Journey through Desolation

His trousers were unbuckled, unbuttoned, unzipped, and flared open and she already had gotten the measure of his long, thick, black cock—justifying the rumors—with her hand and then with her mouth and throat as he had crouched in front of where she'd sat on the bed. Her willingness and capability had let him know that she'd had a history before her inattentive, old husband came into the picture.

Better to fuck you by, he'd let run through his brain. She, indeed, was ripe for it.

"Now, now," she murmured after his tongue and lips had taken her breath away and given her an explosion—and then another—and he rose up over her, hooked her legs on his hips, and moved in for the kill. Crying out "Yes, yes, YES!" again and panting hard, groaning, and grasping his now bare hips in her hands, digging her fingernails in, he entered her and held for several moments for her to adjust to the thickness of him. The steady rocking motion of the train, was already animating the fuck, though. He was rocking inside her and she was rocking her hips against his groin. She cried out, "Oh, Fuck!" as he began to pump.

An hour and a half later, before he rose off her, Charlene stretched out on her back on the bed, one arm dangling over the side of the bed and the hand of the other one cupping the back of Shaka's head, Shaka dipped down and feasted on her nipples again. She lay there, exhausted, running her fingers through his long, black hair, which she'd loosed from a tight bun on the back of his head. Her legs were open, turned outward. She was keeping her cunt fully accessible to him, not being able to get enough of the big, black cock. Her eyes were glazed over, a slight smile on her lips, her mouth gently blowing bubbles.

Releasing a nipple he'd been teasing with his teeth, Shaka moved his lips to her ear. "Cruise to New Zealand with me. Sleep in my bed. I'll give you the attention you need, want, and deserve. We'll play the violin and cello for the passengers by day and I'll fuck you on the big bed in the master's cabin every night."

"I can't. I'm a married woman," Charlene murmured in a weary voice that may not even have convinced herself.

"I love fucking married women," Shaka responded.

* * * *

The conductor helped Charlene down the steps from the sleeping coach at 7:08 the next morning. The train had arrived at Sydney Central at 6:58 exactly as scheduled and the conductor had lowered the steps to the coach before the next minute had been reached. She was moving gingerly. She was wearing the wide-legged navy-blue pants and white blouse Liam had laid out for her to travel in. The jacket to the pants was folded over her arm, though. She was prepared to show that much independence and let her chest push out without being covered by a jacket, even knowing the Liam was coming to the station to meet her—and to drive her out of Sydney and into the desolate countryside at the far end of the Hunter Valley to the northwest. Even more than this, she knew she was wearing the lacy panties and bra under the pants suit. Liam would never know she had.

She knew that they would make no stops—no restaurant meal, no frivolous shopping, no coffee down on the Circular Quay or in Darling Harbour. No extension of any sort of this first "vacation" of their married life.

Looking toward the station, she saw that Shaka had left the train as soon as the steps had been lowered. He was already off the platform running out to the trains and on the apron between the station house and the trains. As yesterday, he was impeccably dressed, meltingly handsome, a gleaming chocolate brown, sleek black hair, let down today, brushing his shoulders. He'd had it up in bun at the back of his head when they'd been in the bar car. He'd let Charlene take it down and run her fingers through it while he was fucking her. He had left it down today. As a symbol that they needn't be finished fucking?

As if he sensed Charlene had stepped down from the train, he turned by a door into the station and smiled. He gave no direction. He had told her that any decision was hers alone. She had told him in the night that she just couldn't leave her husband and float off to New Zealand or Fiji or wherever, and Shaka had said it had to be her decision.

Liam Larson was also on the apron, off to the left, whereas Shaka had gone to the right. Liam was turned away from her, arguing over something with a man in uniform handling a baggage cart. Liam hadn't seen her yet.

Perhaps if he had dressed in anything other than the soiled work clothes he worn when pruning the grape vines when he'd come to pick her up . . .

Charlene went into motion, walking toward the station. When she got to the end of the platform, she turned right toward Shaka. The journey through desolation was behind her now—what she saw ahead of her was the exotic tropical foliage of Fiji.