An Ace in the Hole

James Woodward stepped off the vaporetto and began to make his way across the paved approach to the railway station. Like the rest of Venice, it was hot and crowded. Fellow travellers with large suitcases, arriving or departing, lumbered in the heat or stood like islands on a concrete sea, forcing others to walk around them. The steps up to the station entrance were particularly so. People sat, across them, alone or in groups, staring at the Grand Canal, enjoying the early evening sun, forcing others to negotiate a zigzag path between them, as he was doing now.

A girl carrying a large Gucci shoulder bag walked ahead of him, upright and confident, and began to climb the steps, weaving elegantly between obstructions. He traced her steps, dragging his suitcase, allowing her to find a path. Glancing up as he climbed, he noticed her slimness and proportion, and how elegantly she moved, like a model enjoying the attention of the eyes that turned in her direction. Her silk shirt billowed in the slight breeze, her short skirt lapped against the back of her tanned thighs. He followed her into the ticket hall and glanced up at the information board; the sleeper to Paris was due to depart in 50 minutes; time for a coffee.

As he turned, he saw the woman again, checking her ticket against the information board. He wondered idly where she was going. She returned her ticket into a wallet, put it into her shoulder bag and walked into the main station. She didn't notice the passport, lying on the ground where she had been standing. Quickly he picked it up and began to run after her retreating figure, calling loudly.

"Mi scusi. È caduto il passaporto." She continued walking. Nearer, he called again, cursing his accent. He saw heads turn, but not hers. He was close enough now to smell her perfume and he reached out and touched her shoulder. She spun round, her eyes challenging, but unalarmed.

"È caduto il passaporto." She showed no recognition until he held out the passport. She took it tentatively from him, opened the back and then gave a small cry of surprise.

"Oh Monsieur, c'est le mien. Vous êtes très gentil." She smiled at him and her eyes sparkled. Her accent resonated in his head.

"Mais, ce n'était rien. C'était bien le moins que je pouvais faire. Faites un bon voyage." He held her eye for a moment, smiled, then turned and headed for the coffee shop. Looking back once, he saw her staring after him.

***

Finding his way to his compartment had been relatively easy. The passport check was virtually non-existent, and the steward just glanced at his ticket before nodding him on to the wagon-lit. Now, as the train began to inch its way over the causeway to the mainland, he felt a glow of satisfaction; it had been worth paying extra to have the compartment to himself. He ate his piadine slowly, opened a bottle of Chianti, and stared out of the window as night settled over the countryside . At 10.00, after the steward had made up his berth, he locked the door, stripped off his clothes, washed and climbed into bed. He lay for a while, thinking back of over the last few days. He thought of the girl, her smile and most of all, her glorious, sensual French accent; if there was one thing that excited him, it was that. It made even the most mundane sound sexy. He drifted off to sleep to the soothing movement of the train.

He woke to find the train stopped, and the noise of people in the corridor. He sat up and looked out of the window: Milano Centrale. He looked at his watch: 11.40; for once the train was on time. Next it was the Alps, and then breakfast in France. The platform was crowded, and he heard footsteps and suitcase wheels outside his door; there was no point in trying to sleep yet, not until the train was underway and the new passengers had settled. He poured himself another Chianti and sat back contentedly.

Something in the corridor interrupted his thoughts. "Non, vous avez fait une erreur. C'est mon compartiment."

It wasn't the words that attracted his attention, but the sound, the familiarity of the voice. It was raised in argument and came from near his door. Someone answered in Italian; more voices joined in, angry, insistent. No, it couldn't be. This train was going to Paris; it would be full of French passengers.

"Je ne peux pas parler italien. Je ne comprends pas ce que vous dites."

But it was; that same throaty, rolling sensuality. And she sounded distressed. Propelled by some unexpected energy, he jumped up from the bed, pulled on his shirt and trousers and went out into the corridor.

She was facing his direction, dressed just as she had been when he first saw her, wedged against the side of the carriage. In front of her stood two male passengers, along with suitcases, and the sleeping car attendant. She spotted him at once and he was surprised when she spoke to him in English.

