Strangers on a train

Inside I sit on the armchair. You are about six steps away and begin to shed your clothes. First the jacket falls to the floor. Slowly you begin with your shirt. The top button is released to reveal for the first time your bra. A glimpse of black. The other buttons open. You turn your back to me. The shirt slips off your shoulders and flutters gently to the floor.

That enough for now, I think to myself. I’ll write the next bit tonight.

I am sitting on a train. On my way to work. Doing what I do most days during my morning commute – writing erotica. I have a forty-five minute journey each day. I use the time to write.

I never do the ‘good bits’ on the train. Too risky. I do not want people to read what I am writing. They might get shocked. If they want to read the steamy bits they can buy one my books. After doing this for five years I have two books in print. My work also appears in anthologies of short erotic stories.

I write each morning on a sub-notebook computer. The model I use is not easily available – it is especially imported and rather expensive. The case is super high-grade aluminum. The screen resolution is bright but also very warm. It is configured with a special software program - the screen is almost impossible to read unless you are right in front of the keyboard. An extra precaution to stop people reading while I write.

I save the current story. Turn off the computer. Slip it into a black, leather sleeve. The train has arrived at my station. Time to change from erotic author to my day job.

As I walk through the train station I am amazed, as usual, by the enormous array of people moving through this space. So many stories waiting to be written. About each and every one of these people. The young. The old. The sick. The ugly. The beautiful. Each has an erotic life. A story to tell.

I often use people I see on the train to fuel my erotic writing. And this is how I first met you.

One winter morning I am in my usual seat, in my usual carriage, embroiled in a passage about two friends becoming lovers:

Once in the bathroom I find you have left the glass door to the shower open. I can make out your naked body through the steam. Like a soft focus shot in a movie. You say over the noise of the shower in a low, slow voice, ‘Here, please, scrub my back.’ Without turning you hold over your shoulder a long, rough sponge already soaped up.

I get in the shower fully dressed, like I am in a trance. I gently take the sponge from you. The sight of you after all these months – naked and wet and with me – is overwhelming.

I always write this way – in the first person, and writing to an imagined lover. Recounting how a love affair builds to a climax.

People who read my writing often ask why I structure my stories this way. I shrug and say it is just feels right. When pressed on the matter I either make a joke or try to change the subject.

The truth of the matter is really quite banal – after having my heart broken more than once I have retreated to erotic writing as an outlet for my sexual energy. I write for someone who I hope is out there. In doing so I relieve at least some of the sexual tension of being a man.

Outwardly I seem pretty normal and well adjusted. I keep fit, have a satisfying and meaningful day job and maintain a strong network of good and trusted friends. These friends occasionally try to introduce me to woman but nothing sticks from blind dates and dinner party introductions. Now my friends mostly accept I am content with my solitude and my writing.

But on this day everything changes when you glide onto my carriage.

What I notice first is your lips. Painted with the most blood red lipstick I have ever seen. Against the backdrop of the grey drabness of the train and its commuters your lips hit me like a comet.

Thankful I am sitting with my black sunglasses on as I do everyday. This gives me a detached air and allows me to obverse passengers as fuel for my stories. Now I watch and take you in.

Your head is crowned with auburn hair, with the slightest traces of silver. Your eyes are hidden behind big, black sunglasses. Your face is thin, but definitely not gaunt. High cheekbones and a soft but slightly pointed chin complete a striking and sultry face.

Your slim and toned body is dressed in a sleeveless black dress that ends just above your knees. Your legs are wrapped is sheer black stockings. Feet trapped in patent leather shoes, with moderate heels. Over your dress you have draped a soft knee-length red leather coat. It is almost the colour of your lipstick. It hangs a little off one shoulder. Your pale skin against the black of your dress and the red of your jacket sends a shudder through my body.

You find a seat facing me on the opposite side of the aisle three rows away. You sit regally behind your sunglasses and red lips. Your legs are held tightly together and angled towards the aisle. From behind my sunglasses I watch you, taking in your entire image, for the rest of the journey. You, I say to myself, I am going to write about you.

At my station you get off, too. You leave the carriage before me and then are gone. I catch a glimpse of you as you float through the crowd, your hair bouncing deliciously on your shoulders.

That day at work – I am an economist working for a large bank – my thoughts turn to you frequently. I wonder if seeing you was a once off. I hope not. I need more time to observe you so I can use you in my next story.

