The train had just left Genoa and was heading towards Marseille, following the deep undulations of the long rocky coast, sliding like an iron snake between sea and mountain, crawling over yellow sand beaches where a light wave drew a silver list, and suddenly entering the black jaws of tunnels, just as a beast enters its den.
A plump woman and a young man were traveling facing each other in the last carriage, occasionally looking at each other but not speaking. The 25-year-old woman was seated next to the window, gazing out at the landscape. She was a robust Piamontese peasant woman with black eyes, prominent breasts, and a puffy face. She had placed several packages under the wooden seat and kept a basket on her knees.
The young man would have twenty years old; he was thin and tanned; he had the black color of people who cultivate the land in full sun. He carried his fortune alongside him, wrapped in a handkerchief: a pair of shoes, a shirt, some pants and a jacket. He had also hidden something under the bench: a shovel and a hoe, tied with a rope. He was going to France in search of work.
The sun, which was rising in the sky, poured down upon the coast a rain of fire; it was in the last days of May; delicious aromas were fluttering through the air, penetrating into the cars through the open windows.
The orange and lemon blossoms in bloom were pouring their sweet perfumes into the tranquil atmosphere, so pleasing, so strong, and so unsettling, mixing them with the scent of roses that sprouted everywhere like wild herbs, along the way, in luxurious gardens, at cottage doors, and in open fields.
The roses are at that coast as in their own home. They perfume the region with their strong and light scent; thanks to them, the air is a delicacy, savory like wine, and like wine, intoxicating.
The train was going very slowly, as if enjoying itself in that garden, in that softness. It would stop every instant, at small stations, in front of a few white houses, and then start moving again with a tranquil pace, after letting out whistles. No one got on it. It seemed as though the entire world was sleeping, without deciding to take a step on that warm spring morning.
The plump woman would close her eyes from time to time, but would suddenly open them again when she felt the basket slipping off her knees. She would quickly return it to its place, look out the window for a few minutes and then doze off again. Sweat droplets covered her forehead, and she breathed with difficulty, as if an oppressive pain were oppressing her.
The young man had let his head fall and was sleeping deeply, like a good peasant.
Suddenly, as she was leaving a small station, the peasant woman seemed to wake up, opened her basket, took out a piece of bread, hard-boiled eggs, a bottle of wine and plums, beautiful red plums, and started eating.
The young man had also woken up suddenly, staring at her, following with his gaze the path of each bite from the knees to the mouth. He remained with his arms crossed, fixed on her, sunk cheeks, closed lips.
She ate with gusto, taking a sip of wine every instant to help pass the eggs, and occasionally suspending her chewing to let out a slight snort.
He eaten everything: the bread, the eggs, the plums, the wine. As soon as she finished eating, the young man closed his eyes. The girl felt a bit tight and loosened her bodice. The young man suddenly looked back at her again.
Without worrying about it, the woman went on undoing her dress; the strong pressure of her breasts was pushing the fabric apart, revealing between them, through the growing opening, a glimpse of white inner clothing and a piece of skin.
When the peasant woman felt more at ease, she said in Italian:
It's impossible to breathe, with so much heat as there is.
The young man replied in the same language and with the same accent:
It's a beautiful time to travel.
She asked him:
-Are you from Piedmont?
I am from Asti.
And I of Casale.
They were from nearby towns, struck up a conversation.
They said the string of vulgarity that people from the town constantly repeat and is enough to satisfy their slow and horizonless intelligences. They talked about their towns. They had common enemies. They cited names, and as they discovered a new person known to both, their friendship grew. The phrases came out quickly, precipitously, from their lips, with sonorous endings and the cantorial accent of the Italian language. Then they talked about themselves.
She was married and had left her three children in the care of a sister because she had found a nanny placement; it was a good placement, with a good French lady's family, in Marseille.
He was looking for a job. They had assured him he would find one around here because there was a lot of construction going on.
After they kept silent.
The heat was becoming terrible, as it poured down in torrents onto the roofs of the cars. A cloud of dust swirled behind the train and got inside, and the scent of oranges and roses clung to the palate with more force, as if it thickened and acquired more heaviness.
Two travelers fell asleep again.
They woke up almost at the same time. The sun was setting towards the surface of the sea, illuminating its blue sheet with a flood of clarity. The air was now fresher and seemed lighter.
The wet nurse, with her bodice open, dirty chins and a dull gaze, gasped; and exclaimed in a tired voice:
-I haven't been breastfeeding since yesterday and I'm dizzy, like I might faint.
The young man didn't answer because he didn't know what to say. She continued:
With the amount of cum I have, it's indispensable to nurse three times a day; otherwise, there is discomfort. It's like carrying a weight on my heart, a weight that prevents me from breathing and leaves me flat. It's a disaster being so abundant in cum.
He murmured:
-Yes. It's a disaster. That must be bothering you a lot.
In fact, it seemed like she was very sick, exhausted and on the verge of collapsing. She said in a faint voice:
With just pressing on top, the cum comes out like from a fountain. It's a curious spectacle. It seems incredible. All the inhabitants of Casale came to see it.
