Erica returned to her canvas and continued painting. It might have been a few minutes before I unbuttoned my shorts. It might have been a few more minutes before I removed my boxer shorts, before I lay on the chair naked. I looked up at Erica. She said nothing, but the subtle smile said much more than words ever could.
At first I was self-conscious when her eyes scanned my body, for they gave away nothing. Was I horrific? Vulgar? This quickly passed. She wanted to paint the true me, and here I was. The scar on my chest didn’t matter. It was me. The blood flowing to my cock didn’t matter, either. That was how I felt.
I kept glancing up at Erica. She continued peeking at me and then looking back at her canvas. Continued painting. I wondered what the painting looked like, whether I looked good; but then I decided that didn’t really matter, either. It was me.
Eventually, Erica stopped painting. She washed her brushes in water. Did so methodically. She walked over to the edge of the deckchair, her hips shimmering, as they always did. Her eyes never left mine.
“So, are you going to ask me to put your cock in my mouth, or should I just go right ahead and put it in there anyway?"
I just groaned from my throat and the next thing I knew her long beautiful hair was splayed over my thighs and my belly.
That was the beginning of our intimate relationship. It started passionately, and the pace had never subsided.
I push my buttocks further down the chair now to stop my erection digging into the table. I look up and wonder whether it is just coincidence the woman opposite glances at me and flashes a smile.
I know the journey like the back of my hand, even though I rarely take it. The train takes twenty-five minutes from Paddington to reach Reading before continuing onwards to Swindon and then Bristol Parkway. The next stop, and the first in Wales, is Newport. Then, just over two hours since departing Paddington Station, the train arrives into Cardiff Central.
This is where nearly all of the other passengers on our journey disembark. Cardiff is where Spartacus started his journey, on the first day of June. The train station hasn't changed much since then. The city has. It has become bigger and stronger, whilst the towns that surround it have shrunk, weakened and faded, older, more depleted. Cardiff was a different city when Spartacus began his journey of terror thirty years ago. Empty spaces have been replaced by tall, modern office buildings, each competing to be taller, and more modern, than the last. Cardiff has become the preferred option for hen weekends, for sporting events. It has become trendy and cosmopolitan. I wonder whether Spartacus - if he really is still out there - approves of the progress.
I become aware of the rest of the table now. The fog has cleared, maybe only temporarily. Their bodies have awoken from their slumber. They each in turn stand up and collect their luggage. I notice that the girl opposite me is young and beautiful, and her blonde hair flows like a waterfall over the curve of her back. She notices my eyes scanning her body, and she smiles. The other eyes quickly glance at me, perhaps wondering why I remain sitting, perhaps noticing the erection that I can't quite hide. Weren't we all travelling to Cardiff? What is there beyond Cardiff?
The train disembarks. Nobody embarks. We were huddled together like cattle on the way to market. Now it feels like I have the whole carriage to myself. My hand dips into my pocket again, tracing the train ticket. It moves to the other item in my pocket that has become a part of me over the last few days. The new phone. The red one. His phone. He hasn't contacted me since that first night on the boat, when he gave the phone to me. I consider taking the phone out of my pocket and leaving it on the seat, leaving it on the train. How would he contact me then? What is the worst that can happen? How can it be worse than this? This is a very real thought, a very real option. I think better of it. I know that somehow he will know, that he is challenging me to do this, that he is inviting me to do so. It is the easy choice and, therefore, it is the wrong one. I decide to keep the phone in my pocket.
It is twenty-two minutes till my stop. I raise my head above the tops of the seats. There really aren't many going with me. My nerves, which had subsided and become almost complacent, rise again. I imagine a sudden, sharp rise on a Richter scale. What if he was on this train with me? What would I do then? I consider going to the toilet, heading to the bar, just doing something to help the minutes pass that little bit quicker. I stay sat. The minutes pass slowly.
The train reaches the next stop. I observe, with interest, that Bridgend train station has changed not one bit.
******
Maybe he isn't in?
I'm hit by a sudden surge of panic. I haven't even considered that he might possibly not be in. I just assumed he would be, you know, because he is old and all that, and therefore his life is much simpler and less fulfilling; but of course, he has a life, too, just like me, just like you. What am I going to do now? Here? I realise that there are still things I want to do, places I want to go to, that it wouldn't be a wasted trip, that I could still make the most of it, but it would feel like I
