Paris Austerlitz station, Friday night. Dim tunnels reek of diesel and haste. My rugby league books a first-class sleeper to Castres. Shoulder bag slung, pocket book in hand, I dash to the platform. Compartment empty. Warm light soothes. Toss sports bag on lower berth, jacket atop it. Peer through window at rushed travelers. Climb upper bunk, prop head on pillow, dive into thriller as engines hum.
Train lurches. Last stragglers bang doors, heave suitcases overhead. Door slides: forty-something prick in three-piece suit barges in, no hello. Trails a stunner, brunette mid-thirties, anthracite tailleur over emerald blouse matching her eyes. She dips head, eyes red from tears. He reeks of cologne and ego, grunts orders, comments snide. Ignores me buried in pages.
The Stopover: Boarding and Sparks in the Compartment
Twenty-five minutes out, beet fields blur past Seine-et-Marne. He slumps on her berth. She preps his bed, rips sheet packs. ‘Join me after,’ he snaps, heads to diner car. She stays, turns back, hauls massive roller suitcase. ‘Need help?’ I hop down, heave it under her bunk. ‘François Dujardin, to Castres.’ Handshake. ‘Mylène.’ Face lights brief—fine features, no makeup, gold hoops, black pearl necklace, huge diamond ring. Vanilla scent hits hard. She bolts, clutching jacket over chest.
Vague ache grips me. Hunt her in diner. She’s by window, staring Orléanais dusk. Hubby chomps sandwich, rants airlines. I grab strapontin nearby, steal glances: high forehead, aquiline nose, full lips. Sad beauty masked in Cacharel chic.
Back at 10 PM. Night fallen. He’s in PJs, laptop action flick blasting headphones, snoring soon. She’s crosswise on her bunk, romance novel. I watch covert. He kills lights, flops face-down, snores roar.
11:30 PM. Can’t sleep. ‘Lower blind?’ I whisper, shirt off, bare-chested like her book hero—dark eyes, angular face, ripped torso. She startles, nods. I drop blind, kill light, climb up. She shifts legs, sheds jacket—lush curves. Hears her sob.
The Transit and Departure: Midnight Heat and Stolen Ring
‘Book sad?’ ‘Bad romance. Sorry.’ ‘Hubby’s snores worse.’ She smiles faint. Chats flow. She dims light, sheds jewels into vanity—gold, pearls. Grabs mauve silk nightie, kills light. Zipper rasps—skirt drops. Bra clasp snaps. My cock throbs, breath ragged. Silhouette glides out to corridor.
I wait, slip on jeans, follow. Wagon dead quiet, toilets hum. She emerges, nightie clinging. Eyes lock—hers wet. Step close. Hand lifts chin, thumb wipes tears. Cheek caresses. Finger traces lips. Tongue tastes. Hand cups tit—electric through silk. Nipples ache hard. She sucks finger deep, hands on my pecs. Dive into soaked panties.
Lift her to wall. Legs buckle, she slides down, yanks belt. Jeans pop, boxer strains. Grips shaft, strokes slow, peels foreskin, engulfs. Tongue laps vein, sucks head sloppy. Minutes of torment. I tap shoulder—close. She speeds, jaw locks. Hot jets flood throat. She gulps, eyes triumphant.
We stagger back. She’s on bunk, fingering slow. Door shuts soft. I join her. Bed creaks as I slide beside. Snores pause, resume. Tongues clash—fierce, then tender. Rip panties, ease in deep. Rails clack rhythm. She shudders, bites cry as loco jolts past another.
Dawn. She’s nestled thighs. Castres calls. Slip out quiet, swap her ring from vanity for my card: ‘Borrowed. To see you again. François – cell.’ Train to Toulouse soon. She wakes, dresses frantic. Hubby snaps. She smiles—secret glow.