-Ah, yes! - exclaimed the young man.
As you hear it. I would show it to you, but that wouldn't get me anywhere. That way, the entire amount I need right now wouldn't come out.
He didn't say more.
The train stopped. On foot, next to a barrier, was a woman who had in her arms a crying child. She was emaciated and ragged.
The wet nurse, who was contemplating her, said with a voice of pity:
Here you have one that I could relieve. And it could give my little one great relief too. I'm not yummy, and the proof is that I leave my house, family, and youngest child to be here; because with all of that, I'd gladly give five francs for them to let me stay ten minutes with that boy and nurse him. The baby would calm down and so would I. It would be like giving myself a new life.
He clammed up again. Then he passed his feverish hand several times over the sweaty forehead and lamented:
I can't take it anymore. I think I'm going to die.
And the bra opened completely with an unconscious gesture.
Burst forth into view the right breast, enormous, tense, with its dark nipple. The poor woman whimpered:
-Oh God my! Oh God my! What am I going to do?
The train had started moving again and continued its journey through flowers that exhaled the penetrating aroma of warm sunsets. From time to time, a fishing boat would be discovered sleeping on the blue sea, with its white sails motionless, reflecting in the water as if there were another boat upside down.
The young man, confused, stammered:
Ma'am... Maybe I myself... could relieve you.
She answered him with a voice trembling with emotion:
-Of course...; if you're so kind. You'd be doing me a great favor. I can't resist any longer; I can't resist any longer.
The young man knelt down in front of her, and the woman leaned over, putting her dark nipple into his mouth with a nursing gesture. As she grasped it between her two hands to bring it closer to the man, a drop of cum appeared at the tip. The young man drank it greedily, taking the heavy breast between his lips like a newborn baby, and began to suckle gluttonously, with regular rhythm.
He taken hold of the woman's waist with his two arms and was squeezing her to bring her closer; and he drank slowly, gulping down, with a neck movement similar to that of children.
Suddenly she said to him:
-He had already unloaded enough of this one. Take now the other one.
She caught her, with docility.
The woman had placed her two hands on the young man's back and was breathing deeply, happily, savoring the scent of flowers that mixed with the air currents precipitated by the train's movement inside the cars.
-What a good smell! -she said.
The young man didn't answer; he was still drinking from that fountain of flesh and closing his eyes as if to savor it better.
She parted him with gentleness.
-Enough. I feel better. This has given me life and tranquility.
He stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
And she said to him at the same time as he was getting inside that breast with those two living flasks:
-You have done me a great favor. I thank you very much, sir.
But the young man answered with a recognizable accent:
-I'm the one who thanks you, ma'am. I hadn't eaten in two days!
A plump woman and a young man were traveling facing each other in the last carriage, occasionally looking at each other but not speaking. The 25-year-old woman was seated next to the window, gazing out at the landscape. She was a robust Piamontese peasant woman with black eyes, prominent breasts, and a puffy face. She had placed several packages under the wooden seat and kept a basket on her knees.
The young man would have twenty years old; he was thin and tanned; he had the black color of people who cultivate the land in full sun. He carried his fortune alongside him, wrapped in a handkerchief: a pair of shoes, a shirt, some pants and a jacket. He had also hidden something under the bench: a shovel and a hoe, tied with a rope. He was going to France in search of work.
The sun, which was rising in the sky, poured down upon the coast a rain of fire; it was in the last days of May; delicious aromas were fluttering through the air, penetrating into the cars through the open windows.
The orange and lemon blossoms in bloom were pouring their sweet perfumes into the tranquil atmosphere, so pleasing, so strong, and so unsettling, mixing them with the scent of roses that sprouted everywhere like wild herbs, along the way, in luxurious gardens, at cottage doors, and in open fields.
The roses are at that coast as in their own home. They perfume the region with their strong and light scent; thanks to them, the air is a delicacy, savory like wine, and like wine, intoxicating.
The train was going very slowly, as if enjoying itself in that garden, in that softness. It would stop every instant, at small stations, in front of a few white houses, and then start moving again with a tranquil pace, after letting out whistles. No one got on it. It seemed as though the entire world was sleeping, without deciding to take a step on that warm spring morning.
The plump woman would close her eyes from time to time, but would suddenly open them again when she felt the basket slipping off her knees. She would quickly return it to its place, look out the window for a few minutes and then doze off again. Sweat droplets covered her forehead, and she breathed with difficulty, as if an oppressive pain were oppressing her.
The young man had let his head fall and was sleeping deeply, like a good peasant.
Suddenly, as she was leaving a small station, the peasant woman seemed to wake up, opened her basket, took out a piece of bread, hard-boiled eggs, a bottle of wine and plums, beautiful red plums, and started eating.
The young man had also woken up suddenly, staring at her, following with his gaze the path of each bite from the knees to the mouth. He remained with his arms crossed, fixed on her, sunk cheeks, closed lips.
She ate with gusto, taking a sip of wine every instant to help pass the eggs, and occasionally suspending her chewing to let out a slight snort.
