Paris - Chapter One (complete)
Chapter Two will be starting next week - and for those of you who loved the delicious girl-girl naughtiness going on in 'The House 2', the next chapter is definitely for you.
In the meantime, for your pleasure and convenience, ease of reading, and an easy way to be able to cut and paste the whole thing, print it off, and take it to bed with you, here's Chapter One complete - if you haven't read any of Paris before, here's an easy way to catch up, and if you have, here it is again with less annoying mouse-clickery...
And if this is your first time reading the story, be advised - it starts relatively innocently, but soon becomes delightfully explicit...
Paris: prologue - on board the Orient Express
It was considered the most glamourous, fashionable and decadent way to travel; the favourite of kings, nobles, courtesans and spies. It was the Orient Express: celebrated in the works of Greene and Christie, it was a lush blue and gold, with wood-panelled interiors and gleaming brass and silk and velvet and lace, and quite frankly I couldn't really afford it.
At least, not until the commission from the scruffy, egotistical Austrian composer, whom I'd met by chance one drunken evening in the bar of the Russell Square Hotel, near my rooms in London. He'd been loud and obnoxious, and I'd gone over to ask him politely to shut up. By the time the evening was done, however, I'd secured a lucrative portrait commission from him; had spent the next two months living rather luxuriously on his money in Vienna, painting when I felt like it, drinking when I didn't; and when the commission was complete I'd decided to hell with it, and blown the rest of his generous payment on a luxury rail trip to Paris. I should have returned all the way to London, but I had debtors awaiting my return, a landlady I couldn't bear, and a woman unreasonably bent on matrimony - Paris seemed the safest bet and, more to the point, the Place To Be.
It was 1935, and I was 35 years old: born on the first hour of the first day of the first month of the century. The events of 1939 would change everything - for me, for those I loved, for the world; but four years earlier, for an artist with plenty of talent and precious little money, art and pleasure ruled my life - and art, style, fashion and (of course) pleasure all came together, heaving and gasping in a veritable orgasm of delicious, intoxicating, hedonistic culture, in beautiful, romantic Paris.
I knew I had to be there.
And so I mingled in the buffet car of the Orient Express, heading for my destination at la Gare de l'Est in Paris, glancing at my fellow passengers as I dined alone on cinnamon toast and a pot of Earl Grey, wondering to myself which of them were the kings, which the nobles, which the courtesans, and which the spies. Would the train become stranded in snow? Would we have to do what rumours had suggested six years earlier, and chase and eat rabid wolves to survive? It seemed unlikely - we were already long past Munich, and it looked pretty damn sunny out there.
So I watched my fellow passengers, studying them in my own fashion, whiling away my time writing my diary, and had little inkling of the intense pleasures that lay mere hours ahead...
Paris: Chapter One (complete)
The train rocked gently, rhythmically, as I sipped my tea, warm sunlight streaming through the carriage windows, well dressed waiters passing to and fro along the aisles, serving brunch to an eclectic assortment of wealthy passengers. None resembled royalty to me – perhaps they had their own private carriage, where debauchery of an aristocratic nature would ensue. But still - there was a lot of money on display here. I should have been chatting to a few prospective art customers, picked up a commission or two, but that would have taken away the entire pointlessness of my trip – no business until I arrived in Paris, of that I was determined.
I wasn’t especially in the mood for conversation or conviviality anyway, if truth be told. Making new acquaintances is all well and good, but I was on this train until the following morning, and didn’t want to end up getting trapped with someone dull or loathsome. I’d noticed a pretty young French thing the day before - tall, blonde and succulent, no older than 19 or 20, flirting with an American military officer of some kind. She looked so good I could almost taste her. I’d contemplated attempting to seduce her, or at the very least catching her eye, but after dinner she was nowhere to be seen. Neither, for that matter, was the military officer. It wasn’t difficult to deduce that they’d retired together to her compartment, and I could hardly blame them – much of the popularity of the Orient Express centered around the ease with which it provided opportunities for illicit romantic assignations. The legendary Mata Hari had been a frequent traveller - having seen the opulence, sensuality and wood-panelled privacy of my own sleeping compartment, I could understand why.
