Chapter 1
I have been wondering just when my escape began. It might be claimed that it began only when I went to the window and purchased my ticket for the train. On the other hand, the impetus for that act came during my few minutes of browsing in a Left Bank bookshop, where I found the album of magnificent photographs of the Alps. And why did I go into the bookshop? The rain, the cold, the bleak and brittle air of another evening drove me into its lighted recess. So perhaps one might say that it was the weather which caused it all. I am sure I would not have indulged myself in my half-formed plan had I not awoken the next morning to discover that the rain had turned to snow and that flakes were still puffing down from a low sky. It was the snow which triggered the memory of those impossible alpine peaks, and it was the memory which sent me out, only half-certain of what I was doing, to buy a ticket on the next train. This was, for me, a moment of exceptional daring. I was departing from my itinerary in a way which ordinarily I would have thought entirely irresponsible. Should the office try to contact me during the week, they would be dismayed to find me gone. My bags were still piled in the entrance hall of the apartment I had borrowed, but no one in the entire world knew where I was right now, and they would not be able to find me for an entire week.
The snow was wet, slushy. It clung to the edges of the walks, but passing footsteps had trodden it into water along the paths themselves. The city seemed quiet, however, because of the muffling effect of the snow, and there was something intensely pleasing about walking to the station through the sharp air, my rucksack upon my back, my freedom before me. Seven days!
"A Geneve?"
"Oui, M'sieur. A la droit."
"Merci bien."
I pushed out of the station into a world of tracks and steam. None of the snowflakes penetrated so far under the canopy as the ends of the lines, but the daylight out where the engines waited was muted by its curtain of white. The air smelled of iron, and dust, and oil. Voices, the whistles of the porters, the rumble of wheels under the baggage trucks, these sounds created a romantic din. Disengaging myself from the crowd, I paused at a stall and bought four or five oranges. I began casually to peel one as I looked about me. The expanse of gleaming rails and chuffing engines was crowded with travelers bustling about. Our Geneva train was due to leave in twenty-five minutes, and many of this crowd seemed to be going with me to the mountains. The luggage cars were loaded with skis. Some travelers already wore their brightly colored ski jackets and caps. We were a cheerful group, streaming along the platform, calling out to friends, herding children. I started to eat an orange as I made my own way down the long line of wagons-lit which made up our train. In one of these was a compartment all my own.
Switzerland! A land grown fat on chocolate, grown slumberous to the ticking of cuckoo clocks. Arrogant, rich, beautiful Switzerland, full of lakes, and slopes, and peace. Up there, above the turmoil, above the wars, above the struggling small passions of men and machines, I was going to a land which is out of this world. And no one knew I was going. As I climbed up into my wagon-lit and was shown to my compartment, I was swept once again with astonishment over what I was doing. Never in my life had I done anything before I checked every detail. Never had I gone anywhere without leaving behind an itinerary. And here I was, actually boarding a train which would take me through the rest of the afternoon and the night, high up into Switzerland. I had only bought the ticket this very morning! It was a whim. It was crazy. I knew no one in Switzerland. I had no hotel reservation. I had no plans. I carried almost none of my luggage. What was I going to do when I got there? I was tossing aside the habits of a life. I was acting like a callow youth, like those college students and hippies with their beads and their painted clothing. For a moment, I now regret to report, I actually toyed with the idea of throwing the whole thing up. I could return to the apartment. No one would know of my failure. I could tell my self I had been to see a movie.
Thank God, I did no such thing!
Instead, after my moment's hesitation, I unpacked the few things I might need during the journey. I laid out my oranges, my bread and cheese, my two bottles of beer, my toiletries, and my Homer. I pulled out a sweater and put it close to hand. Finally, I opened the window just a bit to allow the voices and the whistles to come to me. Then I sat down upon the settee. I was ready. We could go to Switzerland, and I was prepared to enjoy myself on the way. Carefully, I barred my mind from wondering what would happen when I arrived. I anticipated, yes-I allowed myself that-but I did not worry. I picked up Homer.
Presently, there came a shriek of steam. This was followed by a whistle. The cars jerked once, twice. A voice was heard calling something. Another voice answered. I put down my book and stood before the window, hands in pockets, watching the station and the crowds as we jerked once again, and they began to move away from me. Very slowly, there came the first clickety-clack of the wheels. We had started.
I opened the window all the way and leaned my elbows on it. I watched forward as we moved out of the covered station toward the late afternoon light. People waved as we gathered speed. Shouted farewells echoed in the clammy air. Suddenly, a flurry of snow blew into my face and a downdraft brought me the smell of our exhaust. We were out in the snowstorm now, moving easily through the backyard of Paris. Seen from the tracks, cities are never at their best, nevertheless the haphazard, down-at-the-heels aura of this side of a city has always pleased me. Here, there is no showing off. This is just life: rough-and ready, turbulent, unsentimental.
A shouted greeting made me turn my head. A woman was hanging out of the window of the compartment behind mine. She was smiling at me, and she waved a buoyant hand. I saw only that she was beautiful, dark, with a tanned face. Curly black hair escaped from underneath a yellow stocking cap. Her throat was swathed in a black-and-yellow scarf, and the collar of her coat was turned up.
