I wanted to slap him. But, more than that, I wanted to leave with my mission accomplished.
‘Kiss me,’ he whispered. ‘Or do you think I’m so repulsive?’
‘Quite the opposite,’ I admitted. ‘But a pain in the arse, nevertheless.’
‘So what’s it to be?’
I weighed up my options. ‘One kiss?’
He nodded. ‘Just one.’
‘Then you promise to turn it down?’
‘I promise. You have my word.’
I grunted dubiously. ‘Yeah. Well, you’d better not mess me about.’
I stepped towards him, trembling with a mixture of anticipation and annoyance, which he sensed.
‘What are you afraid of?’
‘Nothing,’ I snapped, leaning over and grazing my lips against his, ready to pull away immediately. But as our lips made contact, his arms enclosed the small of my back, holding me close. As I breathed in the heady notes of his aftershave, I realised my mouth had parted slightly, and, before I knew it, his tongue began to trace a delicate outline of my mouth. I felt my own vodka-infused breath mingle with the wine on his, as our tongues instinctively began a journey of exploration. This wasn’t meant to happen. Still, I might as well enjoy the price I had to pay for a bit of peace and quiet, I decided, as I felt my body relax.
I could feel his hands move down my back, over the curves of my thighs through the fabric of my coat. I allowed my hands to rest on, then grip, his broad shoulders and I felt the hardness in his groin pressing against me. All the while, we continued to kiss, drinking in each other’s scents, and his fingers found their way beneath my coat, travelling slowly, teasingly. I moaned inside his mouth as first one, then, two fingertips gently brushed the inside of my thighs. In response, he rested his thumb against my rapidly swelling clitoris, exerting a light pressure while his forefingers stroked and probed the spreading wetness between my now open legs. I guessed he intended to make me come and I was more than happy to go along with it, all logic and willpower completely overtaken by lust and sensation. Delicious sensation. I half wondered if we had spectators, but as he continued his rhythmic strumming, which was inexorably building to a crescendo to precipitate my own, I no longer cared who was watching. I felt the tension mounting as my muscles began to involuntarily contract, and as the first wave engulfed me, his mouth was still over mine, our tongues entwined. I felt my groans vibrating in my throat, my chest, my whole body and as the second wave built up, he grabbed my hand and placed it over his hot, rigid cock. I rubbed my hand up and down in rhythm with the fingers that still played my clit, his glistening precum acting as lubricant. As our mutual speeds increased, I felt his body shudder as a jet of come spurted forth, the spray hitting my face and his. When his groans had subsided, he unfastened his mouth from mine and we both gasped for breath.
‘Some kiss,’ I murmured, hardly aware of the music still thumping and pounding in the background.
He smiled. ‘Just being neighbourly. Now, are you sure you don’t want me to take your coat?’
Dirty Boy
by Charlotte Stein
He shifts uncomfortably on the seat beside me, but I know what he really wants. He wants me to press closer, the way the couple opposite us in this crowded train carriage are pressing closer, giggling over the goofy Valentine’s Day presents they’ve bought each other. He wants me to put a hand on his thigh – far higher than the girl is doing to her guy.
It’s just that he doesn’t know that he wants this. They never do. They fumble and fawn and wait for me to make a move that frightens them, but everything always ends up the same: mindless pleasure, delicious right down to the core.
He flinches, when I slide my hand over the sinewy round of his corduroy-clad thigh. The heavy muscle there tenses, twitches – I can feel him looking at the side of my face. I know what that look means: people who put their hands on other people’s thighs have to be looking at you. They can’t be so impassive, so cool and collected, as to keep staring straight ahead as though nothing’s happening.
I’m happy to prove him wrong. I’m sure he’s got all sorts of lovely conventional ideas in his silly little head that need turning upside down. Like how much massaging of someone’s thigh is permitted, on a crowded train.
‘Um …’ he says, but that’s all he can manage. The girl giggles – I think she’s seen – but then he unfolds his newspaper over his lap and her view is shut off. I think he does it well enough to make her think there wasn’t anything worth seeing, anyway, but maybe it’s just that she assumes boring, when she looks at him.
Maybe she just prefers nibbling her boyfriend’s ear to caring about needy strangers on a train.
Personally, I think the paper over his lap was a mistake. It’s saved him from prying eyes, but it’s also given me even more free rein. Of course, I would have jerked him off with my hand inside his trousers in full view of giggler over there, but he doesn’t need to know that. It likely soothes him to think that I’m only doing this because we’re hidden from view.
And I don’t mind, if he needs that small concession. I’m not going to give him any quarter on anything else, after all. I barely wait another second, before I clamp my hand down tight on that crease, between his thigh and his groin.
He hasn’t got his legs closed enough, so I’m able to get right down in there. I can feel the subtle press of his balls against the back of my fingers, through the thick material of his trousers – that’s how in there I can get. And when I nudge against that soft rounded shape, he jerks back against the seat, hard.
