The Struggle to get Railed - The Inconvenient Truths of attempting Sex on a Train

You'd think I had a one track mind.

There’s something inherently soothing about rail travel. Perhaps it’s the ever present thrum of motion, the gentle shudder of passing over a join in the track, or possibly just the very notion that you’re being taken where you need to go without the possibility of deviation. It’s an opportunity to sit back and unwind, close eyes and drift off listening to a podcast, peacefully awaiting delivery to destination…

Or, alternatively, if you’re feeling somewhat less romantically and generously inclined; it’s a usually overheated tedious sweat-box of misery and inevitable delay that does nothing but make for an inherently boring and overlong journey to somewhere that, without fail, falls significantly short of your ultimate destination.

I tend fall somewhere between these two mindsets. I’ve enjoyed/endured enough train travel in my life thus far to have experienced the extremes at both ends of the spectrum. Which is precisely why, when given the opportunity, I leapt at the prospect of adding a little excitement to an otherwise tedious session on the tracks. A rare instance in which there was the potential to be quite literally railed on rails.

Grant and I have been infrequent colleagues for a number years. Which is to say that we’re both a pair of poor-done-to freelancers who occasionally find ourselves working on the same project. He’s got the build and stature of a rugby player; broad and excitedly rugged, and a sharp and witty mind which I envy as much as I adore. However seemingly as if to compensate for being so generous with these blessings, fate deigned Grant possess the most plain and forgettable face you could care to imagine.

Actually, I lie. You couldn’t possibly imagine it. It’s simply too nondescript.

The best I can manage in terms of description is if you were told to put together a police identikit image, but altered nothing from the generic starter image beyond noting that he was in possession of ‘Eyes, nose and mouth.’

And for anyone wondering - I’m not being cruel or speaking out of turn here. I’ve said all this to his face.

To his plain, uninteresting face.

But the fact is that the head only occupies approximately 8-and-a-bit% of the human body. And when the rest of him is so glorious, I’m more than prepared to overlook a measly 8%.

I know. I’m such a generous soul. Plus, if he’s fucking you from behind, you don’t need to look at him anyway.

Our relationship is more akin to that of the most casual and infrequent of fuck-buddies than anything else. He has a longstanding and incredibly complicated on-off relationship with a girlfriend of many years, and should an off-again period coincide with us working together, we invariably end up having some fun.

Which leads me to how I found myself travelling back from a project alongside him on a near empty late-night train.

We were two of fewer than half a dozen world weary travellers in our carriage. Being the antisocial folk that we were, we had chosen to sit across the isle from each other at one extreme end of the carriage, as far away from the other great unwashed as was possible.

Several hours into the journey, I was surprised to find he’d slipped over and sat beside me.

“I’m bored,” he said, though it was almost impossible to tell; his plain face almost incapable of displaying emotion.

“So you’ve decided to annoy me?”

“Yup. Since we’re going to be parting ways again soon I wondered if you fancied doing something really stupid?”

His face was unreadable but I knew him well enough to know what he was getting at. And, truth be told, I was bored too. And a little concerned that my phone would run out of battery before the end of the journey. So, as much as to buy me some time to preserve my podcast for later as anything, I hit pause and pulled out my headphones.

“Stick our arms out of the window and play chicken with passing posts?”

“That sounds fun too, especially in the dark. But it’s not what I was thinking of…”

“Oh,” I said, interrupting. “So you want me to give you a bye-bye blowjob then?”

Before I’d even finished the sentence I’d already moved my hand to his groin and given an encouraging squeeze through his jeans. I was more than happy to go for one more round, especially not knowing how long it may end up being before anything would ever happen again - if indeed anything ever would.

Before things escalated further he stopped me, suggesting we should both cross the aisle again so that he wasn’t sitting on the ‘more exposed side’. It also gave us both an opportunity to stand and assess the carriage in case anyone had unknowingly moved nearer.

Back in his seat, I set immediately to work. He kept a meerkat-like lookout for any potential passers by while I lent over him and began the herculean effort of trying to extract a cock from the tight jeans of a seated man.

