Friday, 1 April 2005

Erotica 1 - The Train


“We wander for distraction, but we travel for fulfillment.” - Hilaire Belloc
~

1954 - The eleven fifteen from Paris Gare du Nord to Montpelier.

    Michael Allen made it onto the train by the skin of his teeth. Slamming the door shut as the train was gaining momentum, white puffs of steam billowed up from underneath its dragon’s maw enveloping him in a cloud of smoke like some mysterious vigilante, like Zorro or a villain in an Errol Flynn Hollywood production.
    He wrestled with his luggage as the train movement threw him about like a cork on a chugging tide of steel and gears. Between his teeth, firmly clamped there for safe keeping, was his travel ticket upon which was printed his carriage and compartment number. He battled his suitcases to the floor and fell against the cold glass window at his back. Removing his fedora he wiped his raincoat sleeve across his brow and then breathed a heavy, tired sigh. He took his ticket from his mouth and looked down for his compartment number: carriage twelve, compartment six.

    He was standing outside compartment four so he stooped down, swung his heavy luggage up and proceeded to bowl down the carriage until he reached the door with the number four engraved on the glass. The blind was down so he couldn't see inside but guessed, as one would, that he wasn't the only passenger in this cabin.
    He tapped lightly upon the doors glass and heard a smoky warm voice answer in French.
    "Vous pouvez entrer."

    "Bonjour," he said, his flat English accent defeating the beauty of the French spoken word, "Pouvoir je m'assieds ici avec vous?"

    He struggled with the language and the luggage.

    "Oui," she replied with a voice like warm butter, "Vous me permettre d'aider."
    She flowed up from her seat like quicksilver and took hold of his smaller suitcase handle then, with birdlike grace, placed the case up onto the luggage rack. She wore a white silken sleeveless blouse. Her armpits were clean shaven and smelt of cologne. Her blouse was sheer and he could see her slight breasts with her darkly pointed nipples leaning against the cloth. He felt himself grow hard but looked away and concentrated on his other suitcase.

    "Merci," he thanked her . "Le prochaine fois je rappelarai me voyager avec la lumiere."
   
He threw the second, larger case besides the smaller one.

    "You are English, Oui?" she purred with a rolling R that sounded like music, "Your French is fucking awful."

    He, in the process of removing his hat and coat, looked momentarily shocked but managed to regain his mythical English cool reserve admirably.

    "Yes, I am English and you are right my French is pretty awful. Your English, however, is remarkably good, especially the obscenity."

    She smiled and placed a Gauloise between her cherry red glossed lips.
    "Would you like a cigarette?" she asked, lighting her own whilst proffering the packet to him.

    "Thank you."

    He took the cigarette and leaned forward to receive the lit match that she held in her elegant fingers. She lit his cigarette and then crossed her legs and sat back. Her skirt rode high on her thighs and she didn't trouble to smooth it out or replace it. Her legs were tanned and sumptuous.

    "Are you travelling in France on business or are you on 'oliday?"

The fact that she pronounced 'Holiday' without the 'H' aroused him even more and he found her accent both exotic and erotic. Like fruit that oozes its juice when you bite into it and the taste of it makes you want to lick your fingers and devour it in swift mouthfuls.

    "Holiday, I saw Montpelier during the war. Passed through it really and always promised myself that one day I would come back to it. And you, why and where are you travelling?"

    He exhaled smoke in an easy way and watched the blue/grey cloud rise and hover above his head. He looked toward the woman and suddenly realised that no introductions had been made and that they had begun a conversation as though each of them knew the other; without the usual uncomfortable gaps and silences that so often accompanies first time introductions.

    "My name is Michael by the way, Michael Allen."

    He held out his hand and she took hold of it with a firm but cool grip. Her fingers were long, smooth and tanned. They reminded him of either a pianist’s hands or a dealer of fine arts. Her finger nails were varnished a deep crimson.

    "Allen is a French name. It comes originally from Normandy. Did you know that? My name is Sabine, Sabine Comeaux. I work for a Parisian art house and I am travelling to the coast to view some paintings."

    Her eyes were deep brown, almost black and she observed him as though he were an exhibit. Her nose was broad but not large and sat above a seductively curved mouth. Her lips were full and glossed the same colour as her finger nails. She had the appearance of someone who is filled with laughter but hides it well. As if always containing the beginnings of a smile that should break into spontaneous laughter, a frequent and natural function. He held her hand a moment too long and felt mildly disappointed when she let her fingers silently drift away from him.

    Cool fingers.

    Exquisite hands.