The next morning you are there on the train again. Same lipstick and sunglasses but different clothes. You look even more stunning. You find the same seat as the previous day. I cannot believe my luck. I take in your features and store them away for later use. The jewelry you wear, the shape of your nose. How you stand and sit. And the way your breasts hug the fabric of your clothes.

This continues for the rest of the week. Everyday you join my carriage with the same lipstick and sunglasses. By Friday I have more than enough in my mind about you, so I return a little reluctantly to my story writing.

The next week you are there again. I always spend some time looking at you – it is a very lovely way to start the journey but I spend most of the journey working on a new story that features you. You become a feature of my daily commute. I see you in each morning on the train. But never in the afternoon.

On the Friday of the second week you are on the train on my way home. Strange, I think. This is the first time I have seen you in afternoon. It is a bit in a disorientating.

We come to the station where you get on in the mornings. You stay on the train. Very strange, I think. We get to my station and I stand to leave. You follow me off the train.

As I walk along the platform I can hear your heels clicking on the tiled surface behind me. Then you speak, ‘Excuse me. Can I speak to you?’ Your voice has an almost arrogant tone as if no one would refuse your requests.

I swallow hard and turn around. This beautiful and mysterious woman who I watched intently and with quiet desire for two weeks has followed me. And now wants to talk to me.

I stop and turn around. ‘Me?’

‘Yes. You. I want to ask you something?’

‘What’s this about?’ I try to sound aloof and a bit surprised. But in fact I am excited. My heart is racing.

‘I am very curious. What are writing each morning on the train? You work so intently. I have watched you for two weeks. And I have seen you watching me, too.’

We are both still wearing our sunglasses. I am grateful for this - my eyes would reveal great anxiety and a little fear.

‘I am an author. Well, a part-time author. I use the morning trip to work on my stories.’

‘And what are your stories about?’ You take a cigarette and begin to smoke. You have an attitude that I will tell you anything you ask. My pulse quickens at this thought.

But I resist. ‘I am not sure I want to tell you - Miss ? - about my stories. They are personal and, to be frank, you are a complete stranger.’

‘Not a complete stranger. Like I said, I know you have been watching me for the last two weeks. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if I am now a character is one of your stories.' You drag deeply on your cigarette and exhale with dramatic effect. 'The way you looked at me for the first four days.’ Your tone is a little playful, a little cruel, but totally exciting for me.

There is an uncomfortable silence. A stand off. We are alone on the train station. It is about 6 pm and the sun is setting. ‘If you want to know more for your stories, come with me.’ You turn and begin to walk away. I follow out of the train station. You hail a taxi. We hop in and travel back your house.

Your home is grand and stylish. Once inside I sit in an over-stuff leather armchair in your large lounge room. It is an opulent home. Heavy curtains are drawn. Beautiful Persian rugs cover the floor. A lamp bathes the room in soft low light. ‘How about a drink? Gin and tonic?’ These are the first words you have spoken to me since leaving the train station.

Even here inside the house your eyes are still hidden by your big, black sunglasses. With quiet grace you remove your glasses with your slender hands.

To finally see your eyes is a real and unique thrill. I have speculated from two weeks about their shape. But mostly I have been desperate to know their colour.

Smoldering, under eyelids dusted with dark grey eye shadow, are the most brilliant emerald green eyes. They twinkle with mystery and mischief.

‘Your eyes are green,’ I say dumbly.

You smile – with your mouth and eyes – and slightly shake your head, amused by this statement of the obvious. ‘Have you been wondering about my eyes?’

‘Yes.’

‘And other things?’ you ask. You are busy fixing the gin and tonics now with your back to me.

‘Yes.’

‘What things?’ You hand me my drink in a heavy tumble. I look into the glass hoping to find something in there to help. The green wedge of lime reminds me of your eyes. I am drawn back to your face to study your eyes again.

I drink almost half the drink in one gulp. You sip yours gingerly.

You sit in an armchair opposite me. We are separated by a heavy glass coffee table. A marble cigarette box and brass lighter sit on the table. This set up has the characteristics of a psychiatrist consulting room. There is intimacy but it seems contrived. I feel I might have been lured into some odd trap.

‘I have wondered about you, too,’ you say. You select a cigarette and take your time to light it. ‘You strike quite a pose sitting on the early morning train – black sunglasses, headphones, that steel computer. Dark shirts and slim body.’ You have finished your drink and stand to pour another.

‘I’ll tell you things about me, but you must tell me about your writing.’ I have finished my drink and your hand me another. ‘Agreed?’ I nod, feeling more relaxed due to the gin.

