Night Train to Rome

No, our spontaneous decision was not an act of penny-pinching. We could easily have afforded dramatically higher prices than the headline that greeted us at the station. 19.90 Euro and a relaxing overnight trip to Rome! We could have flown first class if we had wanted to, probably at a cost of almost 100 times the ticket price for a fifth of the time and potentially more comfort, but... it didn't matter, it didn't count.

It may have been Julia, my wife, who first mentioned the idea or hinted at it as we waited on the platform for the express train that was supposed to take us from Vienna to the imperial city in the south. It seemed like a joke, like a smile of remembrance of long-ago internet trips. Like a grotesque idea -- along the lines of: We're independent, the apartment is taken care of, one of our children already has the key to water the flowers, and... Why not? Free, independent, and above all, spontaneous! And at our age, when we're supposed to be comfortable -- well past the halfway point of life, as Dante and Hölderlin so flowerily put it.

"You're crazy..." was on the tip of my tongue, albeit meant kindly, when her suggestion fluttered so casually and easily from her lips as she glanced at her watch to confirm her statement. "We still have an hour and a half to get a suitcase and the necessary clothes and toiletries... then the rest is SHOPPING in Rome... and a hotel, so if we're flexible and spontaneous, it'll be a piece of cake!"

"Really easy..." -- that was another matter, but the idea was crazy and, precisely because of that, tempting and all the more typical of my wonderful wife, whom I love so much precisely because of her spontaneity. I booked tickets and reservations and a great hotel right near the train station -- and we would then spontaneously spend a long weekend in the Eternal City instead of one of the usual ones in our neighborhood. Reason? Apart from the fact that we didn't need one, were both financially and economically independent, freelance and self-employed, the kids were away from home and well taken care of: So what? Why? Why not? We had our passports with us, both physical and electronic on our cell phones, and of course our credit and debit cards: What more could you want, we rejoiced inwardly, because crazy ideas are sometimes the best ones.

And it was our wedding anniversary the following weekend anyway. A second honeymoon after exactly twenty years! There was no reason not to. On the contrary, everything pointed to it.

The night train to Rome was pretty empty when we boarded just before departure, having completed all our physical and virtual errands in Vienna.

We acknowledged this with a certain sense of relief, because due to the truly spontaneous decision, there were unfortunately no sleeping cars available. We hadn't expected to get one anyway, but it would have been our preferred way to travel, having our own little shower, a cozy cabin, and even a small breakfast, piccola collazione. Too bad, but what could you do? A normal compartment with six seats would have to suffice: three on one side and three across from us, with a window, of course, and a small folding table that could be used as a partition or for whatever else you wanted to do with it. The seats were hard, but there were only two of us, we were exhausted in a way, and strangely content.

My wife sat opposite me, her legs crossed, the lights dimmed, the aisle outside empty. The train started moving--that deep, rolling hum and gentle jolting that I have always loved, bringing back memories of Interrail: back then, many years ago, in the last millennium. So different from the car, which we had decided to leave behind this time. Who needs a car in Rome! Twelve hours of driving, planned to be relaxed, as opposed to the intense concentration required behind the wheel, especially when driving into the night. We wanted to arrive in Rome relaxed, hoping to spend a kind of second honeymoon in the Eternal City, where Julia and I had now been married for almost two decades.

We didn't talk much -- not because we had nothing to say to each other, but because we were a little tired from the somewhat hectic last hour, wanted to unwind from everyday life and just relax, looking forward to a certain dolce far niente or shopping in Rome and strolling through the Roman Forum again, via Appia venire, testing my very real, if dusty, Latin on the many inscriptions... enjoying a good meal, a great red wine and... yes: celebrating our wedding anniversary the way I still liked to with my wife: in bed, maybe with breakfast in bed... amore and amare! I looked at her. Julia! My wife--in her early fifties, long dark hair tied in a loose bun, a few strands of gray hair mingling with it. A very well-preserved, truly desirable body because it looked so mature. A little too voluptuous, as she used to complain, a kilo or two too many, which I didn't necessarily agree with because the extra weight had settled so beautifully on her still very firm breasts.

Her light summer dress was simple, but it outlined her figure all the more clearly because it fell gently and thus had a wonderfully erotic hint of transparency. Or rather, the lightness of the dress allowed the light to flood through, always offering a hint of her body shape, allowing it to be guessed quite well. Sometimes, probably because of this, Julia still showed a slight insecurity in her body language that almost no one noticed--but I saw it. I knew it. And I knew that she always seemed to be particularly aware of strangers' glances, even if she never admitted it to anyone. Not in the form of self-affirmation or a precursor to flirting -- but... it's hard to describe: I felt that she was comfortable being alone, especially when she was wearing a relatively short dress, which her age and, above all, her legs definitely allowed her to wear. But there seemed to be a slight insecurity about how she came across to others. Or whether her dress was still appropriate for her age and perhaps a little too short, too colorful, too low-cut. Insecurity? Probably not -- but the subtle leap to convincing self-confidence seemed to be missing. Strange that I felt this so intensely at that very moment, while I looked at her with loving admiration.

But I think I must have simply dozed off. It felt like two or even three hours, because the air outside smelled different when I woke up with a start. More like the south, more like dolce far niente, more like bella Italia and the land where lemons bloom.

And then, shortly after the border with Italy, the compartment door opened. Damn, we're not alone anymore, I muttered under my breath, while Julia didn't seem to react at all. Two men got in. Tall. Dark. Athletic. In their early thirties, maybe.

No, more like mid-twenties, was my next impression. One wore a light leather jacket over a tight shirt, the other had a backpack slung casually over his shoulder. Their language sounded soft, melodic, but very masculine -- Italian. The familiar singing quality of the language, always tantalizing, whether in the opera or sul treno.

"È libero qui? Possiamo entrare?" asked one of them in Italian, his smile friendly, almost too confident, so that we could already understand what he was asking. The question was easy to understand from the context alone, but although my Italian wasn't perfect, it was bastante bene, as they say.

