Trans-Siberian Express

The belch from my companion opposite is followed inevitably by the sound of yet another empty lager can being crushed inside his fat fist. Enough. I dive into my book, determined to enter another reality. My escape had barely begun when the railway carriage connecting door slid open with a hiss of compressed air. That sound, announcing as it did her arrival, seemed to be nothing more than a whistle of pure approval.

She paused, swaying gently from the trains' movement, a vision that suddenly made my circumstances more appealing than any fiction. Dark, shoulder length hair framed darker eyes that danced around the carriage, searching ... for a seat? Involuntarily, I glanced at the empty space next me, and when I looked back, our eyes locked. My books, the morons opposite me, the crowded train -- all were forgotten.

I manage a smile that I hope didn't appear too desperate, and silently offered her the seat. She gave me a slow half-smile that made me thankful I was safely sitting, and nodded. She had that rare quality - presence. Unhurried, coolly appraising and in total control. If I had to make a guess, I would say early twenties, but with a maturity far beyond those years. An off the shoulder dress revealed beautifully smooth and tanned shoulders, a long elegant neck, and an elfin face. I hadn't yet spoken to her and already I was smitten. A flash of red, the rustle of material and, bewilderingly, magically, she is sitting next to me.

She turns and speaks to me, but, I guess, in Russian. I shrug helplessly.

"I'm sorry, I'm English, I don't understand ..."

Those dark eyes light up.

"Oh! You are English? I like English! Sorry! I only mean to say, 'Thank you, this seat is free?'"

Her smile is as smooth as her voice, a honeyed mixture of heavily Russian accented English.

"Yes, yes it is," I say, adding a little too eagerly, "I'm travelling alone."

"So am I." She says, allowing a hint of resignation to show in the words.

"Were you supposed to meet up with someone?" I venture.

She turns to me, hitting me with the intensity of her expression - somehow I manage to hold that gaze. The examination is brief, yet deep and probing. She brushes her hair from her face, I'm released.

"No," she says, turning away, before adding softly, as if in an afterthought. "Well, yes, but it's not important."

"Important enough to upset you ..."

Again those eyes bore into mine. I hold her gaze, but this time I'm vanquished.

"I'm sorry, it's none of my business."

A long silence follows that is broken by another can of lager crushed, accompanied by another belch. I glance towards her, she meets my look, eyebrows shrug and we smile in a sudden, shared understanding.

"I'm going back to Siberia, to my husband."

"A cold place ..."

Once more she traps me in her gaze. I hold their probing look, letting her know I'm not discussing the weather. But I change the subject.

"I'm going across Russia, to China, on to Hong Kong, see some friends there, see what happens. My name's Jack."

"And I'm Natasha - this your first visit to Russia? "

"Yes, and how better to see some of it than on the Trans-Siberian Express!"

"You are a romantic, you must have some Russian blood!"

"Romance and passion, it's the very stuff of life, no?"

"You are talking to a Russian, we have had more than our share of passion." Again she holds me with those eyes. Again I am vanquished.

Then she smiles, and the tension within her evaporates, our respective positions clear. There can be no future between us, no grand, life-changing romance - yet the attraction is clear. With no threat, we talk easily, change the world, the light touch of her hand occasionally on my thigh emphasizing her arguments; each touch raises my senses another notch. She notices, not missing a thing, teasing me with the unobtainable.

After an hour, conversation slows, we relax and doze, the train's motion, lulling and soothing. It's night, the lights have been lowered, and people are sleeping as the train thunders onwards. My hand has fallen by my side, the material of her skirt a soft covering. I can sense the heat of her thigh, only millimetres away. She is sleeping. It takes only a small movement to touch her.

The side of my hand is alongside her thigh - and the enormity of what I am doing sends my pulse racing, but it's not enough -- I want more. Gently, I allow my little finger to press against her, to feel the warm flesh through the thin material. She stirs at the touch and I freeze. I wait, then resume my gentle caress. I begin to be bolder, the flat of my hand is now on the side of her thigh, her skin silken beneath her skirt as my fingers explore.

Her head moves slightly and again I have to stop. She turns toward me and opens her eyes. I feel my face flush, she watches me silently. I move my hand away and say nothing. My heart hammers inside my chest. What was I doing? What was I thinking? But she says nothing. After a while she gets up and walks away. As she nears the carriage door, she half turns and shoots a glance back at me, and then walks on through.

