Home > life, Uncategorized, writing > THE SZENTENDRE TRAIN – [3]


I was dancing with him, my mystery lover.  As the warm water caressed me and found its way into every intimate part of my body, I imagined it was he.  I imagined his gentle hands caressing me all over, passing gently over my breasts, lingering tantalizingly on my erect nipples before traveling down over my belly and nestling between my thighs.  His careful, skilful fingers parted my pussy lips and found my clit.  He swirled his fingers slowly around it until it stood up in its little crevasse and glowed hotly.

He pushed my knees apart and knelt between them so he could bend to my pussy.  His long blond hair was loose, and it spread over my thighs like a silk shawl while his soft lips kissed my pussy lips.  He licked them slowly and gradually moved his tongue rapidly but with a feather touch on my clit and I came with a loud moan that woke me out of my reverie.  I had nodded off in the tub.  The foam had dwindled to nothing, and the water was cold.  It felt terrible after the hot thoughts of my dream.  I realized that I was becoming obsessive over this kid… this young man, I mean.  I resolved that I would speak to him the next time I saw him.

Thursday morning I put the cooled goulash into the refrigerator and went to the Szentendre platform, where I was among strangers.  The young man wasn’t there, nor were most of the people I was accustomed to.  The Thursday morning passengers were a different lot than the Monday morning passengers.  It didn’t matter to me, because the young man was not there, and that was all I cared about.  He was all I cared about.  He was in my mind’s eye – usually naked – while I shopped, cooked, gardened, bathed, and taught.  At night, he was in my bed while I slept, and his tight young body was mine to enjoy.  And enjoy it I did.  In my dreams, I was the woman he always hoped for.  His lips lingered wherever he kissed me.  His warm lips were soft upon my mouth, upon my hands, over all of my face and all of my body.  He was worshipping me, and his prayers were in his kisses.  In the end, his handsome young face was pressed eagerly to my pussy, and while I caressed his long, silky hair, his tongue caressed my clitoris.  My orgasm woke me each time, alone in my bed, dreaming of a man twenty years my junior, to whom I’d never spoken.

I was barely able to keep my mind upon my classes.  Charts of the male anatomy covered most of the wall space in my classroom.  To my fevered mind, each of them was the young man.  Charts of the female anatomy were my body and my mind continued to couple the naked bodies.  Throughout that agonising Thursday and the restless night in my city flat I felt like an addict without her drug.  My body ached for him.  My arms quivered with the desire to enfold him to my chest.  My nipples begged for his lips.  My pussy trembled with anticipation for an event that was never going to happen.  I realised the foolishness of my infatuation, and vowed to end it by dissolving the fantasy.  When finally I could speak to him, the reality of who he was and what he wanted would emerge.

Friday morning I was beside myself.  The agonising night had left me looking like Hell on the very day when I wanted to be radiant.  It was hopeless, and my spirit fell to the bottom of the barrel.  I resolved to get a hold on my emotions.  I was an intelligent woman, and I would overcome the emotional turmoil with logic.  It was beyond emotional… it was psychological.  I explained the whole scenario to myself through the day, just vaguely aware of my students.  I’m sure they must have though I was having a breakdown.  Maybe I was, in a way.

That final Friday class passed slower than I could bear.  Minutes dragged by like hours, and I wanted to scream and rush out of the room and run to the station where the Szentendre train waited.  I wanted to see the lad on the platform and run to him and crush him to my chest and suck his whole tongue into my mouth and not care about the people milling about.

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