"Hello," I called over the chugging of the engine.
"Wonderful, isn't it?"
"Yes. Cold though."
"It'll be colder where we're going."
I realized suddenly that we were speaking French.
"I hope so," I answered.
"So do I. It'll be exciting to be back"
"Back ?"
"Yes. To Switzerland."
"Oh. You live there?"
"Yes. And you?"
"I'm an American."
"You speak beautiful French."
"Thank you."
I was trying hard to think of something more to say which would keep this attractive woman's attention when she gave me an airy wave and ducked back inside the window. I stepped back inside my own as well, and shut it thoughtfully. Perhaps I could knock on our connecting door and invite her to share an orange and some cheese? But what would we talk about? She had seemed gay enough for a minute there, but perhaps she was married. Maybe her husband had been right there beside her all the while.
I was, you see, feeling acutely conscious of the fact that I had made only one sexual conquest during the course of my vacation in romantic Paris, and that had been of a brunette whore in Place Pigalle. The assignation had cost me seventy-five francs, and it had been brightened by only one human moment. As I was following my whore upstairs in her rickety hotel, another man, dressed just like me in heavy overcoat and cap, was following his whore downstairs. The stairs were narrow, and we were forced to turn sideways and brush each other's stomachs in order to pass. Only for one second did our eyes meet, but there was more communication during that small intimacy on the stairs than there was in the next whole hour of clutching and fumbling with my pneumatic young woman.
There didn't seem to be any way of opening a further conversation with this woman and being graceful at the same time, so I sat down instead and picked up Homer. Outside my window, the buildings became fewer. Now and then, there were fields, mottled with the melting, wet snow, and the trees began to come back into their own. The engine picked up speed. Under me, the wheels settled into their industrious and soothing music. I began to nod over Homer. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack. The vibration of our passage swept over me. I was warm, comfortable, alone. How long I sat, I do not know. The wheels rumbled on. Now and then, I looked out, and I saw that the daylight was growing dimmer, more and more blue, and then, soon enough, there didn't seem to be much daylight at all. The tracks curved one way and then the other. Now we climbed a little. Now we descended. Now we slowed as we made our way through some town or other. Through the sleep I was pulling around myself like a cloak, long cries from the horn seeped into my dreams.
I had lain down, covering myself with a blanket, and my mind flowed into the wheels of the train, echoing their clickety-clack, their never ending clickety-clack. Dimly, I heard the ringing of the dinner bell, but I had my food, and anyhow I was too warm to stir. I went back into the rails and the wheels, round and round, clickety-clack, clickety-clack. I realized that I had an erection. The constant vibration of the train, and the mesmerizing effect of the sound-not to speak of my warmth, my solitude, and my joy at escaping-all were combining to make everything very erotic in this hurrying darkness of a compartment somewhere out on the countryside of France. Slowly, as the wheels turned under me, I wound my way into a lubricious dream of hair trailing over me, lips brushing my skin, pale nipples rustling across my chest. I felt her naked arms smoothly flowing about my shoulders, felt her humid exhalations bathing my neck. Now, her mouth enclosed my whole ear, and soft, wet words were wafted against it. I felt the tip of her tongue following the words, pressing its heat against my ear hole, titillating the sensitive hairs around my ear. Delighted with her ministrations, I laid my hand gently upon my stiff cock and decided to employ some ministrations of my own. I slipped my zipper down and opened my belt. I wore no underwear, and my fingers were eager as they began lightly to dance upon my wide cockhead. My sex felt hot and fat in my hand, unusually so, and the pleasure of masturbating began to grow. I wrapped one hand around the long shaft and stroked it up and down. Ah! I was so stiff, so smooth, so easy for pleasure!
