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

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O as in Othello, no, that wasn't what I thought. Orlando Furioso, rather, the mad Roland. Although whoever translated Ariosto must have made a similar mistake, like crocodile and cocodrillo, or even worse, kolbassa and Klobasse... but it would take too long to explain.

What surprised me was that my wife talked more than usual. Normally reserved with strangers, she began to recount anecdotes from our previous Interrail trips - about a rainy night in Prague, about the museum in Rotterdam where she stood alone in a hall for hours. About a traffic jam in Paris, where the taxi driver had asked us not to get out, but to stay in the car for free, even if we could have walked there a hundred times faster. Somehow, I later found out, he had probably discovered in the rearview mirror that she wasn't wearing any panties. Julia didn't mention that, though - luckily, I thought to myself, because I was really on pins and needles. About the parking attendants in Munich, where women weren't allowed to step onto the grass in high heels - bringing back memories of Virginia Woolf's unforgettable essay and "a room of one's own" ... but that didn't mean much to them: they weren't obviously very well-read, more into Måneskin and stuff. The two listened to her - really listened. One with his head slightly bowed, the other with a slight smile. But both very well trained. Surfing - the kind with a paraglider ... a kind of volare, nel blu, di pinto di blu ... This floating figure with a blue face, which you have to imagine being painted blue again and then flying through space ... volare ...

I sat back, quiet. Watching. Her voice changed slightly, I knew that. A laugh that went deeper than necessary. A look that lingered a second too long. Could this be a kind of flirting?

Julia's stories made me think a lot more about Florence: the place where the two of them were supposed to be from. Florence - at a time when we weren't even married yet, probably 25 years ago or even longer, because we were together for almost three decades, albeit with a year apart before we decided to get married. So, Florence, probably 25 years ago. A picture-perfect summer rain and an equally cheerful sky. A downpour that took us by surprise, but at the same time made us dance in the sun-heated streets, enjoying the wetness that flooded us. Julia was wearing a white blouse - I can still see the image in my mind. She wasn't wearing a bra, just like she isn't today. And it clung to her like a second skin. Even more than that, it revealed her wonderfully firm breasts and nipples, hard from the wet, with a clarity that even complete nudity could not have better depicted or revealed. And I had a hard-on in my pants that I could hardly walk with the lust of seeing her like that. And others were probably no different. Hundreds, I had the impression, couldn't help but zoom their eyes, as if by magic, on this wetness, these breasts, these areolas, and these nipples. In the first park, I almost fell on top of her - pushed inadequately into the bushes, she blew me, providing wonderful relief. She even swallowed, which was rather rare - but it was probably the intoxicating context, the relief from the heat with equally liberating thrusts from my loins.

And just two streets further on, with hundreds more horny glances, I was already wild and hungry for her again. This time by a bush. And this time, I pushed up her skirt, pulled her panties aside, and took her from behind—with such intensity, lust, and horniness that I couldn't hold back for long. Which was just as well, because we were almost caught by the Carabinieri. She complained about the sticky wetness that smeared down her thighs, smelling so erotic, with that wonderful pout. I still remember that laugh and the seductiveness in her eyes... and then in the hotel... I don't know how many times we made love. That's the image I tended to think of when I remembered Interrail and episodes from our time together.

Somehow I was glad that Julia didn't mention it. Compared to the museum, where there was no one else, the two of them would certainly have been infinitely more interested.

The lighter-haired man in front of her—Giorgio, I think—left his hand resting on his thigh. Broad, strong, relaxed. His fingers twitched slightly every time my wife laughed.

The bottle of red wine turned out to be cheap Czech stuff they had left over. It tasted surprisingly good, but it might have been relabeled, which was common practice in the EU by then. I would have classified it as a Valpolicella, without wanting to pretend to be a wine connoisseur. The Italians had brought it with them—they wanted to "share something," they had said, with that insolently casual grin that didn't seem arrogant, but natural.

There were four of us drinking, small plastic cups balanced on the fold-out table. My wife drank slowly, but she warmed up faster than usual—the day had been long, and the alcohol hit her tired legs. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her hair began to come loose from its bun, and her smile became deeper, more subtle, and her gaze more dreamy, a little more thoughtful.

And then, I didn't think it was possible—and I didn't know why—Julia brought up an episode again. Something along the lines of, "You're from Florence, aren't you..."

I don't know if my mouth opened so wide that my chin must have hit the table. But there it was, the episode I had been thinking about so intensely before. Thought transmission with a corresponding delay. Or perhaps it was due to the red wine, the loose tongue, the slightly cheekier thoughts that seemed to be spreading. I wanted the ground to swallow me up when she described it. From her point of view, it didn't really differ from what I remembered and had experienced and enjoyed with her. With one subtle exception, however, or rather an addition and interpretation. She described in great detail the looks the others had given her, not a hundred times, but in such a way that it was clear how they had relished undressing her with their eyes, how they had wanted to do all sorts of things to her, and that it was only a matter of time before it had to happen. And that I was only allowed to function and act as an instrument of her lust was also clear from her words. In English, because my Italian wouldn't have been good enough for that - and neither would hers. Cazzo, yes, that was clear, and troia and ... I didn't want to probe any further. Something like esecutore della passione, I guess ... executor of passion.

