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Cindy and her roommate get a Maid.

As she looked at the top of his head, and felt his eyes as they roamed the dishevelment at the front of her shorts, and the forearm where it disappeared into the top of her shorts, the head rose up, and the darkest, deepest, eyes she thought she'd ever seen, met hers.

How should she look?

How should she appear?

But there was nothing to say. She knew that he knew. Knew he'd seen what the man behind her was doing with his groin against her back. And what he was doing with his hands around her front. She knew, too, that he'd noted what she was doing about it -- namely, nothing -- and how it was affecting her -- namely a hell of a lot!

She was aroused. Wildly, uncontrollably, aroused. By a stranger.


She wanted to drop her eyes from the compelling gaze of this second stranger, but didn't know how. She was no longer the innocent visitor to this man's country. She was much more than that. She was involved. Sexually involved with his country -- a man, a member of its race, at least.

She felt like a missionary who had fallen from grace and now lived in sin in a foreign land. As if she should be punished for her sins. As if she should be used as a form of atonement for her sins. So when the stranger brought a hand up between them, and turned it towards her, and slipped it between her husband and her, she didn't even think to object. As it closed over one of her breasts, she didn't think to protest, or even try to push it away. She kept her eyes on his, and let him caress her breast. And then she climaxed a second time. Trembling and shaking and arching her back with a firm hard snap that hurt.


What the hell was she doing?

Her mouth wide open, face angled up to the ceiling, expression a tortured grimace, she silently climaxed in a series of mountainous waves, and just as she did, the whole train shuddered to a halt.

Silence. But for the sound of her gasping for breath, so it seemed, and the shaking completion of climax.

"You okay, honey?" she heard from the shoulders to which her head had dropped.

"Fine. I'm fine," she said, a catch in her voice, her knees and thighs rolling tightly against each, trapping the fingers between her legs, prolonging the waves and the surging mind-numbing sensations that pulsed through her, that made her feel like a huge sparkling ball of tingling nerves. God, what a feeling that was! Unable to still the feelings she let out a long low groan as her thighs thrust tightly again ... then again ... then gently spread.

The hand slipped away. Just as the hand on her breast had. Concerned, perhaps, that in the still of the stationary train the husband might turn. Or others nearby might notice. Or she herself might scream out accusingly. But when she next spoke, she could hardly hear herself. "The train ... stopping," she tried to say, but hardly any sound came out. The hand was out of her shorts. The erection was still between her buttocks. She felt it best not to move. Not now. She cleared her throat. "The train stopping ... alarmed me," Nicci said to her husband's back, wondering if that might explain whatever he thought he had heard, or felt.
It seemed to satisfy him. "Won't be long now," he said encouragingly, unable to turn round. Not feeling the need, perhaps. Dave was big enough and strong enough to turn if he had to. But he was a gentle man. He would not disturb these people who, after all, this country belonged to. "Lean your head against me. Sleep if you want," he said over his shoulder. Which didn't seem a bad idea. Nicci lay her head on his broad shoulders, and just as she did, the train lurched back into life. She closed her eyes.

"You like ... India?" she heard. The question in English. Very close. She opened an eye. It was the one with the beard. The one who had fondled her breast. His face was inches from hers.

"Yes," she replied, being polite.

"Sorry?" came her husband's voice. At which the Indian with the beard angled his head and said to Nicci's husband.

"I was asking your wife how she liked India," he said, in Englis

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