This story was written after someone asked me about making guys come in their pants. I’d tweeted about it recently, and they were curious as to how someone could make this happen. I think my answer is that it’s all in the preparation and build-up. So I wanted to write something which gives the build-up, and the context. Then I got a bit carried away.
This erotic story combines two of my greatest loves: making guys come in their pants and… Crossrail. Sure, it involves descriptions of masturbation and anal sex, and a secret hand job at the back of a lecture theatre. But at its heart it’s a love letter to Crossrail. The non-human love of my life.
Come in your pants while I think about Crossrail
They call it ‘threading the eye of the needle’ – the act of grinding out a tunnel beneath central London large enough for a train to pass through, and precise enough to not cause the Tottenham Court Road tunnels and escalators less than a metre away to collapse. It’s an incongruous, tiny phrase, that conjures tedious domesticity: delicate fingers holding thread, and eyes squinting to see the point of the needle. Yet what it represents is huge and industrial: shifting soil and rock with complex, giant machines. An inhuman, incomprehensible thing.
Threading the eye of the needle. You wouldn’t think that phrase could cause someone to come in their pants, but you’d be wrong.
Rob doesn’t give a shit about trains. That’s not a character flaw I’d have thought to check for when we first met, to be honest. I’d been busy firing more interesting questions at him: what do you do? Where do you live? What time do you get up on weekends? How – and please stop me if this is too personal – do you like to masturbate? With a tight grip and grim determination? Or a gentler approach, with lots of pauses to squeeze and sigh and bring your orgasm down to a rolling simmer until you’re ready to start again? Again, feel free to stop me, but have you ever stuck a thumb up your arse?
It’s not weird, I promise. At least, it didn’t feel weird at the time, and to this day he maintains that he was delighted – flattered even. No one had ever shown such a broad interest in the details of his wanking habits, and by the end of the evening he invited me home so he could give me a demonstration.
I knelt on the floor in his hallway and hitched my skirt up to my waist so I could frig myself while I watched him. He came against the tip of my tongue.
That he didn’t care about trains seemed inconsequential at the time. I didn’t care about trains then either. That was before Crossrail.
I know, I am obsessed – OBSESSED. It’s not just about the engineering, although I won’t deny myself the odd gasp of ‘no fucking WAY’ when watching tonnes of concrete sail on crane hooks over the London sky. It’s not that I’m a train spotter, either: I couldn’t tell you the difference between Abellio and C2C, and I find stations far too hectic to be fun.
No, my love for Crossrail is a throbbing, amorphous thing: like my love for London itself. I love the breathtaking power of people who know what they’re doing, and the feats involved in bringing them together to do it. I love the trembling terror of knowing that these people might be right beneath my feet. They drag giant transformer-type creatures behind them, carrying miles and miles of track. They lay chunks of metal, punch through solid rock, and measure to see if the earth is moving.
And when they knock off work and emerge from this underground dreamscape, they look just like you. Or me or him or anyone.
Love. I love Crossrail like I love him: with irrational, irregular heartbeats. Some days I wake up and I can take or leave either of them. Other days I wake up and I want to weep with the sheer joy of living in a world that’s capable of making this. This beautiful, incredible, flawed, sensational thing.
Problem is, you can’t really tell your boyfriend that you love him like you love Crossrail: it doesn’t have the same ring as comparing him to a summer’s day, or a red red rose, or an onion. So instead of telling him he’s like Crossrail, I tell him I think about him when I wank.
He likes that. He likes hearing the detail, just like I did when we first met. He wants to know which sex toys I’m using, at what speeds. Wants to understand the patterns, and why pulsing works better than a steady, powerful thrum. Sometimes when I talk him through what I do, he holds my pebble-shaped vibrator in the palm of his hand, clenching his fist around the humming whirr, and closing his eyes to better picture what it feels like against my clit. I lie with my head on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his sweat, and I whisper to him about preliminary orgasmic waves, pressing buttons with lubed-up fingers, and that pressure on my G-spot that makes me wonder if I need to piss.
And he closes his eyes, twitches his dick so the head rubs against his stomach, and moans the way he imagines I do when alone.
