Detour Paris: Complete Series (Detour Paris Series Book 4)

by Dancer, Jack

  Occasionally, I'll turn around and check for him, and he’s either standing in his smart conductor's uniform - a black three-piece suit, white shirt and dark tie with a scrambled-egg-billed hat - swaying to the motion of the train and jotting notes into a pocket-size notebook, or he’s nodding off like a horse. Once, when our eyes met, he did give up a friendly smile.

  Sleeping was no easy accomplishment. Even on the straightaways the ride wasn't all that smooth but whenever the train rounded a turn, everyone was thrown a little to one side, and the squealing and screeching of the metal wheels clinging to the steel rails stole any chance for peace and quiet.

  Then, of course, there was the problem of me.

  I’m finding it very difficult keeping my hands to myself, especially when the conductor makes himself absent. A few of those times when we’re locked in a fully groping embrace, kissing away and working our way up to hot and bothered, I try to convince her that if we’re careful, we could get away with the dirty deed, even with the kid not two feet in front of us. She’ll have none of that.

  “I think he's asleep,” I say because his head never came up out of his books, and it did bob around a bit like he might have dozed off, but with the swaying of the train, everything bobbed and swayed.

  Even when the conductor behind us nods off I try pulling her over on top of me, but she resists. “Stop it, we're in the middle of everyone. You must have patience grasshopper,” she says.

  “Look, these people are French,” I say, “They're used to people making out on trains all the time.”

  “Maybe so, but I'm not, so you're going to have to be patient.”

  Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall,

  Ninety-nine bottles of beer.

  Take one down

  And Pass it around,

  Ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Being patient.”

  “I’m gonna make you a patient if you don’t knock it off,” she says, then goes back to leaning against me with her head propped on my shoulder, so I can sit here and become all aroused smelling her. I gotta focus my mind on something else.

  This is exactly why men and women can never be friends, acquaintances maybe, but not friends. At least not friends like guys can be friends.

  Why, you ask?

  Because there’s no way that a man and a woman can be in each other’s company for an extended period of time without something happening. Unless. They’re related or there’s some significant disparity between them like looks or age, whatever.

  Otherwise, one of ‘em’s gonna break down and try to fuck the other. It’s just gonna happen. And there goes the friendship. It’s only to be expected and it’s because men and women were put upon this earth for one purpose - to fuck, or to be a little more delicate about it, to propagate. We weren’t put here to be friends. That’s why other guys were put here - to be friends so you can hang out and talk about women.

  But is the same true for women? That other women were put here to be friends with women? No. Other women were put here for guys - so guys will have other women to fuck. Strike that . . . er . . . uh, propagate. Except even propagate is not exactly accurate either because guys don’t seek out women to propagate, they seek out women to fuck. Or, to get fed. Women seek out guys to propagate. Except when they seek another woman’s guy out, and that’s just to piss the other woman off. Why? Because they’re not friends. They’re competitors.

  You see. It's all very simple.

  So, coming back to why Monica’s leaning against me like she is, but refusing to let me . . . you know . . . fuck her. Well, that’s simple too. She wants to drive me crazy so that I’ll want her even more. She’s teasing me. That’s what women do. You ever heard of a man doing this? Course not.

  Women make men their slaves in return for the occasional use of their vaginas. It’s an unspoken barter system and it’s flawless.

  In a moment, she’ll have to give in because if she doesn’t the system will fail. Any system works only when both parties get what they want. In the meantime, I have to be patient but even patience has its limits. And if those limits are exceeded, well, I’ll have to take her out onto the platform between the cars and demand satisfaction. And if she doesn’t put out? Then off the train she goes. Bye, bye. See ya. Sayonara.

  Just kidding.

  ***

  Back at the arrival's suite at Gatwick Monica changed out of her business suit into a little red dress - a red dress that ended above her knees and did an excellent job hugging her figure - showing off just what an excellent a figure she has. The plunging neckline didn't hurt either, providing a nice little window through which her excellent cleavage can greet the world.

  Frankly, I thought she must be a little loony to choose a dress for traveling attire at all - and especially this dress - but, like I said, I'm not complaining. Had she gone so far as to wear high heels, instead of the flats that she is wearing, I’d’ve been certain she’s a fruitcake - but again, I wouldn’t’ve complained there either. One thing she did do that I thought was particularly smart - especially, considering the short red dress - was to bring along a full-length, lightweight raincoat that covers everything.

  Karl Lagerfeld once said, “One is never over-dressed or underdressed with a Little Black Dress.” Suppose that goes for a little red dress too? I'm only asking.

  ***

  Still having a little difficulty keeping my eyes off her, especially when she's curled up on the seat, leaning against me with her eyes closed and nodding off. Okay, truth is; I can’t keep my eyes off her, so I'm not even trying. Just lettin’ ‘em hang there like two contented testicles with my arm wrapped around her, pulling her into me. She snugs up nicely. Fits like a cup and ball. Her cheek’s resting against my chest, and I can smell the lilac in her hair, sweet and fresh like springtime. I run my nose through it, a little, affectionately. Nose candy. Notches up my enthusiasm.