The two of them grinned broadly and broadly - and Julia looked at me somehow with different eyes. Or maybe I already had a slightly clouded gaze, half succumbing to tiredness and then also a little tipsy. The Czech red wine was probably more of a blend with something stronger in it, if I wasn't mistaken. Or maybe I couldn't handle as much as I used to.

Around half past eleven, she pulled her feet up and lay down across the two seats. She laughed again at something Orlando said, then closed her eyes. The train jolted through the night, the curtain was half drawn, the light dimmed.

I watched her for a moment. Her dress had ridden up a little—not much, but enough for her pale pink panties to peek out from under the hem. Her skin was sun-tanned and smooth, her legs slightly bent. It looked almost staged, although I knew it wasn't. Or maybe it was—I wouldn't have dared to bet on it. But it had the same immediate effect on us men as it had back then in Florence. Not as intense or as obvious, that was clear. But even if we'd seen hundreds of porn movies and naked pussies and clefts, the subtle precursor to that, the glimpse under a skirt or a nipple slipping out... it still had an effect. And not just on me. A tingling sensation and a deep sigh that I kept to myself, in the faint hope that I was the only voyeur in the room.

But Giorgio, who was sitting opposite her, followed my gaze. He didn't say anything, but the corner of his mouth lifted briefly and I was sure that something was also beginning to stir and swell gently between his legs. Just like me - something I didn't want anyone else to see or guess under any circumstances. Not even my wife. Not now and in this constellation.

Not where we weren't alone. And yet I knew that otherwise I probably wouldn't have reacted at all. Orlando poured more into our glasses, then nudged my knee lightly with his, a little jovial, a little ingratiating, but above all stepping up a gear, which seemed to intensify the gentle, latent eroticism in the compartment.

"È molto carina," he said quietly, thoughtfully and cautiously, testing whether he was crossing any boundaries. Probing, I could already feel how far he could go... and I... fell into the trap: if it was one, and I could see it. Yes, I was aware of what he was hinting at. Of course, I wasn't stupid. And apart from all that, he was right—and the compliment was meant for my wife, even if it flattered me.

I shrugged, almost playfully modest and as if it were irrelevant. And yes, my wife understood Italian very well, she just rarely spoke it. "Yes. She is."

"Siete sposati da tanto tempo?" asked Giorgio. He leaned forward slightly, his elbows on his knees. Perhaps this turned him into a position where he could see more of those pink panties. Or a little more of her firm thighs, which were literally pressing themselves into our eyes.

"Twenty years," I said. "vent' anni."

"Ancora una selvaggia a letto?" Orlando grinned. His voice was soft but clear, now definitely crossing a line. The wannabe Casanova in black definitely wanted to gauge my reaction. Whether she was still wild... in bed. Actually quite cheeky, but... ?

I looked at him. And before I could think, I replied: "She used to be wild. Today... tamed. Prima era selvaggia. Oggi... addomesticata."

They laughed—that deep, rough kind of laugh that men do when they're among themselves and no one is completely sober anymore. When the jokes get dirtier because that's just the way it is, so to speak: men among themselves, real men, where the number one topic is definitely no longer il calcio. Men among themselves... with the one slight exception that I seemed to completely overlook the fact that my wife, the woman in question, was listening in. And even if she didn't understand this kind of Italian, the dirty laughter of the three of us was certainly enough for her to understand what was going on.

"Selvaggia? Tamed?" Giorgio repeated. "So you mean you have her under control?"

I smiled. I don't know if it was a lie, or pride, or just a test, or the classic trap I fell into in my stupidity. Or maybe it was just that machismo that sometimes rages inside you, where you say things you don't necessarily mean. Or, to put it better, things you shouldn't say, but rather think about first. Because otherwise, it might come back to bite you. "Completely. She does what I want."

And then I heard her voice.

Quiet. Hoarse from sleep, but still as if she had just woken up. "Oh, really?"

I turned my head. Her eyes were open. She was still lying there exactly as before—legs slightly bent, her panties barely covering her, in fact, revealing more. But now her gaze was fixed directly on me.

Not angry. Not loud. But awake. Hurt? Curious? Irritated?

I couldn't tell exactly. In any case, a little different than... or anything but: tamed. More wild, untamed, set free, a wild mare out there in the field, while I had been babbling like a tame foal in my male bravado.

The two Italians froze for a moment, unable to assess the situation, then said nothing. And I, too, took a deep breath. Not just because she really looked... impressive. And very aggressive, very enterprising, very... yes, very... untamed. Che donna selvaggia, per niente addomesticata. A wild woman, certainly not a tamed one - a potential conflict that could well have been in the air and left us men speechless, at least for a moment.

Julia slowly straightened up, smoothing her dress without haste. Her legs remained crossed. She leaned back and continued to look at me. Directly. Questioningly. Then she turned to Orlando: "And? What else did he tell you about me?"

