What I Saw in the Corridor of the Night Train
What I’m about to tell you happened several years ago, back when work forced me to take the night train to Porto twice a month. I always chose the overnight one, the sleeper that left after ten, because that way I didn’t lose a single hour at the office and arrived ready for the first meeting of the morning. It was a ritual I knew by heart: the platform, the sleepy conductor, the smell of cold metal in the narrow corridors.
That night, as I made my way down the corridor with my bag over my shoulder, looking for my compartment, I crossed paths with the usual travelers. We dodged one another as best we could in that space where two people couldn’t stand face-to-face, muttering apologies and hunching our shoulders so we wouldn’t brush against each other. And then I saw her.
She was a woman of about thirty, though I might have guessed younger from the way she moved—confidently, without hurry. She was dressed like an executive coming off a long day: a white blouse that gave a hint of the lace beneath it, a black skirt fitted to mid-calf, and stockings that outlined a pair of impossible legs. Her heels clicked against the carriage floor in a rhythm that seemed deliberately designed to make a man turn around.
As I passed her, I lifted my eyes just enough to meet hers. They were dark, enormous, the kind that look at you for a second too long. She had full lips, the sort of mouth one immediately imagines closed around a cock, and a face with proportions so perfect they were almost irritating. She left behind a trail of perfume, something warm and expensive, the kind that clings to your memory long after the person is gone.
I’m not going to sleep tonight, I thought, and I was right, though for reasons I couldn’t then have imagined.
She went on her way and so did I, and that was how I discovered we were compartment neighbors. Only a thin partition separated us, the kind on trains that lets even sighs through. I put down my bag, took off my shoes, and stretched out on the bunk with the light off, listening to the monotonous clatter of the tracks, my cock already half-hard just from remembering the way her ass had shown beneath that skirt.
***
Time dragged. I tossed and turned on the bunk, stared at the ceiling, counted the rail joints by their pounding rhythm. It must have been two in the morning when I gave up. I decided to go out and stretch my legs, perhaps make it as far as the dining car and get something that might help me drop off exhausted.
The corridor was deserted. There was nothing to hear but the murmur of the train cutting through the night and, now and then, the snap of the emergency lights blinking blue. I walked to the dining car and found it closed, its blinds down and its chairs turned upside down on the tables. I swore under my breath and started back.
It was as I crossed the connector between two carriages—that rubber accordion that sways and creaks—that I saw her again. The woman in the white blouse was halfway down the corridor, leaning against the glass of a window, looking out into the darkness as though she were waiting for something. Or someone.
She had her back to me, leaning slightly forward, her hands braced on the lower window frame. The pose offered an image that dried my mouth: the skirt taut across her hips, her pert ass outlined against the fabric, her body arched—everything about her seemed like an invitation for someone to press up behind her and fuck her right there. I thought about moving forward, walking past her while pretending I was returning to my compartment, just to catch that perfume up close again.
But I never got the chance to move. A man appeared at the far end of the corridor.
***
He was older than her, around fifty, with gray hair combed back and an immaculate suit he hadn’t taken off despite the hour. He walked straight toward her without hesitation, like someone following a path he already knew. I froze where I stood, taking half a step backward until I slipped into the dimness of the connector, where the shadows swallowed me completely.
The man said nothing. He positioned himself behind her, and she didn’t turn around either. No start, no word. They know each other, I realized. Or they had arranged this with a glance, on some platform, in some corridor, in that silent language some people know how to speak. He placed his hands on her hips and pressed himself against her, rubbing his hard bulge against her ass over the skirt, and she tipped her head back slightly, just enough to brush his shoulder and whisper something that sounded like a stifled at last.
I was barely breathing. I knew it was none of my business, that the right thing to do was turn around and go back the way I had come. But my feet wouldn’t respond. I stood there watching as the man’s hands slowly traveled up her sides, sliding over the blouse until they reached the buttons.
He undid them one by one, without hurry. The blouse opened, and I realized she wasn’t wearing anything underneath after all. He covered her breasts with his hands, squeezed them hard, kneaded handfuls of them until her stiff nipples slipped between his fingers, then began pinching them, stretching them, rolling them between his forefinger and thumb. She closed her eyes and let out a breath through her nose. From my hiding place, I could see her profile reflected in the window, her mouth slightly open, her brow taut with the effort of trying not to make a sound and not quite managing it.
—Be quiet —I heard him murmur against her ear—. Be quiet or they’ll hear us.
—Fuck me already —she answered in a thread of a voice—. I’ve been wet since the station, waiting for you.
I felt my clothes beginning to get in the way. The pressure was unbearable, an urgency building at a speed I couldn’t remember ever feeling before. I took a quick look down the empty corridor, lowered my zipper with clumsy fingers, and pulled out my cock in the darkness, hard as a rock, while I kept watching that spectacle that seemed staged just for me.
***
The man hiked up her skirt with a sharp gesture, bunching it around her waist, and what I saw finally undid me: she wasn’t wearing anything beneath the skirt. Nothing. Not even a thong. Just her white, round ass, her stockings stopping halfway up her thighs, and her heels tightening every line of her legs. The sight hit me like an electric current. I began stroking myself, slowly at first, closing my fist around the glans and sliding down to the base, matching the same slow rhythm with which he prepared her.