‘So first – the genre, the style? What do your write about?’

‘Erotica. Erotic romance.’

‘I see. Mmmm.’ You do not seem surprised or even a little shocked. ‘And how … um … explicit are these stories?’

‘Very explicit,’ I say.

You stare intently at me as I reveal this fact. You drag deeply on your cigarette. The rest of your face appears emotionless. But you narrow your eyes and I see the mischief that flashed first when you removed your glasses. Half way through my second drink, I am beginning to enjoy this and where it might be going.

‘Do you write this erotica for business or pleasure?’

‘Both. I am published in a couple of books. I have two of my own.’

‘Well, that must be nice. Fans? Groupies? Do woman throw themselves at you during book signings?’

‘Sadly, no. A fan letter now and then.’

‘Okay. Your turn. Ask me something.’ You fold your legs. One shoe hangs partly off your upper foot. This is an odd and charged game.

‘Your lipstick. The brand? The colour? I … I … it is incredible.’ I am babbling foolishly. First about your eyes and now about your lipstick. You seem amused and a little charmed by my lack of tact and blunt boyishness.

‘It is rather nice, isn’t it?’ You reach into a handbag and toss me your lipstick. A black tube, imported from the US. The colour – Candy Apple Red.

‘Keep it- its yours,’ you say. ‘My turn – have you written me into a story yet?’

I do not hesitate. I feel compelled to answer any question you ask almost without thinking. ‘Yes – my current story.’ I swallow hard and look at the red Persian rug at my feet immediately regretting that I have given up this fact so easily. ‘You … you are the central character.’

‘Mmmm. Do you have the story on your computer with you?’ Yes, I nod. ‘Please – read it to me.’

I reach into my bag and withdraw the black leather sleeve that holds the computer. As I open the machine your phone beeps - a text has arrived. You read it, smiling. It is the first time I have seen you smile. It reveals warmth I have not seen before. It also reveals your true age. On the train, and under the cover of the sunglasses, I thought you about thirty-five years old. Now I think you are closer to forty-five. You have a wonderful, experienced (if somewhat corrupt) look about you. Someone who has really lived, and lived without compromise.

‘I am sorry – story time will have wait. You will need to leave now.’

You walk we to the door and nod a good bye.

I am left to walk back to the street and look bewildered for a taxi home.

Over the next week I do not really think about you. Well, that is not entirely correct. I think a lot about the ‘you’ in my current story. And I see you each morning on the train. But we do not talk and I do not really ponder our strange meeting at your house.

On Friday afternoon you are on the homeward bound train. Again you hop off at my station. As you walk pass me on the platform you say, ‘Shall we?’

At your house gin and tonics are poured. You light a cigarette. You are wearing the dress you wore the first time I saw you – the small, black cocktail number. It is eerie because this is the vision I always have in my mind’s eye when I think of you.

‘You first today – a question, about anything,’ you say.

I thought I knew what was I was going to ask - a very confronting question. About your favourite sex position or oral sex. Something to meet your confidence head-on. Instead I blur out, ‘The text last week. The one that terminated our little meeting. Who was that from? What was it about?’ I am surprised by the tone of the question – it borders on anger and even jealousy. You are noticeably surprised, but amused too. You raise an eyebrow, smile, taking a deep drag on your cigarette.

‘You could have asked me anything. For details to help your writing. Or your masturbation, maybe. And I am ready to answer anything you ask.’ You sip your drink, but a little deeper than before. You brush your auburn hair from you forehead and swallow.

‘The text was from my son – my adult son. He is twenty-two. Very handsome. Very tall. He is having some woman problems and wanted my advice. And some guidance.’

My mind races. A son? Then a husband? Or a divorce? I open my mouth to ask about such things.

‘Not so fast.’ You labour each word is a quiet but assertive manner. ‘That was two questions from you and two answers from me. My turn.’

I sit back. I uncross my legs and rest my hands behind my head. I have a short sleeve short on and my biceps flex a little. I catch you looking at them. Again your face is unemotionally, but mischief plays in your eyes. I am determined to meet your questions like you meet mine – with open, direct honestly … regardless of the cost.

When it comes your question is benign: ‘Beyond your writing, what do you do?’

‘I am economist for one of the big banks. I mainly model investment patterns and international capital flows.’