She stood up slowly, almost gracefully. As if she had decided to assert herself. Not offended—more... curious about the moment. Aggressive, yes, but not verbally. Her dress had slipped, her hair was messy, the bun had come undone, and her long curls now cascaded down her shoulders. Julia didn't seem like someone in control—and yet she suddenly had everything under control. Her voice was calm, almost cool, cunning and so smoky - erotic, it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. And not just the ones on my scalp!

"Is there anything else to drink - or was that all you had?" And then, in almost perfect Italian, she surprised even me: "c'è ancora qualcosa da bere?"

The Italians glanced at each other briefly, their expressions brightening and smiling. Giorgio grinned and pulled a small metal bottle out of his backpack. "Italian schnapps. Almost homemade. Grappa."

"Brave," she said, whatever she meant by that. Consuming the schnapps, or perhaps she was trying to encourage herself. But she remained standing—until Orlando moved aside and slid a hand across the seat. Inviting. She slowly settled down between the two of them—a touch too close. Above all, between the two of them, which I didn't like at all. Away from me—wandering over to them. That was... at least a signal, to call it that.

I said nothing. Just watched as she took the first glass, sniffed it, grimaced slightly—then drank.

"Brotherhood?" asked Giorgio with a raised eyebrow, using the classic excuse for a first gentle kiss, as if playing a trump card. I was sure he had more up his sleeve and that the cards were marked.

My wife laughed dryly. "Why not."

And then she raised her glass—first with Orlando. They crossed their arms as if in a toast, their cheeks almost touching, and drank. Then she turned to Giorgio—who didn't drink, but cheekily kissed her on the cheek as they clinked glasses.

It wasn't a harmless kiss. Not a tourist flirtation. It was slow, deliberate—too close to her mouth, as I realized with a slight rise of resentment in my stomach. Resentment and a hint of excitement—or perhaps self-reproach. What had I provoked with my stupid torrent of words?

She didn't pull away.

I saw her take a short breath—surprised, uncertain. Then she laughed—a little too loud, a little too long. And she stayed seated.

The alcohol was taking effect. Her posture changed: no longer stiff, but soft. Her legs were no longer together, her knees no longer close but slightly open. Her gaze was more open, her voice slower.

These were all subtle signals that the others were surely picking up on just as intensely and knew how to interpret.

"So," Orlando said with that charming undertone. "Are you really tamed? Sei davvero una donna addomesticata?"

Julia looked at me. And in her gaze there was contradiction—and pride—and something I couldn't quite place. Something that flickered.

"Perhaps you're dealing with an old man," she said without looking at me. "He likes to talk sometimes when the days have been long and the nights too short." Orlando seemed to translate what she had said in English as something like, "A volte, quando le giornate sono state lunghe e le notti troppo corte, a mio marito piace chiacchierare." I swallowed hard and felt myself flush.

Giorgio placed a hand on her shoulder. Broad, strong, slow. And left it there - very confidently, now weighing every word she said and taking advantage of the situation.

She shivered. I saw it. Only for a moment. But she didn't pull away.

Orlando leaned closer. His knee touched hers. His hand played with a strand of her hair.

Then he leaned toward her—his face only inches from hers.

"You're not tamed," he whispered. "You're awake. I can feel it!"

And before she could say anything, he kissed her. Not hastily. Not wildly. But calmly. Confidently. Right on the mouth. With the certainty that she wouldn't slap him. But not with his tongue. Not yet, as I thought I could see with my eyes wide open, as pointless as that realization might be.

What was that? Her body froze for a moment. I held my breath. In that one, delicate moment, I don't think either of us could have done anything else. Surprised, almost horrified, and yet like... a little clap of thunder on a sultry evening that might lead to a downpour. Just like back then in Florence.

Then she answered. Not eagerly, but not defensively either. Julia's lips moved. Her eyes closed. Her hand still held the glass, trembling slightly.

When she let go, her face was red. Her voice was barely audible, and perhaps only I understood exactly what she meant.

"I... am not... drunk enough." - Non é abbastanza ubriaca, Orlando seemed to whisper, pure seduction?

Giorgio held out the next glass to her. The schnapps had long since taken effect. My wife's voice was deeper, more fragile, her movements softer, as if she were wrapped in cotton wool, partly as if in slow motion - or was it just my vision clouded, my pulse racing? But her gaze - that one look - was alert. Perhaps more alert than before.

She was still sitting between the two Italians, the glass in her hand, her cheeks flushed. Giorgio now had one arm around her shoulders, Orlando his hand on her thigh—calm, unassuming, but unmistakeable. His fingers barely moved, and yet every inch was electric, like his journey upward, upward.

Her dress—that loose, light blue summer dress—had slipped further up. The fabric stretched across her thighs. A hint of pink remained visible, as if by accident. She did nothing to hide it. Almost the opposite, as if it were the goal to be achieved.

I felt my heartbeat in my throat and was paralyzed. Hundreds of thoughts raced through my mind, none of them leading to a clear decision. What was this that was beginning to unfold before me? An intense flirtation? A form of revenge, a way of showing me that I certainly hadn't tamed her? Or a secret inner desire that I would never have dared to express, that I perhaps didn't even mean seriously?

She laughed. Not girlishly, not shrill—but softly, almost sleepily. Julia had long since reached a state of limbo: too drunk to maintain control, but too clear-headed to be unaware of what was happening.