"Certamento," I nodded politely. My wife glanced up at me briefly, then at them--just as nice, but alert, with a sparkle in her eyes that could be interpreted as a gentle warning signal, but I didn't really notice it. A short message that she was definitely sending me, as far as I could tell. But should I really have said that this was "riservato," which of course wasn't true and wasn't noted on the reservation cards? So the seats here were "libero," "liberi" even, if you knew how to use the plural correctly in Italian.

The two sat down, one next to me, the other directly across from my wife. The one sitting across from her had medium-length, slightly wavy hair, tanned skin, and three days' stubble that made him look older. He was probably under twenty, I was sure--but that didn't matter. His gaze was open, calm. But there was something else I was beginning to recognize in him: not intrusive, not demanding, certainly not threatening. More like... observant, interested, curious. Or maybe--I was beginning to understand Julia's first instinctive glance--interested and open to anything... a kind of romantic openness, seduction included, flirting always possible... just... typically Italian, perhaps. Che vero?

The other one was dark--not really black, but enough that his origins must have been considerably further south than Sicily. And his Italian wasn't perfect either; he had a dialect that was new to me--probably one of the many that had somehow arrived in Lampedusa years ago.

The conversations started off quite innocently -- the usual banalities, a kind of introduction, nothing formal. Where we were from, what our names were -- although Julia was only really interested in that. Where we were going. That Rome was beautiful, that the beer in Italy was better than its reputation -- actually a ridiculous statement, since we both preferred Montepulciano anyway. Red wine from Abruzzo was better than birra from wherever, whether alla spina or from the bottiglia. The two were called Orlando and Giorgio. Both from Florence. A long-planned vacation through half of Central Europe was now coming to an end. Interrail, as I understood -- a sign of even more youth than I had initially thought. Both under twenty. They laughed a lot. Too much?

I wasn't sure. Not that they smelled of it, but they had certainly had a beer or two. Orlando -- the black one, of course, even if that seems difficult to understand.

O as in Othello, no, that wasn't what I thought. Orlando Furioso, rather, the mad Roland. Although whoever translated Ludovico Ariosto's work must have made a similar dyslexic mistake, like crocodile and cocodrillo, or even worse, kolbassa and klobasse... but it would take too long to explain. I smiled to myself -- also because literary twists and turns began to unfold so wonderfully in my mind.

But what surprised me was that my wife was talking 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 that very 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 through the rearview mirror that she wasn't wearing any panties, and it may be that my wife had given him a glimpse or two, nolens volens. But Julia didn't mention any of that--luckily, I thought, because I was really on pins and needles, wondering what else she was going to reveal. She did talk 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 I'm pretty sure that wouldn't have meant much to them if I had drawn the comparative parallel:

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate -- that would have been a good hint, I smiled to myself as I greeted them and they entered the compartment. But had they really read Dante, like me, even in the original?... Never mind, I smiled to myself. So we skipped the descent into Inferno and stayed in Purgatorio, or even Paradiso, which my wife and I had created for each other. The two of them were obviously not very well versed in literature, more into Måneskin and the like, hardly Verdi or Fabrizio de André. They 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... That floating figure with a blue face, which you have to imagine being painted blue again and then flying through space... volare...

I sat back, silent. Observing. Her voice changed slightly, I knew that. A laugh that went deeper than necessary. A glance that lingered a second too long -- not on me, but on my wife. On her legs, above all, that good hand's breadth of skin showing above her knee. Well tanned and firm. Could it be that this was a kind of flirtation? Or at least a tingling precursor to it?

Julia's descriptions made me think more of Florence: the place where the two of them were supposed to have come 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 in between, before we decided to get married and commit to a life together. So Florence, probably 25 years ago -- the two of them weren't even born then. A summer rain straight out of a picture book 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 poured down on us from the sky. Julia was wearing a white blouse -- I can still see the image in front of my eyes. She wasn't wearing a bra underneath, just like she isn't now -- her wonderful size and firmness allowed her to go without. It was also more practical -- not only for her, but for me too, I smiled to myself. And her soaking wet blouse clung to her like a second skin. What's more, 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, so that I could hardly walk with the desire to see her like that and knowing what we would do immediately in our hotel room, also because we had to tear the wet clothes off anyway. And other observers of the spectacle probably felt and experienced the same. 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 literally pounced on her -- only inadequately pushed into the bushes, she blew me, giving me wonderful relief. She even swallowed, which was rather rare -- but it was probably the intoxicating context, the relief from the heat with equally liberating surges from my loins as I spilled myself between her lips.

And just two streets further on, with hundreds more horny glances, I was already wild and hungry again for my then not-yet-wife, my girlfriend, my lover, my Julia. This time at another bush in another park. 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. That was just as well, because we were almost caught by the Carabinieri--in flagrante delicto, so to speak. She complained about the sticky wetness that smeared down her thighs, smelling so erotic, with that wonderful pouty mouth of hers, while she waddled along in clothes that were totally wet for other reasons. I still remember that laugh and that seductive look in her eyes... and then in the hotel... I don't know how many times we made love. We fucked and rammed until we couldn't anymore and her pussy was sore and I really couldn't get it up anymore -- that would be the drastic way of putting it, but it's very close to the truth. That's the image I thought of when I remembered Interrail and episodes of the two of us.

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

The lighter-haired one in front of her -- Giorgio, I think -- let his hand rest on his thigh. Broad, strong, relaxed. His fingers twitched slightly every time my wife laughed -- and I had the impression that he had to restrain himself very much so that his hand didn't land on my wife's bare knee as if by accident.

The bottle of red wine turned out to be cheap Czech plonk that they had left over and suddenly conjured up from their backpacks. And the bottle wasn't even a bottle, but a Tetra Pak of wine -- well, suspicions were already rising in the direction of "I'll risk an eye with every sip." But the dark juice tasted surprisingly good, although it may have been relabeled, which was now common practice in the EU. I would have classified it as a Valpolicella, without wanting to pretend to be a wine connoisseur. The Italians had brought other things with them too -- they wanted to "share something," they had said, with that insolently casual grin that didn't come across as arrogant, but natural and always with that subtle erotic hint of flirtation, if not seduction.