‘Are - economics, the dismal science.’ I try not to wince. I am quite used to this jibe. ‘So you are the science and maybe I am the art.’ I lean forward a little and frown slightly. ‘I work in finance but in investment banking. I own a small but very successful company that manages pension funds and the like. This place’, you gesture towards your lounge room and it’s trapping, ‘is a result of my investing. More art than science, I say.’

You stand and pour us both another drink. ‘Now you again. Anything.’ You lean with your hands on the bar facing me. This makes your body elongated. You cross you ankles. This makes the black cocktail dress hug your body tightly. Your hipbones are pronounced and jut out. Your breasts are clearly outlined under your dress. They are pert and firm and rise and fall with your breathing. The outlines of your nipples under the fabric charge the room with get sexual energies.

‘From a man – what do you want?’

‘Well, from a man a woman can want, need, many things. But given the topic of your writing, I assume you ask me what I want in my um … intimate relations with a man?’ You maintain the same position against the bar: seemingly open, confident, uncompromising. Only your breathing – a little faster now and shallower – indicates that this question could be difficult to answer. I nod my head slowly.

‘I want to dominate my lovers. And sometimes … I want them to dominate me.’ I wait, breathlessly, for some elaboration. Some details. Knots of tension grip me. My shoulder, thighs, neck clench up. I am wound like a spring. I drink the remaining gin in one gulp. It helps little.

‘And you,’ you fire back, ‘What do you like?’

‘I like many things. Sometimes too many things for one person, I think.’ Speaking – openly, honestly – releases some of the knots of tension in my body. ‘I love to watch; to speculate; to drink in a woman’s image. I f0cus on one feature. Then imagine every erotic possibility.

‘Your lips, for example.’ I get, a little unsteadily, out of the armchair and fix myself a third drink. You smile at this boldness. I stand close to you as you continue to lean on the bar. Your nipples appear more pronounced, erect. Maybe it is because I am close. Or maybe this banter is having an effect on them.

‘The erotic possibilities of your lips, painted in that lipstick, seem boundless.’

‘Have you written about my lips in your story?’ You voice is lower now. Gone is the arrogant and demanding tone. You seem to almost plead with me now.

‘Yes – I have written at length about your lips. The shape, texture, smells. What they look like pressed down hard into a soft pillow.’ As I speak these words your eyelids flutter shut like a calming narcotic has been injected into your blood.

With one hand you hitch up your dress, pulling it over your hips and then your waist. Black panties separate your torso and legs. Delicate. Darkly luminous. The edges are fringed with exquisite lace. The detail and attention to detail is luxurious. They hug your lower stomach and thighs like the wrapping paper of an erotic jewel. Your hipbones, outlined earlier by your dress, are like two pegs that give the panties a place to hang and hug.

I watch helplessly. I have no idea what to say or do. I can only gaze in rapture at this unveiling of your body.

Your eyelids are almost shut. The green of you irises are just visible under heavy, grey eye shadow. The mischief is gone but the mystery is amplified one hundred fold.

Your slender hand finds the top of your panties and slips inside the rich fabric in a smooth, cool motion. Your fingers travel slowly down. Your iridescent lips part as your mouth opens a little. You let out a gentle but throaty coo as your fingertips find your clitoris.

‘Go on,’ you slur. Your voice is soft but insistent ‘More. I need you to tell me more.’

I lean a little closer so I can lower my voice further – not quite a whisper, just a low, soft voice I direct into your ear. With one hand I reach the zip down the back of your dress and begin to pull it down. Under the sound of your low cooing I can hear the teeth of the zip unclenching as it moves down your back.

‘Your lips - so sweet, so full. Capable of such tenderness and pleasure. And such cruelty and pain.’ I tug harder on the zip for the last two works. Your one hand grips the bar hard; your other hand works your clitoris in smooth, deep circles. Your eyes flutter open and shut with your pleasure.

The zip is fully down now. I peal your dress off your shoulders and it fall away like a giant black petal. The dress now encircles your midriff. It is like some gentle, black scarf to warm your belly. The fabric shimmers in the soft lamplight.

You bra matches your panties. Your entire body is draped in black, erotically charged materials: bra, dress, panties and shoes. The contrast against your pale skin is stark, blunt and beautifully contrived. Like nothing else would do.

‘Your lips,’ I continue, ‘I imagine them doing many things: sleeping softly on a towel at the beach; sipping milky hot coffee with friends at an outdoor café; clamped down on a cigarette drawing in its blue smoke.’ I pause and encircle your waist tightly with one arm. ‘But mostly … I think about your painted lips engulfing my stiff cock.’

