen genitals exposed, her heaving subsiding. The blonde patted the bed and motioned me to join her; which I did. For several minutes we sat side by side, contemplating the satiated musician in front of us. My penis detumesced, and I started to feel self conscious. I reached for my waistband and started to try and pull my clothes into a more dignified shape.
The blonde looked me,
“Are you cold, monsieur?” she enquired with solicitude.
“Oh no,” I replied, “It is quite warm in here.”
The blonde laughed, “Admit it, monsieur, it is quite hot, and I hope that it will get hotter. It is my turn next, if you are agreeable.”
I blushed, her directness – starting with her propositioning me, and leading to her helping me bring a total stranger to the most powerful I have ever seen a woman have – still taking me by surprise.
The musician appeared to respond to our voices. She rolled over and stretched out on the bed. Her skirt was still hitched up, but her display of nudity did not seem to concern her. She lay there with her eyes closed, and a trace of a smile playing on her lips.
The blonde asked me, “Do you like hair on women?”
I replied, “Well, sometimes I do. It adds an air of mystery when it hides the sex.”
“You mean like our friend here?”
“Yes”, I replied, “She is very beautiful.”
This was so bizarre, we were talking intimately about a woman that we had just brought to orgasm, we were talking as though she could not hear us. Yet, she obviously did not mind, as she continued to lie there, smiling. Equally bizarre, I was sitting next to a gorgeous and well-dressed woman with my trousers around my ankles, and my flaccid but still glistening penis draped across my thigh.
Then the musician spoke, for the first time,
“That was amazing. I have never come that hard in my life. I do not think that I will ever need to come again.”
“No?”, said the blonde, teasingly, “So, what would you like?”
“I think that I would like to watch you two do it.”
“Yes, and what else?”
“I think,” said the musician, and I could hear the lust rising in her voice, “I might like to help.”
The blonde grinned, “I think that I could find something for you to do.”
The musician’s chest was rising and falling somewhat faster. That she was becoming aroused again was confirmed by the faint flush that was rising up her neck.
The blonde put her hand gently on my lap.
“Monsieur, please would you take off my clothes? I have something to show you.”