And then—suddenly—she looked at me. Directly. Not defiantly. Not questioningly, but rather seeking help. Or perhaps seeking confirmation, even permission. Like an animal that has gone far and pauses for a moment before taking the decisive leap. A wild animal, of course, not fleeing from someone, but quite the opposite. Leaping into freedom, back into the wilderness of her lust and possibilities that were given to her in the wild.

I looked at her. My chest felt tight. I could have said something. I could have stopped the moment, I could have stopped the whole thing. I could have pulled Julia, my wife, out now, ended her role, ended the charade. I could have blamed it all on the alcohol, ended the scenario, which at that moment and with that explanation, everyone would have understood and accepted. Probably even her. But I didn't. I nodded. Maybe I didn't even nod, but I certainly didn't shake my head or roll my eyes in indignation and rejection. No, I didn't roll my eyes, and my face showed no grimaces or signals that she was now crossing boundaries that we had set for each other.

It was a barely visible nod. A silent "You may. If you want to."

And she wanted to. The grass beyond the fence—it was greener, fresher, smelled more intense, smelled of more flowers and more meadow and more MORE...

Orlando slowly drew the curtain. It truly seemed like a ritual. The world outside disappeared, even though hardly anyone could realistically see inside or would have noticed more than a fleeting glimpse of what was happening. Only the dull rattling of the tracks remained.

Giorgio pulled her dress down—slowly, almost reverently, starting at the straps. It slid over her shoulder, over her waist, over her hips. She didn't lift her arms. She let it happen.

And then they truly pushed themselves into our field of vision—her breasts. Full and a little soft, but not weak, not yet sagging, the proud precursor to that. Florence as it was back then, in perfection many years later. They bore the weight of time with pride, with a quiet self-assurance. No push-up, no support. Just skin and shape and a gravity that she proudly did not resist. They hung a little, like ripe fruit on a branch - not limp, but alive. There was something incredibly feminine, unexcited, almost calming in their natural line.

I saw her nipples stiffen, hesitantly at first, then more decisively. Not hard, not exaggerated, but alert—like two little thoughts stirring when you're just beginning to dream. The skin around them was darker, softly outlined, as if powdered by the sun. And yet: no attempt to seduce. Nothing artificial. Just this one moment of closeness, of chance, of insight into something that was actually quite natural - and precisely because of that so beautiful.

She noticed my gaze. Her posture did not change. She allowed it to happen, as if by itself, as if automatically and as if it were absolutely necessary, that his dark hands began to wrap themselves around her soft forms. They took them in his hands, combed through her fingers, letting the whiteness of her skin shimmer between the darkness of his hands. And then his lips, his tongue, yes, even his white teeth, as he placed them over them and licked them.

At that moment, I didn't think of possession or desire, not of sex or lust in the narrow sense. I just thought: This is what a woman who is at peace with herself looks like. Who knows what she is wearing—not just fabric, but her body, her memories. I had seen her breasts a thousand times, touched them, kissed them. And yet at that moment I saw them as if for the first time. Open, delicate, powerful, alive—though not exposed for me. Not bared for me, not for my pleasure, but for that of strangers.

It was not a revelation, not an act. It was a gentle emergence from concealment. A revelation of her body, her femininity, her barely concealed nakedness.

Beneath it: only the delicate panties, little more than a hint of fabric. Her skin tanned, warm, glowing with excitement and primed by alcohol. She trembled slightly. Not from the cold.

I sat there, stiff, with a throbbing erection, unable to look away. I never thought I would see her like this—with her hair down, her skin bare, surrounded by strange men. And me, a little apart. Yes, apart in the truest sense of the word. Apart from the action, apart like someone who has been excluded for the time being, condemned to watch, not to participate as an actor.

Orlando leaned toward her, kissing her breasts, his wet path moving upward. She hesitated—just a moment—and then responded with her mouth open. Her hand reached for Giorgio, who was now standing in front of her—close enough that she could feel his warmth without looking at him.

Her lips were still on the other's mouth, softly parted, kissing, breathing. And yet her right hand moved unerringly, as if she had known where to go all along. She found him immediately—hard, tense, through the fabric of his pants. Her fingers closed around him as if it were a familiar object, a reliable pulse.

It was not a hesitant gesture. No groping. Just the firm knowledge of his arousal. She squeezed gently, then harder, letting her hand linger briefly, moving it a little—just slightly—as if to feel its girth, to grasp its length, to stir his reaction, to increase his hunger, to heighten his wildness.

The kiss on her mouth grew deeper, more demanding, while her fingers slowly felt for the zipper. She played with it, not frantically, but with a kind of erotic equanimity. A pull, a hook, a wait. She felt him move, slightly in his hips, following his breath—and how her grip held him, still through the fabric, but full of promise.

And then she leaned forward. Slowly. Willingly. More willingly, more excited, her breath still tempering the kiss.

I saw her kiss him. Then deeper. Her movement was tentative, inexperienced—but not uncertain. She did it deliberately. As a sign. As a decision. She leaned forward slowly, letting her lips linger on the fabric where his hardness bulged clearly beneath the open zipper. A gentle pressure from her mouth, a breath through the fabric. She rubbed her cheek lightly against it, then with her lips closed, as if giving him a first kiss through his clothes.