I felt my woman's mouth breathe softly down my neck. Her lips slid damply across my shoulder, her nostrils whuffling at me, her eyes closed. The tip of her tongue came to rest in the crease of my armpit, and gentle pressure forced my arm away from my side. First with faint fingertips, and then later with her tongue, she stroked and caressed the sensitive flesh she had exposed. Her fingers remained caressing in my tingling armpit while her lips slid across my chest and fastened on one nipple, sucking it, rubbing its small erection with her tongue. For a moment, I wished I had a woman's breasts for her to suck on, warm, soft mounds of white flesh which she might sink her face into, breathing perfume. But her excitations were transmitted from my nipple to my groin, each sweep of her tongue arousing my cock still farther, making my balls ache with their need to pump my hot sperm out in long, white gushes. Her tongue was making me forget the desirability of feminine breasts: my own were well enough. And now, as her head moved to the other nipple, her hand left my armpit and trailed down my side, raising goose bumps all the way to my hip. Her long, cool fingers settled over my own masturbating hand, and she gently encouraged my manipulations. With small cries of excitement, she urged me on, running her fingertips again and again over the widening eye at the end of my cock, feeling the welling of my slippery pre-come, spreading my effluvium across my whole, shining head. While she continued to enhance my masturbation, she placed her other hand behind my head and lifted my face toward her own. As my vision grew full of her wide forehead and dark, closed eyes, I felt her nipples and swaying breasts brush my chest. Her flesh flattened against me, and then our tongues met. I closed my eyes with the ecstasy of her wet tongue licking mine. She drank my saliva off my tongue, sipping it from the inside of my lips, running her tongue-tip along my smooth teeth. Our warm breath was mixing, flowing around our nostrils and cheeks. I felt her breathing hasten as she sensed my body grow increasingly excited. My masturbating hand was moving more quickly now. I felt myself beginning to climb toward an orgasm. I knew I was approaching the moment when my come juice would shoot again and again, lurchingly, wrenchingly, from the straining end of my cock. And as I knew it, so too did she, and her face rose above mine, away from our kiss. For a long moment, expressionlessly, she looked down into my feverish eyes. Her pupils were enormous, dark, compelling. She drew my mind up out of me and sucked it down into herself. I was lost in her. My vision clouded over as I felt the climax approach still nearer. Then her face was no longer above mine. For a moment I felt the movement of arms, the sliding of legs, and then, unendurably, I felt her hot lips and soft tongue close over the almost-coming end of my cock. A deep groan was forced from the recesses of my lungs. I heard myself begin to moan. I dropped my masturbating hand as she clasped the rigid base of my cock and her mouth began its hard, wet pumping over me. I no longer knew where my cock and her mouth were different flesh: it was all one, a wonderful, excruciating, building, hastening, coming, coming thing!
As her thirsty mouth sucked each hard blast of bitter semen and swallowed it down her aching throat, I felt my hand and my naked stomach flooded with that same semen as my masturbating achieved its end.
For long minutes then, as the train thundered under me, I lay in a kind of stupor. My cock slowly wilted in my hand, its last sperm running in a small stream out of its end and across my pubic hairs. I felt the warm, thick come I had jetted out across my belly grow liquid and run down my sides to soak into the settee. And, as I toyed with the idea of rising to clean myself, I slept.
I was awakened by gentle knocks on the connecting door between my own compartment and the one behind me. It took me a long time to rouse myself: the wheels seemed to have overcome me with their insistent music. I felt drugged, vague, as though nothing were quite understandable. The knocking ceased before I mustered attention enough to answer it, but I managed to call out a croaking, "Hello? Yes? What?"
"Excuse me," came a voice through the door.
"Yes. Just a moment." I swung my legs over the side of the settee and placed my feet on the floor. My heavy sleep would not go away. "I hear you. Just a minute."
"I don't want to disturb ... "
"No. No, I'm just coming."
I stood up and realized as I did so that my trousers were still open. Hastily, I covered my sticky and withered cock with my zipper, buckled my belt. As I stepped toward the door, I ran a fevered hand through disordered hair, trying vainly to shake off my befuddlement. "Yes. I'm just there."
It was she.
"Yes?" I asked. "Yes, what can I do for you?" And as I spoke, my barely stirring brain was flooded with an overpowering miasma of perfume. I closed my eyes against this invasion, for the scent was so thick it made them water.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "you were asleep."
"Yes." Courtesy was in short supply while I tried to rally my scattered attention.
"I'm so sorry."
"It's nothing. Please. What is it?"
"You see, I've been so stupid. I was opening the scent bottle, and, well, there was a jolt, and I've spilled everything. It's all over my clothes. It's awful." She wrinkled her nose. "I see you've noticed it."
"Yes." I blinked my eyes rapidly several times. "Yes, I had."
"Such a waste of good perfume, don't you think?"
"Um-"
"No. No, the point is that I've opened my window to let the air come in and clear it away. But there isn't enough draft, don't you see, and I thought maybe ... "
Her voice trailed away as she saw that I was not responding to her hint. My brain was maddening me with its refusal to function. I saw this lovely woman before me-a sort of vision in white and green, a Mediterranean luxury-and yet I was unable to gather any charm to myself. I was unable even to treat her politely.
Making an effort, I continued for her, "And you would like me to open my window as well, is that it?"
"Yes. Oh, I'm sorry for disturbing you." She adopted a very pretty expression of apology. "It's awful of me, I know, but you seemed so nice ... Well, what I mean to say is that I thought perhaps you would not have retired as yet, and ... "
"Yes. Yes, of course."
I turned away from her and walked to the window. Reaching up to pun it down, and the blast of rushing cold air which attacked me when I did so, served to revive me somewhat. I began, very slightly, to enjoy myself. I turned, and we were standing awkwardly, too close together, near the door. She broke the impasse by moving back into her room. The air blowing around me, and the gradual retreat of the waves of perfume, was having its effect.
"You're so kind," she said.
"Not at all. It's my pleasure."
"And you were asleep too."
"It was time for me to wake up. If I nap too long, you see, I have the devil's own time getting to sleep again at night."
"Really? You too? How interesting."
It wasn't interesting at all, but we chatted in this imbecilic manner for another few minutes while the perfume smell abated. Presently, I turned back into my compartment to close my window.
"I can't get this shut," she called from her room. "Can you help me?"
