by Edie Bingham
Cat remained silent as Nathan sat down on the sofa, staring in her direction with some amusement. ‘It’s me on Cat’s phone, Gordy, so keep it in your pants. She’s . . . in the shower.’
‘Aww, don’t tease me like that, Hound.’
‘No, no, it’s true. Saw her strip down right in front of me and pad her cute little ass into the bathroom. But never mind that.’
‘What do you mean, “never mind that”? That sweet little chica’s just a few feet away from you, naked and lathering herself up! How can you just talk normally?’
‘Because unlike you, Gordy, I have a measure of, ah, sophistication . . .’
Nathan’s words failed as Cat unbuttoned her jeans and shimmied them down, revealing her black thong. She stepped out of them, and then made a show of looking back at him as if she’d forgotten he was there. She mouthed the word ‘sorry’, with almost some sincerity.
Oblivious, Gordy’s voice rose an octave. ‘At least tell me what her underwear’s like!’
Nathan recovered, but didn’t take his eyes from her as he replied, ‘She favours black lace. And as little as possible of it, too. Now, I have some names for you to run checks on. You ready to listen, or shall I call back after you’re done having a good hard think about Cat in the shower?’ He made some shooing gestures at her, looking unashamedly distracted.
Cat laughed softly as she entered the bathroom. She finished her undressing, switched on the shower and tested the water. It was a strong, forceful blast, and it invigorated her as she stepped under it.
But then she adjusted it to a softer caress. Closing her eyes, she reached out for the bottle of her favourite lavender liquid soap, then sculpted snake suds over her body, remembering the dream. Fucking hell, that dream! So strong and clear! And stimulating, far more than her own first time had been. She could have had another vibrator session when she woke up, if she’d had the time and opportunity.
Her nipples were firming again beneath her soapy hands. The look on Nathan’s face when she dropped her jeans was priceless. But she knew it had been for more than just to tease him while on the phone to that horndog Gordy. She pictured him getting hard sitting there, watching.
Her hand found its way between her legs again . . .
The observation carriage was as elegant as the reception one, with white linen cloth-clad tables lined up in rows, topped with polished silverware and glassware reflecting light from brass ceiling fixtures, and staffed by young women in impractical, skimpy black French maid uniforms.
Wheeler had changed into an old-fashioned billowy white shirt and black trousers, and sat at the head of one table, leading his dining companions through a sumptuous meal of grilled sole or steak, with toasts and tales of his travels.
Cat, dressed in a black satin camisole with white trim and a matching knee-length pinstripe skirt and with her hair pinned back, sat at Wheeler’s right hand. Nathan, opposite her, played the charming guest, particularly with Faye, sitting next to him, looking regal in a rich red gown which contrasted with her dark features. With them also was Benjamin and Hannah, both looking unceasingly delighted to be there, and Donnie, who was busy alternating between vainly trying to keep Tara’s attention, and flirting with the staff.
Dinner wound down, most of the diners had moved off to other parts of the train, as the staff efficiently transformed the dining carriage into something different, folding up and hiding the tables and chairs, setting up curtains and large cushions. A musician was hooking up his guitar to some equipment at the far end, and soon easy blues flowed from hidden speakers as the staff swiftly vanished.
Cat watched it all from one cushion, sandwiched between Nathan and Wheeler, with Faye opposite Nathan. The woman’s interest in Nathan had been obvious from the start, though she refrained from being too forward. Cat for her part watched with amusement Nathan’s attempt to balance showing devotion to his ‘partner’ and his reciprocal interest in Faye.
As for Wheeler, he rarely strayed far from Cat, without being too intrusive. He made it easy for Cat to set aside what she knew about him and treat him like someone she’d just met.
Faye set aside her glass. ‘I need to walk around, clear my mind for the séance. But I can’t do it without some chivalrous accompaniment.’ She reached out and touched Nathan’s arm. ‘I sense you’d make an ideal knight errant, Mr Ames.’
‘Si,’ Cat agreed, smiling. ‘He’s into protecting damsels in distress, whether they need it or not.’
