Hand jobs on the train, and other things that didn’t happen

Amazing sexy pic by Stuart F Taylor

A while ago I was on the tube and I could barely look away from a couple who were… well, there’s no better way to put it: frotting. Not just gentle, subtle touches and rubs – enthusiastic, tongues-in-mouths, full-sex-but-with-clothes-on. I’m a big fan of public affection, but this probably went a tad further than I’d applaud, given that kids could have entered the carriage at any moment, but nevertheless the sheer casual lust was an amazing thing to see.

Because trains tend to make me horny, I associate public transport with some of the hottest moments of my life. I sincerely hope that both the people in this couple remember their tube journey for a long, long time. If nothing else, it’ll make up for all the stares and tuts they had to endure from frowning tourists on their horny journey. I hope they got home and tore each other’s clothes off with a desperate passion, and had wild sex in the middle of the hallway, then made cups of tea for each other and blushed with the knowledge that everyone on the Central line knew that was exactly what they were going to do.

Although there are clearly some things which are beyond the bounds of most people’s tastes, and acts which you’d never want to do when kids might hop on at the next stop, it made me wonder just what the cut off point was for ‘OK, you’re just horny’ to ‘I’m going to have to throw you off the train now, madam.’ A kiss is surely fine. A touch barely noticeable. A hand slipped up a jumper or under the hem of a skirt? Sure. A hand down top, squeezing nipple perhaps less so. And surely a hand job on the train is – if not illegal – then certainly contravening a number of railway byelaws.

So in honour of the frotting Central line lovebirds, here are some 100% made up stories about things that I have absolutely never done on public transport.

Getting horny on the night bus

It’s… how late? About 3:30 am I think. The night bus rolls with the weight of the drunks and the disgusted-at-drunks. He’s sitting beside me and I can’t stop touching him. I’m not a millionaire, and Zone One living is laughably out of reach, so you can guarantee that if we hop on a night bus in central London it’ll be a hell of a long ride home.

He smells perfect. Like sex and whiskey, with a hint of the warmth of whatever deodorant he wears, the remnants evaporating from him as I bury my lolling, drunken head into his shoulder.

His bag is on his lap.

I run my hand up to the top of his thigh and he leans in to me, inhaling the smell of my hair, and no doubt the remnants of my own boozy night as well. His dick gets harder – pressing strongly against the crotch of his jeans. He shifts his bag to cover things, as I unzip him and reach inside.

Touching on the train

The train is almost empty. One or two seats occupied at the other end of the carriage, but around us there’s silence. The sleepy, lazy arousal caused by hours of sitting next to each other on a plane – wanting to touch but too close to others for comfort.

I bury my head in his shoulder, pretending to be asleep. He watches the door at the end of the carriage for a guard. Whispers things in my ear. Things that start with a fantasy about exhibitionist fucking, and end with my favourite words:

“…touch me.”

And I do. With my jacket draped over his lap I can run my hand over him. Slowly. Shifting gently. Gripping him tight through the fabric of his jeans and feeling his cock pulse under my palm.

“Is anyone looking?” I whisper. I feel him shake his head. Swallow. That gulp of nervous lust that wants me to do it. To touch him. To run the tips of my fingers around the head of his dick. I unzip him and reach inside.

Fucking on the coach

Again, sleepy. Drunk. Horny. Could keep my hands off him if I had the inclination or willpower, but I don’t. With his big arm around my shoulders, I press myself into the warmth of his chest. I can feel his heart beating, and hear his breath catch as I cup his crotch.

I squeeze gently – just cannot get enough of that throbbing, growing sensation as his dick twitches, hard in my hand. There’s no one else at the back of the coach: it’s quiet. The lights are off – the driver kindly letting us sit in darkness to more fully appreciate the bright lights of the M4.

I squeeze harder. He swallows. His breath catches again. He lays my coat out on his lap – an invitation to do exactly what I want: unzip and reach inside.

I yawn. Feigning tiredness for an audience that’s not there, and wouldn’t care even if it were. I lie my head on his lap, put the coat over me, making a tent to hide what I’m about to do.

I unzip.

I take the head of his dick in my mouth, and I lick him slowly. I can feel him tense as I do – bracing his feet against the foot rests, grabbing a handful of my clothing to steady himself. My head rests awkwardly on his stomach as I take him in. All soft wet lips and no momentum – no pressure. I can’t make him come, I know I can’t. He’ll need more: speed, rhythm, the clench of the back of my throat around the tip as I swallow every inch of him. But it can’t happen here – there’s too much danger. People at the front of the coach who might hear rustling.

So I lick. Gently. I let wetness dribble from my lips right down the shaft of his cock and I rub it softly with my fingers. He holds his breath. Pushes back against me – ever so slowly. That desire to slide more in, that physical whimper of need. A twitch that says ‘pleasepleaseplease.’