There were four of us drinking, small plastic cups balanced on the fold-out table. Four of us and probably too much, because we didn't stop at just one "bottle," i. e., Tetra Pak. My wife drank slowly, but she warmed up faster than usual--the day had been long, the alcohol hit at the end of a long day and heavy limbs, sluggish bones. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her hair began to slip out of her high bun, and her smile became deeper, more subtle, and her gaze more dreamy, a little more thoughtful, much more feminine and attractive than she already was. After all, she was probably older than the two of them put together. I certainly was, having always been a few years older than my Julia.

And then, I didn't think it was possible--and I didn't know why--Julia brought up another episode. Interrail 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. Telepathy 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 wasn't really different from what I remembered and had experienced and enjoyed with her. With one subtle exception, however, or rather an addition and interpretation. That she described the looks of the others very precisely, not a hundred times, but in such a way that they relished undressing her with their eyes, soaking her up and clearly wanting 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 act as the instrument of her lust, that also came across clearly in her words. In English, because my Italian wouldn't have been good enough for that -- and hers certainly wasn't. Cazzo, yes, that was clear, and troia and... I didn't want to explore further how that would have been expressed.

Something like esecutore della passione... executor of passion. That had been my role. Not bad, much better than just a fleeting spectator who had been allowed to admire her almost completely naked breasts under her wet blouse.

The two of them grinned broadly and even more broadly, shifting a little restlessly in their seats -- 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. No, no -- definitely not knockout drops or anything like that, surely not, they weren't like that. Or maybe I couldn't handle as much as I used to.

Around half past eleven, Julia pulled her feet up and lay down across the two seats. She laughed again at some slightly risqué comment from Orlando, then closed her eyes. The train jolted through the night, the curtain was half drawn, the light dimmed, and she struggled, probably like me, with the excess red wine and the sleep that gently lulled her temples.

I watched her for a moment. Julia, my wife! Her dress had slipped up a little--not much, but enough for her pale pink panties to peek out from under the hem. What a hint! Her skin was sun-kissed and smooth, her legs slightly bent, causing her dress to slip up ever so slightly. It looked almost staged, although I knew it was probably just a normal slip, due to gravity: blame Newton! Blame Sir Isaac Newton -- you have to give him that much credit. Or was it a little bit intentional? I wouldn't have dared to bet on it. But it had the same immediate effect on us men as it did back then in Florence. Not as intense and obvious, that was clear. But even if we've seen hundreds of porn movies and naked pussies and clefts in our lives somehow and somewhere, 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, I can assure you. A tingling sensation and a deep sigh, which I tried to keep 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 -- as if it were the guiding ray of hidden lust sparkling from me. He didn't say anything, but the corners of his mouth lifted briefly and I was sure that something was also stirring gently between his legs and then beginning to swell impressively. Just like me -- something I didn't want anyone else to see or guess under any circumstances. Not even my wife. Not now and certainly not in this constellation. Not now, when 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, looking a little jovial, a little ingratiating, but above all stepping up a gear, which seemed to heighten the gentle, latent eroticism in the compartment.

"È molto carina," he said quietly, thoughtfully and cautiously, testing whether he was crossing any boundaries. He was complimenting my wife, so I'm sure he meant it well. But at the same time, he was probing, and I could sense how far he could go... and I... fell into the trap without hesitation: if it was a trap at all, and I could see it coming. Yes, I was aware of what he was implying. 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. She was beautiful, very well preserved for her age, very attractive and well-groomed, really... she could be proud of herself, and I was proud of her too.

I shrugged my shoulders, 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 thrust into our eyes. At least that wonderfully naked skin, from her knee to the hem of her dress. Far more than a hand's width now, more like four or five.

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

"Ancora una selvaggia a letto?" Orlando grinned at this question, his white teeth contrasting sharply with his dark face and bright eyes. His voice was soft but clear, now definitely crossing a line. He definitely wanted to gauge my reaction, the wannabe Casanova in black. Whether she was still a wild woman... in bed. Actually, it was cheeky, but...?

I looked at him. And before I could think any further, I replied: "Wild in the past. 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 entirely 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 person being addressed, 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 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. Things you shouldn't have said: because otherwise they might come back to bite you. "Completely. She does what I want."

And then I heard her voice. Julia. My wife! Soft. 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, on the contrary, now even more of that cheeky pink was visible. But her gaze was now fixed directly on me, her thighs already quite visible. Naked, actually, I thought, but the word already had its effect.

Julia: 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 about a tame foal in my male bravado.

The two Italians froze for a moment, unable to assess the situation, then said nothing. And I took a deep breath too. Not only 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, covering her panties again. 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, briefly giving us a very direct glimpse under her dress. This renewed flash of her pink panties had a real signal effect. It was 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, making her even more attractive, perhaps because they were untamed, wild? Julia didn't seem like someone who was in control--and yet she suddenly had everything in her hands. 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?" she provoked, repeating her question in almost perfect Italian, which amazed 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. Was she referring to drinking the schnapps, or was she trying to convince herself that she needed the courage to do so? But she remained standing until Orlando moved over and slid a hand across the seat. Inviting. She slowly sat down between the two of them--a touch too close.

Above all, between the two of them, which I didn't like. Away from me, moving toward them. That was... at least a signal, to call it that. A pretty clear signal, seeking this closeness. Especially in the state we were all in, tipsy as we were!

I said nothing. Just watched as she took the first glass, sniffed it, grimaced slightly, then drank. In one gulp, after which she exhaled deeply and heavily, as if it had been strong. I wasn't offered any grappa, but I was actually glad of that. On the one hand, I wasn't a fan of the distilled remains of wine, but on the other hand, I'd already had enough to drink and didn't want to get even more foggy, especially now that my attention seemed to be in high demand.

"Brotherhood?" asked Giorgio with a raised eyebrow, using the classic pretext 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 intertwined 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. This kind of kiss was slow, deliberate--too close to the mouth, as I realized with a slight rise of resentment in my rumbling stomach. Resentment and a hint of excitement--or perhaps self-reproach. What had I provoked with my stupid torrent of words?

But my wife--she didn't pull away.

I saw Julia take a short breath--surprised, uncertain. Then she laughed--a little too loud, a little too long. And she remained seated.

The alcohol was taking effect. Her posture changed: no longer stiff and crouched, but soft and relaxed.

