Trains - Budapest

I am on one of those old steam-driven trains crossing Europe, in a compartment by myself, trying to read a magazine or paperback novel but mostly falling in and out of a doze due to the gently rhythmic rocking of the train on the steel tracks and the muffled chut-chut-chut sound of the engine. It's summer and it's hot, the light cotton dress I am wearing is already clinging to my damp skin in patches. I open the window to get a breeze but the noise is deafening so I am forced to close it and just simmer silently, my heart thrumming in time to the sound of the train.

I notice a man walking through the hallway past the door to my compartment, and he notices me. Our eyes lock for a brief moment through the glass. He is tall and handsome, dark and thickly built, an elegant yet swarthy European man with dark brown hair, deep eyes and caramel--colored skin. I smile, blink slowly at him and turn my head to look out the window at the landscape rushing past. My head falls to my shoulder and a bead of sweat trickles down from behind my ear, down my exposed stretched neck and travels softly through the valley between my breasts. I sleep a little, I dream.

The man returns to the door of my compartment and smiles at me through the glass. Something in my smile or my eyes bids him to enter. He opens the small door, steps sideways to enter and softly closes it behind him. He sits next to me, staring intently at my eyes, my mouth, his gaze slowly lingering on my neck and chest. He lightly traces the wet trail on my skin left by the bead of sweat with a smooth finger and lightly kisses my cheek. My hand slides along the crisp linen of his pant leg towards the hardening bulge between his thighs. He unbuttons the small pearl buttons down the front of my dress and buries his warm mouth in the skin of the top of my breasts spilling out of my white lace bra. His breath is warm, and where he licks me the skin cools when his mouth moves on, his teeth forcing the thin fabric aside, tearing it, and his tongue rasping the tender skin of my nipple.

In one smooth and swift movement he has hooked his strong hands under my bottom, swung and hoisted me up and on top of him, straddling his thighs. The train rumbles and sways, the sunlight falters and we enter into a dark tunnel. I wind my hands around his thick neck and shoulders and bury my tongue in his mouth. He tastes of a kind of sweet-tasting cigarette sold in the Eastern Bloc, and of brandy. I want to devour him. He licks and bites my darting tongue and swelling lips and his hands roam over my thighs, under the skirt of my dress now rolled and pushed back to my hips. He finds the thin wet cloth of my underwear and pulls it, rips it off in one savage movement.

The sunlight comes in patches through the window as we continue to travel under a bridge, like a slow and steady strobe light. In the brief moments of light I can see his face, his eyes are closed and he whispers something passionately in a language I don't understand. With his hands around my waist, I reach down and undo his belt and zipper and free him from his slacks. He is hard and already the tip is wet and glistens; he groans loudly when I guide him inside, and I stop his groan with a kiss. He grips my waist tighter and plunges me down on him fast and hard. I grip the fabric of his light cotton shirt at his shoulders, twisting the fabric between my fingers; I shudder and scream, throwing my head back and the whistle train blows its sharp high note.

The train rocks gently as we leave the darkened tunnel. The soft chut-chut of the engine becomes the only sound other than our labored breathing, our moans muffled against moist skin. The movement of the train guides us, cradles us. We feel the train begin to slow as it approaches one of its many stops on the route. I kiss his eyelids lightly and rake my fingertips through his dark thicket of hair. As the train slows to a stop, he stands gently, helps me down with nimble fingers at my waist. I smile as he tries to re-button my small pearl buttons with shaking clumsy fingers. He straightens himself up, smoothes out wrinkles on his pants and shirt as best he can with a heavy hand. He kisses my forehead lightly, a mere brushing of lips on fevered skin. He smiles warmly, opens the door and leaves. I remain standing in the compartment, listening with eyes closed to the rush and bustle around me of patrons getting on and off the train, whistles and shouts, clanking and bumps of cargo being loaded on or off. I raise my fingers to my mouth and lightly touch my lips. I can still taste him.