Then she pulled his pants down - slowly, almost solemnly - and set him free. He sprang toward her as if a taut spring had been released. Full, tense, warm, pulsing, throbbing with lust and masculinity. Her lips touched his tip only fleetingly before she circled it with her tongue. A first stroke. A first taste.

Then she let him slide in—carefully, but completely, until he filled her mouth. She moved slowly. No haste, no eagerness. Just rhythm, warmth, and a wet promise. Her hands held him at his hips, her gaze lowered, but her posture spoke of lust—not service, but devotion. Every movement of her mouth was a pulse of attention, tenderness, and controlled desire. He closed his eyes and let himself be guided as she began to press her lips closer and closer, more and more demanding, over his arousal. A soft smacking sound and the wetness of her saliva as his hard penis began to shine invitingly and provocatively.

My hand was on my thigh. I hardly dared to breathe.

She looked at me again, from the side, as she did what I had never expected. No shame in her gaze—only heat. And pride.

The fabric of her dress had long since fallen carelessly to the floor—a sign that there was no turning back. Her skin was golden brown in the light, her breath calm but deep. Between her hips, only a last strip of fabric remained: her panties—delicate pink, wafer-thin, almost transparent in the light, clinging to her skin.

Giorgio's fingers lay flat on her thigh, not moving—but she knew he was ready to go further, to dare more. Orlando leaned closer to her, stroking her side with the back of his hand until he reached just below her breast. She flinched slightly—not backward, but with pleasure.

Then she turned her head toward me and I felt hot and cold at the same time, as I seemed to sense what she was about to say. It was unimaginable anyway, the actual words were irrelevant. It was about the message, clear and unambiguous. Her gaze was brief—and everything in it said, "I know what's going to happen. And I want you to see it."

I don't think she even spoke. Sparks flew from her eyes, a will in her gaze and a vibration that left no room for interpretation. I just nodded. Speechless, shocked, but not in a negative way. Another nod. Not in agreement, but in confirmation. "Yes, you can. And yes, I see you."

She exhaled slowly and lifted her pelvis slightly. A single, silent command or a hint. A release, a clue that had to act as a signal.

Orlando reacted immediately. His fingers slid down to her hips and grabbed her panties. He paused for a moment, as if to give her a chance to change her mind.

But she did nothing. She just waited, closed her eyes briefly, and took a deep breath. She looked at me again, and I almost came when I saw the spectacle. The hands of a stranger on my wife's panties, already hooked in and stretching the elastic waistband so that I could see the fine red stripe he had left behind on her skin. Like a final warm signal to us.

Then he pulled. Slowly. Inch by inch—as if it were both torture and pleasure to take his time and enjoy what she had to reveal to his eyes. First over her hips, then over her stomach, her thighs. She lifted her legs one after the other, helping him—almost solemnly, the way she stretched and bent.

When the fabric fell, it was silent. Almost reverent. The famous pin

Giorgio took the panties and let them slide onto the seat without a word. But he did it so that I could clearly see the inside. A dark stripe. Wet. Probably fragrant, too, as I immediately began to imagine. Wet. Kissed by her lips... she was wet. She was horny. My wife already had wet panties. How long had they been wet? It was more than crazy thoughts that raced through my mind like a ray gun.

She now sat completely naked between the two Italians—breathless, glistening, open. Ready for what was to come, as inevitable as the Amen in a prayer.

But not exposed. Not just stripped naked in a crude way. But desired.

And she felt it. You could see it in her posture—upright, present, expectant. Downright proud—not at all tamed, as I had so stupidly assumed. Her chest rose and fell in time with the train. A slight tremor in her breasts, those wonderful twins that hung only imperceptibly but now swayed. How would they tremble with every subsequent jolt, not from the tracks, but from another hardness, like steel? Her thighs were slightly open, radiating self-confidence here too. Her flawless skin was taut, with just a hint of cellulite in one or two places - much less than in women her age. Every inch of her was awake.

Orlando sank to his knees in front of her. His hands on her knees. He leaned forward slowly, without haste, without hesitation. He had to see her, could smell her, was allowed to suck her wet slit into his eyes full of anticipation. My heart was pounding

I knew what was coming. And I saw her lean back, close her eyes—and let it happen. Allowing what was nevertheless unimaginable—perhaps in crazy and insane ideas that I sometimes harbored but didn't dare share with her. How would she have reacted if I had confessed that I sometimes even longed to see and imagine her being taken by other men? In front of me, before my eyes. With me as a witness to this form of humiliation or exaltation—depending on how you wanted to see and understand it. Something that was incomprehensible if you applied normal moral standards. So much for fidelity and all that... and yes, I had been faithful. And I believe she had too—at least I had hardly any reason to suspect otherwise.

Feeling jealousy and stirring it up. And now... committing the ultimate act of potential transgression in an upright and yet loving marriage, right before my eyes. I swallowed hard. My ears exploded as if the tinnitus had finally collapsed. Orlando knelt quietly in front of her.

