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Night train to Rome (fm:cuckold, 9397 words)

Author: Marion de Santers Picture in profile
Added: Jun 10 2025Views / Reads: 799 / 759 [95%]Story vote: 9.64 (11 votes)
My wife's erotic encounters with two young Italians on the night train to Rome
 


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The night train to Rome was almost empty when we boarded in Vienna. There were no sleeping cars available, so we took a regular compartment with six seats—three across and three across, with a window and a small folding table. The seats were hard, but there were only two of us, we were exhausted, and in a strangely quiet way, we were content.

My wife sat across from me, her legs crossed, the lights dimmed, the aisle empty. The train started moving—that deep, rolling hum I've always loved. So different from the car we had decided not to take this time. Twelve hours of travel, planned to be relaxing, in contrast to the intense concentration required behind the wheel, especially as we glided into the night. We would arrive in Rome relaxed, a kind of second honeymoon, now that we had been married for almost two decades.

We said little—but not because we had nothing to say to each other. It was because we were a little tired, wanted to get away from everyday life, relax. I looked at her. In her early fifties, long dark hair tied in a loose bun, a few strands of gray hair mixed in. Her summer dress was simple, but it outlined her figure all the more clearly because it was light and had a wonderfully erotic hint of transparency. Or rather, the dress let the light flood through, always offering a glimpse of her body. She still had that insecurity in her body language that almost no one noticed anymore—but I saw it. I knew it. And I knew that she never completely stopped paying attention to strangers' glances—even if she didn't admit it to herself.

I think I must have dozed off in between. It felt like two or even three hours, because the air outside smelled different. More like the south, more like dolce far niente, more like bella Italia and the land where lemons bloom. And then, just after the border with Italy, the compartment door opened. No longer alone, a quiet curse escaped my lips, while Julia seemed to react with no expression. Two men got in.

Tall. Dark. Athletic. In their early thirties, maybe. No, more like mid-twenties. One wore a light leather jacket over a tight shirt, the other had a backpack slung casually over one shoulder. Their language sounded soft, melodic, but masculine - Italian. The familiar singing quality of the language, always seductive, whether in the opera or sul treno.

"È libero qui? Possiamo entrare?" asked one of them in Italian, his smile friendly, almost too confident that we would understand what he was asking.

"Certamento," I said. My wife glanced up at me briefly, then at them—polite but alert, with a flash and sparkle in her eyes that could be interpreted as a gentle warning signal, but I didn't really notice. A short message she was definitely sending me, I understood that much. But should I really have said that this was "riservato," which of course wasn't true? So the seats here were "libero," "liberi" even, if you knew how to use the plural correctly in Italian.

The two sat down, one next to me, the other directly across from her. The one sitting across from her had medium-length hair, slightly wavy, tanned skin, and three days' stubble that made him look older. He was probably under twenty, I was sure—but that didn't matter. His gaze was open, calm. But there was something else I was beginning to recognize in him: not intrusive, not demanding, certainly not threatening. More like... observant, interested, curious. Or maybe—I was beginning to understand Julia's first instinctive glance—interested and open to anything... a kind of romantic openness, seduction included, flirting always possible... just... typical Italian, perhaps. Che vero?

The other one was dark—not really black, but enough to suggest that his origins must have been somewhere south of Sicily.

The conversation started innocently enough. Where we were from. Where we were going. That Rome was beautiful, that the beer in Italy was better than its reputation - actually a grotesque statement, since we both preferred Montepulciano anyway. Red wine from Abruzzo was better than birra from anywhere, whether alla spina or from the bottiglia. Their names were Orlando and Giorgio. Both from Florence.

A long-planned vacation through half of Central Europe was now coming to an end. Interrail, as I understood it—a sign of even more youth than I

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Profile for Marion de Santers, incl. 5 stories
Email: mariondesanters@gmail.com
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Public feedback for this story:

Anteater writes Fri 13 Jun 2025 18:44:

Wonderful
Is there more? Do we see how their relationship develops from here?

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Roger (guest) writes Tue 10 Jun 2025 12:09:

Incredibly hot story

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