At these words your movements on your clitoris suddenly become stronger, more intense. Your other hand leaves the bar and gropes for my cock through the fabric on my pants. After a few stabs your hand finds it – it is hard and pressed hard against the fabric of my pants. Once you locate my cock you settle a little and just squeeze it. Your eyelids flutter open and search my face for my eyes. When our eyes lock you smile – a languid and cool smile, full of warmth and intent. Still looking into my eyes you slid off the bar and down towards my cock.

Crouching in front of me both hands work to unzip my fly. You pull my cock and balls out. The zip is grasped again and tugged up - a little violently. It bites the bottom of my balls. I yelp quietly and jump a little. You smile at this effect. My cock and ball are griped tightly by the mechanism of my fly. I stiffen further in this trap.

One hand grips the base of my cock. You drive your thumb hard into the under side on the tubes that carry the semen and urine out of my body. This pressure continues until I wince and shudder in pain. At this signal you take my cock in your mouth.

I watch as it gradually disappears between the painted lips I have lusted after for weeks. Your lipstick is smeared over the head of my cock – the bright red of the lipstick and the engorged purple of the head of my cock mix into an erotic swill like some deranged painting. Your white teeth flash against this mess of colours. Your eyelids open and shut showing the green, black and while of your eyes. Your auburn hair, with its delicious streaks of silver, fall on and off you face as you move your head up and down on my cock. The hair is like some erotic curtain hiding and then revealing a most sensual and deeply personal connection between you and I.

And then my cock is out of your mouth. I am brought back to the room with a bump – I was away, loss in the intense and deeply gratifying sensation of having my cock sucked in a slow and deliberate manner by your warm and wet mouth.

You stand and walk to one of the armchairs. Slowly you sit down on the arm of the chair and then recline. The arm is just wide enough to give you a comfortable platform to spread out on. It is just high enough for your feet, still trapped in high heels, to rest comfortably. You put your hands behind your head and simply say, ‘Come here.’

You sit up and unbutton my shirt. I start on my pants but you say, ‘No. Leave them on.’ Shirtless, but with my cock and balls sticking out of the tight opening in my fly you created, you recline again with your hands behind your head.

As my cock advances slowly on the opening to your body I drink in this most erotic view. Your auburn hair forms almost a halo under your head and neck. Your pale skin is dusted here and there with tiny freckles and small moles – the randomness and chaos of these markings is in beautiful contrast to the perfect symmetry of your arms, legs and breasts.

Your black underwear remains unspeakably stunning – it actually takes my breath away. I manage to gently and with great care shift your panties to one side to expose your sex.

My intent, and what I sensed you wanted now, was my cock inside you. But the sights of your sex draws me down helplessly to me my knees. My tongue and lips drink you in. The warmth pouring out of your body through your sex drugs me – I am enslaved to the taste, the texture, smell. I am like a baby at a breast: completed enthralled and unable to get enough.

But your pull me away and up. I stand over you with my cock posed to enter your body. There is a moment when it is just right to seek your final permission. No words or anything else are necessary. We look into each other’s eyes – and I know it is okay.

With my hands on your waist holding you in firmly but gently I move my hips forward. My cock glides in. Your hands reach forward and grip my wrist. Your head is turned to one side, lips parted. You sigh deeply and arch your back to meet my long, deep thrust.

Our love making in this position is prolonged and truly has a life of its own. You move and I move and this continual motions sets up an erotic feedback loop. Your small gestures – a bit lip, a broken work, a sigh – compels me to touch you gently, thoughtfully, deeply.

Our orgasms come – me first, and then you. We roll off the arm of the longue and onto the floor to rest on one a deep, red Persian carpet. Without talking we find the perfect posture to enjoy the narcotic effect of our bliss – me on my back, you nestled into my shoulder, one leg slung over my waist and thigh. Our breathing is deep and steady. Our hearts beat almost in sync. Maybe they are. We drift together. Nothing matters. Nothing matters.

I wake in the early hours of the morning alone on the carpet but covered in a cool, heavy cotton blanket. I panic a little and search the entire house for you. When I cannot find you I move to the couch and try to sleep. Around dawn I search again. When it is clear you are nowhere to be found I leave and head home.

On Monday you are there on the train again. The following morning your are there again. We do not now speak. I type. You sit. We both hide behind out sunglasses. And you behind that lipstick. You join me every morning that week.

On Friday afternoon I get off at my station. As you pass me on the platform your heels click. You say, ‘Shall we?’