Detour Paris: Complete Series (Detour Paris Series Book 4)

by Dancer, Jack

  eight

  Early Monday, 1 September.

  Gare de Chateauroux.

  Forty minutes after Gare de Vierzon we’re crossing the little Rives de l’Indre and blowing through the Gare de Chateauroux. The moon has crawled into hiding. I couldn’t see a thing about the countryside except that with the curving of the rail it must be a rolling landscape. We were running full-out with very little braking now. The engineer must be good - probably knows this section of the run to Limoges like the back of his hand.

  And the conductor has returned, taking up his position at the rear door again.

  Monica sits up, leans against me, pushing me against the window. She drapes her raincoat over us and reaches her hand underneath, unzipping and freeing me then lifts the raincoat and peeks at what’s filling her hand as if she’s pulled a prize from a box of Cracker Jacks.

  She squeezes and rolls me around in her hand, kneading like a tube of paste she’s trying to extrude through the tip. Thinking aloud, she asks, “What is it that makes holding a man like this so irresistible? Is it because I’m doing something, I shouldn’t be doing? Something wrong? Something forbidden?”

  “I’m not going to forbid you,” I say quietly with my eyes still closed, thoroughly enjoying the attention.

  “I’m not talking to you. I’m wondering these questions aloud to myself. I’ve never done this before.”

  “Sorry, go right ahead, I didn’t mean to interrupt, but…do what before?”

  “Hold a strange man in my hand like this. To be in a foreign land and in the company of a complete stranger where I can do anything I want because no one has any idea where we are or what we’re doing. I can do anything I want with you because I’ll never see you again,” she laughs.

  Her words are like a punch in the stomach, a wake-up call to reality. Wait, I want to say, I don’t want this to end but instead I say, “So, you’re using me, is that it? And then you're going to throw me over when you're done?”

  “Jesus, you sound like a woman now. Are you upset you're being used, Tucker?”

  “Course not. Use me all you want,” I say but yes, I am being used aren't I? Can't say I'm not enjoying it and with anyone else it'd be fine but this time it's different because I want more. I want her. But, how do I let her know? Oh, the hell with it. There's plenty of time to go there.

  “I intend to.” She went on like she was somewhere else, lost in thought, “I remember when I was little and the first time I saw my older brother naked. I’d never seen a naked boy until then, and I was shocked, he had this thing between his legs. But, it really wasn’t so much he had this thing hanging between his legs, as it was that I didn’t. It made me wonder what might have happened to mine. I must have had one at some point. So, what happened to it? Had it been cut off? When I saw his, I got so upset I ran to my mother and asked her why he had one, and I didn’t.

  “I remember her smiling at me, on the verge of laughing, really. She said only boys had them, and it was what made boys different from girls; that girls didn’t have one, that girls weren’t supposed to have one, girls had something else. What Mama, I asked, what is it that girls have and boys don’t? She said girls have a vagina. Well, I didn’t know what a vagina was, so I asked, and she told me it was the place between girls’ legs. You mean the little hole? I asked. That’s what a girl has that a boy doesn’t?’ And she said, yes. I felt cheated, and I said, well, that’s nothing, that’s having nothing at all, not like what a boy has - that’s something, what a boy has.

  “She agreed it was something all right, but it was the way God made us - boys have a penis, and girls have a vagina. Still I felt cheated. I said I’d rather have a penis. At least, it’s something you can see and touch and even hold on to if you want. And I remember my mother saying to me, honey, someday you’ll get one. After hearing that, I was more baffled than ever, but she wouldn’t say anything more about it. For years, I would check down there expecting any time to find a penis sprouting between my legs. It wasn’t until I got married that I finally understood what she meant. I wish she was here right now so I could show her I’ve finally got one right here in the palm of my hand,” she says with a laugh.

  “Yes, you do and it would appreciate very much if you could trouble yourself to do something with it. I think it’s aching for attention,” I say hopefully.