    "No, I didn't know that. I thought my family were as English as Dover. Still, it is interesting to learn that I have a bit of French in me. Are you pure French Sabine?"

    She had sat with her head cocked to one side with her eyes gazing out of the window admiring the French countryside but turned to answer him.

    "I have often dreamed of having a bit of English in me but sadly no, I am all French, French from my fingertips to my toes, French."

    She smiled a smile that was Bordeaux warm and filled him with uncomfortable thoughts.
    Exquisite hands

    Cool fingers.

    He shook his head to clear it. Had she really said that? ['I have often dreamed (not dreamt) of having a bit of English (not England) in me.'] [Surely it was just her translation that had made it sound so damn erotic?]

    "Being English isn't all it is cracked up to be you know. We're all a bit starchy, unlike you French with your warm charm and your ‘joie de vivre,’ I met quite a few Frenchmen during the war and they had a very different outlook to most Englishmen."

    "Oui, perhaps. Although I think the French and English are more alike than either care to believe. Like cousins who try to deny their kinship. I too fought in the war you know, for the resistance."

    She stood up, opened the train window and threw her half smoked cigarette out into the blur of the countryside. She was about five foot five tall, although she appeared taller due to her stilettos.

    "It must have been a horrid time for you. I met several resistance fighters. They were all enormously brave and bitter over the German occupation. Still, it is behind us now. Europe they say will unite as one and the Germans are now our friends."

    He took another drag on his cigarette and then extinguished it in the ashtray by his elbow.
"Easy for you to say Monsieur, you didn't see the sights we saw nor did you experience occupation. Forgiveness is to be divine they say. How can you forgive torture and rape?"

    She looked agitated and clutched her hands tightly together then pushed the window down as far as it would go. She leaned outside and the speed of the train whipped her dark hair against her face. Her whole demeanour was that of a hurt child: bruised, pained. She pulled the window shut and sat back down facing him.

    "During the later part of the war, March 1944, the German army took huge reprisals against French civilians living in towns and villages; revenge for all our attacks of terror against them, a lesson for we French to learn that the Ubermencsh wouldn't tolerate insurrection. I was caught in the town of Argenton. 67 people were executed. I was lucky. The Kapitan thought that I had knowledge of the resistance. I didn't. I was only eighteen. He had me chained naked in a barn. I was there for four days. I was flogged and beaten and was given only water. After two days, as my captors were having no luck in breaking me, the Kapitan then decided that he would oversee my inquisition. He would walk up to me and he would ridicule me calling me less than Jew, calling me slut and whore and then he would fondle my private parts. I would try to move but I couldn't. I was chained. I tried to urinate onto him but I couldn't. He would penetrate me with his finger again and again. I spat in his face. He laughed and went away only to come back minutes later and start again. I hated him for this. I wanted him dead but he persisted hour after hour and eventually as much as I hated him I wanted him. Not him but an end to my longing. An end to the torture that he had corrupted into something to amuse and gratify him. Still he kept touching me and still I was repulsed by him but still my hunger grew and then he started to walk up to me. He would unbutton his fly and place his erection between my legs. I ached for him to fuck me and I wished that I was a spider that, once fucked, I could kill him. As the torture continued I began to look forward to it, to him bringing me to the brink of orgasm. He would finger me and then run his fingers over my mouth. At first I refused to suck them but eventually I did, I sucked his fingers, his fingers that smelt and tasted of me.  I never felt anything for him but arousal, arousal and disgust but I was the one who was captive. He would stand for long moments with his penis rubbing against me but never once penetrating me. I hated myself as much as I hated him but I felt so aroused that I had lost all sense. Hour after hour with breaks of maybe ten minutes he would toy with me. I can still smell his cologne and his breath that smelt of cognac. To this day I hate him for all the indignity that he threw at me and yet, if he were to walk into this cabin now there is a part of me that is captive to that moment, captive to the torment he inflicted on me. Would I kill him now? I don’t know but I know this: no one should tell me to forgive and forget."

    Her tale finished she wept silently. Tears slipped down her cheeks and she hastily wiped them away. He took his handkerchief from his suit pocket and passed it to her. She accepted and dabbed at the tears.

    "I am sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you. Thank you."

    She passed the handkerchief back to him and took hold of his hand in a grip that startled him.

    "It took me eight years after that before I would let a man near me. Those scars do not readily or easily heal. Sex is no longer what it should be; it is no longer an act of love and passion. There are other emotions involved for me now."

    She sat back and let out a long sigh and then she smiled; sunlight after sudden rain.
    "You must think me mad. We have only just met and I am telling you tales of such an intimate nature as though we were lovers."