Her legs were no longer together, her knees no longer pressed together, but slightly apart. Her gaze was more open, her voice slower, her tongue heavier, and her cheeks showed that the delicate glow was visible again from within. These were all subtle signals that the others were surely picking up on just as intensely and knew how to interpret.

"So," said Orlando with that charming undertone, picking up the cheeky conversation from earlier and now addressing her. "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, a kind of anger, but not in a negative way.

A kind of mockery that lingered on her lips and, above all, a kind of affirmation that she intended to assert as a woman. Another form of determination that made her seem so confident and all the more beautiful. "Perhaps you are dealing with an old man," she said without looking at me. "He sometimes likes to talk when the days have been long and the nights too short."

Giorgio seemed to translate what she had said into 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. She had now taken things to a whole new level, so to speak.

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

She shivered. I saw it. Just for a moment. But she didn't pull away, letting him continue.

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, so that they had to gaze at each other and breathe softly.

"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.

Excuse me--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 first clap of thunder on a sultry evening that might lead to a downpour. To lightning. To a thunderstorm, to a storm. Just like back then in Florence -- back then between the two of us, but inspired and desired by many.

Then she answered. Not eagerly, but not defensively either. Julia's lips moved. Her eyes closed. Her hand still held the glass, trembling slightly, and from the movement, I could tell her tongue had been in play for a moment.

When she pulled away, her face was red. Her voice was barely audible, and perhaps only I understood what she meant.

"I... am not... drunk enough." - Non é abbastanza ubriaca, Orlando seemed to whisper, pure seduction? Or did she really mean what I thought I heard in her words? Enough, or rather, not enough: to do what? For that? That... I swallowed hard, but luckily not grappa like her.

Giorgio held out the next glass to her. The strong moonshine 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, lively, awakened. A proud gaze, untamed, wild... definitely not domesticated.

She was still sitting between the two Italians, glass in hand, her cheeks flushed. Giorgio now had one arm around her shoulders, Orlando his hand on her thigh--calm, unassuming, but still in an unambiguous pose that went far beyond what was appropriate. His fingers barely moved, and yet every inch was electric, as if his journey upward had begun.

Her dress--that loose, light blue summer dress--had now 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 heart beating 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 she hadn't been tamed after all? Or a secret inner desire that I would never have dared to express, that I might not even have taken 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 toward freedom, back into the wilderness of her lust and possibilities that were hers 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 prevented the whole thing. I could have pulled Julia, my wife, out of there, 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 nod at all, 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... And the fence... what fence... it didn't seem to be there anymore, the stakes had been moved, the meadow was free and fragrant, inviting her to graze and graze.

Orlando slowly drew the curtain. It truly seemed like a ritual. The world outside disappeared, even though hardly anyone could realistically see inside, or could have caught 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 spaghetti straps. It slid over her shoulders, over her waist, over her hips. But above all, over her breasts. She didn't lift her arms. She just 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--now without a wet blouse separating them. Now bare and exposed, naked and trembling with desire. These wonderful breasts 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 they 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 about their natural lines.

I saw her nipples stiffen, hesitantly at first, then more decisively. Not hard, not exaggerated, but alert -- like two little thoughts stirring when you start 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 the dark hands began to wrap themselves around her soft forms.

They took her breasts in his hands, combed through them with his fingers, letting the whiteness of her skin shimmer between the darkness of his groping and kneading fingers. And then his lips, his tongue, yes, probably even his white teeth, as he placed them over them and licked and sucked and inhaled them, conjuring a moan from her lips.

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

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

Beneath it: only a delicate slip, barely more than a hint of fabric. Her skin was tanned, warm, glowing with excitement and primed by alcohol. She was trembling 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 allowed to participate as an actor.

Orlando leaned toward her, kissing her breasts, his wet path leading 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 man's mouth, softly parted, kissing, breathing. And yet her right hand wandered 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 that he held out to her. It was not a hesitant gesture. No shy and timid groping. Rather, it was the firm knowledge of his arousal, deliberately guiding her fingers there. She squeezed gently, then harder, letting her hand linger briefly, moving it a little--only 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 became deeper, more demanding, while her fingers unerringly found the zipper. She played with it, not frantically, but with a kind of erotic equanimity. A tug, 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 of more, which would come in waves.

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 of his bulging shorts, where his hardness was clearly visible under 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. As if she wanted to smell him, to suck his lust first into her nose and then into her lips.

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 this sticky, dripping mushroom with her tongue. A first stroke and taste. A first intake.

Then she let him slide in--carefully, but completely, until he filled her mouth and she closed her lips around his lance. She moved slowly. No haste, no eagerness. Just rhythm, warmth, and a wet promise. Her hands held him by the hips, her gaze was lowered, but her posture spoke of lust--not submission, but devotion. Every movement of her mouth was a pulse of attention, tenderness, and controlled desire, which she passed on to his ever-growing arousal through her lips and tongue, even her scraping teeth. He closed his eyes, moaning softly with pleasure. And he let himself be guided as she began to wrap her lips ever tighter and more demanding around his arousal.

A soft smacking sound and the wetness of her saliva as his hard penis began to shine invitingly and provocatively, while her head and mouth began to move back and forth over him.

My hand was on my thigh. I hardly dared to breathe, hardly dared to open my pants, letting my aching arousal into the air before I exploded with pleasure.

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. An exciting gem that she still kept for herself--not yet revealing everything her body had to offer.

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 and, no doubt, willingness.

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. I want it. And I want you to see it."

I don't think she even spoke. Sparks flew from her eyes, a will 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, perhaps even urging her to take the leap. Jump into freedom, don't be tamed! "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 cue that must have acted as a signal that she was ready.

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, as if to curb his desire to tear her panties off her thighs, articulating the extent of his lust.

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 much that I could see the fine red stripe he had left behind on her skin. Like a final warning 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 was revealing itself 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 just crazy thoughts racing through my head.

She was now sitting completely naked between the two Italians--breathless, glistening, open. Ready for what was to come, as inevitable as amen after a prayer.

But not exposed. Not just stripped naked in a crude manner. But desired, truly adored in her naturalness by the two of them, only... gazed at by me.