Let me tell you, there is nothing like getting injured in the chivalrous service of an attractive woman to break any ice which might remain between you. Just as I was slipping her window up, the train jolted severely across some points, and I was thrown toward the wall. My thumb caught in the track of the window, and the closing metal sliced its ball open. Immediately, blood spread across the glass, and I vented a pained yelp. And then, before I quite knew what had happened, I was seated on one of the settees of her compartment, carefully cleaned and bandaged, sipping a cool glass of Cinzano, and talking languidly but with feeling about the literature of Knut Hamsun, for which we both had a strong liking.
Her name was Marianne. She was Greek, and French was the only language we shared. My vocabulary was being tested severely by her literate discourse, yet I enjoyed the stretching of my linguistic muscles. Several times she complimented me on my French, saying that she had thought me foreign, yes, but not an American. If anything, she said, I spoke with a slight Spanish accent. Her compliments pleased me, and I accepted a second glass of wine.
Have I described Marianne already? Probably. But allow me to say that my first impression on the train was of her vivacity and her intentness of mind. She prattled on about Hamsun and other things while I watched her. Her mind lept from thought to thought with a wonderful impression of freedom from constraint. I admired her adeptness. Nor was I blind to her other qualities. As she sat across from me, lit only from behind by a shaded, yellow light, she seemed a perfect specimen of womanhood. I guessed then that she was in her late twenties, but it turned out that I under estimated her by four years: she was nearly my own age. The years did not seem to have troubled her particularly though, for her face and her body were as attractive as anyone might wish. A wide mouth, a flashing smile, which with her dark eyebrows and grey-green eyes made her features perfect. She was not beautiful in any standard sense of the word. Rather she was ... interesting, and, may I say, all the more beautiful for that. Her fingers were long and translucent as she held her chunky railroad glass, articulate in their movement. She wore no make-up that I could see. Her curly black hair framed a square oval face with an aquiline nose, and freckles. There was nothing of coquettishness about her. I felt her to be frank, and I realized that she had character. She was comfortably dressed. She wore an unbuttoned Irish cardigan over a tight grey jersey. Her breasts were large and unencumbered by a brassiere. Occasionally, as she grew especially animated about some point or other, her nipples erected, and I was treated to the sight of their hard prominence pressed against the cloth. Her ample hips and thighs were encased in light green lounging pants with widely flared legs. Being especially attracted to a shapely ass, I had not omitted to admire her rear view while we stood talking earlier, and I amused myself now by thinking of what an opulent big one it was.
I poured myself a third glass, drank deeply, and topped it off once more. The compartment had grown warm, and we lounged now with complete ease. In fact, what with the melody of the wheels always under me and the warmth of the aperitifs in me, I was verging on drowsiness once again. I responded less quickly and with less energy to Marianne's points. Eventually, I swung my legs up onto the settee and settled into a more comfortable, if less formal, position. Marianne did not seem to mind, however, for she took up a copy of Pan and began to read me a passage. Her softly burred voice fitted perfectly the northern, bleak prose. Hamsun's harsh words mixed with the sound of the train, and for the second time that evening I was swept away.
Her reading went on and on. Long since she had passed the portion she had intended to read to me. Now we were both enjoying the endless sound of her voice as she caressed the words.
I had noticed in my warm contentment that every now and then her voice faltered slightly, and that there was a short pause before she went on. I did not think anything of this, for the pace of her reading did not suffer from it, and the rhythm of the train in any case dominated my senses. Finally, however, an especially long pause caught my attention, and I opened my eyes to glance across the dim compartment at her. What I saw electrified me. Instantly, my heart began an almost painful pounding. Blood rushed to my head, and the sound of it roared in my ears. I found it increasingly hard to draw a full breath. My palms grew sweaty, and my armpits prickled.
For across from me, not six feet away, Marianne with casual elegance was masturbating her cunt!
One hand held the book before her face. Her head was leaning back on the arm of the settee. The light above her eyes shone down on her lovely mouth and throat, but it left the rest of her in near darkness. I saw though that one leg was drawn up along the back of the settee, bent at the knee, while the other was splayed wide and rested with her foot upon the floor. The swaying of our wagon-lit kept opening and closing this thigh somewhat, and perhaps it was that which originally excited her. Whatever it was that 'had caused such an astounding thing, I saw that Marianne was now completely absorbed in her slow masturbation. She had opened the zipper of her pants-it was in the position of a man's fly-and wormed her pants down off the first wide swelling of her hips so as to make more room for what her fingers were so busily doing at her hot center. I saw her naked belly-so soft, so round-below the waist of her jersey, and I saw laid over this the inward-turning elegant bend of her long, white wrist. Her fingers were away from my gaze, however, for they were inside a pair of whispy, pale panties. I saw that her knuckles were working in slow caresses: her, hand almost looking as though it were chewing and eating her cunt. Now and again, she squeezed her fleshy thighs tightly together, trapping her hand as it cupped her cunt, forcing her breath to wheeze from her lungs and her eyes to shut. I watched her face at one such moment, and I saw her mouth loll open with the pleasure of her hand rubbing her cunt. Her tongue came out and made its wet and shiny way across her lips.
