Night Train: What are you doing?

All characters are more than 18 years old.

"Anya."

"What now?"

We had this exchange for the fifth or maybe tenth time that night. She was pretending to try to sleep (or, maybe, really falling asleep), then I remembered I wanted to ask one more thing, and then:

"Anya" ("Hey, are you still awake")

"What now?" ("Yes, but it is far past my bedtime!")

"Remember that time we wanted to make a small fire in the park, and had no spare paper, and used the page from a university notebook?"

"Of course I remember! With exactly that lecture that I was questioned about on the exam later!" -- and we started remembering, and laughing, and listing our (mock) offenses with each other, and the more we talked, the more we remembered.

And that's after we spent the first several hours of the journey already chatting. But maybe you can relate: we were the best friends who hadn't had much time together for almost a year.

So, the deal is that Anya and I have been best friends since kindergarten. The "I'll help you hide a body" kind, not fake-girly "BFFs for a week." And we remained best friends, but the last year was hard, as we were in the last year of two different universities, in different parts of the city, and starting our first jobs in parallel. (Software development for me, art academy for her, but that doesn't matter for the story.)

The year was exhausting for both of us, and while we still chatted regularly and even managed to meet a few times in the last months, it was either brief chats of two exhausted people, or meeting in large, noisy groups of friends -- dear friends we missed too, but not the kind of meeting that allowed us to really talk.

So, understandably, when the hard university year was over, and we had a break from our jobs, we eagerly looked forward to spending some time together. And almost on a whim, decided that we wanted to go to the sea for a couple of weeks. Just the two of us, no rush, no large, noisy groups of friends, and plenty of time to talk and relax.

Unfortunately, with all of our frantic schedules we had to make the decision on very short notice. By the time we settled on the dates, there were no reasonably priced train tickets to the sea. So we took the unreasonably priced ones: the "deluxe" (actually, "only" twice the price of the regulars, but still a dent in a recent graduate's budget). The difference in the compartment quality wasn't that much for a night train: same space, same furniture, just two bunks opposite to each other instead of the usual four (top/bottom ones pairs).

We swallowed the price though, and focused on the positive: we are going on a real vacation, to the sea, together! And actually our first "grown-up" vacation: the previous times (and there were plenty) we usually spent them with parents or some organized tourist groups, so it didn't actually count as "our" vacation.

Once we were on the train, another positive thing became obvious: in our two-people-only compartment we could be comfortable, chat about whatever topic, sit however we pleased (and not the usual "semi-public place good girl behavior"). We even had a bottle of wine with us, but we barely touched it, rather to celebrate than to get really drunk.

We talked and talked, as if there was no tomorrow, as if we weren't about to spend two whole precious weeks together -- but it was as if we were afraid we'd forget to tell something crucial, to miss something about each other that we needed to share.

Eventually we noticed (or, rather, Anya made a point of noticing) that it was already late at night, and we need to get at least some sleep before the always busy arrival day. But even with each of us on her own bunk, comfortably tucked under the sheets, lights off, and after each new "good night", I remembered something, and...

"Anya?"

"What now?"

She pretended to be stern, but quickly dropped the pretense at each new precious memory of mine or personal question, and we chatted for another fifteen minutes, before saying "goodnight again" -- usually, by Anya's reminder that "we need to get some sleep!"

You see, we had this act, the game actually: as if she was more "serious and grown-up", with me always being mischievous and disorganized. Our outlooks matched those roles: I am small and energetic, always full of ideas. Constantly going through various "phases" with my behavior and style (at the moment of the story, had my hair cut short and dyed blue, with one temple shaved; heavy boots, ripped jeans, you get the picture); with slim, almost boyish body.

Anya is much taller, a natural redhead with a well-kept mane going to the middle of her back, with thin glasses giving her a bit of "good schoolgirl" vibe. She has quite a noticeable chest and thighs (and at some points in our teens we changed our minds almost weekly about who of us is more lucky: me, still lightweight and easily moving from "boyish" to "girlish" outlooks, or her, turning heads with the feminine figure).