  She took a quick look around for peering eyes. The conductor was leaning up against the door with his chin dropped to his chest, eyes closed. The kid in front, not two feet away, was still tethered into a world of his own making.

  With the coast clear, Monica pulls back the raincoat, bends down and takes me into her mouth and Oh - My - God. The moon rose and the birds came out and angels were knocking at the window trying to get in. There’s nothing like it. No greater turn-on in the world than when a woman takes you into her mouth. Nothing else comes close.

  Then there’s the watching part, watching it happen. Watching a woman take you in, watching her lips close around you. I don't know why, but it's the most incredible turn on.

  With her mouth closed tightly around me, Monica’s head begins bobbing up and down, her tongue working like a floor-waxing machine. It was awesome. (Fellatio. What an interesting word. Sounds like an Italian opera - Fellatio, Fellatio, Fellatio!)

  She pushes her head down and takes me so far into her mouth, I’m touching the back of her throat, and I can feel her teeth pushing against my groin. She holds it for a moment and then comes up for air, face flushed, and eyes watery. She catches her breath and dives again taking me to the hilt. I lay my hands on the back of her head and push her down and me further into her throat. She comes up for air again, panting, flushed, eyes watery. She wraps her hand around me another time and with the other pulls the raincoat over both of us. Now we’re two kids under the blanket tent, and she’s grappling with the flashlight.

  “You can’t help doing that can you?” she asks without the slightest edge of anger - an answer more than a question.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s very hard not to do that,” I admit.

  “I know. It’s what a man does. You have this need to push yourself in and the farther you can push, the better. I understand it. I know it happens. It’s natural for a man to want to ram himself in farther and farther. The farther in, the better. I know because it’s also a woman’s tendency to want it rammed in. A woman wants to pull a man into her. She wants him buried inside her. It's just that down the throat, there's this gag reflex; you see.”

  “I once heard someone say if anal sex wasn't meant to be, God would've put a gag reflex there,” I say.

  “Wow, never thought of it that way. Could we test that out?”

  “I don’t know,” I hesitate, “I've always figured there're places made for things to go in and others for things to come out.”

  “S'pose you're right.” Am I detecting a little disappointment?

  “But,” changing the subject, “there’s an ironic truth in what you said, about a woman wanting a man buried inside her, I mean.”

  She laughs, “Yeah, there is. The whole action is important. It has important meaning.”

  “Like what? Other than it feels good?”

  “That’s the point. It does feel good. A man's tendency is to ram himself into a woman. I don’t mean stick it in and move it around a little bit until they get off. Half-way won’t do it any more than it would to eat chocolate and not swallow.”

  I'm biting my tongue not to run after that one.

  “I can see you're biting your tongue to go after that one, right?”

  “Right.”

  She picks up where she left off without skipping a beat, “A man needs to ram it into the woman and keep on ramming it in until his blood pressure is sky high, and he’s expending every drop of energy pushing into her as far as he can, even reaching the back wall, then spurt out everything he’s got. It’s all because of the equipment. That’s the thing, you see. That’s the difference between men and wome
n - it’s their equipment, and that’s what makes men and women who they are. I know it sounds ridiculously obvious, but it's more than that because it's what defines their individual roles. It’s the fundamental meaning of everything,” she says with complete commitment and enthusiasm.

  “Okay, so tell me the fundamental thing? And, by the way, I like it when you’re enthusiastic like that, your hand squeezes very nicely.”

  She throws back the raincoat and drops down taking me in and bobs up and down a couple of times before coming off sucking so hard she could extract sausage from its casing. Her lips smack audibly and without breaking stride she goes on.

  “What I mean by the fundamental meaning is this. A man’s cock is like a sword, or a knife or a spear or a battering ram. It’s sole purpose, and design is to be inserted into a woman and drive itself home, to penetrate. The woman’s design is to be penetrated. A woman is the scabbard receiving the man's sword. The man has the gun, the woman the holster - the male is the giver and the female the receiver. It’s a very simple setup, and it works incredibly well. It’s simple but not simplistic. But, it’s more than that. It’s the underpinning that defines the role of the man and the role of the woman in life. It’s what separates the sexes, on the one hand, and brings them together on the other, what causes them to be dependent on one another, compatible with one another and essential to one another - essential to the species.