I was stunned! I hardly dared breathe, not that I could with this terrific weight on my chest, for fear she might be startled out of her incredible revery. She must have forgotten my presence entirely. In some way, she had grown so wrapped up in Hamsun's words that she didn't know where she was. She was acting as though she were completely alone. My God, what would she do beyond this? Dare I hope that she might actually make herself come right before my eyes? I realized that my cock, newly aroused, was achingly stiff inside my trousers. Would she come? Oh, Jesus! How I longed to see more of her tantalizing cunt. Now and then, I caught a glimpse of stray, dark hair under her palm, and once, when she tipped her cunt slope ecstatically upward to meet her skilled fingers, I saw that her thatch was very wide and extended its dark triangle way upward toward her belly button. But perhaps she would slip her pants down some more. Perhaps if I were totally still ... Oh, Jesus! Oh, shit, what's this? She takes her hand from out of her cunt and I see it shiny and soft, her fingers coated with secretions, as she raises it to her face. In the yellow light, I watch her lay her masturbation-coated fingers under her nostrils and smell her own cunt odor. Am I fooling myself to think I can smell it as well? That acrid, sharp, musky smell in the air: is that her cunt? Marianne's cunt. The cunt of this woman, this stranger, who lies across from me and masturbates as she reads me pan? Oh, my God, what's going to happen? Does she know I'm here? Has she forgotten me? Does she know I'm watching her? Oh, Christ, if she should turn her head and see that I'm here! If she should remember me! Please, God, please, don't let her turn her head. Don't let her know I'm here. I want to watch her masturbate. Oh, I do! I want to see her hand in her cunt. I want to see her stroke and caress, and smooth, and hold her cunt until she has to come. I want to see her come! Oh, yes, oh, my God, yes. I want to see her come! Yes, there her fingers go, back in her cunt, down in her hairy, hot, wet, reeking, hungry cunt. Her pussy, her quim, her cunt! I'll bet it's so wet. Yes, I'll bet her cunt juice is flowing, wetting her panties, shining on her thighs, making her fat, hairy cuntlips slippery for her masturbating fingers, for her Oh! Is she looking at me. No. Yes! Is she? Oh, shit, is she? She is! I'm caught. What will I do? She sees me. Oh, Jesus Christ, what will I do?
"Are you alarmed?"
What? What did she say?
"Alex, are you all right?"
What is this? Her hand is still there! She's still masturbating! What kind of woman is this? What-
"I said, are you all right? Does this alarm you?"
"I ... "
"Yes? What?"
"I ... Well, I ... "
"I feel so dreamy tonight."
"Um ... "
"You needn't be upset, you know. I nearly always do this when I read. It makes me feel so good, you know, with the reading and all. And especially on a train. Trains are sensuous, don't you think so?"
"I don't know. I, well, I don't know."
Here she squeezed her thighs together once more, and again her eyes closed. Her face was a perfect picture of calm sensuality. She was completely undisturbed by my presence. Her hand moved caressingly over her damp sex, running its slippery fingers up and down in her hot, furry slit. A long sigh escaped her, and, when it was done, she looked back at me. "I'll stop. I won't do it anymore, if you object."
"No! No, I don't, I-"
"I find it so pleasant."
"Yes. I'm sure."
"I've always enjoyed it, my own body, my caresses. I like to do it frequently, for it makes me feel very fine."
I could only nod at this amazing manifesto.
"Such pleasure in my fingers!" She demonstrated this claim by widening her thighs even more and running her wrist the farthest I had seen it go down into her panties. A vivid picture of her long fingers probing down through her hot, wet, oozing folds toward her cunt hole swam up before my eyes, and I longed to be pressing my own fingers down that lubricious path.
As she recovered from the groan which her masturbatory probing elicited, she withdrew her hand from her panties and, putting aside the book, she made as though to slip her pants down farther off her hips. She hesitated though for an instant and glanced over at me. "You don't mind?"
I could only shake my head, too stunned to speak.
"You're certain? I don't want to discommode you."
Christ, wouldn't she ever take the thing off? Come on!
"Some people are embarrassed easily, but I don't think you're one of them. You aren't are you?"
"No!" I nearly shouted. "No, I'm not."
She smiled at me. "That's good," she said, and she directed a significant glance at my crotch, "for I see that you're not entirely disinterested."
Guiltily, I tried to disguise the huge tent my rigid cock was making in my trousers. "Urn, well ... "
She winked at me, and grinned, and then she simply slipped her pants right down and off!
My heart pounded so heavily I feared I might faint. My throat was constricted. My sex throbbed. I realized I was sweating profusely, and the smell of my nervous perspiration aroused me still farther. Would I die? I thought I might, but I didn't care. Oh, don't let her stop! Please don't let her stop. Make her keep going. Let me see her hairy cunt. Let me watch her come! Please! Ok, please!
With a contented sigh, Marianne lay back comfortably, her legs pressed together now. Saving her panties, she was naked from the waist down. Her feet were pointed, her calves and splendid thighs tensed with her excitement as she lay one hand upon the big, high mound of her cunt where it nestled fatly between her thighs, and with her other hand she squeezed one large breast. "Oh, Alex, this feels so good!"