In our last school years, I remembered Anya constantly battled what she considered extra weight, or at least a possibility of it. Sometimes these battles -- diets and training routines -- went to unhealthy degrees. But since she took up swimming a couple of years earlier, she seemed to be at peace with her body. I had a chance to appreciate her figure when we changed from our street clothes into more comfortable for a long ride in a private compartment t-shirts and leggings. She had her curves, feminine as ever, combined with a toned stomach, sculpted shoulders and well-defined legs. And also, I couldn't help but notice, the same kind of girlish white panties with cartoon characters as she loved before.

"Nice underwear, girlie!" -- I said, and she smiled heartily. We were comfortable around each other to discuss that -- even to discuss my new nipple piercing, a small silver ring in my left breast.

She liked it, but was a bit concerned about the seawater, so I had to reassure her it is safe and healed. Anya liked to pretend to be "the older sister," responsible for both of us. But deep down we knew we were equal -- in level-headed behavior and taking responsibility when necessary, but also playfulness and mischief when possible.

That's what I cherished most.

But that night, eventually I had to stop tempting her good graces and let my best friend sleep.

I wasn't sleepy yet, and started to read a book on my phone screen set to the lowest brightness possible. The book was good. Or, rather, it was good enough. Some romantasy novel, not my thing, actually. Decided to try the one everybody was talking about, out of curiosity, and found it entertaining enough for a summer read.

So I was quite immersed in the characters' chemistry, that's probably why I didn't notice the movements at first. But eventually, I did.

"Anya."

"What now?"

"What are you doing?"

Silence.

"Are you masturbating?"

I don't know where the direct question came from.

Though it is not that she tried that hard to hide (don't know where her behavior came from either; later, we laughed, arguing who was to be "inappropriate" first). Let's put it this way: she knew I was still awake, and if it was her way of pretending to sleep peacefully -- with knees bent and wide apart under the sheets and rhythmic moving of the cover somewhere around her stomach and thighs... It wasn't a very good pretense.

(Actually, truth be told, I had one hand down my panties myself. I already said I was reading romantasy, right? And quite a steamy one at that. So, well... My hand wasn't doing anything in particular, and I wasn't planning anything. Just keeping the heat in check. It was pleasant enough as it was. But then everything got derailed.)

"So what if I am?" she finally answered, in a defiant but still somewhat embarrassed voice.

So what, indeed? Am I offended or disgusted? Of course not. Am I surprised? A bit. But also something else. What else?

"I want to, too."

A brief silence, then:

"Well, suit yourself," she answered in a level, indifferent voice, and even in the darkness, I saw her shrug. I didn't like that. Something still missing.

On a whim, I stood up.

"Scoot"

"What?.."

I turned on the overhead compartment light at its dimmest setting, and was met with Anya's questioning look and slightly awkward pose: sheets tugged up to her chin and wrapped all around, knees now together, but one hand under the sheets seemed to be still somewhere down.

With a few quick gestures and just as few words I explained my idea: here is your corner of the bunk, the opposite is mine, doing it together. Okay? As if we were just starting another one of our usual games. (No, we never did that before; nothing even closely intimate. But we had done a lot together to be able to explain the plan quickly and be fully understood by each other.)

At least she didn't freak out immediately. Which I was afraid she would (God, I was on the brink of a proper freak-out myself! I had almost no idea what I was doing and why, and whether I'll have enough guts to go through with it. And whether it will be a good thing if I did.) Anya followed the proposed arrangement, but somewhat noncommittally. She sat up and moved back to the corner of the bunk near the window, still wrapped in her sheets, and fumbled with them and under them, as if to rearrange the material to cover her safely.

She didn't seem sure of how far I was willing to go. How far I was proposing she go. So I went all in: in one motion, removed my leggings and panties, leaving only a thin crop top that didn't go below my waist. I prepared to sit on the opposing end of the bunk when she called: "Stop".