I returned to writing my diary – it was something I kept for my own pleasure, full of reminscences of erotic liaisons (and my own frank masturbatory fantasies), but it was currently doubling as a travel journal, if only because I was egotistical enough to believe that my adventures might one day earn me a penny or two with a salacious publisher. Concentration, however, was difficult. In the far corner of the restaurant car, a beautiful young woman was holding court – long dark hair, layers of black velvet, cotton and lace, looking like some Gothic courtesan, surrounded by what appeared to be an admiration society of young men, and indeed even a girl or two. She was an attractive woman, no doubt, but I had no desire to join her fawning group, and she seemed tired of their attentions herself.
“May I join you?”
I was momentarily startled by a sweet feminine voice at my table, and looked up from my diary to see the pretty, nubile young thing I’d noticed the night before, no longer in the company of the American, and already seating herself at my table.
“I generally prefer to dine alone, madamoiselle,” I replied. “As you can see, I have my writing to complete. Perhaps later.”
“There are no other tables available, monsieur. I promise I’ll be little trouble to you.” And with that, she sat herself firmly opposite me at the table, smiling flirtatiously. I can resist certain temptations, but this young thing caught me immediately, and I caved in like an amateur.
“Very well,” I smiled, closing my journal and placing it discreetly on the side of the table, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Allow me to introduce myself…”
The introductions over, I poured my new traveling companion a cup of Earl Grey, which she sipped at delicately, if a little lasciviously. Her name, it transpired, was Vanessa Aldaine, and she was completing a short tour of Europe, taking in the major cities, spending (it would appear) obscene amounts whilst doing so. I confessed my surprise that she should be traveling alone, but she assured me that she had many friends along her route, implying with little discretion that these had been male friends (possibly of a sexual nature?) and that she was never short of a place to stay. Glancing appreciatively at her rather nubile, delicately curved form underneath her thin cotton dress, I could well understand why. She was, it turned out, independently wealthy, having inherited a ludicrous amount of money from her family, and despite my reluctance to talk business, I happily explained to her that I made my living as an artist, wondering if she might perhaps wish to commission me for a painting or two.
She showed a definite interest in my chosen profession, but I couldn't help but notice that her attention was occasionally diverted towards my journal, still placed on the table next to me, firmly closed.
"May I read your journal?" she asked, all of a sudden.
"I'm afraid not, Madame," I replied. "It is a private journal that I keep for my own amusement, a diary, nothing more."
"And you record your experiences? You have tales of your journey, and your time in Vienna?"
"I do," I replied, "but as I said, they're for my consumption alone."
"I'm sure I'd love to read a little," she smiled, teasingly. "This trip has become so dull for me, and I crave the experiences of others. Couldn't I just glance at a page or two?"
It was, of course, impossible. My journal was frankly sexual, often explicit, and not something I wished to share with a coquettish little 20 year old, no matter how appealing she was. "No, I'm sorry," I replied, "my thoughts must remain my own."
"Why sir," she smiled, "I'm beginning to think you might have something to hide in there."
I fought the automatic impulse to blush; this was becoming an issue, but how to nip it in the bud? "As I said, Vanessa, this is a private journal, kept for my own amusement. It's not something I wish to share, I would hope you would respect that."
She giggled teasingly, leaning forward a little over the table, almost whispering to me, my gaze suddenly falling into her blouse as it drifted open a little around her gently curved breasts. "You do have something you wish to hide in there," she smiled. "I can barely contain my curiosity. Just a little glimpse, please Monsieur?"
She clearly wasn't going to let this drop. Perhaps a compromise would suffice. "Very well, Vanessa, you may look at my most recent entry, and no more."
