Professor Maurice Kershaw waited patiently on the cold railway platform of Gare d'Austerlitz in Paris. It was shortly before 8.00 p.m. and he was anxious to gain the warmth of his reserved sleeper compartment on the overnight train to Madrid. He spotted the gaggle of four uniformed sleeper car stewards pass through the ticket barrier. They peeled off to open up their respective carriages and within five minutes Maurice had been escorted to Suite 3. After surrendering his passport, he asked the steward to give him a call at 6.45a.m. with a pot of Earl Grey tea.

Having unpacked his overnight things, Maurice strolled down to the dining car and managed to secure a small two-seater table in a quiet corner, well away from an excitable party of French tourists. After a light supper, washed down with a half-bottle of Rioja, the Englishman paid his bill and returned to his compartment. He changed into his summer-weight pyjama shorts and jacket and settled down on the edge of the bed to read his new thriller.

It was around 10.00p.m. when there was a discreet tap on his door. Without getting up, he unlatched the door and opened it a few inches. Standing in the corridor was a smartly-dressed female ticket inspector. She gave him a courteous smile. "May I see your ticket, please?" There was a hint of a foreign accent.

"Certainly." He reached up above his head to a small shelf to retrieve the computer-printed travel document. He eased the door open a little wider. While the inspector scutinised the ticket, Maurice Kershaw took the opportunity to sneak a good look at her. She was tall, slim and had a beautiful dark skin tone - almost certainly Italian he guessed. Her long slender legs were clad by neatly-pressed black slacks, she wore a thin, tight-fitting white silk blouse, beneath which a black bra was clearly visible and a jauntily-angled dark blue peaked cap bearing the French railway's insignia. Her scarlet lipstick exactly matched her nail varnish. The railway company's identification badge above her left breast stated: 'Bella.'

Just then, a huge African lady came bowling along the corridor on her way from the dining car. Almost involuntarily, the ticket inspector moved forward to allow the passenger to pass and, in doing so, stepped into Maurice Kershaw's room. At the same moment, the train entered a long curved section of track, causing the compartment's door to swing shut behind her with a resounding clunk.

"Oooops!" Bella looked slightly embarrassed. "Would you mind if I just waited until that large lady has found her way back to her compartment? I really don't think I could squeeze past her in the corridor!" She handed his ticket back to the Englishman.

"Of course not. Have a seat."

"Thank you, sir." She sat down demurely on the passenger's bunk bed, shuffling her documents nervously. "Did you enjoy your supper?"

"Yes, it was very nice, thank you." He noticed her heady perfume for the first time. Something French and probably very expensive, he thought.

"I saw you in the dining car when I passed through. You had mushroom risotto, I believe?" She turned her head, giving him a knowing smile. He marvelled at her lustrous lips.

"Yes, it was excellent."

Neither of them could find any more small talk to fill the space, yet Maurice sensed that she was as reluctant to leave as he was to see her depart. "What time do you finish?"

"Around 11.00 p.m. I've only got one more carriage to do." She leaned back on the bed and stretched out her long legs, deftly slipping off her black suede pumps. "I'm exhausted. I've been on since eight this morning. We came up from Madrid and had to do a quick turn-around."

"Is this your regular run: Paris-Madrid; Madrid-Paris?"

"Oh no, I go all over. Wherever there's a sleeper service. Vienna, Barcelona, Valencia. Venice is my favourite run."

"Why Venice?"

"It's slightly longer - two nights and one day. So the company says we're entitled to a 24-hour stop-over in Venice. At the right time of year - which certainly isn't July or August - you can have a lot of fun in Venice in 24 hours!"

He looked at her, stretched out languidly, reminiscing about her Venetian nights. He so wanted to get to know her better. "If this compartment had a mini-bar, I'd offer you a reviving drink," he said apologetically. "Tell you what, why don't I get dressed and slip down to the buffet car and get us both a drink?"

At this suggestion, Bella perked up. "Stay where you are. I'll go."

He reached for his wallet and handed her a large-denomination Euro banknote. "My treat."

"OK. What's it to be?"

Totally out of character and throwing all caution to the wind, the mild-mannered professor responded: "Champagne!"

She winked. "I'll be right back!" And in the next second she had disappeared. Kershaw returned to his novel, though his thoughts were on Bella.

In less than five minutes she was back, standing before him whispering: "Room service!" Perhaps too engrossed in his book, he hadn't even heard the compartment door open or shut. She was deftly balancing a circular zinc tray on the outstretched fingers of one hand, French-waiter-style. On the tray were two half-bottles of champagne, two slender flutes, two long-handled desert spoons, and a glass dish piled high with raspberries. Over her arm she had draped a white damask napkin.

He looked at the bottles and exclaimed: "Two?"

"One seemed so mean - barely a couple of mouthfuls." Offering him some notes and coins she added: "Your change Professor Kershaw."