Well, here we are. That's it for a crazy evening?

"You'd better sit on a towel."

Oh, good call (though in retrospect, I wondered how she knew it would be!). Anyway, more hygienic. I tried to move unhurriedly, as if it was a natural preparation for a habitual common activity: took a small thick railway hand towel, folded it in half, placed it on a bunk, and sat upon it, my back to the wall at the short end of the bunk bed, legs still hanging to the side.

She looked at me with a weird expression and did nothing. I was suddenly self-conscious and even less sure if I am ready to go through with it. Desperately, as if dipping into the cold lake, I put one leg on a bunk with knee bent, spread my thighs wide, and put a finger to my clit, suddenly doubting if I am even turned on... and if I can be.

The situation felt now more weird, almost freakishly so, than intimate.

And then my sweet Anya turned it around with one small gesture. It was simple and direct: she took her glasses from the table and put them on. Her vision was actually not that bad -- enough for being comfortable in lazy conversation. So if she put them on in this situation meant she really want to see everything as clear as possible.

And as if confirming just that, she looked straight between my legs with a soft, tender smile. I could swear my clit enlarged and throbbed just because of her gaze. I started to slowly stroke myself, looking at her looking at me. I wasn't feeling weird now, I felt wet and open. I allowed her to look, without giving it much thought of the next moment. I started to move my finger a bit more insistently. Not too much though, I wanted to prolong "it is all just starting" feeling. I wanted to believe it all just starting. And it was.

At first, Anya just observed me. Her gaze alternated from between my finger on my clit, to my face, to my other hand absentmindedly fondling my breast through tank top. Inevitably, as if enchanted, her eyes returned to my sex.

I noticed she wasn't completely still anymore, moving under the sheets that still wrapped her neck to toes. It was hard yet to guess her movements, and I tried to calm my frustration, to let her decide how to proceed. All in all, it took only a couple of minutes (but they felt much longer) to drop her sheets decisively, bunch them to the side of the bunk, under the wall.

She was completely naked. Oh.

I remembered vividly how she was dressed before she went to sleep: long oversized t-shirt. leggings. Underwear of course (she didn't even took off her bra, despite the privacy of the compartment). Socks, if I remember properly.

Now she had not a shed of clothes. And I knew her recent movements under the sheets weren't enough to do that. Which means?..

"Oh, you are already undressed," I said meekly. Noticing she still shows some self-consciousness: both knees bent together, hiding from my sight most of her body. In the shade under her knees I could tell her palm covers her between the legs -- just covering, not doing anything.

"Yeah," she said in a weird tone. Equal parts embarrassed and dreamy. "While we talked before going to sleep... Don't consider me weird please! It was just such a cozy, safe feeling, I don't know what got into me, but I felt it was somehow suitable."

In other circumstances, it would be a time for a joke between us, some playful name-calling. But I knew better than throw some "pervert" notice, however affectionate I'd manage to make it. It was such a vulnerable moment for her, I recognized. So the only thing I said:

"Oh. A pity I didn't think about that myself," -- and in one movement removed my crop top, becoming as naked as Anya.

Which seemed to be just right thing to say. She visibly relaxed, and her pose started to change, slowly, as if unconsciously: knees just moving apart, a small gap at first, a hesitation, but they never stopped before she mimicked my pose: one knee pressed to the wall, other lying flat. Then the covering palm went higher, fondling her tummy and opening her intimate parts to my eyes.

As if to underline that her body just moves on its own, Anya continued to talk:

"You know, it was so nice to just lie there, I almost confessed. But I weren't sure you get it right."

"Next time, don't you doubt me!"

"I wouldn't!" (No objection to "next time", I managed to notice.)

"And also, to be honest, I didn't plan on 'doing' something to myself. Just to lie like that for some time. But once I tried to sleep, I felt that I am turned on. And when I already am..."

