I sighed, took off my hat and wafted it in front of my face in a vain attempt to cool down. The station master shrugged and gave his usual smile; either I could sit around for six hours whilst the problem down the line was fixed, or make the 15 minute walk back home. It was only going to get hotter, so I set off back, shouldering my rucksack and easing it past a couple that had decided to spend the time having sex just by the doorway on the station verandah. This country takes some getting used to, I thought, as she looked up at me, moaning and wrapping her legs tighter around his waist.
We had been in the small, landlocked, Kingdom for almost a year and everything about it is different from home, their whole way of life and relationship with each other, and with nature. The most obvious thing, of course, is the almost total absence of foreigners and the scarcity of technology. The few trains, running on a single narrow-gauge line that twists and branches through the mountain valleys and across the plain, are the only tangible sign of major infrastructure, apart from the distant hydroelectric station that powered them and whose spare capacity, exported to neighbouring power-hungry countries, has generated the income to pay for the railway and for our own presence.
My husband and I are engineers, specialising in practical, sustainable and as local and environmentally friendly systems as we can make them. He specialises in agriculture, bio-fuels and civil projects such as sanitation, whilst I concentrate on cooking, lighting, solar power, evaporative cooling for produce and simple machines to make life easier or to make pots and clothes and such like.
If you have, by now, formed an impression that this is a country with poor, starving, and miserable inhabitants then you are letting your western prejudices give you a false image; it is a far nicer place to live than you perhaps imagine. There is, on the whole, plenty of food to go round, the country has an ample supply of water, it is warm -- hot -- and the small towns and villages are clean and tidy, and the populace is remarkably healthy and stable in number due to excellent government initiatives and deliberate isolation from both tourists and other neighbouring countries. There is no religion, which is a blessing in itself. Nobody has much money, but then there is little need for it.
I had never heard of the Kingdom when we were first approached by the King's representative and I looked for it on the map in vain; it is so small that it doesn't appear. They had heard of our work and wanted to offer us a contract, initially for 1 year but extendible for 5 years by mutual agreement, and with the possibility of permanent residency after that if we wanted it. At the time it seemed unlikely that we would stay there permanently, but we were excited by the challenges and although they were not offering much money, that wasn't our main motivation and we were assured we would be able to live there at almost no cost to ourselves.
When you live in a country like this, time takes on a different meaning so I strolled back towards home contentedly, thinking about where I would start when I did eventually get to my destination. I dodged under the shade of trees wherever I could, finally edging across our garden towards the open back door of the house. I had left my husband doing some research earlier that morning and whilst I was in the distant east for a month or so -- there being no way of telling exactly how long - he was going to do some work setting up a prototype digester that had recently been sent to him. Distant is a relative term, as when the average speed of the train is low, 300km is a very long journey.
He was nowhere to be seen however, but as I approached the door I heard his voice. I couldn't quite make out what he said, but then I heard him grunt, with an answering female squeal that stopped me in my tracks as I recognised the unmistakeable voice of my neighbour and, I thought, friend. I took off my rucksack, and lowered it slowly to the floor, listening to the sound of them together in rising anger. I was about to rush in and confront them when something made me stop, bend down and unlace my boots, and pad quietly inside, across the warm stone floor of the kitchen, to a spot where I stood and oriented myself to the sounds. They were in the main living room and I knew I could look into this through an air vent with almost no chance of being seen.
She was kneeling on the sofa, her hands flat against the wall and he -- my husband -- was standing almost with his back to me, thrusting his hips into her as she moaned and gasped and encouraged him. His hands were on her hips, pulling her towards himself as he writhed against her; I could just see one of her breasts wobbling up and down in time with their movements, until she cupped it in her hand, squeezing her nipple in her fingers and urged him to do it, "harder, harder".
He didn't need telling twice and picked up the pace until she was crying out every time he hit bottom; they went on and on, sometimes changing position, and I stood rooted to the spot, mesmerised, eventually realising that I was urging her on.
I couldn't watch any more and I turned and walked quietly out, picked up my boots and rucksack and walked back to the station, my cheeks red and an empty longing in my wet pussy for my husband in me instead of her, tears streaming slowly down my face. If I had stormed in then, shouting and demanding to know why, perhaps things may have turned out differently, but I doubt if they would have been better.
I fumbled my way through the station and sat in the hot carriage, dejected.
My friend, who worked in the Development Ministry, arrived in a flurry of activity and installed herself opposite me in our small private compartment. She sat opposite, looked out of the window and then at me, seeing my streaked face.
"What's the matter?"
I explained briefly what I had just seen.
She assumed a schoolteacher expression, shaking her head and tutting. I looked up, puzzled.
"You Europeans, you have curious attitudes. They were only having sex, for goodness sake, it's not as if she was stealing your children.
This just set me off again, the mention of children pricking me like a knife, "but.... what if she gets pregnant?" I said petulantly.
"Tell me, does she have any marks on her breasts, like these?"