Her panties hugged her cunt mound tightly, so tightly in fact that I could see the deep crease of her crack when she raised her hand off herself, but she was keen to make the wet nylon encase herself even harder. She pulled the front waistband of her panties up and up until the material sank stickily between her hairy, pouting lips, forcing them apart, and giving me my first real view of the wide, intimate, hairy flesh of her cunt. Reaching underneath herself, she pulled her panties up behind as well, making the hot nylon a tight band against her sensitive asshole. And now she pulled it alternately backward and forward, the juice-coated material rasping all the way from her asshole to her clit. Her legs began to writhe with the pleasure of it, and her torso humped and tensed.
"Oh, I could come," she began to moan. "I could just come! I love the way this feels. It feels so good. My cunt. Oh, my cunt! I love the way my cunt feels. I love to make it come! Oh, come. Oh, yes, to come! Oh, yes! Oh, yes!"
I thought she was actually going to come right then, but suddenly she stopped the motion of her maddening masturbation and looked across the room at me. She smiled. "Won't you pleasure yourself as I do?"
"But I ... "
"You would like to, wouldn't you ?"
"Well ... "
"It feels so very stiff in there, doesn't it?"
Her boldness in mentioning my cock made my heart beat even faster than it was already. What was going on here? I had never been this excited before. What kind of woman was this who reached out her creamy cunt-covered hands toward me and urged me to beat myself off so that she might watch me come?
"Marianne, I-"
"Yes?"
"Well-"
"Were you going to ask if you could touch yourself? Was that it?"
I wasn't even certain what I had been about to ask. Merely, I think, I had wanted to speak her name.
"You'd like to touch yourself now, wouldn't you, Alex? I can see that you would. That hard cock of yours in there is so very stiff. You'd like to take it out of your pants and stroke it, wouldn't you? Especially if you can watch me caressing myself too. Isn't that it? You'd like to watch me make love to myself with my fingers-I'm sure you would-while you stroke that long, hot cock of yours in your hand."
Her voice was mesmerizing me. It oozed on and on, through the atmosphere of the room, caressing my mind as her fingers were caressing her splayed, wet sex. She lay on her side, with one knee raised, and her hand was inside her sheer, soaked panties titillating her hard clit. Her eyes never left my face as she spoke to me.
"You may, you know. I'd like to take off my clothing now and make myself feel good for you. I'd like to. I have always liked doing that, and men have always liked watching me do it. It makes me happy to have you watch me with my fingers in my cunt. It's a nice cunt, don't you think? So hot, so hairy. And so big! Don't you think it's a big one? I like it because it's so big. And it gets so wet! My God, I'm wet right now. You wouldn't believe how slippery my cunt is right this minute."
With this, she withdrew her slowly masturbating hand from her panties and raised it once again to her face. I could see the light shining on the thick cunt water her fingers were coated with, and I nearly swooned when she smeared this slippery secretion upon her lips and around her nostrils. Her fingers then dipped into her flooding gash once more, and again she repeated the coating of her lips. As her hand slipped down her belly for the last time, her tongue came out, and very slowly, looking at me deliberately all the while, she licked her cunt juice off her own lips.
"I love the taste of my cunt, and the smell! Can you smell it? Perhaps you can. It's a wonderful smell, isn't it'? It makes me so excited, that smell.
It makes me know that I'm going to come soon. To come! And I love so much to come. I want you to watch me come, Alex. I want to make myself come right here before you so that you can see my fingers rubbing down in my hot, red slit. You'll like it, I know you will. You'll adore the sight of me with my hands up in my cunt and my orgasms chasing over me. I can make myself come again and again, you know. Over and over again. And each one is better than the one before. Each time I come it gets better. Oh, to come! Oh, Alex, I'm so close to coming right now! It feels so very good, my cunt in my hand, my wetness, my hairy lips, my tight, stiff clit in my fingers! Oh, Christ, Alex, I'm so close!"
Again, she slowed herself down. She removed her hand from her sex and laid it under her nose. With closed eyes, she inhaled her own heavy odor. But then again she looked across at me.
"I'm going to make love to myself, yes, but I want you to do the same thing. I want to see that hot cock in your hand, and I want to see your white juice come spurting out of its end. I love to watch it come bursting out that way. Perhaps you would make it splash on me, on my hands as they stroke my cunt. Would you like that? Would you like to come all over me? I have a beautiful body. You could come across my big tits, and between them, and all over my belly. You could pump your hot come onto my cunt and my masturbating hands. I love to feel hot spurts of come raining down on me. It makes me come to, to feel those wet splashes of your come. It makes me come. Oh, so soon to come!"
I was putty in her hands. I could not have refused her for anything, nor did I want to. I stood and dropped my pants down my legs. I kicked off my shoes and socks, and then I too was naked below the waist. I was acutely aware of my cock swaying stiffly in the light as I moved around and I realized that her eyes never left its long beauty.
"Ah, there it is! That's what I've been waiting for. There's that long, hot cock of yours. How proud you must be of it, so stiff, so fat. Why, you can hardly get your hand around it!"