"... You have to finish!" -- I concluded. We were close enough to sometimes discuss our intimate lives too (though not that frequently, mostly for the lack of the matters to discuss). And I knew about this "problem" of hers: if she is already aroused, she definitely needs to finish, otherwise she will be in an incredibly bad mood later. Which was definitely a frequent problem in dating boys your age in your late teens and early twenties. I never caught too many naughty details of bad dates, but some frustrated grumbles were shared from time to time.

"Yep!" she said with a broad smile and started to masturbate. Just like that. No more embarrassment.

Oh, but "she spread her legs and started to masturbate" is underselling of how I perceived it. At that point I was very aroused already, but the arousal didn't make me mindless and self-absorbed, rather hyper-attentive. So I noticed everything. I wanted to remember everything. Her eyes behind her glasses, glued to what I was doing to myself. Her slightly parted lips and long breaths. Tenseness of her shoulders. Toned stomach. Legs.

And all the intimate parts, of course.

I didn't actually remember seeing her fully naked -- other than maybe quick dressing together on some beach or public pool dressing room? But then I hadn't had a chance to properly examine her body, nor had any conscious wish to do so.

But now I could look. I almost had to look, if just as encouragement. But I wanted, too.

Her full breasts had surprisingly small, pale areolas -- all wrinkled now around her large nipples, two hard cherry pits that seemed to pulse by themselves, not touched just yet.

Anya had a full bush, only slightly shaven on the sides to not stick from under the swimsuit. The bush of the same light red color as the rest of her hair, a beautiful explosion of hair against her pale skin.

To fill on the pause (so neither of us could chicken off while the arousal grew) I said, sincerely:

"I like your hair."

Anya responded with an absentminded "Thanks". But then raised her eyes at my face and noticed where I am looking, and understood which hair I am talking about. Now (and not when I caught her masturbating, or when she bared herself for me) she suddenly seemed self-conscious. Yet still tried to answer nonchalantly:

"Yeah, it has its aesthetics... But please don't think I am always that ungroomed. I need at least a good trim, just wasn't prepared." She explained, in details, as if taking pleasure in being able to talk (even stopped to doing what she did to tug and brush the hair, almost showing off). Previously, she usually preferred trimming. But then, for a year and a half, she had a boyfriend who asked if he can shave her -- and did it, too. She liked the result, and they settled into this arrangement when she did it for her. Now he was out of the picture (maybe temporarily... but that's for another day), and she still didn't make her mind whether she should try to shave herself, which she never did.

"I might shave you," I blurted, without indication if it was a joke (as I didn't knew either).

"I might allow you," she answered in the same tone.

We fell silent again and I continued my observations.

The beautiful bush was parted to the sides by her fingers, and I could clearly saw the pale roseness of her inner lips, the color that became brighter by the second. She had such a tender small petals of inner lips, only slightly parting down below, only slightly thicker hood above her clit. I dropped my eyes to myself and compared: my inner lips weren't that large either, but wider, the shape more intricate; they were always peeking between the outer ones. And when I was turned on -- like now -- they opened wide, and my clit enlarged to the size of the tip of my small finger and picked out proudly. I massaged it over the hood back and forth, and already felt it is not enough -- I need my fingers inside myself. That's what I usually did it, when really getting to it: one on clit, two inside, not very fast but forceful. Another hand alternating between my nipples.

I wonder what Anya's style is and looked back at her.

She was doing it simply: small rhythmical circles above her clit, with one finger, slow and almost cautious, as if she was too tender. With two fingers of another hand she squeezed that cherry pit of her nipple. For several minutes, just this, just quickening a bit. Her breath became harder. I was almost sure that would be all for her, small movements, and probably soon -- a small orgasm.

And truth be told, I was disappointed a little. Her small rose petals were so pretty, so wet. So eager for touch. But Anya seemed too tame to touch them. "Pity," I thought, but then tried to talk myself out of it. Of course, being somewhat reserved and not too engrossed into her sensuality (for all I knew), that matched her style. I should be grateful for what I already saw.

