Sometimes, you're not even sure if the train is really real, not in the same way that the everyday world where time smears into a blur is. The way its headlights cut through the fog of a cooling evening, the echoing rumbling of the wheels even when there's nothing to echo off of — all details lost in memory, though, when the billowing steam from the brakes washes over you and the gleaming, midnight-black carriages pull into view.

Time has a way of moving strangely on the train, with golden mornings coming far sooner than they should, or breathless nights stretching on for days, but it always starts the same. The conductor's cheerful grin, eyes glinting from beneath a tipped cap, and his hand on yours helping you into the reception carriage. In there, lamps are always turned low, tables clustered for conversation that never quite seems to fill the room, and the curious ritual of the train proceeds smartly. A ticket, deep green paper with a gilded number on it, and a single word, neatly pressed into your palm before the conductor disappears with a sketched salute.

42. Deep.

20. Memory.

The number is never the same, and the words always tug at the memory just so, but the dance is like every other night. Paper screens shield the last vestiges of life outside, as your clothing assembles itself into a neat stack in the gilded lockers, and the lights dim to a smoky golden-rouge. As the train pulls away, lines of passengers far ahead find their rooms as doors clatter and sounds like voices and sighs drift from the shadowed interiors. Your own room looms out of the dark, scant moments despite the lofty heights of the numerals printed on the ticket, and all that's left is to step inside.

You're never sure where they come from, but they always have a ticket with the same number and a word you can never quite make out, letters falling away as the Night Train rolls on. Some nights are quick, with flashing eyes and grasping, desperate hands, thought giving way to panting tatters. The night itself mounts you, and ruts, and hammers in until you can feel the cushions in the cabin swallow you in a haze of soaked, desperate need.

Some nights are quiet, a drink from nowhere and words spiraling and spinning through the air. Smiles and laughter melting away all else until it seems so natural to raise your eyes to the dim lamplight and the stars outside, feeling warmth and heat slip inside you like a lover's touch. And then riding, riding, riding, until the golden light comes and sheets tangle with furtive grins.

But tonight, you can hear the whistle from beyond sight, and the wind is warm against your skin.

—

Is this me taking the idea of a mysterious, perhaps even magical train, and shamelessly bending it into a setting for lusciously plotless liaisons in its mysterious sleeper cars? Why yes! Yes it is.

A few kinks that might find their way onto your ticket tonight, should you want to take a ride: Breeding, creampies, affectionately ferocious passion. Fingering, manhandling, and forehead kisses might make an appearance, if roughness and transgression isn't more your speed.

Cheers, and thank you for reading! As always, please feel free to reach out for any reason or no reason at all.

-Werewizard