And she could feel it. You could see it in her posture--upright, present, expectant. Downright proud--not tamed at all, as I had so stupidly assumed. Her chest rose and fell in time with the quiet rattling of the train. A slight tremor ran through her breasts, those wonderful twins that hung just imperceptibly, but now swayed. How would they tremble with pleasure with every subsequent jolt, not from the tracks, but from something else, something as hard as steel? Her thighs were slightly open, radiating self-confidence here too. Her flawless skin was taut, with just the odd spot hinting at cellulite -- but much less than in women her age. Every inch of her was awake and a source of lust and arousal.

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 and my boner hurt infinitely.

I knew what was coming next. And I saw her lean back, close her eyes--and let it happen. She allowed what was nevertheless unimaginable--perhaps in the crazy and insane ideas I sometimes entertained 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.

To feel jealousy and stir 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 intertwined, 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 wetly 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 opened--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, gently and broadly penetrating her. 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 sucked into his lips. His tongue was soft, almost flat, as it repeatedly brushed her center and fluttered over it. No thrusting, no haste -- just a circular gliding motion, a gentle pressure from below, like a wind opening a flower, a butterfly pollinating a delicate blossom.

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. He took long strides between her spread thighs, rotating deep inside her and probably crossing the bridge, just as she kept opening her eyes, wondering how far she should, wanted to, and, in her opinion, was allowed to give him access to everything.

She felt his lips enclose her, becoming more intense and demanding, then a short suck came, 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 concealed more moans.

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 to 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 a rock. 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. Falling finally into the realm of Eros and wild abandon that awaited her.

Julia's 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 restraint. No more doubt. Only pure, twitching, drawn-out lust, 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, arching, her eyes wide, and then letting out a long cry that was stifled by deep moans and twitching thighs as Orlando began a final furioso, dancing and vibrating between her twitching thighs, 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 dark, clear, alert, seeking one last confirmation, gauging her desire, which was hardly less than his.

She watched it. Saw the condom. And made no move to stop him. On the contrary, in fact, which made me freeze and become even harder. She shook her head -- not to refuse him, but... thinking of that piece of rubber he was about to slip over his erect cock. No condom! I swallowed hard, very hard, and my eyes filled with tears of lust.

On the contrary: she slid deeper into the seat, lifted her pelvis slightly--a silent, more than clear invitation. Her legs were spread wide apart, one of her feet pressed against the window, the other against the back of the seat opposite. Open in a way that left no room for doubt. She wanted it. And how.

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, the first drops of lust dripping from his red, swollen glans. And 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 gripping 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 wetter. Probably her juices, 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. Even more, a deeper gurgling sound emerged as he rose above her and began to gently fill her mouth, almost to the point of abuse. The way he pushed that shiny black snake over her lips, making her gag and gasp and moan with pleasure at the same time.

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 conquered her mouth, so that I noticed her cheeks and throat swelling, he thrust so deeply into her, his testicles slapping against her chin almost unrestrainedly.

Then she changed the position herself, which had probably become uncomfortable, breathing heavily and gasping for air.

She turned onto all fours, pulled herself into the middle of the seat, her knees pressed against the cushion, her hands against the wall.

Her hips were raised, ready for the next position she particularly loved: being taken from behind, hard above all else. Giorgio approached her again, grabbed her waist, and penetrated her once more--this time harder, faster, just as she instinctively signaled and he equally desired.

Her moans were no longer suppressed, seeming unleashed.

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, held, and protected her--and who now saw her like this. And couldn't do anything about it, didn't even want to. Probably wasn't allowed to!

Orlando switched. When Giorgio pulled away, he stepped up to her, kissed her first, then slid into her, just as deep, just as naturally. Without a condom too--she hadn't just allowed it to one of them, the other had implicitly assumed. She moaned, not surprised, but ready. Her hands gripped his back, her hips moved toward him, sinking the noticeably thicker black piston inside her, forcing her to moan deeply before she relaxed and stretched herself over him. The way she let him fuck her, smacking and moaning, there was no other way to describe it. Or nailing and hammering, scopare, as the Italians like to say... the wonderful game of in and out in an ever-increasing rhythm and hardness.

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

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 the other one, who then let her mouth pamper his dripping thick member 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 orgasms, which were then intensified and heightened by his buddy.

Then -- a change.

He pulled out. 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 approached her, taking her again, mounting her again, impregnating her... my eyes began to tear up with lust and excitement at the enviable potency with which the young men were romping on her.

He was faster. Harder. He grabbed her right away. Pulled her toward him with a single, firm grip that anchored her, preventing her from escaping, even though she showed no intention of trying to get away from him. I saw her flinch briefly--surprised, irritated--and then... how she gave in. How she surrendered, how she gave herself to him. Her shoulders relaxed. She opened her legs wider, even spreading them in an almost obscene manner. She took him in, let him into her sanctuary, into her femininity... I flinched and swallowed and heard the rich smacking of her pussy, which sounded like mocking applause to me. Their wet, aroused bodies plunged into each other, interlocked and tore apart again wildly, only to impale themselves even more intensely.

He thrust deep inside her immediately, and she moaned loudly. No more holding back. Only bodies. Only skin, muscles, lust, sounds. A smacking, a thrusting, a moaning, the feeling of smelling her, her juices glistening triumphantly on his cock and being whipped into fine white bubbles, her lust brushing against it.

I saw Julia's breasts bounce with every thrust, her back arching, her body pressed against the wall. I saw the cushion slip under her knees and her push herself back against him, returning his thrusts as if to offer him the necessary resistance.

And all I could think was: That's my wife. That's how my wife is. That's how wild she is, very wild, not at all tamed, as I had claimed in my stupid chatter. That's my wild, beloved wife, my...

And she was being taken. Now. Properly. Completely. With a ferocity I would hardly have allowed myself, almost brutality and possessiveness, the way he impaled himself on her and forced her to moan. I swallowed hard, unable to believe that what I was seeing and hearing and, above all, smelling was really happening.

She belonged to those two men at that moment--every movement, every thrust, every touch. And I... I was just there. I was the only one who wasn't touching her. And yet I was the one who felt the most. Was I paralyzed? Could I have joined in, wanted to, been allowed to, or even had to? Or even stop the show--that was now... well, more than just wildness, it had crossed all boundaries.