But as turned out in a few minutes, it was only the start of it. Warming up, probably. She paused her circle motions, then made a quick larger circle with a finger by her inner lips, her entrance, back to the clit. Another one. On a third circle, her finger dived inside her opening in a lightning-fast motion. Not deep, just to the first knuckle. A bit of clit fondling again. A big circle by the lips -- and then the finger goes all the way inside, her wrist bending and rotating, as if the finger tried to touch everything inside, to gather as much wetness as possible.

Anya continued this way: unpredictable, changing pace, playing with different parts of her sex, mesmerizing. Here she takes her small clit with two fingers and squeezes it, seemingly hard, here she drops the same two fingers below, but not inside, opens herself, fingers tugging small lips to the sides, here they both try to dive inside -- with a visible pressure, Anya seemed to be somewhat tighter with myself. Oh, and about myself -- only then I noticed that my own much more mundane routine was fully replaced with mimicking her movements, trying to follow, trying to guess what she'll do next, or go slightly ahead -- like now, with my two fingers already fully inside. And I realized one more thing: she still looked at me attentively, eagerly, tenderly, she knew I repeat everything after her.

Her wet fingers were out again, moving lower, where, in the deep shadows cast by the dim compartment lights, I couldn't quite tell what they were doing.

"Anya"

"What now?"

"Are you... touching your anus?"

"Yep!" She gave me another small, embarrassed smile, then continued sassily, as if giving me instructions: "Only circling outside and pressing a bit. Feels really good. Love it. Not inside!"

"So... You've never tried anything inside there?" It felt weird that we could still talk so normally at this point. Good weird.

"Sometimes, when I am in the right mood. Not today, probably. Lot of... other things to do."

A pause. We barely moved, exploring ourselves with cautious fingers.

"What about you? Have you tried it?" she asked suddenly.

"Ugh. I think that it might be pleasant, probably... But somehow never got to try, even outside. Ashamed or something."

She nodded thoughtfully, as if appreciating my honesty.

"Yeah, you can read and watch any number of 'everything is natural' educational material. But when it is your own body, shame is hard to break sometimes. But once you do it, you'll see that overcoming the shame was a very small step."

And as if to demonstrate... though, why "as if"? She gave her best friend a demonstration. Anyway, she moved her ass forward a bit, spread her legs even further, and now I saw everything: her anus, as rosy as her pussy, glistening with the wetness that had flowed onto it from above, and her fingers playing with it: spreading the buttocks, circling around, pressing at center (though never inside).

"It's an erogenous zone for many women," she managed to explain breathlessly. I recognized the "you'll get it" tone she used when explaining particularly difficult math homework to me.

And I understood that I was expected to try it, right there and then. Well, not "expected" maybe. But that would've been fair. And probably fun.

So I did.

Like Anya, I moved a bit lower. Spread myself. Took a deep breath, as if before a dive. And moved my fingers out of my vagina, by my perineum, and lower. And...

... And suddenly I didn't understand what had held me back before. It wasn't particularly enlightening or immediately orgasmic, but it was definitely pleasant, and arousing, and not shameful at all. I was already very wet there from all the juices flowing... from above. My fingers just moved naturally, mimicking what Anya did: spread it, circle it, slight push in the... center.

The "center" was already yielding, opening under my finger. I felt that it would be easy to move the finger inside, and that I was willing to experiment... Just not today. Too much to process already.

So, I let out a slightly exaggerated appreciative hum to show Anya I liked it, and slowly returned to my preferred arrangement for the "middle of the business," so to speak: two fingers inside, thumb on a clit, pierced nipple in the fingers of my other hand. Anya seemed to realize that "the lesson was over" and tried to switch roles, following my lead: forcefully pushed index and middle fingers inside herself, pressed the clit with a thumb.

