Strangers on a Train

The glances he was giving me were ones that might have made me uncomfortable or angry if I was in a different mood; but in this mood, this tension, that look suited me right down to the ground. It wasn’t a stare, it was more of an exchange, a tete a tete. It should have been annoying; it wasn’t. He’d caught me studying the long hard line of his calf sliding out the top of his work boots, and in return offered me that kind of frank male appreciation a certain type of man can get away with. He was covered in some kind of fine white dust that I could only assume came from a building site. It lent him a strangely otherworldly quality. His eyes looked very green and his lips looked very full against the strange powdery white backdrop. I wondered what they’d feel like pressed against my skin.

 As soon as he caught me looking I turned my eyes away, doing that thing where I pretend I was just glancing around the train carriage at everyone equally. He didn’t look away. I tried not to acknowledge it but I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was taking a good long look, taking me in. I felt a sudden need to tug my skirt down over my knees, or maybe up to expose my thighs to him. I didn’t even know which. I felt like he was eating me alive while I stared away down the carriage, feeling the heat rise into my face. I felt my heart rate quicken. I looked down at the floor, where his legs were sprawled out lazily, in that way that some guys have; occupying large amounts of public space like they own it. It seemed an odd coincidence that his feet in those boots exactly spanned the space in which I sat opposite him, so I was perched almost between his legs. It made me imagine kneeling at his feet. That made me feel strange.

 Those legs again, climbing out of his boots; hard calves and lovely golden hair. It was a long line up to his knees – he was tall, all long limbs and muscle and tawny skin. Just above his knee his thighs disappeared into his work shorts and I felt disappointed. I wanted to see the shape of them, flexed as they would be with his legs stretched so far across the carriage. I imagined his hips, painted them in my head, tawny too and with that nice v cut shape that said a guy worked out a lot. Imagined pressing my lips to them, trailing my mouth up his body, licking delicately over his hip bone, kissing and sucking and nibbling over his stomach, which I imagined muscled too, my tongue teasing around the edge of his navel. I imagined sliding my fingers over the crinkly hair I knew would be marking a path from his navel to his cock. Running it between my fingers, combing it with my nails, one of my favourite places on a man’s body. I left my hand resting there in my mind, let my gaze travel up.

 My real life gaze followed it. His chest, under the white t-shirt. The line of his throat. A dimple in his chin (oh god) and dark gold stubble. His lips again, the only clean skin on his face surrounded by white powder, pink and shining like he’d just licked them. One side curved up in an uneven smile, a knowing smile, and I abruptly realized what’d I’d spent the last god knows how long doing while I imagined his body. I hoped to god he hadn’t caught me intently trailing my eyes up his body, hoped I hadn’t been doing it too long, hoped what I’d been thinking hadn’t shown on my face. I glanced up at his eyes and could tell I’d been hoping vainly. When his eyes met mine his smile widened, very white teeth. I tried not to imagine them closing on my flesh, the back of my neck, a nipple. I shuddered visibly. I wanted to look away but something in his gaze held me, and we studied each other’s eyes. His pupils were dilated. I wondered if mine were; I imagined yes. I was taking shallow little breaths. He smiled at me again, and licked his lips. My gaze was drawn down when his hands slid lazily from where they rested in his lap to the seat either side of his thighs. I realized he was hard, his cock straining against the khaki of his shorts and I swallowed, probably visibly.

 He seemed big, thick. I struggled to stay still as I imagined pressing my hands against the fabric, feeling the heat and the weight in my palms. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him tilt his head slightly; bringing my gaze back up to his eyes felt heavy and difficult. He looked at me, smiling knowingly, and, having caught my gaze, dropped it again to look down while I watched him, making a slow survey of my body. I felt like my skin burned wherever he looked. My collarbones, my cleavage; he glanced down and I felt my body relax, my thighs no longer going to the trouble of keeping themselves together. The movement was surely imperceptible, they barely opened, but he seemed to perceive it. My dress, too flimsy for the weather suddenly seemed brazen, like I’d worn it just so he could look at me. My first time out without tights since the last summer, the decision suddenly made me feel naked and exposed. He was studying my thighs, frowning slightly. Again I felt uncertain about whether I wanted to pull my dress down to cover myself or up to please him. His eyes made the same lazy journey back up my body, to my face. I licked my lips, and the person sitting next to him got up to get off. He smiled again, more broadly, and patted the seat beside him. An invitation.

