Night Train to Istanbul

It takes about seven hours to drive the distance from Sofia, Bulgaria, to Istanbul, Turkey, though to do this of course you must have a car. I didn't. I took the night train, which takes closer to thirteen hours to cover the same ground.

Fortunately, this was no regular train; it was a night train. I've had adventures enough on night trains, though never anything sexual. I travelled from Varanasi to New Delhi sleeping on top of my backpack to keep the thieves and cockroaches at bay - though it must be said that there were none of the former, only many of the latter. I travelled from Kiev to Lviv in Ukraine on another overnighter, and was having a great time talking to an old Russian lady until her son got tired of translating and put on his headphones, and then she started an argument with me about where the Russian border lay. Evidently she had missed the memo informing Russians that Poland had won its independence.

On the way back to Kiev I met a fascinating young American girl. When the ticket inspector came he asked to see our passports, which was irregular but understandable given that we were scary foreigners. Later, when we compared visa stamps, I looked at her details and discovered that we shared a birthday. I hoped at the time that this would lead to some growing intimacy; perhaps she would like to come and sit with me on my side of the carriage; perhaps she would like to rest her head on my shoulder when she grew tired; perhaps she wouldn't ask me to look the other way when she got undressed for bed. The possibilities were limitless, in my head, though in reality we got no further than talking. I believed her when she told me she'd once been mistaken for Miss Bosnia - she was certainly beautiful enough, though I knew few Bosnians with whom to compare her.

When I got on the train to Istanbul I wasn't expecting anything to happen. For a start, I found myself alone in a twin bunk compartment, and frankly I was glad for the space. I'd spent the previous month in hostels across Eastern Europe, and to have some room to myself, however limited, was a thrilling novelty.

I unpacked the food I'd brought with me for the journey, and before the train had even left the station I'd worked my way through half of it. I took my shoes off and wiggled my toes. I finished the book I was reading - you may find it ironic to learn this was called 'On Writing Well.' I lay on my bunk, turned off the light, and thought about sleep.

My mind turned, inevitably, to women, and in my relaxed state I considered playing with myself. I was growing hard with the thought of the girls I'd met in the last few years, whose kisses were still fresh on my lips. I missed the excitement of flirting, especially on those rare occasions when my flirting worked. It really had been too long, and the more I thought about it the less excited I was. I pulled my hand out of my trousers just in time to hear the conductor knocking on the door, waiting to collect my ticket.

After a couple of hours the train stopped. I didn't see the name of the station, and it's possible that there wasn't one; this was Bulgaria, after all, and not all the stations were named. A few people got off, carrying bags full of groceries, and I wondered why they hadn't just taken a local train instead as it would surely have been quicker for them.

I watched through the window as a backpacker struggled up the steps onto the train. I heard footsteps in the corridor, and then a knocking on my door, and then she was there, in my cabin, lifting her pack up onto the top bunk. The ticket inspector took the cigarette he was smoking out of his mouth and said some strange combination of the words 'billet' and 'ticket', as if by mixing the words together he could make his meaning clear. In a moment he was gone and we were left to ourselves.

We exchanged hellos and I was met with one of the most pleasant smiles I have ever seen, a smile full of warmth and sincerity, a smile that comes from meeting a fellow traveller after a long time isolated among the locals.

We talked for a while, about the usual things that travellers talk about. I noticed she was rubbing her shoulder as we talked, and she noticed that I had noticed. She smiled a little half smile, and I saw a flash of something in her eyes.

"Can I suggest something?" she said.

"Of course. What?"

"Well, it's clear that I'm in dire need of a massage. I'd love one, but I don't want to just assume you'd like to give me one, so I want to suggest a trade of sorts."

"That sounds reasonable," I said, imagining running my hands over her skin, caressing her muscles; it didn't much matter to me what she wanted to give in return.

"It's clear you like reading," she said, pointing to the book on the side table. "But you can't exactly read if you're giving me a back rub. So, how about I tell you some little stories I've picked up along the way, to keep you entertained whilst you work on my muscles?"