"Ohhh thankyou!" she giggled, picking up the journal with indecent haste, and flicking it open to the latest entry with a smile, her fingers teasing the corners of the earlier pages, flicking at them almost innocently...
I expect you consider me, dear reader, foolishly naive to entrust my journal with such a curious young girl, and if so, I should perhaps confess that the more she became curious, the more I decided to allow her read whatever she wished. It's true that my journal was written for my own pleasure, but this was by no means the first time that I had allowed a young woman to dip into its fevered pages. All women, I find, are insatiably curious, and whenever a girl of my sexual acquaintance had discovered the existence of the journal, the request to read a few passages had followed soon after. And inevitably, upon reading my frank, explicit fantasies, mutual pleasure always ensued.
This girl intrigued me. She was extraordinarily attractive, young and full of life, and clearly aware of the sexual power of her presence. If she had decided to pursue me, the least I could do was offer a little encouragement.
Securing her assurance that she would read only the most recent entries and no further, I left her alone at the table for a few minutes and retired to the gentleman's toilet, relaxing in there for a short while with the sports page of Le Monde, allowing just long enough for temptation to take its course, and for curious fingers to leaf through my journal, wondering if, upon my return, she'd have been shocked by the explicitness of the diary entries and have left suddenly, or whether she'd still be there, reading a little lasciviously.
Upon my return to the table, a fresh pot of tea having just been delivered for us to share, I was pleased to see that she was still there, smiling at me as I returned to my seat opposite her, her cheeks a little flushed, her breath noticeably quicker.
"Your journal, Monsieur," she smiled, "I have to confess, I couldn't resist... it's so... may I read further?"
"If you're enjoying what you read, why not," I smiled, sitting down opposite her to watch, enjoying looking at her as her gaze lingered on the fevered descriptions, her fingers caressing the pages almost longingly...
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...
It was almost more than I could bear. As I watched her becoming more and more aroused, totally focussed on my words, unaware of anything else going on around her, I was myself extraordinarily aware of every sound, every sight, taking place in that busy carriage, increasingly excited by watching her, but nervous of her being seen, of someone realising how her passion was beginning to overtake her. We were reasonably well hidden, each of us tucked next to the carriage window, facing each other across the table, the backs of the seats high behind us - but we were in plain view of anyone walking along the aisle next to us, and this was the height of lunchtime.
Vanessa cared about none of this - a delicious lust had already overtaken her. Smiling at me with ill-disguised arousal, she discreetly slipped one of her hands underneath the table between us. To anyone strolling past, it might have seemed innocent - her expression was calm (if, to me, clearly aroused); the journal was in one hand as she casually leafed through it. But I could see from my position opposite her that her other hand was now clearly between her thighs. She looked up towards me again, smiled irresistibly without saying a word, and shifted in her seat for moment. I heard the rustle of fabric being tugged sharply upwards, and she settled back down in her seat, smiling again, resuming her reading - though now I could clearly see a slight, rhythmic movement in her upper arm. She was obviously well practiced at this, and from above the table she appeared decent and casually relaxed, but she had made no secret of it to me - I knew now that her skirt was bunched up high, that her hand was firmly between her thighs, and if the continuing, subtle, rhythmic movement of her arm was any indication, she was touching herself, stroking herself, masturbating right there in front of me, in front of anyone who happened to pass by.
It was quite intoxicating - I watched her, my own breath increasing with the nervous beat of my pulse, and between my thighs, inside my trousers, my cock was very, very erect.
The train continued it's rhythmic course, rocking gently to and fro, and as I continued to watch her, Vanessa kept rhythm with the movements of the train, her breath a little faster, her hand still firmly between her open thighs, her fingers not visible to me, but clearly stroking, stroking, stroking. I heard her feet slide a little underneath the table, and she looked up at me for a moment, smiled, and suddenly I felt a stockinged foot brushing against my shin, staying there for a second or two, and then sliding enticingly up my leg, smiling at me again and returning to the journal.