He eaten everything: the bread, the eggs, the plums, the wine. As soon as she finished eating, the young man closed his eyes. The girl felt a bit tight and loosened her bodice. The young man suddenly looked back at her again.
Without worrying about it, the woman went on undoing her dress; the strong pressure of her breasts was pushing the fabric apart, revealing between them, through the growing opening, a glimpse of white inner clothing and a piece of skin.
When the peasant woman felt more at ease, she said in Italian:
It's impossible to breathe, with so much heat as there is.
The young man replied in the same language and with the same accent:
It's a beautiful time to travel.
She asked him:
-Are you from Piedmont?
I am from Asti.
And I of Casale.
They were from nearby towns, struck up a conversation.
They said the string of vulgarity that people from the town constantly repeat and is enough to satisfy their slow and horizonless intelligences. They talked about their towns. They had common enemies. They cited names, and as they discovered a new person known to both, their friendship grew. The phrases came out quickly, precipitously, from their lips, with sonorous endings and the cantorial accent of the Italian language. Then they talked about themselves.
She was married and had left her three children in the care of a sister because she had found a nanny placement; it was a good placement, with a good French lady's family, in Marseille.
He was looking for a job. They had assured him he would find one around here because there was a lot of construction going on.
After they kept silent.
The heat was becoming terrible, as it poured down in torrents onto the roofs of the cars. A cloud of dust swirled behind the train and got inside, and the scent of oranges and roses clung to the palate with more force, as if it thickened and acquired more heaviness.
Two travelers fell asleep again.
They woke up almost at the same time. The sun was setting towards the surface of the sea, illuminating its blue sheet with a flood of clarity. The air was now fresher and seemed lighter.
The wet nurse, with her bodice open, dirty chins and a dull gaze, gasped; and exclaimed in a tired voice:
-I haven't been breastfeeding since yesterday and I'm dizzy, like I might faint.
The young man didn't answer because he didn't know what to say. She continued:
With the amount of cum I have, it's indispensable to nurse three times a day; otherwise, there is discomfort. It's like carrying a weight on my heart, a weight that prevents me from breathing and leaves me flat. It's a disaster being so abundant in cum.
He murmured:
-Yes. It's a disaster. That must be bothering you a lot.
In fact, it seemed like she was very sick, exhausted and on the verge of collapsing. She said in a faint voice:
With just pressing on top, the cum comes out like from a fountain. It's a curious spectacle. It seems incredible. All the inhabitants of Casale came to see it.
-Ah, yes! - exclaimed the young man.
As you hear it. I would show it to you, but that wouldn't get me anywhere. That way, the entire amount I need right now wouldn't come out.
He didn't say more.
The train stopped. On foot, next to a barrier, was a woman who had in her arms a crying child. She was emaciated and ragged.
The wet nurse, who was contemplating her, said with a voice of pity:
Here you have one that I could relieve. And it could give my little one great relief too. I'm not yummy, and the proof is that I leave my house, family, and youngest child to be here; because with all of that, I'd gladly give five francs for them to let me stay ten minutes with that boy and nurse him. The baby would calm down and so would I. It would be like giving myself a new life.
He clammed up again. Then he passed his feverish hand several times over the sweaty forehead and lamented:
I can't take it anymore. I think I'm going to die.
And the bra opened completely with an unconscious gesture.
Burst forth into view the right breast, enormous, tense, with its dark nipple. The poor woman whimpered:
-Oh God my! Oh God my! What am I going to do?
The train had started moving again and continued its journey through flowers that exhaled the penetrating aroma of warm sunsets. From time to time, a fishing boat would be discovered sleeping on the blue sea, with its white sails motionless, reflecting in the water as if there were another boat upside down.
The young man, confused, stammered:
Ma'am... Maybe I myself... could relieve you.
She answered him with a voice trembling with emotion:
-Of course...; if you're so kind. You'd be doing me a great favor. I can't resist any longer; I can't resist any longer.
The young man knelt down in front of her, and the woman leaned over, putting her dark nipple into his mouth with a nursing gesture. As she grasped it between her two hands to bring it closer to the man, a drop of cum appeared at the tip. The young man drank it greedily, taking the heavy breast between his lips like a newborn baby, and began to suckle gluttonously, with regular rhythm.
He taken hold of the woman's waist with his two arms and was squeezing her to bring her closer; and he drank slowly, gulping down, with a neck movement similar to that of children.
Suddenly she said to him:
-He had already unloaded enough of this one. Take now the other one.
She caught her, with docility.
The woman had placed her two hands on the young man's back and was breathing deeply, happily, savoring the scent of flowers that mixed with the air currents precipitated by the train's movement inside the cars.
-What a good smell! -she said.
The young man didn't answer; he was still drinking from that fountain of flesh and closing his eyes as if to savor it better.
She parted him with gentleness.
-Enough. I feel better. This has given me life and tranquility.
He stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
And she said to him at the same time as he was getting inside that breast with those two living flasks:
-You have done me a great favor. I thank you very much, sir.
But the young man answered with a recognizable accent:
-I'm the one who thanks you, ma'am. I hadn't eaten in two days!
0 comentários - Idilio