"A bit like Scheherazade, only kind of the other way round?"

"Precisely."

It sounded like a very good deal, a win-win situation. I like giving massages, and I like hearing stories. She took off her shirt, leaving just a tank top showing; I don't think she was wearing a bra. Her hair was long and smooth and very, very black, and fell down a long way. I was turned on immediately -- long hair does something to me that I will never fully understand. She sat on the edge of my bunk, looking out through the window at the darkness outside, and I took up a position just behind her, pressed close but not oppressively close, with my legs either side of her.

I began my massage, at first just running my hands and fingers gently over her skin, and then beginning to probe for tender spots about her muscles.

"My first story is about a man I met in Romania a few weeks ago. I remember him very clearly, even though we spoke only for a few minutes. I noticed him in the lounge in the hostel, and he looked miserable. I'm often interested by misery, especially when I see it in a handsome or beautiful person, because I always have to wonder what has made them so sad.

"I went up to him and we started talking, and it became clear to me that he wanted to unburden himself. He looked anxious to tell me something, so at a suitable moment in our conversation I remained quiet. It's amazing what unexpected silence can do. He told me everything.

"He had just met the woman of his dreams. She was, he said, a beautiful woman, more beautiful than any he had ever met before. She was tall and long-legged, and had an amazing grace about her. She could have been a model, but she gave the impression that modelling would have been somehow beneath her. Her voice was like water running over well-worn rocks in a stream -- his words, not mine -- and that when she smiled you could feel yourself melting inside. She was also the only woman he had ever met who had made him laugh out loud with the things she said."

"She sounds wonderful," I said.

"I know! That's exactly what I said to him, and then he just stopped and stared out of the window again. A minute later he told me what the problem was, what was making him so unhappy. He had met this woman just then, there in Romania, and she was on her honeymoon."

It was an excellent story, and I liked how the girl had told it to me. It had also taken my mind off our close proximity, and if she hadn't been distracting me I'm sure I would have been hard by then.

I asked her to tell me another tale. She told many, about men and women and their various loves and disasters. All the while I was rubbing her muscles, and occasionally she would let out a delighted gasp as I found a particularly knotted area, or a sigh of satisfaction when I was softer and more delicate. I let my hands drift, massaging first her upper back and then her sides, and my fingers grazed her breasts, so carefully that I'm not even sure she noticed.

Her stories became more and more intimate, and she began talking about sex. I inched closer to her. My cock was growing larger in my jeans, and I felt constrained. I wanted her to feel the reaction she was causing in me, and I began to wonder if she was turned on herself.

"Ok," she said. "This is my last story for now, and then we'll have to take a break. I'm running out of stories, and your hands must be getting very tired. This story concerns myself, and I want you to promise never to tell another soul about it."

I promised.

"I was in Serbia a few weeks ago, and I met a guy in a bar. We started talking, and he gave the impression of being a very liberal and enlightened man. He seemed to have shed all those outmoded and old-fashioned ideas of men being breadwinners and women being mothers and housewives. I told him about my career aspirations and he encouraged me in them. He said that meeting me was like a breath of fresh air, and that the women he was used to meeting were only interested in marriage and starting a family. He had big plans and wasn't ready for that sort of commitment, but also knew one day he would want to settle down and make a life for himself with the right woman.

"When I look back I think I was rather naïve to have fallen for it all, hook, line and sinker. The inevitable happened. We kissed, and we kissed a lot. He was really good. He was passionate but restrained, and I got the idea that his kisses would just get better and better. And they did. I wanted more and more, and I ended up in his bed.

"We shared one night of passion, and it was unforgettable. He really knew his way around a woman's body, I can tell you that! And you'd be surprised at how few men really have that skill. He was patient and paid a lot of attention to me in all the right places, and I had a thrilling orgasm."