"How on earth do you know my name?"

"It's on your ticket."

They both sat down on the edge of the bed (slightly closer together than before, he noted) and quickly despatched the first bottle. "And the raspberries - where did they come from?"

"One of the chefs in the galley slipped them to me as I was passing. So, professor, where are you bound for?"

"We have a small apartment in Madrid, behind the Prado."

"We?"

"My wife and I."

She leaned forward and impishly peered beneath the bunk bed. "So what have you done with wifey?"

"She prefers to fly. Doesn't like trains. Says it takes too long."

Bella grimaced disapprovingly. "I hate air travel! Especially long-haul."

"Me too."

"So that's another thing we have in common." The champagne had clearly emboldened this attractive young woman. "Bubbly and night sleepers." She gave him an alluring smirk. "Care to make it three-in-a-row?"

"Such as?"

"How do you feel about raspberries?"

"Finest soft fruit of them all!"

"I'll drink to that!" she exclaimed, deftly uncorking the second bottle and re-filling their glasses. She was now so close that he could have kissed her. Instead, he breathed gently onto her ear lobe, which made her grin wickedly.

"I hope you won't think this is a terrible impertinence, professor, but would you mind awfully if I removed my slacks? They crease so easily and the company is very strict about our appearance."

"Of course not. Help yourself. There's a hanger in the bathroom." He hesitated before adding: "To tell you the truth, I've been dying to see your legs." He was quite taken aback by his own forwardness.

She got up. Barefooted, she moved gracefully towards the door of the tiny en suite bathroom. Closing its door she called out: "I won't be long."

After three or four minutes she cautiously swung it open. She stood in its doorway, her hands resting provocatively on her hips. She had stripped to a midnight blue satin and lace basque, whose scarlet-ribboned suspender clips supported lace-topped black fishnet stockings and the tiniest pair of black lace panties, which barely concealed her crotch. Her unbuttoned white blouse hung open, revealing small pert breasts with hardened nipples. "Ecco!"

She moved forward, so that her crotch was only inches from his face. "Why don't we try those raspberries now?" she whispered.

He reached across to the tray and removed the bowl of fruit, offering her a spoon. She shook her head. "Let's do it a different way, shall we?"

"What way?"

She looked down towards her barely concealed crotch and stroked it sensuously. "How would you like to eat them out of my pussy?"

Professor Kershaw was stunned by the suggestion. Stunned into speechlessness and open-mouthed with disbelief.

She touched his cheek tenderly. "Cat got your tongue?" She kissed him softly on the head and then decorously slipped out of her panties.

She re-took her place beside him and opened her legs wide, stroking the palm of her hand across her moistened slit. "Hey, good job the chef didn't put any cream on them; there's simply oodles down here." She sucked an index finger. "Right, now kneel on the floor and very carefully push small spoonfuls of raspberries gently into my wet cunnie, will you?"

He needed no second invitation. Bella had carefully placed the napkin on the floor and easily managed to ingest three spoonfuls of the dark red fruit. He moved his face closer to her shaven cunt, gently parting its dark brown labia lips before he cautiously pressed his mouth against her opening. Half-sucking and half-munching the cum-soaked raspberries, he swallowed eagerly - greedily - then looked up at her and smiled.

"So what do you think of raspberries, liberally laced with Bella's own cream?"

"Divine!"

"Marks out of ten, professor?"

"Twelve!"

She stroked the back of his head gratefully, before gently pressing it against her reddened slit and wriggling with delight. She trembled as her first orgasm arrived.

"Ever done that before?"

"Of course not! I lead a very straight-laced existence."

"Wifey not into kinky sex?"

"I'm afraid my wife is hardly into sex at all these days."

"That's a real shame. You're in the prime of life and you've got a pretty trim figure there."

"Why thank you signorina."

Reaching into the opening of his pyjama shorts, she clasped his cock and carefully brought it out. "Now I want to taste your cream," she purred.

Stretched nude along his narrow bunk bed, with the beautiful half-naked ticket inspector (still wearing her peaked cap) kneeling on the floor and fellating him, Professor Maurice Kershaw experienced one of the most volcanic ejaculations he could recall. Spurt after spurt of his warm semen slipped into Bella's beautiful mouth, to be eagerly swallowed.

She looked up from sucking his cock and smiled, letting a thin trail of his cum seep from the edge of her red lipstick lips. "Hey what a simply wonderful taste you've got, sweetie. Must have something to do with the champagne. Only trouble is, now I desperately need to tinkle. May I use your bathroom?"

Help yourself." She got up and stepped into the tiny bathroom, though this time she didn't close the door. Squatting on the toilet seat she called out: "Want to come and watch?" Maurice eagerly stepped into the doorway and gazed down as she opened her legs and stroked the inside of her thighs, sending a golden spray into the toilet bowl. He stroked himself to semi-erection. She looked up and smiled mischievously. "Ever done golden rain?"

