The train was an overnighter, from Milan to Naples, and on a Wednesday night in the middle of winter there was no shortage of empty cabins to choose from, even on the usually crowded second-class cars. I had flown in on a puddle jumper that went almost arbitrarily from Los Angeles to Chicago, Chicago to La Guardia, La Guardia to Gatwick and Gatwick to Milan. It was a cheap flight that cost me nearly 24 hours, and I wasn’t even at my destination of Naples, where my cousins were waiting for me for an extended visit. The nearly 12 hours of train travel that awaited me had only the appeal of being a pleasant change from the cramped plane seats I had been on.
I navigated the corridor until I found a cabin in the middle of a car that was farther from the front of the train, a strategy I thought would guarantee me some privacy and a quiet journey. I flagged a vendor from the platform and got a sandwich and half-liter of wine. The train began to move around 9pm and I was asleep before we reached our first stop.
At around midnight we stopped in Bologna. I dozed as people walked by the cabin, but fell asleep even before the train left again. I began to dream of vaguely sexual encounters, my imagination fueled by the beautiful women in Italy. The dreams stopped and started as I drifted in and out of sleep. During a longer stretch of smooth traveling, the pain of my throbbing erection straining at my jeans woke me just enough so that I reached down and adjusted it, pulling the head up and across my upper thigh and laying on my back to ease the pressure. I yawned once and blinked, clearing my eyes, and as I opened them I found myself looking into the eyes of a very attractive Italian woman, barely older than a girl in fact, probably in her early 20s. She had the exaggerated features that characterize the Mediterranean look, large dark eyes, high cheekbones on a round face, the extra padding on her curvaceous body concentrated in what appeared to be truly enormous breasts. Half-asleep as I was, I didn’t remember my erection and simply said, “ciao.”
She said “ciao” in a quiet voice and looked away immediately. I wondered why she had been so brusque and only then did I remember that my erection was probably quite visible through my jeans. I glanced down and confirmed my suspicion. My penis was in perfect relief, outlined as it was by the light that angled through the window and the tight sheen of my pants. It sloped gently up and to the left, thickening slightly and then continuing up in obvious arousal to well past the base of my left pocket. The head was swollen and the ridge created a noticeable line. A spot of moisture shone at the tip. Not wanting to draw any more attention to myself, I slid my overcoat over my body, making sure I covered my waist.
I ventured another look at the woman and noticed that she was fidgeting a little. Her skirt did not reach beyond her knees, and the white skin between her legs appeared and disappeared as she changed position. She appeared cold, and I commented that the heat didn’t work as well in second class cars. She laughed a little and we talked for a few minutes. She was going only as far as Rome, where her family was. She studied at the university in Milan, and was going home for a few days of rest between exams.
I offered her some of my wine and we continued talking for a while. She did not stop fidgeting and finally I asked her if she was ok. She complained that it was cold and that her sweater was packed at the bottom of her suitcase. I thought for a second, and then offered her my overcoat. She paused for a second, flashing a quick and slightly quizzical glance down to my crotch, then agreed and thanked me. I handed her my overcoat and she put it on. It was huge on her, but I noticed with some pleasure how tight the fabric was around her chest. She looked up again and said, “molto meglio.” Much better. I smiled and let my eyes linger on her chest. Even in the shadowy darkness I could see her blush, which I liked.
She asked what I did and I told her I was a photographer, spending some time in Naples for an assignment I’d gotten from a travel magazine. It was true, but I didn’t mention that this was my first paid assignment.
Her own gaze returned to my crotch before looking away. This surprised me a little, so I decided to make small adjustments in my position to see if she really had sized me up. I lifted a leg up on to the bench and rested on an elbow, a position that looks a lot more comfortable than it is but served the purpose of thrusting my cock between my thigh and pant leg to reveal its size and shape. I did a quick check and was happy enough with the effect: the shaft showed long and thick almost half way down my leg, the head a noticeable bulge and even my balls were somewhat defined by the seam of my jeans.
As we talked I noticed her looking out the window while she spoke, but each time she looked at me her eyes stopped for a nearly imperceptible glance at my cock. I was enjoying the tension that was rising between us, but the position I was in was becoming painful so I sat up. In a flash of creativity, I asked if she wanted to see some of my photography. She said she did, so I took a small album from my backpack, a collection of family and travel pictures I had taken over the past couple of years. They weren’t exceptional, but some were interesting and I had ulterior motives for wanting to show them to her.
I sat down to her right and we turned on a reading light to see the pictures by. With the album in my lap, I flipped slowly through the pictures, explaining who the subjects were and humbly apologizing for their poor quality. The light was weak so I adjusted my body and the album so she could see better. Each shift brought my crotch closer to the light and album. I realized that with one subtle shift it would be in plain view, but not too obvious. I lifted the album, adjusted slightly and let the album down again only two inches from where it had been. My cock twitched slightly as I realized how visible it was.
I flipped the page and we looked at some pictures of my last trip to Italy, the summer before. There were the usual pictures of fantastic scenery around Naples, some more artistically inspired ones of rock formations on Capri, and then some shots of myself and a few friends at the beach. We laughed at some of these, and she pointed at my “ridiculous” American swimsuit, the usual massive boxers that Italians despise, preferring to wear the Speedos that Americans find repulsive. As she pointed she pressed the album down onto my thigh and penis, evincing a slight gasp from me. She pulled her hand away quickly, then seemed almost to laugh. I asked what was funny, and she hummed and said, “oh… nothing.”