With a silent request that’s so deliciously desperate, how could I possibly not? One quick shift, as if I’m sleeping lightly, and the rustle of my jacket covers the change in position.

I slide further down onto him, until I can feel his swollen cock blocking the back of my throat. I hold my breath and stay there, still, as he shifts his hips slightly to push it more firmly into me – his favourite part. The only thing that’ll bring him to the edge. I can feel him trembling with a desperation to make some noise – any noise that will encourage me to keep going. I imagine the cries in his head: “please please don’t stop. Harder, more, deeper. Please.”

But we’re on a coach, and there are people at the front, and I don’t want to rustle so I take things slowly. Wet lips, slow movements, running my tongue around the head, and occasionally – very occasionally – swallowing the full length of his dick and causing those deliciously tense, silent whimpers.

The streetlights flash past the windows, and we cover nearly sixty miles. Finally – as the coach turns from the motorway and onto the crowded streets of London, he grabs the back of my hair and gives it one final push. Dumping hot squirts of come into the back of my throat, and giving me shivers of aching arousal.

I hold it in my mouth for a while. Just a few more seconds, savouring the illicit taste of that awesome fuck. Then, reluctantly, I pretend to wake up.

13 Comments

  • Jambo says:

    That last one…mmm

  • “A twitch that says ‘pleasepleaseplease.’” – this is a *great* phrase. And one which neatly summarises a hell of a lot of your past posts.

  • Daisy says:

    Ohhhhh Godddddd. Yes. Yes. And yes again. This week just gone, I had a rubbing through the jeans moment, feeling him growing, throbbing, swelling and in the end I gave in before he did, telling him “you better get these off because I need your cock in my mouth now”.

    He was enjoying it, but fuck, right then, I think I wanted it more than he did.

  • E says:

    I read this whilst Paula Cole’s song ‘Feelin’ Love’ was playing and oh, my, I’m all hot and bothered *fans self* I need to go frig myself into oblivion or hump something now so thanks for that! (Not complaining at all).
    Another amazing post, GOTN. x

  • I’ve always had a thing about getting wanked off on public transport. I’ve had my cunt fingered in taxis, on trains, buses and on planes. I love the naughtiness of it.

    Katie xx

  • AMC says:

    Unngh, one of my fondest memories is of drunken horniness on the night bus from central London. We probably passed into obscene territory when he started to finger me, but it was late, and the bus was mostly empty, and I was entirely too far gone into my lust for this man to care.

  • Azkyroth says:

    Mmph. Not on public transport, but I recently had the delightful experience of making a new partner come from mostly above the belt stimulation (kissing, nippling, hair pulling, nipple stimulation, I think there was some dry humping involved), with her pants on, in a corner of a bar in San Francisco (immediately post-Folsom Street Fair). I’m glad to gather you approve… ^.^

  • Rob says:

    Reminds me of an afternoon trip I took with my fb hoping to find somewhere for outdoor sex on the outskirts of London. Sadly everywhere we went was too busy, which meant we were both horny as hell on the return bus trip. So as the top deck was pretty empty I spread my coat over our laps, released my cock from my jeans and pulled her knickers aside so I could begin fingering her cunt. As I did this she began to wank my cock, keeping me nicely on the bring of cumming as her cunt got wetter and wetter as I fingered her. Annoyingly the bus started to get busy, and as groups of school kids got on board we had to stop! I stuffed my throbbing cock back in my jeans and we contained our frustration until we got back to hers, for a very frantic hard quick fuck! Thanks for sparking the memory GoTN

  • seasideslut says:

    I adore sex on public transport but being brazen is what turns me on. I had a wank on the Gatwick Express a while ago: http://seasideslutdiary.com/public-wank/

  • Jillian Boyd says:

    That last one… *squirms with sudden-onset-lust*

    I’ve never managed to work up the courage to go beyond just making out on the Tube. Clearly I need to.

  • Desire on wheels says:

    And surely a hand job on the train is – if not illegal – then certainly contravening a number of railway byelaws.

    I want to see the legislation for that, how it’d struggle to phrase the dreadful topic. Specifically, I want to see it in the language of whoever wrote those rules from the twenties for a botanic gardens I’ve visited, which refer to a wheelchair as an “invalid carriage”, and which are still in use. You can imagine the horror, combined with stealthily imagining exactly what you’ve written about here. In detail.

    I have no idea whether those botanic gardens prohibited having a snog and a grope in secluded areas behind rare shrubs, by the way, but we managed it unobserved anyway.

  • Oxyfromsg says:

    The first train journey i took with my first girlfriend lead to this kind of thing.
    Traveling at night, empty carrage, kissing leading to a handjob, a handjob leading to her climbing onto me.
    The announcment “we are now coming into Winchester” will always be stuck in my mind.
    Turns out she had planned the whole thing. I thought it was strange she was wearing a dress instead of jeans.

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