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,
"Bonsoir, monsieur."
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.
