Paris 1:4

The situation was quite extraordinary. I wouldn't consider myself in any way an exhibitionist, and the writing of my journal (when I was using it as an aid and reminiscence for my own masturbatory pleasure) was exclusively something I would do alone, in private. Under usual circumstances it wouldn't even have been on display on the train, had I not adapted its use temporarily as a travel journal. Consequently, I had never witnessed a girl reading the journal in public.

I don't wish to appear vain or conceited - I don't consider myself a writer of any worth, I'm an artist, that's where my skills and experience lie. I do, however, know the power of the writing in my journal. There is an intensity in there, an unrestrained erotic urgency - I write when sexually aroused, when touching myself - I write to give myself sexual pleasure, and the images and language in the journal are consequently of an explicit, often uncompromising manner. All my sexual fantasies and experiences laid bare. A thrusting, heaving, writhing mass of words, urgently copulating their way to the service of my orgasm. To see those words being devoured in such a public venue as the restaurant carriage was intoxicating, to say the least. We were surrounded by other passengers on all sides, the carriage filled with morning diners, waiters passing here and there, the laughter and rhythm of ordinary conversation and clinking teacups as the train rocked us gently through the sumptuous landscape outside.

Vanessa, of course, was not paying any attention to the world outside her imagination. She was deep in my sexual fantasies now, her face increasingly flushed, her breathing visible as she flicked with slightly nervous, trembling fingertips from page to page, her eyes skipping over the intensely explicit contents of my journal, her gaze enraptured.

She was also, dear reader, beginning to wriggle, almost imperceptibly, in her seat. I allowed my own gaze to wander around her body - or what I could see of it behind her clothing - and she was ever so gently, ever so slowly, writhing in her seat. Her hands were firmly above the table, flicking through the pages of the journal, but if her slight, wriggling movements were any indication, she was moving with the rhythm of the train, her thighs crossed, squeezing, squeezing... I kept my gaze on her, feeling my own arousal begin to surge between my thighs, as the mountains and forests rolled past...

to be continued...