When we’re fucking, what he likes best is what he calls the ‘pop.’ Not ‘pop’ like in porn: the term ‘pop shot’ – like ‘eye of the needle’ – is far too puny to effectively describe what it’s referring to. Pop shots would surely be better named after fountains or geysers, not the insipid crackle of a table-top party popper. No, the ‘pop’ he describes is the moment of entry – that split second when the taut skin at the entrance to my ass stops providing resistance to whatever’s pressed against it, and… pop! It enters. Whatever ‘it’ might be. The head of his dick, the end of his finger, the rounded tip of a glass butt plug. When he fucks me, he likes to spend time on this moment. Sometimes just a few extra seconds but sometimes whole minutes: straddling my naked thighs, and pressing one finger up against my ass. I can feel him springing the skin back and forth, delaying his favourite moment. Until – pop – it finally enters. Sometimes just this is enough to bring him off, and he’s no time to slide his dick fully inside before it pours hot spunk into me.
Hey, we all have our kinks. I started this by telling you that I get horny for Crossrail.
So to the story. We’re sitting in the back row of a Crossrail lecture, and although I know I shouldn’t I’m feeling like an underage teenager who’s snuck into a screening of the latest Tarantino. It’s so exciting it’s almost obscene: giant tunnelling equipment. Blocks of concrete being poured and smoothed like giant sculptures. Monitoring cameras on every building around Soho Square to measure each pulse and ripple. The thrilling realisation that this has been happening around me, all the time, in the nooks and crannies in and beneath London.
I am a tiny part of a whole so huge it makes me tense and shivery.
They’re describing the most complex part of the tunnelling process – the ‘eye of the needle.’ Pushing their giant drills through soil and rock beneath Tottenham Court Road. Squeezing their machinery through a gap so narrow they could accidentally punch through a nearby wall. Weaving between escalators which teem with commuters, and Northern Line tunnels which carry still more crowds to and from work.
Rob is next to me, and listening with a face that could either be ‘respectful interest’ or ‘trying not to fall asleep’: I can’t work out which, and I don’t want to ask him in case the people in the row in front tut us.
I write him a note on my phone. You can do that these days – it looks like livetweeting.
You having fun? Y/N/Hell N
He points at Y, and smiles. Still facing front, he pulls my phone out of my hand and rattles off a quick message.
That ‘eye of the needle’ thing? It’s like the pop, but for trains.
I snort-laugh, and someone in front rustles. No tut yet, but I’ll have to be quiet.
You’re right, I write. The biggest, most perfect ‘pop.’
He grins. Glances quickly at my left hand and I know what he’s thinking.
Last week I gave him a detailed run-down of my latest wank. Nothing special for the most part: a spit-lubed dildo shoved roughly in my cunt, right hand alternating between rubbing my clit and screwing the base of the dildo round so it brushed against my G-spot. Short strokes – a half inch, no more – in and out, then back to rubbing my clit again. Rinse, repeat, build until I’m close, then pause as I lick my fingers and get ready for round two.
He liked that. As I told him about it he squeezed the base of his cock tightly, and tried to match my movements – half an inch, no more – up and down to tease himself towards the brink.
He wasn’t going to come from such small movements, but I had an ace up my sleeve.
“I was close,” I whispered to him, “and almost ready to come. I kept my right hand doing that back-and-forth with the dildo – just a half-inch, no more, until I could feel the waves start in the top of my thighs and my gut. Then I spat on the middle finger of my left hand, moved it down to my ass and just pressed it there… tightly. The skin springing against my finger, just enough pressure to keep me out without effort.”
“I pushed harder,” I told him, and he moaned again.
“Gently stretching against the taut skin of my arse…”
“And…” he’s still rubbing his dick with tiny, tiny motions, and I can hear the whine in the back of his throat as he aches to have me finish…
“You know what then…” he stroked harder, squeezed tight, needing me to actually say it… “Pop.”
A fountain. A geyser of spunk. I stuck out my tongue and managed to catch two droplets.
That’s why he’s horny in a Crossrail lecture. He’s thinking about that ‘pop.’ And his dick tents his jeans in a way that makes me very glad we picked the back row.
I touch it gently with my left hand, and stare enraptured at the Power Point.
“Digging new infrastructure in London,” explains the guy at the front – some chief engineer, I think, I didn’t catch his full name – “is like performing open heart surgery on a patient while they’re still awake.”
I rub my boyfriend’s dick through his jeans, and think about the sheer number of people involved in the Crossrail project. From engineers to caterers, bus drivers to logistics people. His cock twitches slightly, in time to his pulse.