No more games, no more flirting, more like the gentle urging of a conqueror or someone trying to tame her, my wild woman. He moved as if he had the right to touch her—and she granted him this grotesque privilege. She was now completely naked, only her legs slightly crossed, as if a remnant of restraint still lingered there.

But then she opened her thighs—very slightly. It was probably the final signal of consent, which was accepted with a moan from both of them. The view of her swollen and wet, glistening slit, which she exposed and which drew their desire like a lustful magnet.

He placed his hands on her thighs, so firmly that I could see her skin give way slightly under his fingers. He leaned forward, his head bowed, his gaze fixed on her. His shoulders barely moved. Only his mouth, his lips, his tongue, and his breath, which began to caress her like a warm wind.

I couldn't hear anything—but I could see it. How her stomach tightened. How she inhaled sharply. How her lips parted—not to speak, but out of an impulse she could no longer control.

She leaned back, supporting herself with both hands on the cushion, her fingers clenched.

Giorgio sat next to her, one hand on her shoulder, the other slowly sliding over her breast. Her skin trembled under his touch, but her entire focus was directed downward—at Orlando's head, his tongue, the gentle, circular movements with which he opened her, inch by inch. A sucking and smacking and increasingly vigorous rotating, as he now seemed to drill into her, using his nose like an erotic plow to tear open her wet clod, presumably to inseminate her later.

Orlando's head lowered, again and again, as if in reverence, then rotating hard inside her, tasting and licking between her, penetrating her gently and widely. His lips first touched only the inside of her thighs—moist, warm, like a promise, then sliding over her hot slit. He breathed in her scent, deeply, as if he were thirsty, and then he approached her again, without haste, her pert center, which he nibbled and pulled into his lips. His tongue was soft, almost flat, as it repeatedly brushed her center. No thrusting, no haste - just a circular gliding motion, a gentle pressure from below, like a wind opening a flower.

Inch by inch, until she opened beneath him, became receptive. Her skin stretched slightly, her hips lifted toward him. And he knew it. He felt it. His nose brushed gently against her, dipped a little deeper, rubbed along her in rhythm with her breathing, while his tongue circled again—now more delicately, more purposefully, a dance around a point that had long since awakened.

She felt his lips enclose her, becoming more intense and demanding, then a brief suck, playful, almost cheeky - and then the sliding again, deeper now, longer. Every now and then, his teeth brushed her skin, just like a shadow. It was wild and gentle at the same time. A game between patience and hunger and a smacking sound that already hid more thrusting.

She lost control of her breathing, of her thoughts - all she could feel was him, his devotion, his warmth. Her hand rested in his curls. And held him there. Very tightly, pressing him between her thighs, demanding more of him, not just preparing her, but already giving her her first climax.

Her legs twitched slightly, reflexively. She gasped. A sound that was more frightening than liberating, a violent rattle and a soft smacking sound as she released the sucking penis from her mouth, which she had been using to gag herself.

Then she turned her head—and looked at me. Her eyes were wide, glassy, not from tears—but from heat. A fine thread of spit and anticipation dripped from her chin, but ran down her hard nipples, smearing her breasts in erotic wetness. She wanted to know if I saw it. And whether I was still with her. She didn't want to humiliate me, that was clear, even if it was a tightrope walk that seemed to be no wider than a pubic hair. Especially one that had been shaved away, as smooth as she was. Smooth to an extent that I could probably only see from that distance - as a pure voyeur and by no means a participant.

I didn't move. I was hard as stone. But I smiled. Just a hint of a smile. Was I in a dream or some kind of real unreality that I could no longer judge?

She closed her eyes again and let herself fall.

Her back arched slightly. She opened her legs a little wider. Her chest rose, her breathing quickened. And then came the sound—first soft, then clearer, more distinct: a moan. No more shame. No doubt. Just pure, twitching, drawn-out pleasure as she now pushed herself against him, thrusting her hips against the caressing lips and tongue that raged sweetly between her legs.

Orlando continued—focused, rhythmic, his tongue deep in her warmth, his hands on her hips, his shoulders like an anchor as she trembled beneath his lips, arched, her eyes wide, and then let out a long cry that was stifled by deep moans and twitching thighs as Orlando began a final furioso, dancing and vibrating between her, rejoicing as intensely as he was bathed in her juices, glistening all over his face.

I saw how she moved. How she sat there—open, willing, completely herself.

And I knew: This was only the beginning.

She lay half reclined on the seat, her legs open, her body still trembling from Orlando's tongue. Her skin glistened with sweat, her chest rose irregularly, her gaze was lost—not lost, but let go.

Giorgio stood up. Wordless. He slowly pulled the small package out of his pants pocket, tore it open with his teeth while staring at her. His eyes were dark, clear, alert.

She watched it. Saw the condom. And made no move to stop it.

On the contrary: she slid deeper into the seat, raised her pelvis slightly—a silent, more than clear invitation. Her legs lay loosely apart, one of her feet braced against the window, the other against the back of the seat opposite.

I couldn't breathe. I saw everything, saw how wet she was, saw how open she was, saw how she trembled—where Orlando's tongue and lips had worked her so sweetly. And I was harder than I had ever been in my life.