‘Whereas some damsels are simply asking for a dragon to bite them on their gorgeous little asses.’ He rose to his feet, took Faye’s hand and helped her up. ‘Shall we?’
‘I’d be delighted.’
Cat watched them depart, turning back when Wheeler noted, ‘She’s a talented partner. Says she’s heard the spirits all her life. Her family grew up near an old Confederate graveyard, where she used to go out and talk with the ghosts.’
Cat bit back her initial reply about spirits and other bullshit. ‘Is she just a business partner, or is there more to it?’
‘There’s more, but we’re not exclusive. What about you and Mr Ames?’
Cat considered the best answer to the question. ‘I’ve . . . been with men since Nate and I first got together. I think he’s been with other women. It’s not something we’ve talked about.’
He leant forwards on his cushion. ‘Maybe you should have before now. He seems the possessive type. Does he satisfy you?’
She almost affected a coy response, settling instead for something more honest. ‘Every time we’ve been together, he has. And I think I do the same for him. I suppose it makes you wonder why we come onboard looking for other people?’
‘Not at all. In fact, only people in secure relationships should try this lifestyle. They shouldn’t come looking for alternatives to their partners, to try to fix something that’s not working. They should be here for adventure, enjoyment, the opportunity to explore their sexualities, trying out things you couldn’t risk in the real world.’
His eyes focused on some passengers, scantily clad, laughing and walking past them. ‘You can wear whatever you want, or nothing at all. You can watch others, be watched, and join in if invited, or have others join you. Take it as far as you want to go – and then at the end return to your normal life. And best of all, it’s a safe environment. Nobody will force you into anything you don’t want.’ He tilted his head. ‘May I be bold and ask what you might want to get out of this weekend?’
‘May I be stubborn and ask why you want to know?’
‘Because I’m your host. It’s both my task and my pleasure to endeavour to provide what I can for my guests.’ He smiled. ‘Well? What are you after?’
Enough evidence to initiate a full investigation on you, some distinction at the office. . . a chance to be closer to Nathan without risk . . . ‘I . . . don’t know what I want, Jack. Maybe not until I see it.’
He nodded, seeming to understand. ‘Have you visited the games carriages yet?’
She smiled. Nathan had described it when they were getting dressed, but she hadn’t been impressed with his account.
She revised her opinion when Wheeler escorted her there. She supposed it was different now, with the raunchy music in the background, and the lights above suffusing the air in glows of magenta and aquamarine. And, of course, the people.
It was like a labyrinth, narrow, twisting passageways within the carriage, opening up into niches and alcoves, some with padded benches, other areas larger with beds and armless chairs. These had spaces for spectators, to stand or sit, or even watch from behind one-way partitions. Another section contained a small theatre with an erotic movie playing on one wall, where couples watched and kissed and caressed each other. Other places had seats and tables with padding and fixtures for securing wrists and ankles, or raised platforms for dancing and displaying.
With Wheeler nearby, Cat moved through the light and darkness like a fish swimming through unfamiliar waters. People milled abo
ut, dressed in ordinary clothes, in leather gear, in lingerie or in nothing at all. They were talking or kissing or going further, some looking invitingly at her and their mutual host. Cat felt claustrophobic, but couldn’t ignore the buzz of excitement. People brushed past, close without intrusion or unwanted touching, acting more civilised than many clubs she’d frequented in Miami.
She paused as she felt Wheeler’s hand on her side, squeezing gently. She turned, looked up at him and saw him nod towards one area. Cat followed. It was one with a raised dais and pinky-orange spotlights trained on a woman swaying to the music. She was a middle-aged brunette, curving at the hips, with striking cheekbones and dark rosebud lips, clad in a black full-cup bra that barely contained her full breasts, suspender slips, stockings and high heels. Sensually she ran her hands down the sides of her body, then back up again, over her navel and her breasts, stroking the soft gathered chiffon and the bow in the centre. Her hair swung across her back, as she swayed her head in time to the music. Around her, men and women watched with clear enjoyment.