I could barely think - I was trying to concentrate on the diners around us, nervous that she might be seen, that someone might guess what she was up to, but no-one was paying us the slightest attention, and my own senses were becoming fully engaged on the slight, rhythmic movement of her arm, the barely detectable increase in her breathing, the slight tremble of her fingertips as they caressed the pages of the journal, and her stocking foot, now all the way up my leg, and slipping between my parted thighs. I looked at her - I know my face was flushed - and she smiled again, almost demurely, as her foot found its way to my crotch, and settled there, firmly, against my now straining erection.
Still no words passed between us, and to anyone passing, we would have seemed to be relaxing, smiling occasionally at each other, Vanessa quietly reading the journal, with me watching her casually. Underneath the table, however, was a different story entirely. I could see from the movements of her shoulder that Vanessa's fingers were working more rapidly, a small, intimate, wet sound occasionally just audible to me, her breathing a little harder. I also now had a hand discreetly under the table - it felt too obvious - I picked up my copy of Le Monde in my right hand, and casually perused the sports page I had already read in the gentleman's toilet - or at least that would have been how I appeared to a fellow traveller walking down the aisle. My gaze, however, was still firmly on Vanessa, my left hand under the table between my thighs, rapidly unbuttoning my trousers, finding my deliciously throbbing erection, stroking it in my warm fingers, and slipping it out to rest against her foot, still stroking it discreetly, my fingers brushing against her toes with each stroke of my hand. Feeling my cock suddenly hot and hard against the sole of her foot, Vanessa looked at me and gasped gently, pressing her foot against my erection, rubbing against it rhythmically, keeping time with her fingers as they stroked more urgently between her open thighs.
I gasped, looking at her - I could feel my climax approaching, and was certain nothing would stop it. She immediately sensed my urgency - her eyes met mine, fixed there, both of us watching each other intently - I felt her foot tremble against my cock - she gasped quietly, suddenly - a definite splash of wetness suddenly audible from between her thighs - I glanced around us quickly - no-one was looking our way - I felt my cock throbbing intensely, pushing it hard against her foot - she whispered suddenly "Now..." and a delicious shudder rippled briefly through her body, followed by a harder one, biting her lip, her expression suddenly intense, rubbing herself urgently against her wet fingers, trying not to groan as her climax overtook her.
It was all I could take - stifling a groan, I tightened my thighs around her foot, pressing myself against it, feeling my cock throbbing hard, my orgasm pulsing through my body, over and over, as my cum spilt in small wet splashes from my cock, again and again, covering her stockinged foot with the evidence of my orgasm.
Slowly our trembling ceased, both of us suddenly aware again of our surroundings, making ourselves discreetly decent under the table, Vanessa giggling playfully. "I think, perhaps," I smiled, "that we should continue this conversation in my room."
"My thoughts exactly," she smiled, taking a final sip of her tea, wiping her wet foot discreetly against the soft carpet of the carriage.
We made our way through the carriages, passing fellow train travellers; waiters bringing tea and refreshments to private compartments; the guard collecting tickets - if anyone thought we were perhaps in a little to much of a hurry to get to my sleeping compartment, they turned a blind eye - this was, after all, the Orient Express, notorious for providing the upper classes with an opportunity for private, spontaneous pleasures such as this. It might have looked a little more innocent if Vanessa hadn't been holding my hand, giggling as I led her to my compartment - but I was beyond caring about such things after her delightful display in the restaurant carriage - I needed to fuck her, there and then. My orgasm had been sharp and urgent and strangely unsatisfying - I needed to be inside her, needed to feel her wrapped around me, gasping sensually as my cock pounded deep into her deliciously wet sex - I needed to feel her come on me, urgently, intensely.