Giorgio stepped between them. His hands on her hips, his body over hers, controlled, tense. Then, in a single, controlled movement, he lowered himself and entered her.

She gasped—short, sharp, then a sound followed, deeper, rawer. No pain. No shock. Just a body opening and accepting. Her head fell back, her hands gripped the upholstery as if she had to hold on to keep from bursting.

Giorgio thrust into her slowly, then harder, deeper, and with momentum from his hips.

The rhythmic creaking of the seat back, the dull slap of skin on skin—it echoed in the narrow compartment, muffled but unmistakable. Naked skin on leather that was beginning to get wet. Her juices, no doubt, making their way down between her thighs. At least that's what it smelled like, and it was almost enough to make me explode with excitement.

Orlando stood next to her, stroking her hair, kissing her cheek, whispering something to her that she seemed to drink in with her eyes closed. Then he pulled her lips to his dark arousal and her moans were muffled by his dark shaft dancing across her lips.

I saw how Giorgio guided her. How he pulled her deeper toward him with every movement—not just physically, but completely. How she wanted to submit and how, at the same time, Orlando penetrated her mouth so deeply that I could feel her cheeks and throat swell, his testicles slapping against her chin almost unrestrainedly.

Then she changed position herself, breathing heavily and gasping for air.

She turned onto all fours, pulled herself into the middle of the seat, her knees braced against the cushion, her hands against the wall. Her hips were raised, ready for the next position, which she particularly loved. Giorgio approached her again, grabbed her waist, and penetrated her once more—this time harder, faster.

Her moans were no longer suppressed.

I felt it coursing through me—raw, animalistic, alive. I was only a meter away, sitting there as if bound, a witness, a husband, a man who had loved her, held her, protected her—and now saw her like this. And couldn't do anything about it, didn't even want to.

Orlando switched. When Giorgio pulled out, he stepped up to her, kissed her first, then slid into her, just as deep, just as naturally. She moaned, not surprised, but ready. Her hands grabbed his back, her hips moved toward him, sinking the noticeably thicker black shaft inside her, forcing her to moan deeply before she relaxed and spread herself over him.

She was no longer the woman who had been tamed. Not at all, she was free. Certainly not tamed by me, her stupid, boastful husband...

She was on all fours, her skin glistening, her muscles tense under the soft light. Orlando behind her, deep inside her, held her hips tightly, thrusting hard, regularly, demanding. She moaned openly, without restraint, her face half pressed into the cushion, her mouth open, her voice a deep, tearing sound. And again and again Giorgio, or whichever of the others, let his dripping, thick member be pampered by her mouth when the narrowness of the room and their position allowed it.

I could see everything. Every movement. Every twitch of her back. How her thighs gave way, how her fingers cramped. And I felt as if my chest was about to burst.

She was naked. Inside and out. And she didn't belong to me—not at that moment.

But I was there. I saw it. And I was so hard I could hardly sit.

Orlando moaned softly, his movements became more intense, his fingers dug into her hips. He controlled the rhythm. Her movements followed his thrusts—like a body that only reacted to stimulation. It was so obvious that he didn't want to come yet, but instead gave her repeated subtle orgasms, which were then intensified and heightened by his buddy.

Then - a change.

He pulled back. She almost collapsed - breathing heavily, gasping. Then she lifted her head and looked at me. Her face was flushed, disheveled, full - not just from exhaustion, but from something primal.

And then Giorgio stepped up to her, taking her again, mounting her again, fucking her... my eyes began to tear up with lust and excitement.

It was his hands now that drove her buttocks wide apart, spreading them almost obscenely, so that the dark, fine line was visible as a bright stripe.

Julia's freed hands clawed into the upholstery. A sound escaped her—deep, muffled, raw. No pain. No shock. Instead, an opening that was not only physical.

She whispered, "Oh God..." and I think I also heard a "si," deep and muffled, enjoying this subtle transition from pain to pleasure.I couldn't think anymore.I saw my wife—naked, open, taken, as I had never known her before. I had thought I knew every fiber of her body, every boundary, every preference. But this was... something else.

And at that very moment—with Orlando deep inside her, slowly moving in her ravaged anal canal—she looked at me. Not ashamed. Not guilty. But... open.As if to say: Now you know. This is me too.She told me later that her ex occasionally took her anally, at first involuntarily, then with her consent once she had gotten used to it. Not casually, not apologetically—just as a quiet fact. That's how I remember her words, her look, which sent shivers down my spine again and again: "I never told you because I thought you'd see me differently.

"She didn't say that she thought of herself as a whore. That wouldn't have occurred to me, but... but that night on the train, that's exactly how I saw her - and perhaps for the first time in her entirety. Still not as a whore, but... I couldn't quite find the words to describe it, but perhaps the closest would be: as a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and what others could and should do to her. And what role they were allowed to play. And my role, for now and today, was sobering and shocking, instructive and horny at the same time, almost criminally arousing like the cuckold I had long since become at that moment: the horny spectator, the voyeur.