But the most exciting thing was that she knew what was going on inside me. Was it a form of sweet revenge in her, or was it more?

Giorgio thrust into her, deep, rhythmically, his hands on her waist, her back arched. Her voice was hoarse from moaning, her body soft and tense, completely open, completely detached. And I... just sat there. Stiff, silent, completely caught up in her.

Then Orlando leaned toward her, very tenderly, very tense and full of excited lust, which was not only evident in his particularly swollen member.

He knelt down beside her, brushed a sweaty strand of hair from her face, leaned even closer--and whispered something in her ear. Very close. Just for her. Intimate in the truest sense of the word, without a doubt.

I couldn't hear his words. Whether it was Italian, as I suspected, or English. But I saw her reaction and, slowly, in my own incomprehension, I think I understood.

Her eyes widened--really wide. A moment of overwhelm. Or perhaps she was thinking about whether she had really understood him. But I had no doubts.

She had probably known from the beginning what he wanted, what he was asking her. More than what he implied. Then she lowered her gaze and her cheeks turned red. Not out of shame. But out of... memory. Or a kind of resignation. A different kind of devotion and consent.

She breathed faster. Blinked. More for herself than for me or him... a short breath before she smiled. An embarrassed smile--at least that's how it seemed to me, who at that moment began to perceive everything as if in slow motion. To see, to smell, to sense, and to feel what my body still allowed, torn apart by the pulsing of my racing heart.

Orlando put a hand on her neck. Firmly. She slowly raised her head. She looked at me briefly. Then she nodded. Once. Clearly. Slowly. My pulse raced, sensing what it might mean, but unable to believe it. I couldn't understand what else he whispered to her, but cazzo and culo... those words were familiar to me. And apparently, this was indeed about... I swallowed hard: culo. CULO!?

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small tube. His movement was calm, completely natural and confident, not at all like he was doing it for the first time. It wasn't something new, but simply part of who he was. For certain occasions, rare perhaps, and special. When female tourists agreed to it. Lubrificante... lubricant.

I swallowed and I sweated--no, I froze inside. Not out of disgust. Not out of jealousy. But out of the realization that something was happening here that I didn't know about her. Something obviously new. Something we hadn't shared. Something I had somehow hoped for, but then been too cowardly to do all this time, all these almost thirty years... I idiot, I could only scold myself and almost crawl away in shame. Was this what was in store for her, and was it dawning on me that I was wavering between nausea and excitement, like between Scylla and Charybdis?

Giorgio pulled back, kissed her shoulder with a tenderness that made me envy them both. Her hands trembled slightly, and I trembled with her. She remained on all fours, but raised her pelvis a little more, pushing her wonderful butt upward. Ready, without words, almost reverent, like a sacrifice and self-abandonment.

Orlando was now behind her, adjusting himself and her. Calm. Focused. My eyes burned, my throat too, and inside me, everything was raging.

I watched him prepare her. How his dark fingers glistened and began to gently rest on her rosebud, rotating carefully, then sliding into her, how she flinched--not hard, but sensitive, reactive. This crazy contrast, how his dark fingers disappeared into her not-so-dark hole, between her white, wide-open buttocks, held firmly by Giorgio. How erotic or repulsive, devoted or but... it was all in one. How she twitched again and moaned slowly, how I thought I saw that one finger had now been joined and reinforced by a second. This most intimate caressing and opening and gentle massaging, simulating the finest thrusting movements, which would soon be intensified. Rubbing more lubricant into her, winding himself into her like a black snake, gently stretching her, tenderly massaging her. Familiar and loving, opening her and preparing her for the truly unimaginable.

Her breath was shallow, her back tense as he withdrew his greasy fingers and then stroked his hard cock with them. And how Orlando then jacked himself up behind her, very purposefully placing his dripping tip on the very halo that took my breath away. Like Julia, I couldn't believe it, she had placed her hands on her own buttocks and spread them. How she opened herself for him, granting him access where I... my head threatened to explode.

And then--slowly--he lowered himself into her anus--I heard her moan, her deep, muffled moan. I could almost feel with her how his glans seemed to flatten against that shriveled star.

A slight jerk, a short cry, as if she had briefly dug her fingernails into his thigh, then he seemed to take over. 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 arousing lust as she accepted his piston inside her.

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, what I saw, what opened up and slowly manifested itself in the recesses of my mind.

And at that very moment--with Orlando deep inside her, slowly moving in her ravaged anal passage--she looked at me. Not ashamed. Not guilty. But... open. As if she wanted to say to me: Now you know. This is who I am too.

Julia only told me later--a day later in Rome--that her first and much older boyfriend had shown her everything and done everything with her that was logically new to her at the time. The father of a school friend, as she revealed to me... and the sleepovers that are so popular with girls, staying overnight with their best friends... And she was far too young to have felt that this was abuse, as at that time she saw it more as a special sign of appreciation and favoritism that he paid so much attention to her. From an experienced man who was also older than her father, another father figure (Oedipus or Electra, take your pick)... which then led to a pretty huge scandal after an affair of almost a year... a miscarriage and a divorce, a separation and a change of residence... not exactly a pleasant time for anyone involved.

And this father of her best friend occasionally took her anally, at first even forcing her, then with her consent once she had gotten used to it. And she seemed to accept this occasionally as a form of contraception, as she didn't tolerate the pill well or was too young to get a prescription for herself. 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 would see me differently. And also... because you never tried... and so I believed that maybe you were even... disgusted by it!"

Julia 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 ever. 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 the men were allowed to play and what role she herself played. And my role, for now and today, was sobering and shocking, instructive and horny at the same time, almost criminally arousing like a cuckold, which 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, taken in this way and filled completely. 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 buried in the seat back, her body tense, like a string under tension, but then relaxed, almost relieved, as she began to feel his pubic hair between her spread cheeks. Tutto dentro, he whispered to his companion, who grinned with enthusiasm and envy, knowing full well that this pleasure was still in store for him in that very spot.

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. Took him all in, sucked him into her, the ring already stretched so wide that it was easier for both of them.

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 at the same time, this almost crazy feeling of happiness for my wife pulsing inside me, triggering all kinds of contradictions.