We finally reached my compartment, and I opened the door, watching her step inside, her pale blouse drifting in the slight breeze from the open windows of the carriage, her long skirt sweeping teasingly around her legs. I was erect again, already, anticipating the pleasures to come, following her inside the luxurious, wood-panelled compartment, and closing the door firmly behind me, smiling at her.
She turned towards me immediately, pressing herself against me, her lips sliding across mine, tasting, caressing, her body molding itself against my own. As she kissed me, her hand slipped quickly down my body, over my silk shirt, passing over the crotch of my trousers, gasping a little in my mouth as her fingers found the shape of my erection, clutching it, stroking me through my trousers, her lips kissing me greedily. I groaned softly, sliding my hand up her back, my fingers drifting through her hair, turning her as we kissed, until she was positioned as I had been, pressed against the door of the compartment, my own body moving against hers, our lips clashing sensually, passionately, my hand tugging up her long skirt, slipping all the way up her stockinged thighs...
We kissed passionately, a kiss born of lust and extreme desire, at long last tasting each other, her lips soft and wet, surrendering to mine, a small groan drifting from her throat as my tongue slid against hers, penetrating her open lips, invading her eager mouth. Her fingers were still rubbing at my crotch, grasping around my erection through my trousers as I pressed her against the door, stroking up and down, masturbating me through my clothes, wanton, greedy, desperate for my cock.
My own hands were equally as busy, one hand cupping one of her firm young breasts, squeezing it through her blouse, my other hand urgently tugging up her long skirt, sliding up the inside of her stockinged thighs, gasping as I reached naked flesh. She groaned, trembling a little as I kissed her more greedily, her fingers fumbling urgently at my crotch, trying to unfasten my buttons, as my hand slipped further up, up to her delicious cunt.
I groaned with pleasure in her mouth as I kissed her, astonished to find her bereft of underwear, naked under her skirt - either she'd removed her panties whilst touching herself earlier, or she was in the habit of wearing little under her skirt - whichever, she quivered with pleasure as my fingertips found the warm wetness of her cunt, dipping my index finger inside her, her labia parting wetly around my exploring fingertip, hot and wet, her body shuddering against the door as I stroked her, her thighs parting to invite me further, my lips still greedily caressing hers.
We were still pressed against the door of the compartment - on the other side of the door I could hear people coming and going along the corridor of the train, talking, laughing, heading to and from the busy restaurant carriage, but I no longer cared if we were heard - our bodies pushed and moved urgently against the door, feet, elbows, knees, banging against the thin wooden veneer as we wrestled with each others clothes, Vanessa's fingers succeeding in unbuttoning my trousers, tugging them down eagerly with my briefs until they fell around my ankles.
I groaned again as her warm hand found my hard, straining erection, wrapping her fingers around it, rubbing me, stroking me, masturbating my hot, swollen cock as my own fingers slid inside her. I kissed her more urgently, spreading her warm wetness up from her hot sex, dragging it up to her throbbing clit, and she moaned wantonly as my fingers skidded wetly around her clitoris, rubbing, stroking in a delicious rhythm as I kissed her passionately. Her thighs were trembling now as I masturbated her, her legs spreading open, inviting me, surrendering to me.
I couldn't wait any longer - I had to have her, right there, pinned against the door. I needed to fuck her. My thighs slipped between hers, still kissing her as my body pressed against her, my hands tugging her skirt up around her waist, my erection suddenly hot and hard against her, sliding between her parted thighs.
She rubbed against me greedily, and I gasped with pleasure, feeling the wetness of her cunt sliding now against my erect cock, still not inside her, her labia pouting deliciously, the wet lips skidding wetly along the length of my throbbing penis, her juices already dribbling along my cock. I had to be inside her - I slid my hands under her stockinged thighs, lifting her up, her legs wrapping around my hips, the head of my cock sliding down the entrance to her sex, slipping suddenly between the lips of her dripping wet cunt.