 I glanced around the carriage, wondering if anyone else had observed our interaction, or if they were blind to everything in that way that lots of commuters are. The decision to go and sit next to him felt strangely easy; brazen again, I wanted to do it. I stood up, wobbly in my summer wedges; I had to catch the pole to keep from falling, the metal was cold against my burning palms. He moved his feet so I could sit but as soon as I sat down his legs lolled back into place. It meant his thigh was pressed against mine, warm and hard. I smiled, I couldn’t help it, it felt strangely grounding. I felt a bit like I was dreaming; surely this sort of thing didn’t happen in real life, only in filthy movies and songs. Strangers on A Train, I knew, was a song.

 I didn’t look at him, instead attempting to look like I had my shit together while staring across the carriage. His hand moved beside me, and I started when I felt the weight of it land on my thigh. Certainly not on my knee, but somewhere in the middle, where my dress ended so the tips of his thumb and some of his fingers rested on bare skin and the rest on the fabric. Not so high up as to be inappropriate (inasmuch as it could ever be appropriate to be touched on the leg by a stranger on a train carriage in broad daylight), but high enough that my body started to respond. I inhaled deeply, forcing myself to relax, to think through the liquid haze that arousal was starting to generate in my brain.

 I looked at our reflections in the tube window, his face, smiling, but nonchalant, like what he’d just done was nothing out of the ordinary. I wanted to be offended, to be unhappy at being touched so cavalierly by someone, but I couldn’t. It felt too good, and I was hardly a shrinking violet when it came to sex. His fingers slid over my skin, just as rough as I’d imagined, the callouses scratching pleasantly on the soft flesh of my thigh. His hand moved so his fingers were now resting completely on bare skin, on the inside of my thigh just above my knee. He slid his fingers up, the weight of his hand moving my legs open slightly. My hands were resting in my lap and I used them to push my skirt down between my thighs so as not to flash other commuters, fighting a wave of arousal that was making me inclined not to care about it. His hands were warm, and he stopped moving, pressing the whole surface of his skin against mine, warm on the inside of my thigh. Still not visibly inappropriate but certainly not just friendly touching.

 I was thrumming, my body responding to the touch and the cavalier treatment. Just exactly my thing of course, plus he was gorgeous. It was just unbelievable and far fetched. Breathing felt like an effort and I rested my head back against the cold window, trying to restore some semblance of reason to my brain. The speakers announced the next station and I barely comprehended what they were saying, but I saw him start to make that movement people do on the train where they’re silently announcing that they’re about to get up. I fought a sudden rush of disappointment, feeling ridiculous. Of course nothing was going to happen, the fact that what had already taken place had happened was ridiculous enough. He moved his hand off my thigh and I felt cold, but then his fingers wrapped around one of my hands where they rested in my lap and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. He picked up my hand and started to stand; I followed him instinctively. He turned to face me momentarily, smiling, and made a show of cocking his head backward as a request that I go with him. I smiled again and nodded numbly as he started turning and walking off the train, his fist still wrapped around mine.

 The walk through the train station was a blur; when we had to touch our Oyster cards he ushered me in front of him and pressed himself against me in those few seconds I waited for the barriers to open. On the escalators he held me in front of him again, facing away, pressed against the back of me, his hands hot on my hips. We emerged out into the sunlight and I stopped, panicking slightly, wondering what the hell I was doing. He felt the weight of me pulling back on his hand and he turned to study me. I leaned back against the wall outside the station and tried to collect myself, again trying to cut through that haze of arousal that was completely disinterested in good sense. He looked at me, a few steps away, and I had a moment where I realized that I would have to come out of my hesitation on my own if I wanted this, that he wasn’t really going to push me. I didn’t know how I felt about that, didn’t know how I felt or should feel about all of this, just that my body was shouting for me to do what it wanted. I stood there a moment, in my body, feeling it, wondering, the cold brick against the back of my arms bringing me down a bit.

