Cheating on a train while her husband was sleeping in a reserved seat carriage

That summer, my husband and I headed south for the first time in two years. Money was tight in '92, so a compartment was out of the question. We bought two tickets for a reserved seat carriage to Adler. I was twenty-four then. I had a shapely figure: a pleasant curve in my hips, a wasp waist, and neat B-cup breasts with very responsive nipples. I dyed my hair red back then—my husband absolutely loved it, saying I looked like a fox. The journey ahead was long, almost two days. We were riding on the upper side berths. A guy of about twenty-five sat down opposite us. He was dressed simply but cleanly: a light T-shirt and sweatpants. His toned physique immediately caught my eye—his sculpted arms and broad chest. He introduced himself as Dima. He was traveling to visit his parents in Sochi, having just been discharged from the army. My husband, Slava, a sociable man, immediately suggested that Dima and I get together for the three of us. We packed fried chicken, boiled eggs, tomatoes, and, of course, a bottle of vodka for the trip. My husband, as I've mentioned in previous stories, is a total alcoholic. By evening, as the endless fields of Voronezh floated past the window, Slava had gotten so drunk he couldn't stand it. First, he sang loudly, disturbing the entire train car, and then he simply passed out on his top bunk, his arm dangling into the aisle and filling the air around him with his thick stench of alcohol. I sat on the lower bunk, so embarrassed I could have sunk into the ground. Dima just chuckled: — It happens. After the barracks, nothing surprises me. To ease the awkwardness, I moved over to his bunk, and we started talking. He talked about his service, about his parachute jump. I listened and caught myself looking at his arms, covered in light hair, and the way the muscles rippled beneath his tanned skin. The train car had grown stuffy. The sun had set, but the heat had only intensified. I was wearing a light polka-dot cotton dress, which I'd pulled on next to my bare skin—underneath, I wore only thin lace panties, a gift from my husband for our wedding anniversary. I'd taken off my bra an hour earlier in the restroom because I'd been sweating and it was digging uncomfortably into my skin. Now, beneath the thin fabric, the outline of my breasts and the beady tips of my nipples were clearly visible. Dima noticed it as soon as I returned from the restroom. He tried to be polite, but I could feel his gaze constantly sliding over my cleavage. It sent a warmth through my body that had nothing to do with the stuffiness. “It’s hot,” I said, fanning myself with a magazine. "Not exactly," Dima nodded. "I'd give anything for some cold water right now." He reached for the bottle of mineral water, and our hands accidentally touched. A jolt of electricity ran through me. Dima froze for a second and looked me straight in the eyes. Slava snored loudly up above and rolled over, falling silent for a while. "Sorry if I'm intruding," Dima said quietly, "but you're very beautiful. Your husband is lucky." I was embarrassed and didn't answer. But I didn't remove my hand. His fingers settled on my wrist and began to slowly stroke it, moving up to my elbow. The lights in the car had already been dimmed, leaving only the blue night lamps lit. The semi-darkness gave us both courage. My skin broke out in goosebumps from his touch, and my nipples hardened completely, clearly visible through the fabric of my dress. Dima leaned over and quietly, almost in his ear, asked: — Do you want to go up to the vestibule? At least there's a breeze there. I understood perfectly well why he was calling me into the vestibule. A thought flashed through my head of my sleeping husband, of his drunken antics that had become so tiresome to me. I remembered how he had embarrassed me in front of the entire carriage. And I decided to go for it. After all, what's wrong with just standing by the open window? I stood up and tiptoed, so as not to wake Slava, after Dima to the end of the car. The vestibule greeted us with cool air and the rumble of wheels. Outside, the copses flashed by in the moonlight. We were alone. "I lost my mind from the first minute I saw you," Dima whispered, pressing me against the vestibule wall. His hands landed on my waist, moved up, and covered my breasts through the thin fabric of my dress. I gasped softly, feeling his thumbs circle my hardened nipples. He leaned over and kissed me. He smelled of toothpaste and a hint of vodka, but the scent wasn't repulsive; on the contrary, it made my head spin. “Quiet,” I whispered, “we’ll wake up the whole carriage.” The train lurched on the track, and I was literally thrown into his arms. I felt the hard bulge of his arousal through his sweatpants. It pressed against my stomach, and it made everything inside me turn over, making it hot and wet. My hand seemed to automatically land on that hardness, caressing it through the fabric. Dima's breathing quickened. He unzipped his pants, and his erection spilled out. In the dim light of the vestibule lamp, I could see his penis—long, slightly curved, with a neat tip that glistened wetly in the dim light. A masculine scent wafted across my face. Dima pressed gently but firmly on my shoulders, and I understood without words. I squatted in front of him, resting my knees on the rattling floor of the vestibule. My dress rode up, revealing my thighs. I took his cock in my hand, ran my tongue along its length, tasting it, and then took the head into my mouth. It was salty and velvety. Dima groaned through his teeth, his hands coming to rest on the back of my head, but he didn't press, merely guiding me gently, letting me set the rhythm. I moved my head, now faster, now slower, sometimes swallowing his cock deep, almost to the throat, sometimes releasing it and playing with the frenulum with my tongue. With my fingers, I caressed his scrotum and the base of his cock. My own panties became completely wet from these movements. Arousal flowed down my inner thighs, and I involuntarily squeezed my legs, trying to somehow calm the growing languor. Dima lifted me from my knees, turned me around, and bent me over, bracing my hands against the rattling train door. My dress rode up my back, revealing my buttocks. He pulled my lace panties down to my knees. I felt the head of his cock slide over my wet folds, parting them, seeking entrance. He entered slowly, filling me all the way. I bit my lip to keep from moaning out loud as he began to move. His cock slid inside me, and his hands wandered over my body. One massaged my breast, rolling and squeezing my nipple, the other dove down and caressed my clitoris with her fingers. The train's wheels clacked rhythmically, setting the rhythm, and Dima entered me harder and deeper. I felt the walls of my vagina grip him tightly, contracting in waves around his tense shaft. “I’m coming now...” he croaked. “Come on,” was all I could breathe out, feeling like I was already on the edge. Dima gave a few strong, deep thrusts and froze, pressing his whole body against me. I felt his cock pulsing inside me, gushing with hot jolts. At that moment, my own pleasure overwhelmed me. I covered my mouth with my hand to keep from screaming. My legs trembled and buckled. We stood there for another minute, recovering, listening to the rumble of the wheels. Then Dima pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and helped me tidy myself up. I straightened my dress and pulled my panties up with trembling hands. Our mixture immediately seeped into them, but I couldn't bear to think about that right now. “This is somehow... unexpected,” I whispered, not knowing what to say. “The best trip of my life,” he replied and smiled. We returned to the train car one by one. Slava, of course, was fast asleep, not even noticing my absence. I climbed into my bunk and lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling and listening to Dima tossing and turning somewhere on the lower bunk. My body still remembered his touch. In the morning, we pretended nothing had happened. I woke up my husband, who had a terrible headache. Dima helped us get our suitcases when the train pulled into the station and simply said goodbye: "Have a nice vacation." We never saw each other again. Slava still doesn't know about this incident. And I wouldn't tell him anyway. Tell me, am I a bad wife? Or just a real person who's tired of just being convenient? Think what you will. But when I remember the rumble of the wheels and that feeling of freedom in the vestibule, I regret nothing.