Or to put it even more intensely: the one who was allowed to be the voyeur.Orlando had long since slid deep inside her, from behind. Anal. He had slowly opened her up, prepared her, guided her inch by inch—and she had let it happen with almost stoic calm and gentle moans. No resistance, no shame that would have resisted or even fought back, jumped away from him in horror. Her hands trembled on the cushion, her face was buried in the backrest, her body tense, like a string under tension.I could see his rhythm—how he held her, pulled her hips, pressed himself into her. Every thrust was deep. Controlled. And she... took it. All of it.

La troia più stretta che abbia mai scopato.

I swallowed hard, knowing full well what that meant. I almost cried... mostly out of longing, horror, jealousy, but also because of this almost crazy feeling of happiness for her that was pulsing inside me, resolving all the contradictions within me.Then Giorgio came.He stood naked in front of her, hard, ready, his member a revelation, a challenge.

She looked up briefly—her eyes glassy, her lips parted, her breath shallow. And she knew what was coming.She sank back a little—her back arched, her hips now resting lower, her pelvis slightly raised, as she now squatted impaled on Orlando.And Giorgio stepped between her open thighs, between her gaping, wet slit.For a moment, they both paused—as if the silence allowed them to feel the weight of what was about to happen. Two men. Her body. At the same time.Then he entered her. In front. Slowly. Sliding. Deep.

Filling her with pleasure, now filling her doubled tightness even more.Julia moaned. Loudly. Not in pain—but fully. A sound I had never heard from her before. Like air escaping from her.

Now she was between them. Anal from behind. Vaginal from the front. Held by the man behind her, or rather, impaled and skewered, her feet resting on his thighs, somehow wedged in with the soles of her feet. And her legs, her thighs, her lap wide open, giving space and freedom to the other man who was taking her from the front. He thrust into her with lust, smacking and sucking, all the way in, his hard testicles slapping against her or against the other man who was impaling her.

Filled. Moved. By two men, taking turns. Sometimes at the same time. Sometimes in a fluid rhythm, like a single body that guided her, turned her, penetrated her.

DP - double penetration, double penetration. What I had seen in many porn movies, found horny, not really real for me, certainly not for my wife. And now. NOW - on our second honeymoon, so to speak, twenty years later and... now she was doing it. My wife. Double penetration... and me... voyeur, spectator... I don't know what really happened to me anymore.I saw her breasts quivering, her mouth open, her gaze half-twisted, lost between arousal and overwhelm. Her hands gripped Giorgio's shoulders helplessly, her hips moving automatically.

She was being guided—and she wanted it, the way she was now being taken by the two of them. A twitching piece of flesh, moaning with pleasure between the two naked men who made her tremble and quiver as they took turns penetrating her lustfully.

I sat there, in the semi-darkness, an arm's length away. Stiff, hard, bound, aroused like never before. And I knew: I had never seen her like this. Never so desired. And never so loved. And at the same time - never so horrified by her in the sense that I had not known her before. Only now did I seem to glimpse her true inner self, her eroticism, and her lust: no matter how long we had been married. It was as if my eyes had not only been opened, but torn out, then purified and put back in again.Because she was no less my wife—she was more.

More than I had ever allowed. More than I had ever demanded. And now she was whole.

The train jerked as it slowly pulled into the next station. A change of light swept through the compartment. Voices outside, footsteps in the corridor. The two Italians got dressed without a word—brief glances, a silent nod in my direction. No grand gestures. No farewell. Two filled and strongly scented condoms, which they had slipped off and disposed of in the trash can... white and smeared...

Then the door closed. And we were alone again. It was almost like an escape, but the two of them had clearly realized that they were no longer wanted, no longer needed, and certainly no longer welcome.

The Moor had done his duty, the Moor could leave.

My wife lay naked on the bench, her body still trembling, her skin glistening, her breathing shallow. Her hair was tousled, her legs slightly bent, her cheeks flushed. She smelled of lust and semen, even though that was bubbling in the condoms next to her - of insemination and satisfaction. She didn't look weak or tired at all. Quite the opposite - she was glowing, this new form of freedom pulsing through her in waves as she smiled a little shyly.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, she sat up. Without a word. She came to me. Climbed onto my lap, sat down across my legs. Her whole body, her wonderful female nakedness nestled against me, warm, soft, alive. I put my arms around her, held her tight, without thinking. Just feeling. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks and mixed with mine, which I let flow freely from my eyes.

Her head on my shoulder. Her naked chest against mine. Her hand on my stomach, unsure whether to move further down, where my arousal had long since manifested itself in a wet spot in my pants.

"Are you okay?" I whispered, amazed at myself, at what had happened and how I had reacted. Almost more surprised than how SHE had reacted.

She nodded. Suddenly very small and quiet. "Yes... somehow. I thought I'd be confused afterwards. But I'm... calm."

A few seconds passed.

Then she said quietly, "I know that was probably... really intense. But I've never felt so... detached. Like... I wasn't myself for a moment. But in a good way."

I kissed her forehead. "I was with you the whole time."

She closed her eyes and snuggled even closer to me. Then one last, quiet smile:

"I know."

The train jerked forward. The station where the two of them had rushed outside... it wasn't Florence at all. But I felt similar to how I had felt back then, only purified, much more purified, with my eyes wide open, yet soon closing from tiredness and exhaustion.

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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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