She paused. Her voice had dropped to almost a whisper, and I was now leaning in close to catch every word. My massage barely deserved the name, because now I was just gripping and pressing her shoulders as I in turn pressed myself close into her. I lowered my head to the nape of her neck and considered kissing her, but decided now was not the time. I did not want to confuse myself with the image of the Serbian in her thoughts.

"We made love again and again and I slept the most peaceful sleep. But then in the morning, when the alarm clock woke us at about eight, he turned to me and spoke with horrible morning breath. I was disgusted: he was telling me to go and make coffee and breakfast. I couldn't believe it! We had an argument after that, and he told me everything. I don't know if it was an excuse for an unenlightened philosophy, or that he was used to dealing with a different kind of woman altogether. He just said that the women he usually brought home were simultaneously attracted and horrified by the independent vision of themselves that he presented; that they were happy to go to bed with this man thinking they were liberated, but by the morning the cold reality had settled in that they wanted nothing more than the marital bed after all.

"The worst thing of all this was that I had thought I was somehow exceptional, whereas really he told every woman he was with that he found them challenging and unique. This affront to my uniqueness was intolerable and I left."

"That's a sad story," I said, not knowing what else to say, and wishing that I'd remained silent. She stood up then and turned to face me, her eyes bright and determined.

"Well, I at least left with my head held high. And I didn't even feel tears welling inside me. He had tricked me, but I suppose I had wanted to be tricked. It's a shame that it all happened that way, because the night had been wonderful. I feel as if the memory of the night has been stolen from me by the revelation of the man."

Just then we heard the screeching of brakes, and of the carriages bumping and grinding into one another. We had reached the border.

The girl reached for her jacket and passport and without saying very much to each other we left the train and went to sort out our visas for Turkey.

The crossing was my first introduction to Turkish bureaucracy. The engine was uncoupled from the carriages and left for another track. It came back two hours later, though sorting out visas only took twenty minutes.

For the remaining hour and forty minutes I hardly saw Scheherazade. She spent most of the time socialising with the other tourists on the train. I felt a little down. We had had a good time together in the carriage, and I thought that we had reached a certain level of intimacy. Had she had her fill of me already? Was she now flirting with those others? Would she even join me back in my compartment or, since the train was half-empty, would she instead go off with somebody else?

I had been in this situation before and I never like it. I am not one for uncertainty. I saw myself watching her more and more, and the demon of jealousy began tapping my shoulder. I hate this, I thought to myself, and so I hastened back onto the train and went to my compartment. I found another book to read and sat on my bunk staring absently at the words on the first page for the rest of the time we were stopped there.

And then she walked back in.

"Wow, it's so warm out there! It's gone midnight, and it must be fifteen degrees at least. And it was practically freezing in Bulgaria!"

I was instantly won over by her charm once again, and the blue clouds around me disappeared. I looked up at her and smiled, and then closed my book and put it down.

"How are your shoulders?" I asked her casually. She stretched a bit, and felt her muscles carefully.

"Much better," she said. "But I was kind of hoping for a bit more, if you're feeling up to it." Then quickly she added, "I mean, if your fingers haven't cramped up or anything." Was she blushing?

"Sure," I said. "I don't mind. But I thought you were out of stories."

"Out of stories? Never! But I will take a break from telling them. I'm glad you had something to listen to whilst you helped me with my back, but the thought occurs that I'm losing myself in the past when really I should be concentrating on the present."

"That seems a reasonable thing to say. I loved your stories, but I take pride in my massages and I'm happy for you to give yourself over to them if you prefer."

"Thank you. But this time, let's get a bit more comfortable," she said as she took off her walking boots and climbed up onto her bunk. "Sorry about the socks. Oh, and lock the door will you?"

"Can I ask a small favour if I'm going to climb up there with you?" I asked, looking up at her and wanting terribly to give her a kiss. Her lips were so full and red, and it had been too long since my lips had last met another's.

I explained that my jeans were not exactly baggy, and if I was going to get comfortable they were just going to get in the way.

"Well take them off then," she said easily. And then with a wink, "I trust you."

