Chapter One Laden with her backpack, Sophie trudged back onto the deserted platform at the Battambang Central Station—a very grand name for a Quonset hut and a concrete apron with streetlights lying sleepily alongside two rickety tracks of rail. Each pale yellow globe hosted its own ecosystem of flying insects fighting furiously around the bulb. Just watching the little bastards buzz around made her itch. A fat gecko, silhouetted against the glass globe at the top of one of the lampposts, barked and indulged in greedy feasting. A ramshackle hut stood off to one side of the platform: part concrete, part bamboo, part thatch. The little structure's weak fluorescent strip flickered out into the darkness through its open windows. She strolled towards it to investigate the possibilities. It was a waiting room—a shell with no window fittings or doors, a decidedly dead Coke machine which probably hadn't worked in years and, very much to her surprise, another human being. She took the bench opposite, nodding politely as she settled herself on the hard, wooden banquette. "Were you on the boat from Angkor? Going to Phnom Penh?" she asked. The man, a sandy-haired Westerner in his mid-thirties, nodded. "There's no train to the capital until six in the morning." "Yes, I know." His bored, accented English sounded vaguely Germanic. Sophie unscrewed her liter-bottle of mineral water, took a huge swallow, and tucked it neatly under the bench. She glanced at him again. He was sitting slouched, his arms folded and his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. She gauged him as unfriendly, one of those Western travelers hell bent on crafting the fiction that they're the only explorers to a newly discovered wilderness. They spent most of their time glowering at other foreigners for having the bad manners to fuck up their fantasy. Heaving her knapsack onto the bench, she pushed, punched and molded it into some semblance of a pillow and, kicking off her sandals and settling onto her side, she rested her head against it. Her watch read 11:23 p.m.; it was going to be a long and very uncomfortable night. She closed her eyes in the hope that sleep would speed the hours by. The crickets were screaming, and the single strip of lighting flickered on and off, pinging occasionally the way all fluorescents do. Somewhere in the distance, a hollow bell rang—night prayers for Buddhist monks—and from another direction the strange reedy sound of a woman's voice singing karaoke in an outdoor café. Her eyes snapped open, irritated by the noise and the blinking light. The man on the bench opposite quickly shifted his gaze to the floor; he'd been staring at her. Tucking up her knees, Sophie tugged furiously at the hem of her cotton dress, trying to cover her bare legs from the mosquitoes that were surely eyeing her up as a late-night feast. The heat and the humidity began to tug at her eyelids, and she shifted slightly, nestling her hands between her knees. It was the noise that woke her. Not the insects or pinging, but a sound that was utterly out of place in the environment—the stuttered rip of a zipper. She opened her eyes to see him looking at her again but, this time, he didn't look away. His face was unreadable as she watched him push a hand inside his open jeans, free a semi-erect cock, and begin slowly and casually to stroke it. For a moment her mind stalled, and then it started again. There were really only two options: she could stand up, grab her backpack and go elsewhere, or she could lie there and watch him watch her watch him. His expression had changed, pleasure clearly visible on it, and still he didn't look away. Using both his hands, he continued to touch himself; one grasped the base of his cock while the other engulfed the head and the top of the shaft, sliding up and down it with slow even strokes. His erection grew harder and the skin stood out stark and pale under the weak, intermittent light. The whole scene was surreal and oddly arousing. Before she had made up her mind as to what to do, the sticky, wet heat between her legs had persuaded her to stay. His breathing changed as he rubbed the palm of his hand in a circular motion over the head of his cock, slowly, sensually. She had seen men masturbate before, but never like this; it had always been fast and furtive, desperate and goal-focused. The man opposite her seemed almost unconcerned with the outcome. He was losing himself in the sensation of it. Twitches at the corner of his lips and the flicker of his eyelids told her of neurons firing along pleasing lines. Her own breathing quickened as his gratification infected her. He must have heard it and read it for what it was, because his lips crooked in the tiniest of smiles and, for a moment, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Whether in relief or pleasure, she could not tell but, with that small gesture, this became something quite complicit. She lay still for a while watching him until her need overtook her. Her hands moved up her thighs and onto her crotch, dragging the fabric of the dress with them. Unable to take her eyes off him, she scrabbled blindly at her dress, until she felt the softer cotton of her panties and slid her fingers under them, pressing into the folds of her wet cunt. The contact made her shudder, sending electricity up her spine and out through her eyes. He caught it, sighed, and moved his hand back up to surround his head and shaft. All at once, she was overcome with the urge to let him see what she was doing. Pulling herself upright on the bench, she slipped her panties over her hips, down her bare legs and kicked them away in the general direction of her sandals. Looking up to see his face again, she felt her own burn, flushed with arousal. His lips parted, and the smile evaporated, erased by lust. He had slowed his strokes to watch her, and he slid a tongue quickly, unconsciously, across his lips. She pulled the skirt of her dress up to her hips and leaned against the back of the bench. Slipping her hand between her legs again, pressing her fingers into her pussy, the ripe lips split apart under the pressure and enveloped them. He groaned softly from somewhere deep in his throat, and she saw that he had stopped stroking himself to watch her. "Please, don't stop," she whispered hoarsely, parting her legs so he could see her fingers at work. The sound his hand made, now that pre-cum had moistened his skin, began to drive her; it pushed her onwards. She unbuttoned the front of her dress with her free hand. Pushing the sides apart, she caught a nipple between her splayed fingers, and squeezed it firmly. Between her thighs, her fingers were making wet noises of their own as they delved deeper into her cunt with every pass. Her legs quivered with delicious tension, and her breathing turned shallow and quick. She watched him match her pace, stroke for stroke and, as she pushed her fingers into her opening, he stroked downwards to the base of the shaft. In their minds they were fucking. The image grew clear and vivid and almost pushed her over the edge; she moaned and arched her back. "I want to see you come." His voice was thick and viscid with desire. "Yes, oh...very soon," she whimpered, her hips thrusting up to meet her fingers. He stood and crossed the space between them, not pausing in his strokes. Standing between her spread legs, he put one hand on the back of her bench to steady himself. She leaned her head back and looked up into his face. The smell of him, the sweat on his skin in the warm humid air, and the reek of sex made everything suddenly hyper-real. Now the cock in his hand was inches from her; she considered taking it into her mouth, but she was already perched at the threshold of her climax, and she threw her head back to look at him again as she brought herself to within the last few strokes. "Now," she groaned. Shudders took her over as the pleasure washed through her. In the midst of the neural storm she heard him grunt, and she glanced down to watch as he came: hot pulses of fluid spurting onto her neck, her chest, running down over her breasts as he squeezed himself, his body convulsing. Her orgasm abated. Closing her eyes for a moment, she felt the sticky liquid cooling on her skin in the night air. He tucked himself back into his jeans and collapsed down on the bench beside her, catching his breath. After a long pause, he looked over at her. "So, you are going to Phnom Penh also?" "Yeah." She said, reaching for the water bottle and unscrewing the top. "At six. Just like you." She held the bottle above her and tipped it, letting a stream of water wash over her breasts and stomach. She finished off the remaining water in a single gulp. "No offence," she said, "but the mosquitoes love this stuff." "Ya...I know," he muttered, scratching his neck. "Maybe we can find a room."