Because that was what he was doing. He ran his fingers between her legs, parted the lips of her pussy, and lingered there, probing, searching for her clitoris with his fingertip, until she had to bite her lip and spread her feet farther to give him room. I watched the man’s fingers slide in and out, watched two, then three knuckles sink inside her, and come out gleaming, soaked, threads of moisture hanging down to his wrist. Then he raised them to her mouth, and she sucked them one after another, cleaning them with her tongue as though it were the most natural thing in the world, tasting herself. Then he took them higher, to the tighter entrance between her buttocks, lubricating it patiently, pressing his fingertip against her asshole until she let out a moan and opened herself to let him in. I could hardly believe what I was seeing, and at the same time I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
I heard him lower his zipper. The metallic sound broke the silence of the corridor with brutal clarity. He pulled out his cock, thick and dark, and rubbed it over her buttocks before lowering it and fitting it between her thighs. He rubbed it along her open pussy, back and forth, coating himself completely, and she began moving her hips in search of him, offering herself, trying to catch him with her hole each time the tip passed over it.
—Put it in already, you bastard —she hissed through clenched teeth—. Now.
When he got ready, she gripped the window frame more tightly. I watched him push, slowly forcing his way in, and watched her hold back her moan by clenching her teeth, containing the sound so it wouldn’t escape into the sleeping corridor. His cock sank into her inch by inch until it disappeared completely inside her, and the woman’s buttocks struck the man’s belly with a dry smack of flesh against flesh. He stayed still for a moment, letting her adjust to his size, and then began to move.
The pace picked up immediately. His thrusts made her sway against the glass, made her naked breasts bounce and flatten against the cold window, made her fingers cling to the frame, searching for something to hold on to. He took her by the hips and pulled her toward him, deeper and deeper, faster and faster, drawing almost all the way out before spearing her again with a single thrust. I watched his cock slide in and out, gleaming; watched her pussy envelop it and release it; watched a strand of thick fluid run down the inside of her thigh until it vanished into the stocking. The train accompanied the rocking with its own clatter, as though the entire night had agreed on that rhythm.
—Like that, like that, harder —she moaned in a broken voice, no longer taking so much care—. Break me, fuck…
He covered her mouth with one hand while gripping her hip with the other and driving into her all the way, with short, deep thrusts that made her thighs tremble. He leaned over her back, bit her neck, licked the nape of it, and at one point pulled out his gleaming cock and spat on her asshole before lowering himself a little and thrusting it back into her pussy with a dry jab that tore a muffled cry from her against the hand gagging her.
I moved my hand at the same time, hidden among the shadows, my fist slippery with pre-cum, my heart hammering against my ribs, the fear of being discovered mingling with everything else in a way that only made it hotter. The image of that cock sliding in and out of that soaked pussy had me on the edge, holding myself back with absurd effort, squeezing the base so I wouldn’t come too soon, so I wouldn’t miss the end. And then I watched him sink all the way in and stay there, tense, gripping her hips with white knuckles, finishing inside her with a shudder that ran through his entire body. I watched his cock pulse deep inside her, watched him unload inside her with the absolute stillness of a man coming in torrents, and watched her pussy tighten around him, milking him, drawing out every last drop.
***
He stayed like that for a while, barely moving his hips, pushing in a little extra to make sure he emptied himself completely, catching his breath with his forehead resting against her hair. Then he pulled away, and his cock slid out with a wet sound, still half-hard, dragging a white strand that dropped between her thighs and began running down her pussy, mingling with her own fluids. He straightened his clothes with exasperating calm, put away his cock, zipped up, and, without a word or a farewell gesture, walked down the corridor and disappeared into his compartment. Just as he had come.
She took a little longer to move. She ran two fingers between her thighs, gathered up the semen dripping from her, brought it to her mouth, and sucked it off slowly, eyes closed, as though it were dessert. Then she pulled her skirt down over her stained skin, fastened her blouse with trembling fingers over her still-reddened breasts, and moved away from the window. She walked with difficulty, her legs weak, and for one second, just before entering her compartment, she turned her head slightly toward the shadows where I was still standing motionless with my cock in my hand. I don’t know if she saw me. I want to believe she did. I want to believe she knew she’d had an audience, and that the image of some guy jerking off in the dark while she was being fucked turned her on even more.
I waited until she closed the door and returned to my compartment, my pulse racing and my cock still hanging out of my pants. I stripped in the darkness and lay down on the bunk, but stopping was impossible. I grabbed it again, already soaked with my own fluids, and continued where I had left off, the image of her still burning behind my eyelids: her white ass raised, the other man’s cock buried deep inside her, her mouth open against the glass.
And then I heard them. Through the thin partition came her moans, now released, with no one there for her to pretend in front of. I heard her spit into her fingers, heard her spread her legs on the sheets, heard her caress her still-dripping pussy, the wet sloshing sound slipping through the wood as if we were in the same bed. She moaned low and hoarsely, with the quick cadence of someone about to come for the second time. She was finishing herself off alone, just as I was, pounding her clitoris with what that man had just left inside her. That muffled sound was what made me explode. I came in hot jets over my belly, biting the back of my hand so I wouldn’t give myself away, while I heard her let out a long, high moan, stifled against the pillow—though inside I wanted her to hear me as much as I heard her, wanted her to know I had accompanied her all the way to the end.
Afterward there was only silence, and the clatter, and the darkness. I never saw her again. In the morning, when the train pulled into Porto station, her compartment was already empty. She had gotten off at some stop during the night, or left before I did—I don’t know.
That was years ago, but even now, whenever I board a night train and the corridor falls into shadow, I look toward the windows again with a mixture of hope and shame. As if, on some pane of glass, on some night, what I saw might happen again.