Then Giorgio came. He stood naked in front of her, hard, ready, his member a demanding revelation, a challenge. She looked up briefly--her eyes glassy, her lips parted, her breath shallow. And she knew what he wanted; she literally moaned in anticipation of her double fate.

She sank back a little--her back arched, her hips now resting lower, her pelvis slightly raised, just as she was now squatting 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. Both inside her, both in her openings!

Then he entered her. In front. Slowly. Sliding. Deep. Filling her with pleasure, now truly occupying her doubled tightness.

Julia moaned. Loudly. Not in pain--but fully. A sound I had never heard from her before. Like air escaping from her, as if she were only gradually understanding what was happening to her. To her body, to her femininity, to her lustfulness.

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 touching 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.

I saw her breasts rise and fall with every movement, how they trembled, danced, lived. They were no longer just part of her body--they were an expression. A symbol and manifestation of her desire, her arousal, her complete surrender, revealed on every square inch of her body.

Julia's mouth was open, a soft sound on her lips, half moan, half amazement. Her gaze was distant, not with us, not with herself--somewhere in between. Between arousal and overwhelm. Between control and dissolution, between surrender and melting away, horror and lust on an immeasurable scale.

Her nipples -- hard, dark, erect -- strained against the air, against the heat, against the invisible current passing through her, or rubbed against the skin of the other when he forced himself into her. The movements of her hips became unconscious, automatic, guided by what she felt. No hesitation, no more thinking--just this unstoppable, circling urge.

And with every jolt, every thrust, her breasts trembled, set into rotating vibrations--as if in their own rhythm. As if every curve in her was involved in this physical triad.

It was as if her entire body had become music, a taut string, a ringing harp, a plucked oboe, a blaring trumpet, a vibrating drum, fanfares from a bright hunting horn. I could hear all the spheres through which she was being lustfully chased and thrust. Fucked, to be precise, even if I wanted to avoid such drastic words -- but...

A sound of skin, warmth, desire, lust, and perhaps even sin, if we had applied moral standards.

And I couldn't stop watching.

She was guided--not forced, but held, directed, opened. And she wanted it. Everything about her wanted it. Her body had long since adopted the language of lust, had become soft and ready--ready to give herself to two men at once.

It was not a simple moment, not a casual game. It was overwhelming. Grand. Like a storm building, sweeping through her body, through every nerve, every fiber. She was a single, trembling point--stretched between them, carried by their hands, permeated by their heat.

One behind her, the other in front of her--both naked, breathing heavily, connected to her in the most intimate way, in a single rhythm. She felt them. Both of them. Deep. Filling. Separated only by this delicate membrane as they pushed themselves into her and past her. As their cocks seemed to touch and arouse each other inside her body, separated only by the thin membrane. And she opened herself further, front and back, letting it happen, letting herself be taken, a little more with every thrust. Not passively. But receptively. Wanting. Saying yes. Jubilant and howling, crying and laughing with pleasure and only the faint echo of the pain of defloration.

Her breath was no longer a soft whisper--it was a cry. A tremor. A moan. She was no longer herself, but a single, twitching body between them. Filled. Held. Loved.

Sometimes they were slow, almost tender. Then wild, hard, demanding again. And she endured it -- not only that, she sucked her twitching limbs into herself, made it her own moment. An experience she would never forget.

Two bodies. One pulse. And in the middle -- her. Open. Strong. Alive.

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 desired her like this. And never loved her like this. And at the same time -- never been so horrified by her in the sense that I hadn't 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.

I saw her twitch, her fingers clench and then open again. Her voice--not a word, just that lustful panting, that quiet desperation that arises when you don't know what to do with all that feeling. I could see her pulse, at her throat, at her temples, in the small, trembling movements of her legs.

And at the same time, I could see the men--how they watched her, seemed to worship her even in this ultimate act of lust. Not brutal, but coordinated. One penetrated her while the other held her, kissed her, seemed to give her support and security. And then they switched, found a common rhythm that flooded through them, getting faster, moaning and hooting, grunting and uttering words I no longer understood. Culo was definitely there, and cazzo too--but that had been clear from the start.

I knew what Julia was feeling. Or thought I knew, sensed, saw. That feeling of being stretched, filled in both openings. Completely. No part of her remained untouched. And I felt my own skin tingle as I watched her. It was beautiful. Unbelievably beautiful. A triad of bodies, lust, and devotion.

And at the same time, it was... insanely humiliating, like the worst punishment I could ever be subjected to, coupled with the greatest pleasure I could give my wife. I was exposed to a double dose of madness. Julia opened her eyes for another moment, her mouth wide open and gasping, and looked at me. Just for a heartbeat.

But there was no shame, not a hint of it, no sense of embarrassment. No hesitation. Just the flicker in her eyes. And I knew: I was allowed to watch. It was permitted. In fact, it was definitely desired... a punitive gift or a gift of the ultimate punishment...

-------------------

The loudspeaker hummed softly, barely louder than the gentle rumbling of the tracks beneath us. "Next stop..." followed by names and syllables that reached my ears like a distant staccato--almost insignificant compared to what was happening right in front of me. It was as if the sound itself was the prelude to a finale, an inner crescendo that intensified in the space between the bodies entwined around each other.

I saw her. My wife. Or rather, I saw how she was seen, how she was desired, grasped, led. Giorgio and Orlando--so different, so perfectly attuned--had taken her between them, not as something possessable, but as something sacred, openly, even defenselessly entrusted to them. Their bodies were in motion, in flowing, rhythmic tension, interwoven like the voices of a double canon--one deep and urgent, the other soft and sudden, flashing like a bow of light.

They moved, and I saw how my wife was absorbed in these movements, how she was carried by the interplay that enveloped her like an erotic blanket, heavy and irresistible. Her legs were open, her hands sought support -- not out of fear, but out of need, out of that desire that breaks down all boundaries, even those of language.

I could feel the sound of her lust, like a pressure wave, not loud, not screaming--but vibrating. A gasp, a throaty, deep breath that only a body permeated with lust can produce. Giorgio bent over her, his lips on her neck, his hands on her hips, while Orlando pushed himself deeper into the narrow space between her thighs, into which she let him, yes, took him in like a part of herself.