 I looked at him, looking at me, smiling, ever so slightly vulnerable. His feet were spread wide again, his body centered on me. He seemed relaxed, confident. I hadn’t even heard him speak, and I wasn’t sure how I should feel about that, either. Time seemed to slow down as I watched him waiting there, everything in his posture shouting that he knew what I would choose. I held my hands out towards him slightly before I even realized I was doing it and he smiled broadly and it was enough. He took a few steps towards me and crushed me up against the wall with his body, his arms, his lips finding mine. I smelled him and realized the white dust all over him was plaster; I tasted a few specks of it from the edge of his lips before his tongue started to explore me, stubble scratching my face roughly. My hands slid around his back and I felt the gritty texture on my palms, and I knew I’d come away filthy. His hands slid up my back, pulling me away from the wall, up and up to my neck, tangling both in my hair. Christ he was huge. His hands cupped my head, and he was controlling my head movements as he kissed me. I felt like my dress was probably riding up after being rubbed halfway up a wall, and I didn’t care, my body humming with need and the desire to be fucked. I let go of any sense of what I should or shouldn’t be doing and just went with it. He pulled away from me, one hand sliding down my back to where it became my waist, and smiled, taking my hand again. His lips were almost too much, the kind of generous wide mouth I really loved to look at, exaggerated in their colour by our kissing and by the plaster on his skin.

 “Alright?” he asked me, and I grinned; his voice was just as gorgeous and caramel and warm as the rest of him. Wonderfully versatile, that word.

 “Yes.” I said, and nodded, and he grinned too and tightened his grip on my hand, pulling me away.

 As soon as we were inside his house I found myself pushed up against the wall, his hands rough on my skin, sliding up underneath my dress. I was overwhelmed by this, this pace and intensity, his presence and heat and size. He started to tug my dress over my head, and I lifted my arms up compliantly, not really feeling the need to tell him it wasn’t really designed to come off that way. It hurt, when he pulled it over my arms and my shoulders but I didn’t care, or I liked it, to be hurt already and suddenly naked but for barely there underwear and heels. He dumped my dress onto the floor and his hands returned to my body immediately, he gripped my hips and lifted me higher up the wall so he didn’t have to bend to kiss me, keeping me there by pressing his lower body hard against mine. I had no choice but to wrap my legs around him, so the bulge in his pants was pressed against my pussy, making me moan with need. We kissed again, and he wasn’t gentle with me, his stubble scratched my skin and his clothes scraped against me. He was still fully dressed and I knew I was getting covered in the plaster dust that he’d been covered in. I didn’t care. His weight bore me up against the wall, he kissed me and bit my bottom lip and slid his hands over my sides, the parts of me not pressed up against him. His hands slid over my hips and lifted me even higher and pinned me again to the wall. My legs were now wrapped around his waist and not his hips, and I had to look down now to kiss him, and I felt strangely disoriented. It soon became apparent why he’d done it when his hand moved and I felt two fingers pressing against the gusset of my panties. He pushed it aside and slid his fingers unceremoniously into me; I was soaked and his touch made me feel like my brain was turning inside out.

 “You’re so wet,” he sounded pleased and I blushed for being so wanton. His fingers moved inside me, pressing against my walls while his lips crushed against mine. I was moaning uncontrollably, I felt like I was out of my head, this was crazy and overwhelming and insanely good. By the time he slid a third finger in I was gasping and shuddering, the pain of being crushed against the wall by his hips serving to focus me on my body and the sensation. It felt like any time I had a moment of doubt and embarrassment his fingers would move or his body would press harder against me and I’d lose it, stop thinking and go back to just feeling and gasping and moaning. His fingers slid out of me and I whimpered, disappointed, until I felt them probing at my asshole. I shuddered at being invaded so casually, at him assuming that I wanted that, but I did want it. His hand vanished briefly and he growled into my neck.