I need to apologize. I follow and find her standing in the space between the carriages looking out through the door window. I move up behind her. I lean in, close to her ear; her hair has the scent of lavender.

"Natasha ... " I murmur, unsure of what to say.

Her head moves slightly, but she says nothing. My hand reaches for her waist as I try to think of the words to say. At my touch and, instead of twisting away, she leans back into me, her hand finding mine, drawing it tight around her waist. Suddenly, no words are needed.

Her head resting back upon my shoulder, I lean down and kiss the invitation of her open neck. My lips move in small circles as I work up slowly to her ear lobes, catching their soft flesh between my lips, drawing them into me, I nibble them gently, insistently. In response, her whole body presses back, moving against the proof of my arousal. A long sigh escapes her lips.

I move my attention to the other side of her neck, repeating my exploration, my lips kissing her rapidly pulsing jugular vein that leads me directly to the base of her ear. But I'm allowed only a few seconds. She twists, and in a flash, is facing me, eyes blazing - all reticence within them abandoned.

Her fingers caress the back of my head for a second, before pulling me down to her lips. No gentleness, just hunger as our lips meet and our tongues fight and probe. I break for a breath.

"Natasha ..." I begin to say, but her hand quickly covers my lips and her eyes bore into mine. She shakes her head urgently to silence me.

"No words, just the moment," she whispers in that darkly erotic, chocolate voice, "kiss me again."

As I taste the hunger in her kiss, the palm of her hand traces the side of my face, down my neck and onto my pounding chest. There she pauses, catching the pattern of my rapid heartbeat. Both my hands drift down the curves of her back, stroking along to her waist, pulling her against me.

Her hand leaves my heart, sliding further down, over my belt, unerringly finding the source of my painfully trapped arousal. With the heel of her hand pressed against the tip, her palm along the length, her fingers dance, the palm of her hand encourages. It is my turn to sigh. Impatient now, her hand moves up and slides under my belt, sliding down to grasp my naked heated flesh. The coolness of her hand makes me gasp as she twists and strokes in one, long, slow movement, making me groan in rapture.

Hurriedly she pulls me with her and we fall against a door, and into the empty toilet cubicle next to us. I quickly slide the lock shut as she expertly removes my belt. Kneeling before me, studying my now freed erection, one hand stroking the shaft, the other cupping and kneading the sensitive balls, she places a small gentle kiss to the tender tip. With a wicked look, she raises her eyes to mine, before taking the head fully within her lips. Slowly she draws me into her, then withdraws, her tongue darting out from between red lips, circling and tasting the head, before again fully taking me, engulfing my whole length, making me shudder as her speed increases.

I groan. I don't want this to end too quickly, so I pull her up, pulling her dress off her shoulders as she rises, freeing her breasts. They are small and perfect, the nipples erect and eager. My hands quickly test their soft firmness as she steps out of her forgotten dress, and then move down, sliding off her panties. I am kneeling, this beautiful woman naked before me, her hands on my head pulling me into her, her scent invading my head as my tongue invades her sweet wet confines, searching and probing.

She shudders against me as I find her sensitive nub, sucking the hard small flesh into my mouth while her hands tear at my hair. Her moans fill my brain as she pulls me from her, up to her kiss. Locked in this embrace, I lift her onto the small basin. She wraps her long legs around my waist and I slide effortlessly and fully into her. Her heat overwhelms me as I drive into her with wild urgency. I break our kiss, she arches her back, and I search out her breasts, my tongue circling and teasing each nipple in turn, before enveloping as much flesh into my mouth as I can.

Both impatient for release, we ride desperately against each other, her head now in my shoulder, her teeth biting my flesh as I pound remorselessly into her, her legs pulling me in, urging me on, my release building in an unstoppable wave. It breaks in a flood, bursting hot and deep within her, my cries mingling with her gasps as I pump into her my very essence. Her shuddering spasms grasp and milk me of everything I can give, not allowing me escape until I'm completely spent.

We cling to each other, savoring the moment, knowing that this first, this wild time, would also be our last. It's a bitter sweet moment. Neither of us seem to know what to say, how to break the embrace of our unplanned passion. Natasha nips my ear lobe and giggles.

"So, it is untrue, you English are not such, how you say? Cold fish?"

I smile and kiss her, a long lingering kiss that was far sweeter than mere lust, mixing affection with regret, knowing we'll never to meet again.