And then it came. No words could describe it. But I heard it. I saw it, yes, I even felt it, this pressure and relief, this outpouring of pleasure in its most extreme state. This "vengo" -- it didn't come as a cry, but as a tremor, like a release they had pushed and jerked and pinned down. In them, in her, and also in me, who hardly knew where my observation ended and the crazy, suffering, enduring, and enjoying sensation began. Their interlocked and thrusting bodies twitched as if they had lost themselves. I saw Giorgio close his eyes, his breath catch, his lips tremble as if the pleasure was too great for words, too great even for that "vengo" that also applied to him. I saw his eyes open, as he began to realize that these hot spurts couldn't touch him, yet were sprayed directly onto his equally twitching member. Only Julia's thin membrane separated the two of them from the complete sensation of experiencing their orgasms simultaneously, the intensification of the hard sliding and thrusting past each other in my wife's pleasure openings. Orlando clawed at the sheet beneath her, clinging to it almost helplessly, as if he wanted to anchor himself in the moment that was shattering him.

My wife... she received him with her eyes wide open. Both of them. Not just physically, no--she received his desire, his urge, his deep, shameless devotion as it poured into her. And she responded, not with words, but with her entire body, with her trembling core, with the fluttering of her eyelids, the quivering of her thighs, and the relentless vibration of her pleasure channels, which seemed to milk her conquerors dry. Her hips pressed against Giorgio, her back arched toward Orlando, as if she didn't want to lose either of them, still wanted to feel them both, take them with her, even though they had already reached the finale and had now even surpassed it.

I knew at that moment: what she was experiencing was more than lust.

It was a revelation, a different kind of devotion, even sacrifice at the highest level, the only thing imaginable. The smell that was now spreading more intensely was sweet and tart, a mixture of skin, warmth, something animalistic -- and yet nothing vulgar or even distasteful, considering where they were spilling their seed. Everything in the compartment smelled of them.

Of her. Of ecstasy. Of pure, unrelenting lust that had been lived out to excess. And yet topped with a secret note in a perfume that only insiders could recognize. I didn't just smell it--I recognized it.

Her body twitched. Once more. Then once more. As if the waves weren't subsiding, but only circling deeper, further into her pleasure channels. Giorgio moaned softly, almost in awe, while Orlando broke down in a deep sound that was more like a prayer than a cry of pleasure. Both sank into her. And I saw it: not the obscene, but the true. Two men consumed by the desire not to possess, but to merge in that moment. With her. With Julia. With my wife!

And she... my wife... she allowed it. More than that: she demanded it, she carried it as if it were her right, her entitlement, and her dignity all at once. Her eyes were half closed, a film of tears glistened in them, not from pain, but from overwhelming emotion. She didn't smile, but her face spoke of infinite fulfillment. Of an intoxication that did not break down boundaries, but led her home to the realm of the blessed. A twitch and a moan and a smell that they gave off spoke volumes, confessing and revealing the kind of wild sex they were having here before my eyes. A moan that slipped into gentle exhaustion, but the two of them still wrapped around my wife like an erotic blanket, forcing her to continue her pleasures.

I saw her swollen breasts tremble, saw Giorgio kiss her cheek, saw Orlando give one last tender thrust, almost like a thank you, already powerless and truly drained in his loins. Then they remained as they were--inside each other, next to each other, exhausted, yes. But not empty. Instead, they were fulfilled. Fulfilled by what they had shared. What I had seen. What I had felt with them to such an extent that it was as if I had been involved in this panting triangle, as the focus of their desires.

The loudspeaker buzzed again, emitting a gong and a croaking sound that was impossible to identify. The train slowed down. The next stop was now imminent.

And at that moment, as the landscape changed outside and the breathing inside became calmer, I knew: I had been allowed to witness a miracle. No scandal, no breakup. Just the quiet, honest blossoming of a desire that was not hidden.

I looked at my wife. And she looked at me. No words were spoken. But everything had been said.

The train jerked as it slowly pulled into the next station. A change of light swept through the compartment. Voices outside, footsteps in the aisle. The two Italians got dressed without saying a word--brief glances, a silent nod in my direction. No grand gestures. No farewell.

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 go.

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, which was bubbling intensely inside her and slowly beginning to seep out--of insemination and satisfaction.

She didn't look weak or tired at all. Quite the opposite -- she was radiant, this new form of freedom pulsing through her in waves as she smiled a little shyly. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she sat up, while the first fine, fragrant streaks ran down her thighs and semen dripped out of her. 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, and wet. Wetting me especially where I could now more easily explain my immediate embarrassment or use it as an excuse--thus mixing my own ejaculation with the other two on her. I put my arms around her, held her tight, without thinking. Just feeling how she was throbbing, how she was trembling, how she was wetting me, on my face but even more between her legs, on my still twitching arousal. Tears rolled silently from her cheeks onto mine, mixing with my wetness, which I also let flow from my eyes.

Her head on my shoulder. Her naked chest against my chest. Her hand on my stomach, unsure whether it should wander further down, where my arousal had long since mixed with a wet spot, proof of her highest pleasure.

"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 and, above all, how she had acted.

She nodded. Suddenly becoming very small and quiet. "Yes... somehow. I thought I would be confused afterwards. But I am... calm."

A few seconds passed.

Then she said quietly, "I know that was probably... really intense. But I've never felt so... detached. Like... when 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 from my Julia:

"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. A kind of Eyes Wide Shut -- what a brilliantly contradictory title for the film adaptation of one of my favorite books... Again, fragments and scraps of ideas raged in my head, not really connecting, but nevertheless forming a picture that I soon knew how to interpret.

And that we then had so much to tell each other in Rome, perhaps even to confess, which we had kept silent about for decades out of cowardice or false shame towards each other, had become unspoken but clear to both of us...

But whether I should look forward to it or be afraid was by no means clear to me: And it was precisely this conflict that created this feeling of emptiness and hopelessness full of hope within me: YES, exactly that: a contradiction in terms that flirted with the impossibility of the impossible, philosophy and logic back and forth. I was on cloud nine and deeply saddened -- here, too, the contradictions within me were so intense that it could hardly have been more extreme.