"Oh monsieur, please help me. They are trying to throw me from the train." The other three turned to look at him, but she continued immediately. "We met in Venice. He will tell you that I am not lying."

In his forty two years of existence, James Woodward was rarely flummoxed, but he certainly was now. She was lying, putting him in an impossible position, and he knew that if he did not support her she would certainly be thrown off the train, if not worse. Yet in that moment, he thought he could see a hint of confidence beyond the desperation in her eyes, like a poker player who, despite her bluff, knew that she held the stronger cards. It was as if she knew that she had some sort of hold on him, perhaps the melody of that voice, that made him want to help her.

He pulled himself to his full height and took a step forward.

"What is wrong here? Why are you trying to put my friend off the train?" His voice assumed an air of authority which he did not possess. He knew his bluff was dangerous.

The two passengers looked at him, bemused. The attendant's was more questioning, and it was clear that he understood English. He hesitated. Other doors along the corridor began to open, heads peering out. He capitulated.

"This lady's ticket is out of date, sir. The compartment is booked to these two gentlemen. She will have to leave the train."

Raising his voice, James Woodward pushed his advantage. "But this is outrageous. You can't leave a lady on Milan station in the middle of the night. Surely there must be another compartment?" He wanted to involve her in the conversation, but suddenly he realised he didn't know her name.

"No sir," said the attendant, wilting, "there are no free compartments."

In what he acknowledged later as a masterstroke, the girl began to cry, small elegant sobs. Sympathy wafted down the corridor from the onlookers. The two passengers stared awkwardly at their feet.

The attendant looked at him, desperation in his eyes. "But I don't know what else to do, sir. Your friend cannot spend the journey in the corridor. It is against regulations."

And then he had a sudden inspiration. "I am travelling alone, but my compartment has two beds. She can use one of those. That's not against regulations, is it?"

Relief flooded the man's face. "Of course not, sir." He turned to the girl. "Is that acceptable to you, Madam?" She continued to sob, but nodded weakly. "Very well," he continued, suddenly all bustle, "If you would gather your things, Madam, I will make up the bunk." He spoke briefly to the two passengers and then left the four of them standing in the corridor. The girl went to collect her things. The two men, embarrassed now, talked quietly to each other. Heads disappeared back into compartments, content that the excitement was over.

Throughout it all, James assumed a stance of commanding indifference. Two minutes later she re-emerged with her shoulder bag. She smiled at him, all traces of tears gone, and stood by his side. The attendant appeared.

"Your compartment is ready, sir." He looked at the woman with unsmiling eyes. "I am very sorry for the inconvenience, Madam." She smiled briefly and he hurried off down the corridor. James controlled his urge to laugh and the two of them walked into his compartment.

*** As he entered, she was standing close to the door, the second upper bunk now stretching out behind her. Because of the lack of space he had to edge round her and as he did so, the train jerked into motion. He lost his balance and fell forward against her, pushing her against the bunk. For just a second, before he stepped back, he felt the pressure of her breasts against his chest, and smelt the musky perfume of her hair.

"I'm so sorry," he said quickly, embarrassed. "It was the train."

He looked at her and her eyes seemed to be laughing. "It is alright. It was the train," she repeated. He moved over towards the window, a safe distance from her, and she sat down on the edge of his bunk, her long legs stretched out across the floor.

"I must thank you, monsieur. You have saved me twice now." Her voice was quiet, purring.

"Please, it was nothing." He felt suddenly shy.

"Oh but it was. You were very good just now in the corridor. The steward was frightened of you."

He had been leaning against the wall, but as the train accelerated he felt unsteady. He sat down at the other end of the bunk, turned towards her.

"You didn't have a ticket, did you?"

Her voice took on the tone of outrage, but her eyes continued to laugh. "Of course I had a ticket. You saw my ticket."

"Yes, but it was out-of-date."

"But yesterday it was not out-of date," she paused for dramatic effect, "when I found it outside the station."

He smiled, and she burst into high musical laughter, pleased with her audacity.

"Why did you talk to me in English just now? You know I speak some French, and Italian."

"Oh that is easy! The attendants don't like the English; they are always fussing, asking for things, telling them what to do. They will do anything to avoid the English."