 “Hold on tight.” His voice was strained, and his accent was thicker, but I did as I was told and squeezed my legs around his waist. I heard his hands moving underneath me, the ‘schk’ of the zipper on his shorts and a wave of pleasure and need rushed through me as I realized what was about to happen. His fingertips scratched my inner thighs and he pulled my panties aside roughly, and then unceremoniously the head of his cock was pressed against my pussy. I moaned into his neck, my head lolling back against the wall. I surrendered, any thoughts of this being stupid or foolish, or any thoughts at all really gone from my head. I was all need and eagerness and his cock was pressed against me ready and there for what I wanted. I loosened the grip of my thighs around his waist, making my body slide down his, pushing his cock further inside me. He joined me in the movement and thrust up and I gasped, his thickness stretching me. I felt like I was being impaled; he leaned his torso back and suddenly all that was holding me to the wall were his hips and hands and cock. I stared up at him, awash with arousal and humiliation and eagerness. I couldn’t believe I was doing this, and yet some part of me whispered that this was just exactly the kind of thing I would do. He leaned down to kiss me, and again I felt like I was being eaten alive, held to the wall by him, filled by him, so unstrung while he still seemed completely in control, clothed and steady. He hadn’t even started to thrust yet, he was just inside me. One hand slid down under my ass again, his fingers still slick and sticky from being inside me. He pressed one against the entrance to my asshole and I groaned, shocked by how willing I was to let someone I didn’t know do this to me. He didn’t wait for any kind of assent from me but slipped his finger inside me; lubricated by my body’s ‘assent’, it slid in easily enough, and the feeling of being filled by him intensified.

 He was so strong, I couldn’t believe that he was keeping me up so high on the wall. He slid a second finger into my ass and I felt unbelievably filthy, the kind of person who fucks people she’s just met. I liked it. He shifted my weight somehow, and I squeezed my thighs around him, and he started to thrust. Stretching me further, fucking me. We weren’t kissing any more, my face was crushed up against his chest, he was using me, his cock sliding in and out of me, his fingers in my asshole making me writhe and clutch at his shoulders. I gripped the front of his shirt as he found his stride, his cock sliding into me relentlessly, easily now that I’d accepted it, accepted him and what was happening.

 “Play with yourself.” My hand slid down to do as I was told, before I even thought about it. My fingers found my clit and I was washed away by arousal as I started to touch it, wet and soaked like the rest of me. His presence was again overwhelming, the smell of plaster and his cologne and the heat of his skin, his cock and fingers inside me. His movements became quicker, I was being bounced on his cock and I moaned with every thrust. “Make yourself come. I want to feel you do it.” My fingers rubbed furiously at my clit, and I was gasping, my body throbbing as he fucked me, slid in and out, his fingers moving around in my ass like he owned it. When I felt myself starting to come, I told him, and he fucked me faster while I worked with my fingers, roughly now, his hips almost hurting me and his fingers stretching my asshole. I moaned too loudly and my pussy started to convulse around him as I came, pinned to the wall by him and stretched out, sweaty and degraded. Shudders ran over my whole body and I struggled to keep my legs wrapped around him tightly enough to stay upright. I realized when I had finished that he had stopped moving. I was gasping, my clit sensitive, and knew he hadn’t come.

 “Now I’m going to fuck you really hard.” He was as good as his word and shoved his cock back up into my still convulsing and twitching pussy, long forceful thrusts that overwhelmed me in my post-orgasm sensitivity. He thrust and thrust and it was relentless, I thought nothing, just felt and moaned and whimpered. When his cock started to twitch and I knew he was about to come, a rush of horniness and eagerness came over me at the thought of him coming inside me. I’d fully surrendered to what was happening. When his next thrust pinned me to the wall I felt his cock twitching again, and he groaned as he spent himself inside me. The seconds he held me there pinned after seemed to go on forever, and all I could do was tremble and feel overwhelmed. His fingers slid out of my ass and I unwrapped my legs from his waist. When my feet touched the ground I realized they weren’t going to support my weight. Falling to my knees seemed like the most natural thing in the world, a fitting state for the kind of girl who fucks strangers she’s just met. When his big hand tangled in my hair, gently now, and tilted my head up, I responded instinctively, taking his cock into my mouth, sucking him clean, my tongue sliding around eagerly. I was giving in to whatever instinct had compelled me to go home with him in the first place, finishing my own degradation, tasting his come and my pussy on his skin. When I finished, he smiled down at me, crouched down and picked me up. He walked for a while and then lowered me onto his bed and lay beside me, one hand sliding up my thigh. He slid his fingers casually back into my pussy while he thumbed my clit, making me shudder and squirm, and smiled against my forehead.

 “I think I’m going to keep you. You’re very well behaved.” I inhaled sharply, humiliated and strangely pleased. His fingers moved inside me and I knew I would let him do whatever he wanted.