  Looking down, past the top of her head, her breasts are staring right back at me like hors d’ oeuvres. Even her cleavage smiles and flirts - begging me to shove my face into it. I can almost feel its warm embrace wrapping around my cheeks to my ears. My eyes are glazing over with the hypnotic rise and fall of her breathing.

  What is it with these things? These breasts that make every guy who ever lived wanna bury his face in them? That the mere sight of them, even the suggestion of them, triggers such overpowering urges? We’re like Pavlov’s dog with these mammary glands, and it’s only the threat of jail or some other unthinkable repercussion that keeps us tethered.

  I don’t buy the theory that a man’s urge to bury his face in a woman’s breasts and suckle stems from his time spent as a suckling infant. Not all of us had that opportunity. Some of us were cheated out of the real deal and fed on a rubber nipple from a glass bottle instead, and there’s no warmth in pushing your nose up against one of those. Yet, still these things trigger an overpowering urge.

  And what about women? They were infants. Some fed on their mother's breast. I’ve never known of cleavage snaring one of them, leaving ‘em all hangdog with tongues lolling like what happens to us guys. Okay, some may be boob-centric but those are outliers. They don't count.

  They’re mammary glands for Christ's sake! What’s the big deal?

  Okay, here it is.

  They’re living, breathing, succulent refuges for pushing your face into. The ultimate comfort food. They’re titillating, mesmerizing mounds of female flesh no man can ignore, and showing them off is the whole purpose of scoop neck blouses and peasant dresses. They’re the prow, the first impression, the eye catcher for 'Hello, My Name Is.' They’re the most prominent pair of weapons a woman possesses, and if she comes up short, well, that's why there's augmentation.

  Admit it ladies. Surely, you've gotta look down at your boobs once in a while and say to yourself, 'Wow, these are fabulous!' Am I right?

  So, here I sit with Monica leaning into me, my arm around her s
houlder holding her close, like a prisoner guarding his dinner plate. Beyond the cleavage sprouts a fine pair of sculpted legs from the hem of that little red dress, bent at the knees and tucked under her, poised to spoon.

  Skin as smooth as baby's milk, and all I want to do is to jump in, like coleslaw wrestling, and lose myself wallowing in it. Lick it, taste it, eat it, devour it. Jesus Christ! I'm getting so worked up devouring her with my eyes I'm startin’ to appreciate cannibalism as a sex act. And who's to say madness isn't more than a step away for any of us?

  Still tucked in her fetal position, she drops her head from my chest into my lap.

  Holy shit!

  “Do you mind?” she asks, “This is a lot more comfortable. Is it okay for you?”

  “Sure. Fine,” I croak.

  Then, out of nowhere, she bolts straight up.

  “Let me get something,” she says standing and stretching her full length in front of me, brushing my face. She reaches into the overhead rack and brings down her raincoat.

  “I need a little cover. I'm getting chilled.”

  “You're kidding. And here I am burning up a fever.”

  “Yeah, I know. I could feel your Bunsen burner against my face. It's the rest of me that needs covering.”

  She lies back down into her fetal position and drops her head back into my lap, and I'm as hard as quantum mechanics. She turns her head a couple of times, grinding against me, so I shoot back with a couple of Kegel-like, guy-pumps.

  “Ooh, a massage. How nice. So how much strength do you possess down here Mr. Blue?”

  “I don't know, probably dead lift forty pounds. I could see how many pushups I could manage while you're there. You wanna count or should I?”

  “You're not going to bruise me are you?”

  “I'll do my best.”

  Just as things start to progress the train decelerates, and so do I when the piercing shrill of metal on metal announces our first stop of the night - Gare des Aubrais-Orleans.

  Shit.

  ***

  Once we’re underway again, the rail forks - right for Tours and left for Limoges. We press left on screeching metal through what appears to be some pretty uninspiring landscape, but it’s dark now, the moon having shrunken away, like me coming into the station.

  When the conductor slides open the heavy door behind us, vanishing into the rear car, Monica, and I take the opportunity to slip out for some fresh air on the platform. Even with the chilly night air, it feels good to be outside, despite the decimal level rising to nearly half deafening, and gagging on the fumes from the locomotive's diesel.

  Vertical handrail's bookend the door, so we each grab one and hold on tight as the platform sways from side to side.

  “Too bad the sleeper didn't work out,” she yells over all the noise.

  “Yeah, too bad is right. So, where do you think the sleepers of yore went?”

  “I don't know, maybe the way of black-and-white movies? Left for Trieste to never return,” she says.

  “Well, that’d be a damn shame because this isn't exactly what I had in mind for our little train tryst through France. I was hoping for something a little more romantic than a cattle car. I only hope the kid in front of us gets off sometime before dawn.”

  “He’s really not a problem. Doesn't even know we're there.”

  “No, s’pose not.”

  She swings around in front of me - my back against the door - and gripping both handrails she leans into me planting her mouth on mine. Her left hand leaves the handrail and runs down that part of me that's been suffering so much frustration, and I immediately rise to a standup hello.

  “Should I pull your pants down right here? Feels like you need a little relieving. What do you think? Would you like that?”