He laughed. "Well, on behalf of the English, I apologise," he said with mock grandeur.

"Oh no, don't, Monsieur. If they liked you, I would not be here." She had spoken quickly, without thinking, but in the pause that followed, both of them realised the significance of her words.

"Well, I'm glad you are here," he said, trying to make his voice sound casual. "My name is James."

"I am Michelle." There was another pause. "And I am glad that I am here as well." Her voice was quieter. She was still looking at him, but for a moment the laughter in her eyes was replaced by something else.

"Do you mind the top bunk?" he said to break the silence.

"Not at all," she said, her smile returning. She stood up and reached for her holdall. "Excuse me, James. I need to go to the bathroom."

Listening to her footsteps fading down the corridor, he got up and took off his shirt and trousers. He washed quickly and climbed into bed, listening for her return, aware suddenly of his nakedness beneath the sheet.

"Why James, you sleep the wrong way round," she said after she had returned.

"I'm sorry?"

"Your head," she explained, "it is not by the window."

"Oh I see," he said, understanding dawning. "I like to be able to sit up and watch the world go past. It's easier this way round. You don't get a stiff neck."

She laughed. "That is a good idea. I will do the same."

She went to the far end of the bunk and reached up for the pillow. Because she was so close to the edge, her head and shoulders were hidden from view, but the rest of her body was framed in front of him. He could see the swell of her breasts pushing against the material of her shirt, the curve of her waist and the tanned smoothness of her legs.

She walked to the other end and stood on the first rung of the ladder. Now she was standing right next to him, his face just level with her knees. He heard her adjusting the bedding above his head. He gazed at her legs, her thighs disappearing into the shadow of her skirt. Each time she leaned forward, the hem moved also and the shadow lifted slightly and he had to fight the urge to move his head and follow it. And then, as if she had read his thoughts, she let one leg swing briefly off the ladder to help her balance. Just for a second, her hem lifted , the shadow retreated and he caught a glimpse of white where her thighs met, before her foot swung back onto the ladder. Beneath the sheet, he felt his penis stiffen.

"There," she said, and stepped down. She looked down at him, her glance sweeping quickly along the outline of his body under the bedding, and then back to his face. For a second her eyes betrayed a hint of triumph, knowing that in the game she was playing with him, she held all the aces. Perhaps she also knew that whatever cards he was holding, he would fold.

The train was moving faster now, and the lights of the Milan suburbs skimmed past the window. Brighter stars managed to force themselves through the orange glow of the city. The train settled into a steady rhythm on the tracks. Outside the door, the corridor was quiet now.

"Where did you learn to speak my language so well?" she asked as she walked across to the washbasin.

He laughed. "You are very kind, but my French is not very good. Just what I've picked up travelling."

"I think you are being too modest, James."

He glanced at her. Looking at the vanity mirror in front of her, she began taking off her shirt. She unbuttoned it slowly and let it slip from her shoulders, as if she was on a catwalk, dropping it on the floor behind her. Taking a step back, she reached around behind her, locating the zip in the back of her skirt, and pulled it down slowly. Using her palms, she pushed the skirt down over her hips, letting it drop also to the floor, and stepped out of it.

He was watching her now, watching the performance that he knew she was putting on for him. He drank in the profile of her body. Her breasts rested in a white silk bra, her nipples pressing clearly through the thin material. Her white panties emphasised the curve of her bottom, and lay smoothly over her mound. Her legs swept elegantly downwards, one slightly bent at the knee.

She filled the hand basin with water and began to dab her face with a facecloth. He felt the need to break the silence.

"Where did you learn English?"

"My grandmother was English." She dabbed around her neck, arching her back slightly, and continued down over the swell of her breasts. "I used to stay with her when I was a child and she used to teach me." She wiped the cloth slowly down the flat of her stomach, bringing it to rest on the top of her panties. "My parents hated it." She giggled at the memory and put the cloth in the basin. "There. That's better."

She turn towards him and smiled. The front of her panties, where she had held the facecloth, was transparent. A neat dark triangle shone through the material. She walked towards him and paused by the steps to the top bunk, just two feet from his eyes. "Now James," she said, softly teasing, "you must promise not to look when I climb up the ladder."