  Think about it, Tucker. With all the different women you’ve been inside of, aren’t you always amazed how well you fit? Like a ball and glove, right?”

  I nod.

  “There might be the occasional exception, at least for a woman where a man’s cock is larger than normal, but I’d bet out of a thousand random couples…

  “Like us?” Me, the smart ass.

  “Yes, like us. I would bet that 999 random cocks would fit perfectly into 999 random pussies. Now isn’t that interesting? How we all come with standard equipment that is so perfectly . . .

  “Standard?” I offer.

  “Fitted,” she says as if she didn't hear me at all.

  “I think that’s a very interesting hypothesis. Furthermore, I think we should put it to test, immediately, if not sooner,” I say.

  Ignoring me again, she continues. “The point is, the roles of the sexes have played out since the beginning of forever, and they’re roles that each gender has not only become accustomed to, but proficient at. A man is driven to penetrate, and a woman is driven to be penetrated and the reward is mutual gratification, not to mention it also, conveniently, propagates the species.”

  “Wow, that’s some analysis. You’ve really thought this through haven’t you?” I say truly impressed.

  “Yes, I have,” she proudly admits and then presses her thumb against the end of me like a button on a ballpoint pen, “It’s so soft, like a pillow, a cushy, blunt end made to push forward, cleaving through flesh until it has buried itself to the hilt.”

  “That would be true,” I say though I’m becoming a tad concerned with her over-obsessing here.

  “Isn’t this precisely why virgins are so desirable, because they're tight? Sure, there're all the other attractions for having a virgin, like blazing new trails where no other Star Trek man has gone before and all that. But there must be something about the whole tightness thing.

  “Fortunately for the rest of us if the vagina has gone a little slack there’re still a whole slew of alternatives to bringing on an orgasm, including this.” She plunges down again and takes me all the way into her mouth and her head bobs in time with the clickety-clacking of the train passing over the rail. She comes off.

  “Does that feel good?”

  “Do my crossed eyes tell you anything? But, hey, slack or not I’d still like to dive into other parts of you too.”

  “I know, but this'll have to do, for the moment.” She flattens her palm and places it against the end of me. “I love to feel the soft bluntness of it, the strength of it against my hand. Even the little helmet looks like it’s designed to penetrate. Sort of an aerodynamic spear.”

  “It does want to penetrate. And right now it wants to spear you.” God dammit. I’m dying here. Can’t you see that?

  Paying no attention to that comment, she wraps her hand around the length of me and squeezes, hard.

  “How hard can I squeeze it?”

  “As hard as you want.”

  “Is there no limit to how hard I can squeeze it before it hurts?” she asks.

  “I don't think your hand can squeeze hard enough to hurt me.”

  This time she gives it a squeeze with everything she's got and releases.

  “And that didn't hurt?”

  “Felt great,” I say, “I’ve got to tell you too I’m very impressed with your ability to weave real-world demonstration throughout your lecture. Are you a college professor by chance? Because if you are you’ve got to be a hit with the fraternities?”

  “You betcha.”

  She curls up on the seat as before and lays her head back in my lap except this time her face is against the side of my exposed prick.

  ”Ooh la la, what’s this?” she says rotating her head and taking me again into her mouth with a slow, steady bobbing, like a pigeon with a purpose. She comes up, catches her breath giving me a wicked look then dives back down and taking me all the way to the back of her throat and I’m praying she’ll never let go. I know she’s taken all I have to give when I can again feel her teeth grinding through my pubic hair and into my groin. God almighty this feels good! How does she do it? Who the fuck cares? She does it and that’s all that matters. She pulls off with a long hard suck then she drops right back down and does it all over again.