“It’s a huge undertaking,” he continues, listing numbers and stats and figures. I take a quick glance downwards to my boyfriend’s lap, and picture myself speeding through a dark tunnel just metres below the London streets. I’m stroking his cock through his jeans – with just two fingers. Running along the shaft, feeling the texture of denim, and the throb as it fills with blood.
“We had more than ten thousand engineers working on this project,” he tells us, and I picture them standing together – a huge, amorphous, genderless crowd, focused solely on this giant undertaking. “Costing almost fifteen billion pounds, it’s one of the most ambitious railway projects in Britain since the time of Brunel.”
I continue to stroke. Just with two fingers, just along the shaft. I can feel the outline of his thick cock stretching out in his jeans. Almost at full swell now. Hard enough to sit on, if we were alone.
I hear that the current tube system has over one hundred and fifty miles of track, and it handles more than a billion journeys a year. Rob moves a hand to my wrist and nudges it gently.
There’ll be around one million more people in London in ten years’ time, the engineer tells us, and so I picture them too. One million people. I half-grip my boyfriend’s dick as it bulges against the zip of his fly and imagine one million people streaming down an escalator. A parade of humanity.
But we can’t just pause to prepare for these new people – right now London needs to keep moving, as it will need to keep moving when they’re welcomed into the city, absorbed beneath its skin. You can’t just shut down the Northern Line for a month – the city will continue to pulse with life, through the throbbing arteries of its tube tunnels.
You have to build without disturbing anyone around you. Make a gap in the earth and push through it in secret.
I squeeze Rob’s cock tighter. Still just around the shaft. He lets out a short burst of breath – uh – then swiftly turns it into a cough.
They tunnelled next to the Northern line without anyone noticing they were there. Tonnes of heavy machinery, less than a metre above the ceiling. Not one commuter so much as looked up from their phone.
It’s easy to find his throbbing head of his cock, even through thick denim. I run my thumb over the ridge at the head, and I can see the tension in Rob’s neck as he aches to unzip and let me at it properly.
Eighty-five centimetres exactly above a live Northern Line platform, and just thirty-five centimetres from the escalator above. I wouldn’t insult ten thousand engineers by calling this a miracle. It’s a marvel, this tunnel. This achievement.
I make a circle with my thumb and forefinger, and press it against the tip of Rob’s cock.
That tiny pressure, just on the head. If I glance left I can see the effect – the blue line of a vein standing out on his neck as he clenches his jaw. If I didn’t know him better I’d think it was defiance – an act of will, trying to hold back the waves of orgasm. But I do know him well, and it’s not that.
The engineer in front is talking infrastructure.
“Pipes, cables, sewers: there’s plenty of stuff crowding the ground. So we’re trying to get our tunnelling equipment through…”
He’s talking infrastructure, and I’m here with my finger and thumb circled around the tip of Rob’s dick.
I want to replicate the sensation of him pushing it against my arse, waiting for the pop as it slips inside.
He’s pushing for it himself. He wants it. He’s aching to shift forward in his seat. To get that feeling when my fingers slide down over the head.
The eye of the needle…
Rob grabs my wrist.
…is the smallest possible gap…
I press harder against the head of his cock.
…we could squeeze through.
I run the crook of my thumb swiftly from the tip down over the ridge. And I press tightly as he lets out a quick, sharp sigh.
I hold my fingers there as he pumps spunk through the cotton of his underwear, and the denim of his jeans. He grips my wrist to hold my hand still while he empties himself into his pants. Once, twice, three, four times. Each squirt expanding the damp outline until it can’t be a secret any more.
As the wet patch spreads and warms my fingers, I picture tunnels carved beneath the streets of London. Snaking, speeding trains pumping life and dreams and hopes and rage right into the heart of the city. I imagine a million people riding an escalator, indifferent to the almost-miracle that brought them here.
The eye of the needle. The throb of the crowd. Spunk-stained moquette and humanity.
If you’d like to find out more about Crossrail, the BBC’s excellent series The Fifteen Billion Pound Railway should float your boat, or visit the Crossrail website here where you can sign up for news updates and perhaps attend a Crossrail lecture of your own.
This is a fictional story, which means I did not actually wank anyone off at the back of a Crossrail lecture. It would feel almost blasphemous somehow, but perhaps that’s why I found the idea of it so horny. It’s available as audio (scroll up and click ‘listen here’) and if you’d like to hear more filth read aloud, check out the audio porn hub and come help me make more of it via Patreon.