‘That’s . . . Well, let’s call her Bonnie,’ Wheeler whispered, his lips close to Cat’s ear. ‘One of my regulars, and popular. In the real world, she’s an ordinary wife and mother, an anonymous cleaner in some office building. Here, for a couple of days and nights, she’s a goddess. Worshipped. Admired. Desired.’
Cat half-listened. The body of the woman and the sinuous movements she was making with it were hypnotic. She couldn’t take her eyes away, and she felt her pulse quickening. The air was thick with scents that mingled with the heat and the colours. The woman brought her hands over her waist, unhooked her suspender straps and then slipped her thumbs into the narrow black sides of her beautiful silk briefs. She smiled at Cat and Wheeler, then turned in place on the dais so her buttocks were facing them, slowly inching the silk over her hips and down her legs, giving them a view of the long slit of her sex, pursed between her thighs, hairless. With the briefs at her feet, she kicked them away with the rest of her clothes.
Cat’s senses were charged and, when Wheeler pressed up behind her, she took her eyes away from Bonnie to look at him. His eyes sought her assurance that it wasn’t too much for her. She gave it, her arousal obviously written on her face. He smiled and then turned back to the scene.
Bonnie, kneeling on all fours now, spread her thighs apart. Cat watched as her right arm snaked between her legs and began to caress her cheeks, her hips swaying from side to side in time to the music, her head hanging down so her dark hair brushed the dais. Gradually working lower, her fingers parted the folds of her sex, deliberately exposing herself, the flesh wet and glistening under the lights. Around her, some of the men were unzipping their trousers and drawing out their erections, stroking them. One woman dropped to her knees before a man – perhaps someone she knew, perhaps not – and took him full into her mouth.
Cat felt the excitement around her building, as in a graceful motion Bonnie removed her fingers, twisted and lay flat on her back, raising her knees and spreading her legs. And then, with her eyes still on Cat, she motioned for some of those around her to approach. They did, then knelt on either side of Bonnie. One man bent down to kiss her lips, another to kiss and lick her breasts, one woman joined in to stroke her inner thighs, slender fingers sliding up to the hairless pussy.
Cat wanted to move closer – not to join in, but to see Bonnie’s face, see the bliss and exhilaration she knew would be there. Wheeler was right. The woman was the object of lust and adoration here. There was nothing sordid or degrading. Cat wondered if her husband was one of the men at her side now, or if he was watching, or even present.
Wheeler’s hands had somehow found themselves on Cat’s hips, as if to steady her, or restrain her. She barely registered it, until one hand slid across her stomach, as if admiring the silk of her camisole top, and his subsequent words in her ear made it seem as if he’d read her mind. ‘That’s her husband, moving between her legs now.’ He nodded to the tall, thin, dark-skinned man with a shaved head, kneeling down, his legs and buttocks muscular and sweat beaded, his erection thick and bobbing. ‘He’s the only one she has penetration with. Everyone has their own rules and boundaries, and we agree to respect them.’ His hands moved down to Cat’s outer thighs. ‘So long as you make them known.’
She understood exactly what he meant. She pressed her ass back against him, felt his erection, and watched as Bonnie’s husband lowered himself onto her, entered her. Cat watched the muscles in his ass and thighs squeeze as he slowly fucked her.
‘Are you ready?’ Wheeler whispered.
It had all felt unbelievably wicked and wanton, and Cat’s pussy mewled for attention. She tilted her head back, brushing against his beard. ‘I’m always ready.’
His lips brushed against her cheek, as his hands returned to her sides. ‘Good. Faye should be ready to conduct the séance.’
Cat swallowed, surprised at how much she’d wanted Wheeler to say something else.
5
‘Forge a circle, with only the tips of your little fingers touching. No talking, and especially no laughing, for the dead can no longer feel joy and will be offended. Be receptive to everything around you. Open your eyes, your ears and in particular your minds.’