Eventually - and with more than a little under the breath swearing on *both* our parts - his tumescence emerged. As exciting and enticing as I’d remembered it. (That memory being from as far distant a past as the night prior)

I took him in my mouth before he’d fully hardened, choosing instead to force the issue via judicious use of my tongue. While my thumb and forefinger began rhythmic stroking motions by the base, my tongue tickled and flicked across the underside of the head - a slightly awkward move when positioned *beside* the cock in question, instead of the usual in front - and in no time at all he was fully engorged.

Delighted by my speedy and efficient work, I was all set to pull back and congratulate myself with a self-satisfied comment, but found that I couldn’t. He’d placed his enormous hands on the back of my head and was holding me in place.

He knew me so well.

Instead, I slide my head in the other direction, taking him fully into my mouth.

Well, nearly. I was incredibly aware that, aside from the clickity-clack of the track, the carriage was incredibly quiet, and I was conscious that slurping and - if I was feeling generous - slight gagging sounds would be all too audible. So instead I focused my attention utilising lips and tongue with minimal movement, something the hands seemed more than happy to allow.

In case it’s not already obvious, I’m a big fan of Grant’s cock. It’s personal top ten material. This is one of the reasons why I, somewhat uncharacteristically, keep coming back for more. And having him in my mouth is very much me in my happy place.

Although there is a different place where his cock is able to make me *even happier*.

Which is why after five minutes or so of me slobbering in his lap, I pushed my head forcefully back against his hands and sat upright.

I looked him straight in the eye - eyes so non-distinctively brown as to be almost beige, in case you were wondering - and told him we should fuck.

This brought something of a halt to the immediacy of proceedings as we paused to consider the practicalities of such an endeavour. Initially we’d thought some kind of mounting scenario would best fulfil requirements, but we quickly rationalised that my head bobbing above the seats would likely give away our sordid actions to other passengers.

So instead he briefly popped his cock away - albeit with his erection not at all hidden in his tight jeans - and made our way to the carriage toilets.

The door opened with a pressurised hiss, and as we stepped inside the incredibly cramped compartment, I swear he had his jeans down and cock out before the door had even fully closed behind him.

Now I don’t know how aware you fair readers may be as to the general standard of British train bathrooms, but suffice to say they may well a previously unconsidered tenth circle of hell. They’re horrifically cramped, with barely enough room for a single individual to stand, let alone two. They’re always covered in miscellaneous damp patches and droplets of moisture - the likes of which you sincerely *hope* has originated from the leaky tap, but that you know in your heart of hearts have flown forth from something altogether more organic - and, worst of all, the smell is indescribable.

All in all, not exactly an ideal location for an intimate encounter.

Grant was seemingly oblivious. He was cock out and already reaching to remove my underwear from beneath my dress. I meanwhile was trying my best not to gag for a very different and far less enjoyable reason that mere minutes ago.

I told him in no uncertain terms that there was no way I was fucking him in this toilet.

He looked crestfallen. Understandably so. I was disappointed too.

I said we’d just have to figure out a way to make it happen in the seat instead.

Reader; we tried. We really did.

I sat in his lap briefly, but I was far too high out of the seat and, catching someone’s eye immediately, I had to pretend I was reaching over him for something.

We tried me kneeling across the seats while he squeezed himself to stand in the footwell between the seats, but no one could move and now *he* was stood tall and clearly doing something he shouldn’t.

So we did the only sensible thing.

We continued to tease each other mercilessly until our stop. An hour’s worth of agonising frustration.The plan had been for us both to head back to my place upon our arrival. But we were both far too wound up for that by the time it arrived.

So instead, mere minutes after alighting from the train, we fucked around the back of the train station. Him taking me from behind with all the glorious energy the pair of us could muster.

It was rough, it was ready and it was incredibly quick. It was *glorious*.

I didn’t even care that he came inside me.

He still came back to my place, though we didn’t quite manage to recapture the same joyous intensity that we’d summoned behind the train station.

Probably because my flat is too well lit. I could see his face, and that’s enough to derail anyone.