strangers on a train……..

This is a story from your youth.

On days when the prosiac weighs you down, you unwrap this memory, precious as a jewel and re-live it.
It can still excite you, although you are not sure now if it is the act remembered or the fact of your youthful audacity that brings you to a shuddering climax.

You are 19, travelling to Switzerland, to meet up with some people you know only vaguely.
You have never travelled alone before and are trying hard to look bored, the seasoned traveller.

You notice the man [ although of course, in hindsight, he is just a boy] noticing you and you duck your head, pretend an interest in your book, your prison thin roll up.
When the ferry docks, you dont see him again and cold, tired, disorientated, you are too occupied with finding the right train to even remember his stare.

You are used to being looked at, slim , high cheek bnoned, almost shaven head. Your boots seem as if they must be too heavy for your frame to carry.
Then, you thought people looked at you because of the clothes. Now, looking back 30 years, you understand that men gazed at you because you seemed fragile, vulnerable, easily broken.

The sleeper train on a freezing January night is more than half empty and you settle yourself alone in the compartment. There is no need to impress now, so you peer out at the inky darkness, eager to see signs of foreigness, hints of other as the train moves through the Dutch landscape.

The door opens and the boy from the ferry falls in, a flurry of rucksack, guitar, duty free bag.
This memory belongs to a time before you learnt to be cautious, so you smile and he sits opposite you and then he smiles too.

Over the years, your memory has slipped a little, so you no longer have a clear sense of what he looked like, you can remember spikey brown hair,a battered leather jacket and big boots – he looks like all the young men you knew then.

You sit silently, staring at eachother and then he opens the duty free bag and offer you the bottle of brandy and you drink some, trying not to cough, to look uncool.

Equally silently, you offer a cigarette and you sit facing him as he carefully, deliberatly looks at every part of your body. His gaze is unhurried, intense. it is as if no -one has ever actually seen you before and as his eyes travel up your body, you feel a blush and then a deper, more pressing warmth rising in you.

The slence continues, now feels impossible to break.
You look directly at him and never taking your eyes off him, you lift your arms, pull off the black slighly moth eaten and much darned jumper and quickly, before you can think too carefully, you have removed your sex pistols t-shirt too.
Your breasts, small, neat, the skin white after a long winter. Your nipples harden, a combination of desire and the sudden cold night air.

And then you are standing, your legs straggling his as he sits, still looking at you.
Your striptease is neat rather than erotic, your eyes never move from his face.
A tiny part of your brain is caught up in one thought
“No-body come, no-body come, no-body come” – the words take on the rythmn of the train..

And then you are naked in front of him, young enough to invite his gaze, brazen in your own pleasure of your obvious power over him.

He stands, smiles and bends, pulls some levers on the seats and madly, magically, they recline, converting the whole compartment into a giant bed.

You laugh, it is the only sound either of you have made.

Carefully, you unzip his jacket, allowing your hands to creep under the t-shirt below, his skin is warm, a few hairs on his chest, his nipples are hard and you burrow your head into the warmth, bite down, hard, on his left nipple.

He gasps, but says nothing. Your tongue is sliding down his chest, teeth nipping at the skin as your head moves lower.

You shiver, partly with cold, partly with fear of discovery and partly with something else, soemnthing new you are discovering about yourself.

The belt on his jeans is stif, hard to undo- when his hand comes up, you wonder if you have gone too far, crossed a line, but he is just helping you.
he lifts his hips, so that you can wriggle his jeans and pants off and then you stop, just for a moment and look at his face again and then you are nipping and sucking and biting at his cock. You feel his stomach muscles tense, a groan of pleasure. You lift your mouth, leaving just the tip of your tongue on the very edge of his prick.
his head is thrown back, mouth moving silently and then lower your head again, pushing him towards a salty climax.

Afterwards, you accept a mouthful of brandy, swill it around your mouth, salt, hot, sweet on your tongue, in your throat.

Neither of you have said a word, you lie together, cigarette smoke, sweat and sex smells fill the compartment.

You doze, fall asleep and wake suddenly at the station where you need to change, panic stricken you grab clothes, bags, the train is threatening to pull out before you are ready.
You make it on to the platform, the boy throwing your last bag out as the train moves off…..

“Thank You” he shouts above the noise of the train – it is the only thing either of you have said.

You gather your belongings around you and light a cigarette as the train disappears from view.


About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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