"I won't," he said.

"Do you mean you won't look," she paused, "or you won't promise?"

He laughed at her cleverness, at her seductiveness, and she giggled. He said nothing, and he knew she didn't expect him to. As she climbed the ladder, he could feel the heat from her body, and he smelt the musky smell of her sex.

When she neared the top, she stopped and turned towards him, adjusting her stance to climb onto the bunk. Her white panties, wet form the facecloth, were in front of his face, and he saw that the dampness had run down to the crotch and onto the insides of her thighs: she had not simply held the cloth against herself, but squeezed it to release more water. That meant that not only was the front transparent, but also ...

She lifted her left leg up onto the bunk and paused for a second, readying herself to step up. In that second he knew that she was displaying herself to him, deliberately, wantonly. The wet material was pulled taut over her lips, defining their pink curves, eventually disappearing in a deep valley between her buttocks. And then she moved again pulling herself onto the bunk and out of sight.

He lay back and stared upwards, hearing the bedding rustling as she settled into it. A movement to his left caught his eye, and then another, and he turned and looked down. On the floor lay her white bra and panties.

He lay back, lost in the power of the moment, overcome by the cleverness of her seduction. Visions of her lying naked on her bunk swam before her eyes, as she had intended they should. What is more, she had deliberately engineered the situation so that she was vulnerable; her clothes were beyond her reach and she was at his mercy, offering him the opportunity to take her. Which is exactly what the aching in his groin was telling him to do; to lift her down and lay her in his bunk, to thrust into her willing body, to release the torment. And yet it was exactly that delicious torment that he was enjoying, and part of him did not want to stop. He knew how skilfully she was playing and he wanted know what she would do next. Although he planned to lose, perhaps he could play a little too.

Exerting superhuman control, resisting the urge to stroke himself, he lay still and looked towards the window. The train had settled into its journey. Milan was well behind now, and darkness filled the window frame, interrupted only now and then by the blurred twinkle of distant lights. The rhythm of the coach filled the compartment and seemed to underline the silence.

He waited. He felt his stomach muscles knot and heard the beating of a pulse in his ears.

Seconds drifted into minutes, and the silence grew palpable.

It was five minutes before she spoke.

"James..." Her voice was soft, stretching his name enticingly. "Are you sleepy?"

He fought to make his answer sound casual. "Not really."

"While we are here, perhaps you could help me with my English?"

The question surprised him. He looked at the base of her bunk, to where her head would be, as if to try to read her expression.

"My grandmother was a very good teacher, but she was very, how do you say, old-fashioned. She taught me old lady's English. Maybe you could help me with some things I do not know?"

Just for a moment, anticipation gave way to confusion; she had teased him mercilessly, and now she wanted a language lesson? Was that her game, to drive him into a frenzy and then make fun of his vulnerability, a stupid, middle-aged Englishman who had thought he was onto a good thing?

Or had she changed to the endgame?

"Of course", he said. "What do you want to know?"

There was a pause.

"If I were to say 'Je touche ma poitrine', what would that be in English?"

He swallowed hard before translating, knowing that she already knew the answer. "I am touching my breast."

A longer pause, her voice a little lower.

"What about 'Je serre mon mamelon'?"

"I am squeezing my nipple."

Another pause.

A sense of euphoria swept over him. He was aware of the almost painful hardness of his cock.

Her voice was almost a whisper. "If I were to say, 'Je touche ma chatte', how would I say that in English?"

"I am touching my pussy."

A pause.

"In French, we have another word, a rude word. 'Con'. What is that in English?"

Her words hung in the air.

"Cunt."

A moan, quiet, almost plaintive.

He was so close, suddenly. He gripped his cock tightly, squeezing the base of the shaft, fighting his body for control.

"In English," she whispered, almost too quietly for him to hear, "what is the word for 'Goûtez'?"

He didn't bother to hide the tension in his voice now. "Taste."

A movement caught the corner of his eye. Her arm was hanging down over the side of her bunk, her hand close to his face. Two of the fingers were extended, and shone in the compartment light. Between them stretched tendrils of wetness, like thick strands from a spider's web.