An Ace in the Hole

"Taste," she said.

He brought his head up slowly and used his lips to guide her fingers into his mouth. Sucking gently, he ran his tongue over them and felt the creamy texture of the liquid, abandoning himself to her flavour. She parted them slightly for his tongue to run between them, as if they were her thighs.

Eventually releasing her, he sunk back onto his bunk, her taste lingering n his mouth. Her hand hung there, rocking to the swaying of the train, the fingers glistening with his saliva. He closed his eyes. It will happen now, he thought. She is about to show her hand -- four perfect aces. He waited.

When she spoke, her voice trembled. "In French, we have another word, 'baise'. What is that in English?"

He drew a breath. "Fuck," he said.

She paused for one last moment of delicious drama.

"Fuck me, James," she said.

She was already halfway out of her bunk when he reached her. With strength he didn't know he possessed, he lifted her down and they fell onto his bed. Their open mouths locked, saliva combining on their lips, tongues twisting around each other. They both knew there was no need of foreplay, that their foreplay had already happened in their minds. He twisted himself round between her splayed thighs and she grasped his cock, pulling it to the lips of her sex, thrusting herself up at him. He pushed down and felt himself enveloped by her wet heat. Desperate for release, their bodies thrashed together. After what seemed like only seconds he felt the walls of her cunt contract around him, and felt the unstoppable rise of his own orgasm. She bucked beneath him, grunting loudly, her fingernails digging into his buttocks with exquisite pain. He matched his thrusts to his ejaculations, feeling his sperm shooting into her, feeling the tide of their cum washing over the head of his cock. He gave one last thrust and felt her thighs grip him more tightly, her body arching, lifting him above her. For a moment, they seemed frozen, and then sank slowly back onto the bed.

***

When he awoke, he was alone. Her bunk was empty, the shoulder bag was gone. Outside the French countryside rolled past the window, basking in early morning sunshine.

He dressed quickly and went out into the corridor. Many of the compartments were open, beds folded away, their occupants looking up as he walked past. At the end of the coach he saw the steward and called, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Excuse me, the young lady who shared my cabin. Have you seen her?"

"Yes sir. She got off at Dijon." He moved closer, and spoke quietly. "If I was you, sir, I would check my wallet. She is no good, that one." James could hear the sneer in his voice.

"What time is it?"

"It is eight o'clock, sir. I'm afraid you are too late for breakfast. We shall be in Paris in thirty minutes." The steward turned and walked down the corridor.

Back in his room, he sat on the edge of his bunk and stared sightlessly out of the window.

"So, what was the game?" he said out loud.

Suddenly, with rising dread, he reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet. Trembling he opened it, and then exhaled his relief: it was as he had left it, his cards, his money.

No, not quite. There was something else. The corner of a small piece of paper sticking out between the Euros notes. Carefully he pulled it out and looked at the neat handwriting.

Dear James,

Thank you for saving me, twice.

I hope you enjoyed playing my game. I think we both won, don't you?

Michelle.