I took off my trousers and climbed up onto her bunk. I straddled her body, taking a moderately comfortable position with my knees either side of her bottom, and there I rested my weight. Fortunately I was in control of myself and didn't have an erection.

"Start with my shoulders again," she said, and she pulled the straps of her tank top to the side of her arms, giving me better access to her beautiful skin. I couldn't see much in the dim light of the cabin; the only light on was the one over my bunk, and so we were there together in the glowing twilight of the night. She looked incredible.

I ran my finger tips over her shoulders in circles and figures of eight, and she moaned contentedly. Otherwise we were quiet, neither one of us wanting to break the mood we were quickly establishing. I worked my fingertips into her flesh, clutching and pressing, going to the places that still felt like they needed attention.

After a few minutes, with Scheherazade and I rocking gently from side to side with the motion of the train, I decided that her shoulders were suitably massaged.

"What's next?" I asked her. She pointed at her lower back. "You know, I can do a better job if you take off your top." Was that really me saying this? It seemed like a risky move, and yet without saying another word she shuffled her top up and then over her head, all without affording me even a glance of her breasts.

The sight in front of me was glorious. In taking off her top her hair had fallen down the length of her back. It reached almost as far as her waist. I took it in my hands and let it fall loose a few times through my fingers, delighting in its softness. She giggled.

I repeated my earlier hand movements, running my fingers all across her skin, resisting the temptation to let my hands slide down and stroke the sides of her breasts again. I am not a particularly imaginative masseur, but what I lack in creativity I make up for in thoroughness. I didn't rush. I listened to her breathing, and concentrated on trying to make her as happy as I could.

"That's really good," she said. I finished my massage of her lower back and then flexed my fingers and rubbed my wrists. I was getting tired and needed to change positions because I could feel the cramp seeping into my legs. I wasn't used to kneeling like this for so long, and I'd tried my best not to put my full weight on her.

"You can do my legs now, if you want," she said, and straight away she started to undo the buttons on her jeans. "Help me with these," she said, tugging at the top of her trousers. She didn't want to turn too much, it seemed, and I could understand why: if she turned more than a couple of inches I would have had a great view of her breasts, even in the half-light. I pulled her jeans down further and further, and slipped them off past her feet. This was heaven.

Although the light was bad, I could still make out little details as I looked. I tried not to be too obvious checking out Scheherazade in her underwear, but now that her jeans had been removed she had rested her head back on her pillow and wasn't looking at me, so I was safe. Her legs were slightly parted: not much, but enough to suggest comfort as well as a trace of seduction. I peered in close, and was sure that there was a dark spot at the centre of the crease where her pussy lips pressed against the cotton. Was she excited? Was she enjoying my attentions that much? Or was it just that it was a hot night, as she had already pointed out?

I decided to start at the feet and work up. That way I could rest my legs a little whilst also taking in the marvellous, improbable sight in front of me. I took her left foot in my hands and pressed my hand into the sole. Then I tried a trick I'd learnt from a Thai masseuse: I wiggled each of her toes, and then pulled them hard one by one, and every time there was a crack, and Scheherazade giggled. It was nice to hear that little laugh.

When I took her right foot I dropped her left, but it rested on my lap. In fact, it rested on my crotch, and when I started pressing my fingers hard against the foot I was massaging, I noticed that her left started twitching and moving. It didn't look like a deliberate movement, but it could have been. Her toes seemed to be seeking out my cock, which grew to meet her caresses. She seemed to be focusing on the massage I was giving her, but my mind was elsewhere, on what she was doing to me. At first the movements seemed random, but soon I could tell that she was giving me a foot job.

Just as I was really beginning to enjoy myself, her foot dropped back on to the mattress. I put down her other foot, and started on her calves, first one and then the other. I imagined Scheherazade in high-heeled shoes. Only high-heeled shoes, nothing else; completely naked, and standing away from me, her long hair falling away to her waist, her bum and her calf muscles taut and firm, her feet placed shoulder-width apart. The vision did terrible things to me: I was in danger of coming.