We moved almost in unison for a few minutes, then gradually settled into what each of us needed. Steady rhythm, deep penetration for me, ever-changing dance of fingers for Anya: one inside, two inside, press the clit, open herself, close and press with a palm on top of everything, tickle her anus, sit for a couple of seconds doing nothing, just exposing herself, and so on.

I enjoyed the show, kept up my usual rhythm, and in the background, tried to understand what I was feeling. No weirdness, no shame, no fear "what we'll think in the morning" (and no hot anticipation of the future games, for that matter). I felt just good. Very good: joyful, seen, trusting and trusted, cozy.

Maybe, a bit too cozy. That might've become a problem. My arousal was obviously high at that point, but it wasn't building any further. I was stalling; something was missing, some edge.

I made up my mind.

"Technical pause," I proclaimed, removing my hands from my body. Anya froze immediately, almost comically, with a puzzled face. (I was even a bit afraid I caught her in the middle of a mild orgasm already, but it turned out not to be the case).

Now it was my turn to be embarrassed. Considering the hotness I felt on my face, my cheeks were probably bright red all the time it took for me to reach into my bag, find my trusty hairbrush and prepare it to use. Later I was surprised at myself -- still enough clearheadedness to sanitize the slick handle of the brush with wet wipes. But once that was done, the handle went inside, up to the bristles, and I was sitting as before.

Only then did I summon enough courage to look up and see Anya's reaction to my "perversion."

It wasn't what I expected. She was laughing silently (I couldn't help dropping my eyes momentarily and appreciate how her opening was pulsing with each laugh).

"What?.." Then it hit me. She was laughing at me. She thought what I was doing was dumb. Suddenly self-conscious, I quickly moved my knees together (with hairbrush handle still deep inside me, this "modesty measure" probably looked ridiculous, all the more to laugh at!)

"No, wait!" Anya waved a hand, trying to stop laughing. "You didn't get it!"

"Didn't get what?.."

With mock solemnity, she lifted her sheets, bunched by the wall. Under them, there was some item. A hairbrush. And I seriously doubted she'd hidden it there because she'd, say, brushed her hair before bed.

So... She wasn't a stranger to this kind of makeshift sex toy. Even the color was exactly the same as mine: deep blue. Talk about soul sisters.

Anya wasn't laughing anymore. She just got down to business. Not in one motion, like myself: she spread her labia with one hand slowly, as if putting on a show for me, and with another, put the end of the hairbrush handle to her opening and started to work it inside in small back and forth motions. It took some work, but judging by her breathing and the expressions on her face, the work wasn't unpleasant.

The thing is, her hairbrush handle was pretty thick. Probably thicker than her two fingers, which I never saw her putting fully inside. Thick, round, ribbed thing. "Nice choice," I noted idly. Mine, while the same color, was different: smooth and flat. Has its own virtues, too.

Anya worked half of the handle inside, and stopped, breathing deeply. Looked at me with misty eyes.

"So," my dumb head decided this is a good time for some small talk, "Were you using it when I caught you?"

Anya came back down to earth with a slight smile: "Not yet. Just prepared... In case I'd need it. I'm not always in the right mood. It is a lot... to handle." We laughed briefly at her pun.

"Nice ribs, though. I had one like this, before, but then lost it."

"Wanna try?" she asked suddenly.

My enthusiastic "yes" happened before I had time to process any implications.

That's a good thing.

Because I'd never experienced such trust and intimacy in my life before, as in this scene, partly mundane, partly obscene: two best friends who take their secret masturbation hairbrushes out of their vaginas and pass them to each other to try.

Also, if you allow me to be even more poetic here, this exchange was a rather obvious metaphor, but a good one.

At that moment, we gave each other exactly what we needed.

The thick, round, ribbed handle of Anya's hairbrush was an instant match for me. It filled me up nicely, it reached exactly the depth I liked, and the ribs of the handle teased and tickled my entrance when I started to work it in and out of myself.