I kissed her again, our lips skidding together, and as her tongue slipped into my mouth, I felt her cunt begin to engulf my erection - I groaned into her mouth, and thrust, long and deep, penetrating her - she moaned into my lips, pushing her wet cunt down around my hard cock, taking it deep inside her, a sudden gush of her juices splashing down my erection as I began to fuck her.
We were moving as one now, fucking each other hard against the door, our bodies pushing and moving in urgent rhythm, grinding, thrusting, gasping with pleasure, her cunt so hot and wet around my throbbing penis, wet sounds splashing from between her thighs as I took her greedily, urgently.
My lips slid down her neck, licking, sucking, biting at her soft neck as my hand returned to her breast, squeezing, stroking, rubbing at her hard nipple, my cock thrusting in and out, in and out, harder, deeper, taking her, fucking her - so urgent, so greedy, so intensely passionate.
I was desperately holding back my orgasm, wanting her to come first - and from the trembling of her thighs as she fucked me, the wetness of her cunt flooding around my cock, I knew she was almost there. I rammed hard and deep, wanting her to come, needing it, needing to feel her come all over my cock - she groaned urgently, her body suddenly shuddering against the door, her cunt engulfing my pounding erection - she gasped: "ohh god... don't stop... please don't stop... " - I thrust hard, again... again... again - she gasped urgently: "that's it... I'm coming....." - the door rattled at her back, her body convulsing intensely as her orgasm shook through her, a stream of her wetness suddenly drenching my thrusting cock, dripping down my balls as she came all over my hot, hard erection, grinding down on me, her cunt squeezing my cock, so wet, so hot, contracting urgently as her orgasm pulsed through her body, my cock filling her so deep, so hard...
I needed to come - I was so close to my own orgasm, Vanessa still trembling, clinging to me gorgeously. I gasped, my cock throbbing intensely inside her, still moving, still fucking her - she groaned in response, still squeezing around me, feeling the hard pulses of my cock, sensing my imminent orgasm : "please...", she breathed, "don't cum yet... I want you to cum in my mouth... let me go down on you..."
In that moment, I was hers, completely.
I gasped with pleasure, my body trembling, so close to orgasm, somehow holding it back - her thighs were still wrapped around me as I held her against the door of my sleeping compartment, my cock hot and hard deep inside her, throbbing intensely, and I could feel her sex squeezing and pulsing around my erection, her wetness still streaming down my cock, ripples of pleasure still trembling through her body, enjoying the delicious aftershocks of her orgasm.
I kissed her again passionately, greedily, our lips sliding, caressing, my tongue in her mouth, still pushing against her, thrusting again and again into her cunt as my hands found her blouse, frantically unbuttoning it, sliding my hands over her breasts, caressing them through her lace brassiere. Her plea for me to cum in her mouth was still ringing in my ears, the temptation so great, my cock throbbing again inside her as I imagined it - I fully intended to do precisely that, but her first orgasm hadn't been enough for me - I wanted to feel her come like that again, wanted to feel the intensity of her orgasm as I fucked her deliciously.
The door was still rattling behind her - I pulled her away from it, slipping my throbbing erection from her cunt - she began to kneel down, eager for the taste of me, but I pulled her back up: "Turn around Vanessa... face the wall... lean against it..."
She did as instructed, her hands pressed against the wall as I moved behind her, tugging her skirt up around her waist, uncovering her delightful bottom, which she pushed out towards me in invitation. I slipped a hand down between her thighs, my fingers skidding over her wet lips, sliding up to her clit, rubbing, stroking - she gasped in response, shuddering again, grinding back against my fingers, gasping again: "ohh god please... please fuck me..."
It was almost all I could take - holding back my orgasm again, I slipped my hands around her hips, pulling her back onto me as the head of my cock found her sex, and I thrust, hard and deep inside her, hearing her groan urgently as my cock filled her, starting to fuck her from behind, my cock sliding deliciously in and out, in and out, harder, faster, tugging her open blouse off her shoulders, unclipping her brassiere and throwing that to the floor of the compartment too, leaning over her as I fucked her, my hands sliding over her naked breasts, cupping them, squeezing her nipples in my fingertips, pushing and moving gorgeously together, the rhythm of the train urging us on.