I had sat down by this time, and, encouraged both by her eyes and the fact that she had commenced masturbating once more, I closed my hand around my cock and began to beat it off with, to me, almost unbelievable pleasure.
"Take off your shirt too."
"Yes."
"Oh, you have such a chest! What muscles. And so hairy. I've always liked hairy men."
I couldn't remove my eyes from the sight of her hand cupping and caressing inside her panties. I could smell the nervous, aroused sweat in my crotch and armpits, and, in an excess of lust, I dipped my nose toward one of my armpits and inhaled the rich odor.
"Mmmm," Marianne groaned appreciatively. "I'll bet that smells good. Come here."
I rose like a sleepwalker, commanded by her voice, and stepped across the few feet which separated us. As I did so, Marianne swung up until she was sitting on the settee, her thighs spread and her heavy, pouting cunt hanging at the edge of the seat. Her face swung forward until all I could see was the top of her curly, black head.
"Oh, what a wonderful one it is!" she exclaimed. "What a cock!"
I had dropped my hand to my side, and her own cunt-smelling hands gripped me at my base and pointed my long, stiff cock right at her face. Her red tongue came out and licked once, very delicately, at the hole in its straining end. A small shininess of pre-come had collected there, and she worked it onto her tongue and then pulled it back into her mouth. Again, her tongue came out, and this time she laved the entire head of my cock, working her mouth smoothly over my enflamed flesh. Her warm breath bathed my hair and my balls and her clasping fingers. Her mouth opened into a tall 0, and she slipped it down over my head, farther, and farther, and still farther, until the whole fat length of me was embedded in her throat. I felt her tongue slide erotically across my sensitive flesh.
In a frenzy to have her naked, I began pulling clumsily at her sweater. She let go of my cock in order to help me get it off, but her jersey, which had to come over her head, made her more reluctant. Finally, I persuaded her to release my cock from her slowly sucking mouth long enough to slip the tight material over her head. I did so quickly, for I was desperate to have a view of her excitingly jiggling tits.
"You like what you see?" she smiled at me, leaning back so that the light played all over her.
"Oh, yes!"
She rested with her lovely arms crossed atop her head, her torso relaxed, her thighs spread. Her arms were as lovely as her hands and fingers had promised they would be, round, white. She didn't trouble to shave her armpits, and thick tufts of kinky black hair grew there. Her exposed armpits looked like small cunts to me, and I longed to bury my face there, to suck her sensitive flesh, to inhale the rich, erotic odor which would cling to her hair. And the line of her arms and her armpits drew my eye lower to the slopes of her wobbling, great breasts. Shapely, crowned with big, pale nipples which were aroused now into tight points: the sight was indeed beautiful. And from her breasts her body drew my eye still farther downward, down to her bellybutton in its rich roll of fat, down even more to the long descent of black hair which composed her cunt. Her panties were still pulled hard into her, and sitting as she was upon the edge of the seat increased the pressure. I could see her entire anatomy seated heavily and wetly in the cup of her panties. The sight of her was so indescribably erotic that I began to masturbate slowly as I watched her. Equally slowly, she dropped her hand to cover her pantie-cupped cunt and manipulated her stiff clit for my pleasure.
This forced her tits together, deepening the valley between them, and I was suddenly overcome with the desire to press my stiff cock in their embrace. I knelt forward against the front of the seat, holding my cock out toward her.
Immediately, she understood my intention. "Yes!" she cried when the heat of my rod touched her swaying breast flesh. "Yes, push your hot cock against me, darling!"
She grasped the heavy weights of her full globes and tightened their softness around me, masturbating me gently with their billowy warmth. Her face was pressed against my belly, and she began sucking and chewing on the flesh there.
My hands were on her back and her neck, holding her tightly against me, and dimly it occurred to me that this was the first time I had touched her with my hands all evening. To have grown so excited without even touching this woman! What a creature she was! I whispered "Marianne" to her perfumed hair. The sound of her name must have done it, but suddenly I realized I was about to come. Her masturbation was having its effect. My hips were jerking against her increasingly erratically. My breath was coming in gasps. I felt the exotic tickling all through my cock which presaged an orgasm. I felt the come building along the length of my straining cock.
"I'm going to come," I managed to groan against her. "Do you want me to come?"
"Yes, darling," she moaned. "Come against me. Come on me. Come between my breasts. Oh, please, come all over my big tits. Please!"
I needed no further urging, and I felt the climax sweeping over me. My cock bucked against her soft flesh, jerking and quivering with its own rhythm. I felt the rubbing pressure of her warm breasts stroking me, rubbing me, until I lost all conception of what was happening. Then I was all cock, nothing but cock, and I felt the orgasm take me in its electric arms. The first hard spasm of come juice spurted up through me like an explosion to drench our joined flesh. Spasm after spasm emptied my great load across her heaving breasts. I seemed to be bathing in my own spend, and I drew back enough to grab my cock in my hand and pump out the last few smaller heaves with my fingers, watching the droplets dribble across her shining, soaked breasts.
"Oh, darling!" she cried, and her hands immediately rose to cover the rivulets of hot sperm which ran across her tits and down her belly to soak into the top of her panties. "Oh, darling, your come!"