Cat could only promise Faye the first two. She’d remained aroused and distracted as Wheeler led her to the reception carriage, where they’d moved the chairs away from the centre to accommodate a large oval table draped in immaculate white linen. Thin black candles in brass sticks sat on the table, surrounding a clear glass bowl clouded with drops of blood from a volunteer. The carriage lamps were off, and the candles cast light and shadow around them.
Faye sat at one end of the table, the other participants alternating by gender on either side, with Nathan, Hannah Oliver and Wheeler on her right side, and Ben Oliver, Tara Gilbrand and Richard Newholme on her left. Cat sat opposite her, between Wheeler and Newholme. Nearby sat a smaller table with a collection of items such as a Bible and brass bells, to be employed should any malevolent forces visit.
‘Contact may occur in various ways,’ Faye was intoning, her voice smooth as glass. ‘Perceived in various ways. A scent, a cold draft, whispers, the candle flames brightening, flashing with spectral coruscation. We may even see lights, apparitions.’
Cat glanced around, bored but fully aware of the coolness of the linen beneath her hands and the heat from the meagre touch of the men on either side of her. Newholme was staring intently into the candles. Wheeler was watching Faye, but occasionally glancing at Cat.
‘We are here,’ Faye was saying now, her expression focused. ‘Come to us. We await you, your pleas, your wisdom and your warnings. Come to us. Come to us. Come . . .’
The woman’s words seemed to blend with the clack-clack of the train rails, and Cat let her eyes flutter and her attention waver, even after seeing shadows dance around her, seemingly of their own volition.
The candles burst with light, quick flashes, as if sparks danced between the flames. There was a scent like burnt rubber in the air.
Then there were the voices: laughter, curses, music and conversation, as if a party was ongoing behind her. No, closer.
Cat sat there, startled at first as she saw people milling about in the darkness: train staff, perhaps, or passengers who’d wandered into the séance. They’d better be. If Wheeler and Faye Scott expected her to believe they were ghosts, then they weren’t as professional as she might have expected. These didn’t go ‘boo’ or rattle chains. They didn’t even seem to notice the people at the table, as they drifted about, nursed drinks, played cards.
Cat swayed on her heels, gripping the piano behind her for support as the train took a sharp bend. She felt immersed in how clear, vivid, everything was becoming: the lights above brightening, the frost framing the windows, the tinkle of Pullman on the piano keys, the autumn-leaf smell of the Cuban cigars threatening to dry out her voice before she completed her set.
Still, Cat was enjoying hersel
f, despite the circumstances . . .
* * *
. . . Still, Valentina was enjoying herself, despite the circumstances. She always loved singing, always had a good reception at her father’s club, and not just because it was her father’s club. Beside her, Pullman, the young coloured player they’d hired for her, knew all her songs. And they’d even given her some money to buy herself a new dress before they’d left New Orleans, a gorgeous silk chiffon Christian Dior evening dress with a side sash, waist-defining criss-cross of shirred material and a low neckline that her father wouldn’t have approved of, the wine-red colour of the material matching her mane of hair. It’d be the best thing she’d take away from this experience.
She fitted on another smile as Pullman started into another number, one she’d recognised right away, and she returned to doing what she did best:
Well, I’m going back to Memphis, onboard the 9.03
I’m gonna see my sugar, cos that’s where I wanna be
I’ve got the night train blues, got the night train blues
Got the night train blues
Cos I’ve paid my dues
Got the night train blues . . .
Yeah, she was good tonight. Too bad no one was paying any attention to her.
Most of the men were huddled around the large green card table, black silk jackets hanging on hooks on either wall, sleeves rolled up, hands casually tossing twenties and fifties into the pot, or flicking cigar ash onto the floor. Women hung around the periphery, smoking, drinking and talking with each other, looking bored. A few looked over at Val as she sang, their disdain blatant. Val suspected they gave such looks to everyone outside their tight little circle, let alone anyone non-Italian.
To hell with them.
She finished the song, thanked Pullman, lifted up her glass from the piano top and sipped at her gin and tonic, determined to moderate her drinking and not leave herself vulnerable. She turned away, having learnt by now not to expect any response from them.