And my friend seemed just as pleased with what she'd received. Slightly narrower handle that was easier for her to insert. And its shape let her experiment, which she apparently enjoyed: here, held horizontally, the handle's flat, rectangular shape spreads her to the sides. Here, half a turn (complete with a sultry "mmmhm") places it vertically; then, she presses it to the side, and inserts a tip of her finger beside it; turns the handle again; quickly moves it in and out; takes it outside and presses it flatly against her whole sex; even slaps her clit in a small motion, looking endlessly curious.

She definitely put the thing to more creative uses than I did (who bought it, but in hindsight was a bit disappointed with its lack of girth and texture). I was immersed in her actions and almost self-conscious about not being able to put on a show myself.

My way of touching myself was loving and energetic, but once I got going, it became much more monotonous. One hand steadily moving the hairbrush in and out, for almost its full length (oh the ribs), pausing only occasionally to give my clit a little encouragement. But at this stage, it was almost unnecessary: my clit seemed to feel everything happening inside me, along with the little bolts of fire from my nipples. My other hand alternated between them, definitely preferring the pierced one. Shaking the piercing ring with my fingers gave me the most delightful pleasure, tinged with a little pain.

Judging by the way Anya's eyes stayed fixed on me, she didn't mind my lack of inventiveness and found the sight stimulating enough.

She was definitely getting closer now. Her eyes became misty again (but they never closed or wandered far from my body), she slowly moved into a more reclining position, her ass inching forward. Her movements became smaller and more intricate. She caught both nipples in one hand and squeezed them. She allowed the hairbrush to sit idly deep inside herself, and with her other hand made a series of small, varied movements, as if playing the piano (we went to music school together a long time ago; hated it; but our fingers remembered): a hard press to her clit, a fluttering movement along her inner lips, one fingertip dips beside the hairbrush, tugs the entrance to open more, a couple of fingers dive lower, to her other erogenous zone.

She looked even wetter, more open and more honest than at any time before. I was fully absorbed in watching her fingers move. They became smaller and smaller, but more and more precise and deliberate.

I moved forward, to see better. To not miss a single detail, a single twitch of rose petals, a single drop of liquid. I was trying to memorize everything that Anya did. Her palm was now firmly on her inner thigh, as though she were trying to spread her legs even wider. Thumb on her clit. Fingers around her entrance, going inside, just tips, one, two, sometimes three. Her little finger extended below, half of that finger dipped inside, I noticed with a strange mixture of tenderness and arousal.

Then I moved even closer. So close, in fact, that the hairbrush inside me bumped into a hairbrush inside Anya.

It was just an accident. Probably.

Anyway, that's what tipped her over the edge. Big time.

She came with a series of forceful little puffs, her cheeks puffing out as if she were trying to cool a burnt finger. Her orgasm face was funny, and she knew that, and she didn't need to hide it from me, and she laughed through her orgasm and we laughed together.

With her laugh, the hairbrush fell out of her, and I was mesmerized with the sight of her entrance, still contracting in orgasmic spasms, overflowing with wetness, bright rose. I was so mesmerized, in fact, that it took me some time to realize she was looking at me. Soberly, curiously, and expectantly.

I had to catch up now. And, in fact, I still had a way to go. The sight of her orgasm moved me somewhat closer, but the fact that for the last several minutes I had completely forgotten to stimulate myself counterbalanced that. I craved my orgasm now, and I knew it would be big. But it needed some... work.

So I tried to get comfortable and go for it. And I couldn't. Get comfortable, I mean.

The problem was, moving closer to look at Anya, I lost the wall behind me to lean against. I wanted to remain seated close to her, with my legs spread wide, and so one of my hands was now behind me, supporting myself. My other hand kept moving between my pierced nipple, throbbing and demanding attention, and my pussy, which required steady, rhythmic movements of my makeshift dildo. Both wanted attention at once, and trying awkwardly to switch between them only took me further out of the mood.