"No never. But I know what's involved."

"We must try it. When's your return trip?"

A week from now."

"Sleeper back to Paris?"

"Yup."

"No wifey?"

"Nope."

"Then I'll look out for you. I'll drink bottled water all afternoon so that there'll be lots of lovely golden rain for us to share. We'll do it in the shower. Less messy."

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry," said Maurice, grasped, clutching his crotch urgently. "Now I'm afraid I need to pee too."

Bella made no attempt to vacate her seat, instead pointing between her opened legs. "Come on, don't be shy - just wee between my legs. And I won't scold you if some of it goes over my pussy!"

After a moment's hesitation, he grasped his shaft and carefully directed the jet between her thighs. Then, as the arc was subsiding, he allowed a trickle to fall across her slit. She felt the warmth of his pee brushing against her pussy opening. "Mmmmm" was her only reaction. She winked as she pressed a toilet tissue against her mound. "Did you like that?"

"Yes, rather. Bit depraved though, wasn't it?"

"Darling, I adore 'depraved'!"

She stood up, pulling her slacks from the hanger. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to love you and leave you, professor. Finish my rounds." She looked down dismissively at the narrow bed. "In any case, that bunk bed's not big enough for the two of us - if we were going to fuck in comfort."

She came and stood before him and guided his hands to her breast. Even in her stockinged feet, Maurice Kershaw realised that his new lover was very nearly six feet tall. She smelled of that expensive French perfume, now merged with warm pee, raspberries and their combined cum. Her nipple hardened beneath his touch.

"Promise me you're not going to spend the whole week in you Madrid apartment fucking wifey's brains out?"

"Chance would be a fine thing!"

"Good. Well I'll look out for your reservation for seven days from now and see if I can get you an upgrade to First Class. With a decent-sized bed. Then we'll fuck all the way back to Paris, aided by copious quantities of champagne. How does that sound?"

"I'll be counting the days!"

She dressed quickly, checked her appearance in the bathroom mirror and adjusted her cap to its jaunty angle. As she unlatched the compartment door, she turned back. "Oh, and by the way professor - you've got a most beautiful red lipstick ring all around the shaft of your cock. I shouldn't let wifey see it, if I was you. Arrivederci!"

* * * * *

Promptly at 6.45 a.m., the steward arrived with Maurice Kershaw's pot of Early Grey tea. He returned the professor's passport to him. "Is Bella the ticket inspector still on the train?"

"Bella? The ticket inspector's name is Pierra, sir."

"Tall, attractive young woman? Rangy, with black hair?"

"No-one in the team on this train fitting that description, sir."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Certain, sir. It's an all-male crew on this run down to Madrid. Will that be all?"

"Yes. Sorry. My mistake."

* * * * *

Bella's elegant legs were draped over one of the iron trusses high up in the Atocha Station's cavernous glass roof. She gazed down on the column of tiny ant-like figures, filing off the platform from the recently arrived sleeper from Paris. There in the middle of the column was Professor Maurice Kershaw, pulling a luggage trolley. He stopped abruptly and fished his mobile phone from an inside pocket of his jacket.

To ensure her invisibility, Bella slipped on a pair of elbow-length snakeskin gloves, eased herself off the roof truss and gently fluttered to the ground, landing immediately behind Maurice. Resting her chin lightly on his shoulder, she looked over to check the screen on his phone. It said: 'URSULA'. Bella murmured to herself: "Ursula! She would be a bloody Ursula, wouldn't she? Probably Head Prefect at School. And a bully!"

"Maurice? Where are you?" barked the phone. "And who was that woman talking?"

"I'm at Atocha, dear. Just arrived. It's very busy here."

"What kept you? I've been here for hours. I want you to call at a supermarket on your way and pick up some groceries. We've got no milk or bread. And get a bottle of Cava."

"Very good, dear. What are you doing at the moment?"

"Chilling out with a glass of Cava."

" 'Struth, moaned Bella, "And she's an old soak!"

Kershaw paused. He had picked up Bella's distinctive perfume, but when he turned around there was no-one there. He scurried off to do the shopping and catch a taxi to the apartment. Bella watched his forlorn departure.

She resolved to fix the professor's return first class ticket, which would only take her a few moments by interfering with the train company's computer. Then she would fly across to Madrid's beautiful Retiro Park and sunbathe naked and unseen beside the lake. "This evening," she mused mischievously, "after they've had their supper (which I expect she'll make him prepare), I think I'll give Ursula a frightful migraine, sending her off to bed early. Then I'll let myself in from the apartment's balcony and snuggle down on the sofa with my cuddly professor. I'll slowly suck his cock for him again 'til he's good and hard and let him fuck me for the first time."