    She pronounced it 'louvairs' and it sounded like poetry. It sounded like sex by syllables. He smiled back at her and said, "I don't think you are mad and I am truly sorry to hear of those horrific tales, as for us being lovers? Well, sounds like a nice thought but I am sure you are a woman of taste."

    She laughed at his joke and visibly relaxed.

"Are you married?" he asked.

    "Oui, but I live my life and he lives his. We do not see much of each other and when we do we eat and we fuck. Does this shock you?"

    "A little, yes. We English have affairs but we are not as liberal or as broadminded as that."

    "Non? It is just us then maybe. I don't know. I don't care. How can you quantify love like that? Into eternity, a lifetime of one. The sameness, the routine would kill all love. Love is a gift. Love should be free."

    They had been sitting, talking for the best part of an hour and now they could see the spring sun climbing outside and feel its warmth through the window.

    "Would you like to get something to eat from buffet, coffee perhaps or a glass of wine?"
    Her smile stunned him and the depths of her eyes haunted his thoughts as though they mirrored her soul and in the depths of her soul he saw such warmth and passion. Love doesn’t just happen, it doesn't suddenly rear up and consume you as though you were fuel for its flame.

    "I am not hungry but a glass of red wine would be nice. Thank you."

    He stumbled out of the cabin and rolled down to the compartment that contained the buffet bar. He ordered two glasses of red wine and whilst there ate a chocolate croissant as he hadn't had any breakfast. He followed it with a quick cup of coffee and then another cigarette. He managed to walk back to the cabin without spilling a drop of wine and by lightly banging his head against the cabin door while calling out "Sabine, Sabine, Its Michael would you open the door please," gained entry. She was laughing at his absurdity and took both of the glasses from his grasp.

    "You English," she laughed, "are so crazy.".

    "As mad as a box of bluebottles, we have to be you know. It keeps us from going insane. It is what we are taught at school, a stiff upper lip and to be totally crazy in a very mad world."

    They both laughed together and drank their wine while she relaxed into the ambiance created by their conversation. She kicked off her shoes and lifted her left leg onto the seat by her side. In the movement of her legs her skirt rose and fell again and briefly he saw that she wasn't wearing any underwear, and for the merest fraction of a second he saw her pubic triangle and although it was just a fleeting glimpse it was enough for his already heated imagination, coupled with his desire, to want more than anything else to be able to bury his face in that warm fragrance and drown there.

    "You have drunk all of your wine. Would you like another glass?" He asked this more to take his mind off her than out of mere courtesy.

    "You haven't drunk all yours though,"she replied, "but yes, yes I would like that, please. Yes."

    He went out again with a perfunctory, "Won't be a long" and a brief smile.
    She got up and walked again to the window. It was warm outside now and the act of opening the window allowed that warmth to enter. She leant against the aperture and let the wind blow through her hair and billow her blouse in a sequence of rapid flapping. She ran her fingers through her hair, down over her breasts and then down the outside of her thighs. She parted the front of her skirt and allowed the wind to lap at her thighs. A warm  sensual wind.

    He returned with her glass of wine and said something inane like "I'm back" as if she didn't know that, as if she hadn't heard the door open and shut, as if she hadn't caught the scent of his aftershave which smelt of warm wood and sweet earth.

He went to her and gave her the glass and she took it and placed it onto the floor by her side but didn't move away from the window.

   "It is a beautiful day and so warm. Come here and feel it."

    He moved closer and just a little behind her. She smelt divine. Chanel Number 5. Intoxicating, potent, more heady than the wine. He grew erect and could feel himself pulsing within the confines of his underwear, desperate to be free and buried deep within her. He followed all his base male instincts and leant against her. She could feel his hardness pushing against her buttocks and half turned so that she was able to see him and with her hands she squeezed his erection through his trousers. He gasped then kissed her. Her tongue extended beyond her lips and trailed over his lips.

    He copied her and their tongues touched briefly. She hoisted her skirt up over her thighs revealing her tight backside. She pushed her hips out and back giving him ample exposure to her and he unbuttoned his fly then penetrated her. He couldn't get proper access and only the tip of his penis was inside her.

    It felt exquisite to both of them and he started his slow rhythm, shallow ins and outs, a metronome that only just touched the base of its descent. He kept plunging into her over and over again and she groaned long and low but neither of them could come. He kept trying, thrusting with ever more urgent desire, desperate to find release but still unable to. Eventually she thrust her hips out and backward further than before and then suddenly she snapped up straight and his erection fell out of her still pulsing and still eager for satisfaction.

    "There is no rush," she smiled, "sit down and watch."