Of course, Anya, who always understood me, who noticed the slightest shifts in my mood, who could sense even my most carefully hidden feelings, knew what to say. Sweet, simple, and funny:

"Need a hand?"

I don't remember how I answered, whether with words or facial expressions. Maybe I am too ashamed to remember, ashamed of the eagerness with which I agreed. The next thing I remember clearly: it was all suddenly working.

I sat there, shameless, spread wide, chest pushed forward. Comfortably supported by one of my hands, I tugged at my nipple piercing, jiggled it, twisted it, with each sensation jolting from my nipple to my clit. And Anya was holding the hairbrush, working it in and out of me. Much more slowly than I would have done it myself, and with a more complex rhythm, closer to her own masturbation style: a few small movements with the thing almost outside, then a long, deep stroke, then making it tremble deep inside, and then it goes almost outside again. It was frustrating... and extremely arousing.

"You have already seen how I prefer it," I wanted to protest, but for some reason stayed silent, save for heavy breathing and an occasional whimper, "Why are you teasing me?"

Because that was exactly what she was doing, I suddenly realized. And it was totally deliberate.

"My sweet and reserved Anya," I managed to think (or so I remembered the moment afterwards), "fucks me with her hairbrush. And not only that. She teases me. She edges me. She--" and I lost my train of thought (even if it is not that complicated) once the hairbrush went so deep that the bristles were now tickling my clit. Deliberately, too, I am sure.

"My sweet Anya," my head started again, "My sweet Anya fucks me with her hairbrush." The thought sounded absurd and improbable. Deliciously so. So I just started to say it out loud, just to make sure such a phrase can actually exist.

"My sweet Anya" was all I managed to say before the orgasm hit me.

I don't know what tipped me over the edge: something she did, or the realization that she is doing it.

I know that I managed to cut my cry short, but didn't manage to stifle it completely. What came out was a short, moderately loud shriek. I hope other people on the train decided someone had hit their finger against a piece of furniture.

I know I squirted. It happens to me from time to time, not frequently and somewhat unpredictably. That time it was a few strong gushes (and something inside me squeezed delightfully on every one). It went on the towel we'd sensibly placed beneath me... But also on the sheets outside the towel, and on Anya's hand.

As I came down from the orgasm, I immediately started to worry that this last accident would freak her out.

Looked at her face and was met with an expression of joy and awe.

"Oh, girl" was all she managed to say. But she said it in a way that immediately dispelled the last of my worries.

... So I wasn't worried, embarrassed or self-conscious when, some minutes later, she grumbled, remaking her bed so as not to sleep "in the puddle you made" (that was definitely an exaggeration! just a few wet spots). Because with all her grumbling and her "I am grown-up and serious" act, she stayed completely naked. I took it as an indication she had no regrets about what had just happened, and no intention to pretend it hadn't.

Well, maybe I didn't put it in as many words in my head. I just sat there on the opposite bunk, as naked as she was, in post-orgasmic relaxation, and appreciated Anya's ass while she turned her mattress around and moved the sheets. I should've probably helped, but I was just too mellow. And, honestly, liked what I saw. Even if it belonged to a person who was currently lecturing me:

"Next time, please bring a big enough towel to cover your blast radius!"

I laughed inwardly at "blast radius." And simultaneously melted at "next time." But externally, my response was to slap that shapely ass, with a sound so resonant we both laughed. She playfully pushed the offended body part closer to me, almost in my face. So, without giving it much thought, I did the thing most natural in the circumstances: I bit it. Tenderly.

Anya gasped at the bite but made no attempt to move away. Neither did I, though my teeth were unclenched now, my mouth lying idly on her buttock. Not exactly kissing (yet?) but touching and with no desire to break contact.

But when I tried to apply a bit of suction, she slowly and gently moved away, stood upright and turned to me. Her unruly bush was now just inches from my face.

"I think that's enough for tonight," she said almost apologetically and ruffled my hair.

Right. Enough for tonight. We have two full weeks at sea ahead of us. And no need to rush.