  “Are you kidding? I'd love it, but I think it might be a little tricky out here with all this swaying. I'd feel awful if you were suddenly launched off this thing going around a curve.”

  “Yeah, that might not work. Follow me inside Tucker and I'll see what I can do.”

  My enthusiasm jumps into high gear.

  She turns and swaying to the door looks over her shoulder and pulls it open, we take our seat again. At about, that same time, the train slows to pass through the Gare de Salbis station, but this time doesn't stop.

  “Thank you, Jesus.”

  When the train picks up speed again the conductor still hasn’t returned so we settle back, up close to each other and against the window - a position from where I can keep an eye on both the kid in front and the rear door in case the man in uniform returns.

  Monica resumes her previous position leaning up against me, legs spooning across the seat, and her raincoat again spread over both of us, but mostly over her, removing the visual entertainment I was enjoying before. That’s okay because now I can let my fingers do the walking and explore some of the curves and dips I’d already committed to memory. We must have been thinking alike because the same time my hand started roaming, hers did too.

  The old car sways from side to side, and lights flicker on and off like a New York subway before going dark altogether.

  Finally! I’m thinking; we can get down to a little business here and turn this into what it was supposed to be in the first place. And that’s when the lights once again start flickering, and everything decelerates. Everything.

  It looks like we're stopping in Vierzon, and the first thing I'm swearing is I’m dropping my Verizon cell phone service as soon as I’m back stateside. Bloody thing doesn’t work in Europe anyhow. But like Salbis before, the train only slows through the station before picking up speed again.

  “This is a real pain - not knowing if the train’s going to stop or continue on through these little stations,” I grumbled, “let me check the schedule and see if it doesn’t say where the actual stops occur so we don’t have to cease our fun every time this thing begins decelerating.”

  “Probably a good idea,” she says.

  I retrieve the schedule from the inside of my coat pocket and start studying.

  “Looks like our next stop is going to be Gare de Brive though we’ll pass through Chateauroux and Limoges first.”

  “So, how much time have we got until Brive?”

  “Around three hours.”

  “And how much longer until Toulouse?”

  I study the schedule some more.

  “After Brive, there’re five more stations before Toulouse, and we stop at each one - Souillac, Gourdon, Cahors, Caussade and Montauban, then comes Toulouse. Altogether, it looks like another two hours. That’s on top of the three hours we’ve still got until Brive. So, roughly five hours more to Toulouse.”

  While I’m telling her all this, she’s curling back down into the seat with her raincoat over her, laying her head again in my lap.

  “Sounds good to me,” she says.

  John Henry comes back to life.

  “Ooh…Feels good too,” she says.

  The train schedule goes back into my inside coat pocket, and my hand burrows its way under Monica’s raincoat.

  “Yes, it does.”

  ***

  The Raven.

  Text Message: Subject departing Carcassonne, Monday, September 1st, 11:41, Subject is military personnel, Capitaine. Further details: unknown. Standby.

  After receiving this text from Jacques, the Raven purchases three tickets for the 08:01 train out of Perpignan to Carcassonne. Arrival time, 09:23. She purchases three additional tickets for a private compartment on the 11:41 out of Carcassonne to Barcelona (with local stops). Arrival time, 19:00.

  At 11:06 while in Carcassonne awaiting arrival of the train, the Raven receives the following text:

  Subject: Capitaine Paulo Marti, age: 35, resides: Perpignan, wife: Michelle age: 33, daughters: Lillie age three and Annabelle age six.

  A photo of Marti is attached. A tight smile cuts across the woman's 60-year-old wrinkle-free face, drawn so taut by the knotted bun of hair riding at the back of her head it co
uld’ve been pulled together with a corset hook.

  “This is the man,” says the Raven to Tiber and Drusus.

  A military man, the Raven ponders, thinking of her father, Marcus, and the gunrunning operation he'd started at the outbreak of the Civil War in '36 under the guise of the International Marxist movement. Marcus supplied arms to the Republicans fighting the Nationalists but whenever the Republicans ran dry of funds or were late on payments, he’d supply the other side, turning a sizable profit from each. The man possessed not a shred of loyalty, but then he was a businessman. And she was daddy's little girl.

  Unconsciously, she reaches into her purse and squeezes her prized little Colt 25, the coin purse pistol her daddy gave her when she was only thirteen after she’d field tested six low caliber pistols for him and came up with this winning 1908 model.

  At first the field test was scary. The heads she shot the bullets into were gross, but her daddy assured her that they were only mannequins. The test involved placing the muzzle of each pistol behind an ear and pulling the trigger to see which pistol successfully shot the bullet into the head without exiting. The idea was for the bullet to rattle around inside the head and shred the brain but leave only a small entry wound.

  After the first few test firings she got over the grossness part and the testing became fun. Altogether she destroyed 37 heads in one afternoon. Her daddy was so proud of her that he gave her the Colt 25 as a prize and she’s carried it ever since. She cherishes the weapon as much as she cherishes the Drusulla DermaDagger.

  Oh, and her father later confessed that the heads were actually real, but wasn't it fun anyway? A fond smile comes to her face every time she thinks of him. What a trickster he was.