There was a quiet knock at the door. "Room service?" came the polite request. I attempted to compose myself for a polite refusal, but Vanessa answered first: "Yes, come in!". My mind veered into panic - what was she doing? I began to rapidly withdraw from her, hoping to god I could get my trousers back on in the couple of seconds it would take for the waiter to come through the door, but she slipped a hand quickly around my bottom, holding me inside her. I had no time to protest before the door opened, my shock probably as profound as that of the waiter as he stepped into the compartment, momentarily transfixed by the view in front of him.
"Oh my god, I'm sorry," he fumbled, about to back out of the door again, but Vanessa looked towards him over her shoulder. "Please," she gasped, "come in, it's fine, if you want to watch us, it's fine...". "God..." he whispered, blushing, his gaze everywhere, still taking it in - he couldn't have been older than 18 or 19 - had he ever seen anything like this before? "I... I have to do room service...". Vanessa pushed back onto my cock, pulling her skirt up higher around her waist to give the young waiter a better view. "I want you to watch us," she gasped, "don't you want to see me come?". The waiter groaned audibly. "Close the door," whispered Vanessa, "people will see". Breathing hard, his fingers almost trembling on the door handle, he closed it behind him, still standing there just a few feet away from us, unable to tear his gaze from us as we pushed and moved together.
I was too far gone to care now - Vanessa was looking at him, her cunt so wet around my cock, sliding, squeezing, groaning as I fucked her, so close to her orgasm. "Show me your cock," she gasped to the boy, "stroke it for me". "God..." he murmured, tugging down his trousers, his underwear, a startlingly erect cock springing into view, already hot and swollen, his trembling fingers gripping it, sliding up and down, masturbating in the same rhythm that I fucked her, surely imagining his own cock sliding deep into her cunt, fucking her hard. His gaze was fixed on our bodies urgently fucking right in front of him, my cock dripping wet as I thrust harder and deeper into her from behind, her back arching as I squeezed her breasts, needing to come again. I could hear the slap of the boy's hand around his cock, masturbating more urgently now, keeping rhythm with us - I could tell from the urgency of his breath that he wouldn't last long, his cock sounding wet and very erect.
For Vanessa it was all too much - she glanced over to him again, seeing his face flushed, his hand rubbing harder around his straining cock, wet with his precum, masturbating urgently - she couldn't take any more - I felt her cunt spasm around my thrusting cock, a gush of her wetness suddenly splashing over it, streaming down my length, over my balls, and she stifled a scream as she started to come, groaning, shuddering, bucking wildly on my cock, her body rippling with delicious convulsions as her cunt poured its wetness all over my throbbing erection.
I heard the young waiter groan intensely, his hand slapping around his erection - I couldn't take any more either - I groaned urgently, ramming my cock deep into her dripping cunt, crying out intensely, my cum surging up the length of my cock, spurting hard, deep inside her cunt, again, and again, and again - I heard the boy cry out - suddenly he was right next to her - and I watched in intense fascination, my cock still throbbing hard, spurting my cum deep inside her, as her hand grasped his swollen erection, giving it a couple of quick strokes, tugging him to her mouth, her tongue snaking over the head of his swollen cock, and he groaned long and loud, his spunk splashing from his cock, spurting a long string of cum onto her face, and another, and another, covering her in his slick wet cum... her cunt still squeezing and pulsing around my cock, milking the last of my spunk from my erection, holding me deep inside her... the three of us gasping, trembling... the intensity of our orgasms washing over us, the rhythm of the tracks matching the pulse of my cock inside her, as the Orient Express continued it's journey to Paris...
to be continued in Chapter Two...