  Meanwhile, my right hand has gone off on its own and meandered its way under her dress, slipping into her panties and crossing the plains of her soft bare ass where it’s now attempting to pry its way between her legs. When she cracks open the door, my thumb scampers into its intended target, and her leg slams shut like a steel trap. Christ! I’ve been snared in Chinese handcuffs - thumb in one end, dick in the other!

  The noose around my thumb tightens and begins to pulsate and I’m thinking she’s practicing her Kegels. But, when the pulsing begins synchronizing with the upstroke of her head, it’s only a matter of moments before we’re both rocking from the percussions of muffled explosions detonating between us. The air is sucked out of the train car for all I’m doing to restrain myself from gasping aloud and calling everyone's attention to us. As for Monica, she comes off panting barely peeping a sound. Damaged larynx no doubt.

  I work up the nerve to turn around for a quick check on the conductor.

  Busted! There he is, standing at his post directly behind us, obviously having witnessed everything. When our eyes lock it’s apparent we’re cooked, and he’ll probably throw us off the train at the next stop. But, that wasn't to be. The man just shakes his head in a mock disapproval, shrugs his shoulders “c'est la vie” (“that’s life”) then offers up a silent applause. For what? My studliness? Coming from another guy, probably. I love the French.

  But, then that's the way it is, isn't it? If a guy makes it with a lot of women, he's a stud, but if a woman does a lot of guys, she's a whore. Right? Doesn't seem fair somehow.

  When the train decelerates into the Gare de Limoges-Benedictins Monica’s fast asleep in my lap and the conductor is absent from the rear door. So I nod off too until the next thing I hear is a loudspeaker off, in the distance, announcing Gare de Souillac. The train stops at Gare de Souillac but we don’t. We continue sleeping wrapped around each other through the next four stops: Gare de Goudon, Gare de Cahors, Gare de Caussade, and Gare de Montauban-Ville-Bourbon.

  It’s not until Toulouse-Matabiau is announced over the loudspeaker, and the train begins decelerating that we both begin to wake. Outside, the sun is rising and stirring to life that run-down part of Toulouse lying alongside the tracks. Not the picturesque French countryside one might imagine. More like what most town
s have alongside the railroad tracks - the graffiti, the poverty and crime - the shitty part of town. At least until the station, the Gare, and, in Europe, the stations are nice and usually near the City Center, also nice.

  In Perpignan, which we'll get to later in the day, Salvador Dali called the train station there the, “center of the world,” which leads me to believe he must have spent a lot of time at the station scoring drugs to cop the peculiar inspiration that shows in his work.

  So it is Toulouse where we come to the end of the first leg of our journey. From here we’ll have to purchase new tickets to continue on to Barcelona. Hopefully, we’ll be able to snag a nice private compartment without worker bees or lesbians; something more on the order of, nice. I have no doubt Monica will appreciate more comfortable lodgings as will I; and now that she’s warmed up, I expect the payoff should be everything I could hope for.

  Come on Toulouse. I’m counting on you to come through.

  nine

  06:58 Hours, Monday, 1 September.

  Arrival Toulouse, France.

  Once off the train, we walk to the nearest cafe and order up two coffees and a baguette with cheese and take everything to a small wooded area outside the station where we ravenously dispose of our feast while watching the sunrise like a barn cat on a rainy Saturday. Only it’s not raining, and it’s not Saturday. It’s Monday and our two initial companions - the ones waiting for us in Barcelona - we suspect, might be wondering whatever happened to us.

  “Maybe we should call and let 'em know we're in route,” Monica says.

  “Does your cell have battery?”

  “No, I check earlier, and it's dead. We'll have to find a pay phone.”

  “And what should we tell them?” I ask.

  “The truth. Well, not the whole truth but, yes, the route we’re on. Just say we couldn’t get on the Air France flight and decided the only way to get to Barcelona was how we came. It might seem a bit outrageous but at least if we tell the truth we won’t have any trouble keeping our story straight.”