Sex on train

The desert at night, from thirty thousand feet, is a vast expanse of nothingness punctuated by the occasional, defiant cluster of lights. It was a view I knew intimately, a tapestry of darkness I’d grown accustomed to during my layovers in Dubai. But tonight, I was earthbound, hurtling through a different kind of darkness on the night train from Paris to Milan. The rhythm of the wheels on the tracks was a familiar lullaby, a sound that usually promised a few hours of rest between destinations. The compartment was a study in subdued luxury, all polished wood and soft, indirect lighting, a world away from the chaotic energy of the airports I called my office.

I had just settled into my birth, the crisp linen cool against my skin, when the couple across the aisle drew my attention. He was, in a word, arresting. Not merely handsome, but possessed of a quiet, formidable assurance that seemed to anchor the very space around him. He was dressed in a impeccably tailored suit, the jacket now discarded, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and a watch that was both elegant and functional. His companion, a lovely woman with a bored expression, was already engrossed in a film on her tablet, her headphones sealing her in a private world.

My professional demeanor, a shield I wore as naturally as my uniform, remained intact. I offered a brief, polite nod, the universal language of travellers sharing a temporary space, before turning my attention to my own book. Yet, I could feel the weight of his gaze. It was not the leering, vulgar stare one sometimes endures; it was something far more potent. It was an appraisal, a slow, deliberate study that moved over the lines of my body, discernible even through the elegant drape of my silk saree. Each glance felt like a physical touch, a whisper of possession that bypassed all rational thought and spoke directly to something primal within me. A faint, traitorous heat began to bloom low in my abdomen. The presence of other passengers, the soft snores from further down the carriage, were a thin veneer of civilization over the sudden, thrilling tension that had ignited between us.

Hours bled into one another. The train plunged through tunnels, the sudden blackness outside the window reflecting a version of myself—composed, elegant, Kika Grey, flight attendant for Emirates—whose eyes were wide with a secret anticipation. The couple eventually retired, the woman first, followed by him after casting one last, lingering look in my direction that left no doubt as to its intention. The compartment lights dimmed further, casting the carriage into a mosaic of shadows and slumbering forms. I lay perfectly still, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs, every sense hyper-aware. The novel lay forgotten on my chest.

I heard the soft rustle of movement before I saw him. The curtain of my birth was drawn aside with a quiet confidence that stole my breath. He didn’t speak a word. He simply slid onto the narrow berth beside me, his body a long, solid line of heat against my side. The alarm that flashed through my system was immediately, overwhelmingly, subsumed by a wave of pure arousal. His muscular thigh pressed against mine, the warmth of him seeping through the thin silk of my saree. I could smell the faint, clean scent of his skin, a mix of sandalwood and something uniquely masculine. My mind screamed a warning, but my body, traitorously, arched a fraction of an inch closer.

His hand, large and sure, found its way beneath the folds of my saree. There was no fumbling hesitation, only a deliberate, knowing intent. When his fingers made contact with the delicate silk of my panties, a jolt of pure lightning seared through me. The sensation was so intense, so shockingly direct, that my hips bucked involuntarily against his hand. A orgasm, swift and devastating, ripped through me with the force of a sudden squall. It was embarrassingly, wonderfully fast, a convulsive release that left me trembling and utterly exposed, a dampness spreading through the silk that was proof of my complete lack of control. A soft, choked sound escaped my lips, which he silenced by lowering his head and capturing my mouth in a deep, consuming kiss.

His taste was dark and addictive. He didn’t ask for permission; he took, and I gave, my own hunger rising to meet his. I was no passive doll, but an active, willing participant in this madness. My hands came up to grip his shoulders, feeling the powerful muscles shift beneath his shirt as he moved over me. He broke the kiss to lavish attention on my breasts, his mouth hot and wet through the fabric of my blouse, his tongue circling a nipple until it was a hard, aching peak. I bit my lip, suppressing a moan that threatened to become a cry, the effort making my entire body tense.

With a practiced ease that spoke of a formidable confidence, he gathered the fabric of my saree, pushing the pleats up to my waist. The cool night air whispered against my damp skin for a fleeting second before he was there, the hard, insistent pressure of his erection pressing against my entrance. He entered me in one smooth, relentless stroke that stole the air from my lungs. I was filled so completely, so perfectly, that I could only gasp, my nails digging into the hard muscle of his back.

He began to move, a rhythm that was both punishing and exquisite. The world narrowed to the confines of that narrow berth, to the sound of our ragged breathing and the soft, rhythmic creak of the train’s suspension matching the pace of his thrusts. He was powerful, each movement driving me further up the cot, his weight crushing me in the most delicious way. I wrapped my legs around his waist, locking my ankles at the small of his back, pulling him deeper still, meeting each of his thrusts with a roll of my own hips. The formal, sophisticated language that usually defined my world evaporated, replaced by a raw, physical poetry of grunts, skin on skin, and the slick, wet sound of our joining.

The pleasure built again, a coiling, unbearable tension deep within my core. I was hurtling towards the edge, my senses overwhelmed by him—the scent of his sweat, the taste of his skin, the sight of his focused, intense expression above me. When my second climax shattered me, it was with a silent, seismic intensity that rendered me boneless, my body convulsing around his in wave after wave of exquisite sensation. He followed moments after, his own control breaking with a guttural groan muffled against my neck, his body shuddering as he spilled himself deep inside me.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of our labored breathing and the steady, unchanging rhythm of the train. Then, with the same quiet efficiency with which he had arrived, he withdrew. He adjusted his clothing, his movements calm and collected, as if he had just concluded a business meeting rather than a frantic, world-altering coupling. He looked down at me, my saree in disarray, my body still humming with the aftershocks, and his lips curved into a small, knowing smile. He leaned down, pressed a final, surprisingly soft kiss to my forehead, and then was gone, slipping back through the curtain to his own life.

I lay there, utterly spent, staring at the ceiling as the first faint hints of dawn began to lighten the sky. The scent of sandalwood and sex clung to the air, a testament to what had transpired. He had been a stranger, a phantom of the night train, but for those stolen minutes, he had been everything. And as the train carried on towards Milan, I knew the memory of his weight, his possession, would linger long after the scent had faded.