    He did as he was told, feeling foolish with his penis still throbbing proud while standing aerial like from the front of his trousers. He sat down even though the one thing that he wanted was there in front of him.

    She sat and undid the buttons of her blouse exposing her perfect breasts with her dark nipples. Cupping them she drew her thumb over her teats and they grew erect. She took her hands down across her stomach and, again lifting her skirt, revealed herself to him. She pulled her legs up on either side of her then begun to rub her labia between her forefinger and her thumb, firstly the right lip and then the left. He could see the dark pink of her sex opening like a flower, the delicate, lighter pink of her vaginal opening. The sweet cleft that now was oozing moisture and above it the tiny bud of a clitoris. She took her hand away from her vaginal lips and begun the same rubbing action on her clitoris. Her thumb and forefinger holding the purple coloured bud in a sensitive grip that twisted and caressed and massaged the clit to sublime effect. With her left hand and using her middle finger she penetrated her vagina and began to thrust in a slow, deliberate fashion. She bit her lip and closed her eyes and her head begun to move from side to side. Her left hand’s movement became more urgent and she plunged it further and deeper into herself as more fluid oozed from her. Her groans rose in volume and she now used both hands on her ever widening sex. Then she stopped and got up and walked over to Michael. Her breasts jiggled as she moved. She knelt down in front of him and ran her fingers over his mouth and when he opened his jaws she pushed them into his mouth and he sucked them then she placed her fingers back into herself then removed them only to lick and suck them herself.

    She placed her pianist fingers around his hardness and then, by bending her head, took his penis into her mouth. She sucked upon it and then moved her head in the slowest of movements up and down its length. He felt his passion start to rise and his longing for her increased. She moved away from him and then, hitching up her skirt, mounted him.

    His penis buried itself deep within her and they both let out gasps of shock and delight. Her breasts hung in front of him and he fell upon her nipples feeling them grow long and hard. She rode him with a hungry violence, arching her back and thrusting her pelvis while growling her pleasure. She rode him like a tempest with her hair flailing against her face, with her breasts beating against his teeth and tongue.

    She rode him with an urgent clamour, her fingernails raking his neck, scratching bloodlines in his flesh while her teeth bit his skin and her pubis crushed his balls. She rode him until the sun scorched all their desire and they came in unison with muted sounds of pained pleasure.

    And after, she sat upon his lap with his now flaccid penis still inside her. Her vagina wept his sperm as they breathed in desperate lungful’s of air. They kissed again, warmly now, softly, mouths pressing together and tenderly nibbling each others’ lips. Then she got off and rearranged her disheveled self into a semblance of order. Re-applying her make-up and adding fresh Chanel. He disappeared to the toilet to clean his trousers as best he could.  When she came back she down next to him, hooking her left leg over his and taking hold of his hand.

    “Why don’t you say it?” she asked

    “Say what?”

    “The one emotion that now fills your being.”

    “That I love you, but isn't that just madness? To say something like that, is it not insane? After all we have only just met.”

    “Madness is the definition of love just as all lovers are a little insane. The fact we have just met has nothing to do with it. We were meant to meet and we were meant to fall in love. I love you now. I will always love you even though we will probably never meet again. Love is passing and therefore we should embrace it with all we have, with all our passion and commitment for the moment, when it truly comes it is fleeting and we only live the once.”

    They sat holding each other for the rest of the journey. They didn't make love again though and, as she was met by her husband at Avignon they parted with only a brief kiss goodbye and a memory, a memory that would last with them forever like a fly trapped in solid amber; a memory of a train, of lust and of passing and momentary love.
 


.
.
.
Russell Cuts the Corn From The Brewers Whiskers.

4 comments:

Adam Everhard said...

Nicely written. I never much cared for hookups, personally. I was the sort who always preferred love with sex. Many laughed at me for this, thinking me naive, particularly for a gay man.

Russell Duffy said...

Me neither. Love to love. Not much interested in one night stands. This was meant to be a case of two people, both of whom are sexually attracted to each other but also feel something stronger, recognising the fact that whatever they feel for each other it will never happen.

LeeKwo said...

I read all of Anais Nin in the early 70s when my endorphin's were at their peak/Just a whiff or patchouli oil sent me into paroxysms of desire and if I happened to have a bit of pot well I was uncontrollable/You story is remarkable and very well written but alas there is no desire left in my warp paradox factor to really feel the way I did years ago/I know exactly what you mean by Nins ability to write the erotic and you have accomplished it in this piece/Passion and desire happen I know this for certain but fade and lose their desperation/

Russell Duffy said...

Lee>>>There is many a bone in an ol dog mate! :)