In an ecstasy still, a kind of continuing orgasm, I dropped my face to her soaked breasts and began licking my own salty, bitter semen from her rounded body. Her fingers were coated with my sperm as they slid over her own flesh, and I sucked them into my mouth as well. She pulled my face up, and for the first time that night, we kissed. Her mouth was wide open, and she sucked my tongue deep into her red cavern and licked my sperm from it. And as we tasted my come juice together, her breathing grew more frantic, and I understood that she was about to come herself.
"Take off your panties," I urged her.
"You take them off."
I dropped between her parted thighs and lay a wet kiss on each thigh up toward her hairy groin. Then I took the top of her panties and peeled them downward across her wide forest of long, black hair. The scent of her sex was thick and heavy in the air between her legs, and I realized suddenly that my cock was engorged once more. That almost never happened, but the smell of her arousal, and the sight of her hair and her fat, sexy cunt lips did the unusual.
She had to move her thighs together and raise her big ass off the settee in order for the panties to slip over her hips, but then she relaxed back and allowed her thighs to part once more as I peeled the panties from her drenched lips themselves. The nylon was so wet that it clung to her flesh as though it had been glued there. Watching avidly as her thick, red, hairy lips parted and allowed it to escape, I drew her panties down her legs and off. She was naked then, and a more lovely woman I never expect to see.
I was about to bend forward and begin sucking on her flowing pussy when she stopped me. "No. I want to beat myself off first, so that you can watch me come. That's what I promised you, and that's what I want to do. I want to make myself come with my fingers while you watch me do it. Please, darling? May I please?"
As far as I was concerned, she could do any thing in the world. Everything, with her, was wondrous. Everything was making intense love, whether we were touching one another at that moment or not.
I knelt back, happily holding my cock in my hand, and raised her reeking panties to my face. With my eyes on her softly lit form, and especially on the great, dark mound of her cunt, I inhaled the deep odor of her wet juices, and I began to masturbate in time with her flying fingers.
"Oh, yes!" she cried, seeing my nose and mouth pressed against her most intimate garment. "Smell me, darling, Smell my cunt on my panties."
With one hand she held her cunt lips open so I could see inside her red, wet slit, and with the other she gently caressed her clit in a smooth circle: "Oh, God," she groaned, "this is so nice!"
"Yes, Marianne, yes. Make yourself come now, darling. Make it come."
"I'm going to come soon. So soon. It feels so good! I'm going to come. I'm about to come, darling! I'm coming! Yes, I'm coming! Oh! Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh ... Oh, God! I'm coming! I'm ..."
She brought her legs together, and her entire body tensed toward release. Her thighs quivered, her great breasts slopped across her chest, her fingers skimmed faster across her clit. The tendons in her neck stretched as she arched, and arched ... and arched into an orgasm. Her neck and shoulders and breasts grew suddenly flushed with dark blood. Her belly rippled once like a wave. Her fingers plunged frantically. And her voice was lost in a long, keening wait As the orgasm claimed her, her body thrashed entirely out of control, battered itself against her fulfilling fingers, and then, gradually, grew still.
She lay back, completely limp, her swollen cunt lips spread by their own suffusion of blood her copious hair matted away from that red mouth her shining fingers inert upon her lax thighs.
Watching her orgasm had catapulted me into the beginning stages of a second climax for myself. My hand flew. With hardly a thought in my lust-filled brain, I bent forward in the altar of her spread thighs. The scent of her recent convulsions filled my nostrils. Sweat, cunt-juice, my drying semen, her overheated flesh, all these added their unique pungence to the atmosphere which wafted up from her hot and hairy sex. I dropped my face into this rankness. She hardly noticed my motion. She lay back, spent, moist, her head rolling slightly with the rocking of the train. For all I knew or cared she might have been dead. Her massive inaction fevered me. I squeezed the end of my tight cock in ecstasy as my nose touched the first wet kinks of her cunt hair. My cheeks pressed her flaccid thighs wider in order to admit my caress. Once again, very deeply, I inhaled the keen redolence. My God, she smelled good! Her exhalation was sufficient in itself to launch my orgasm. I felt it gather all along the nerve endings of my body. My hot cock grew more stiff in my hand, curving long and rigidly up toward my hairy belly. My thighs tensed, my eyes were clamped shut. I breathed against her steaming cunt with slack mouth and lolling tongue. At the last instant before I was overcome, I pressed my features deeply between her still oozing cuntlips. Her thick secretions clogged my nostrils, coated my lips and tongue, and then I reared back, completely rigid, as the climax swept down my back, and through my ass, and came blasting out along the length of my straining sex. I felt the great heaves in my hand. Dimly, I watched long, white streamers of come splatter upward against the backs of her thighs and the wide, dark mound of her cunt. As the last heaves wrenched at me, I dropped my exhausted face back toward her spread pussy. A sticky gob of sperm swung heavily where it had caught against her cunt hair, and I engulfed the bitter liquid in my mouth as my lips closed around her flushed cunt. I tasted her acrid effluvium and my own semen, and then I knew no more.
Such, then, was my introduction to Marianne.