I think he almost stands up. He does this weird little jolt and then his butt leaves the plush two-tone bench we’re sitting on, but he doesn’t quite make it to standing. The whole move kind of gives the impression that his trousers were bunching in the crack of his arse, and he had to almost get up to relieve the pressure.
He’s definitely gone about pressure-relieving in the wrong way. Why, he’s barely moved enough to escape the press of my fingers against his tender parts – never mind anything else. And if I just sli-i-ide my hand ever so slightly upwards, I can get at far more interesting things.
It fills me with joy, to feel his entire body moving up with the push of my hand. It’s not like he’s trying to get away, at all – because Lord knows, going up is not going to achieve that – but as though I’m the puppeteer, and he’s my puppet. It’s as though he’s expressing surprise through extreme body language, the surge-up of his thighs trying to emulate what his eyebrows would usually take on.
The illusion is somewhat shattered when he crams himself right back down into the seat, and urges himself against my hand – though I don’t think he intends to. I think he’s kind of torn between propriety and perversion, and oh goody I get to see which is the better fighter.
At the moment, perversion is definitely winning. He’s breathing hard and crumpling the newspaper into sweaty fists, and when I give the thick press of his erection a little teasing caress, through the corduroy, he slouches very obviously forward.
Of course this makes the jut of his cock press deeper into my rubbing palm, but oh, so sorry. Now that I’ve caught you I’m bored. I guess you’re going to have to work for it, too bad. Maybe you should have been more enthusiastic from the start and I wouldn’t have to be such a bitch now, but them’s the breaks.
I move my hand back down to the far duller climes of his thigh, and he keens like an underfed puppy. He doesn’t need to know that such a sound thrums against my already agitated clit, or that the sudden sharp smell of his sweat in the air makes a slick of liquid flood my slit, or that when I allow myself a turn of the head and see his teeth biting into his lip, warmth radiates through my belly, tightening my nipples as it goes.
There is nothing so sweet as the sight of a man, biting his lip in tortured ecstasy.
I reward him, with a firm stroke against the hea
vy outline of his cock. He gives back in kind by bucking his hips – just a little, not enough to make the paper crackle and crash about – and letting out a gust of breath that’s almost a sigh.
We get a lovely rhythm going. A circuit, I suppose – one thing feeding another. I rub and he stifles a groan or rocks his hips or licks the perspiration from his upper lip, and then I am compelled to rub again. Of course, I’m making it sound as though this happens really slowly, when that’s not the case at all.
By the time the elderly woman sitting on his right gets off the train, I have my hand inside his trousers.
It’s an awkward angle, but I think I use the heel of my palm to good effect. I rub it nice and tight over the straining underside of his cock – right where it curves up into that neat little ridge. The rest of him is lost to me, the tip smothered by underwear somewhere beyond my grasp, but I think rubbing him like this is doing its job just fine.
He actually whispers a little please don’t stop, when I make to tease him again. I think he’s pretty close to coming all over my hand. Certainly everything feels sticky already, and his thighs are tensing and releasing in an almost hypnotic pattern.
But I don’t want him to get there just yet. The girl and her boyfriend aren’t paying the slightest bit of attention, and I think that’s because he hasn’t quite been loud enough, so far. His whispers sound like controversial comments on the day’s news. His sighs are almost like exasperation.
I want to put his cock in my mouth.
There are a lot of things I want, but I think I’m going to start with this, first. I lean to one side, just ever so gently, and whisper in his ear: stand up.
I mean, he was so eager to, earlier on. Why shouldn’t he be, now? Putting aside the fact that there’s a stiff cock tenting the material of his trousers and underwear, of course. The first eye contact I make with him since this began is when he widens those baby blues at me, fluttering all over with panic and that perfect state he’s found himself in – the one where he can no longer just say no.
Still, he hesitates. He chews and chews on that plump lower lip, as I peel the layers of newspaper away. I think after he’s obeyed me, I’ll make him turn around like someone modelling this season’s collection of stylish looks. I call this one: man with gigantic erection.
I let him fumble his zipper back up, but don’t concede anything else. When he stands and leaves behind the safety of the crumpled paper, it’s without his hands over himself or his body curled coyly to one side. The tent in his trousers stands out obscenely, and the girl across the carriage stifles a giggle into her hands.
I think I feel his flare of humiliation go through me, too. I squirm on my seat, and squeeze my impatient thighs together. Tingles wriggle through me when I ask him:
‘Need the bathroom?’
As he stumbles towards the safety of the carriage door. Though it’s debatable whether it’s safety, when him turning gives everyone a lovely profile view of his solid prick.
I do wonder if he’s going to come back. He could very easily hide out in the toilet until the journey is over – and maybe face the music then, when there’s no-one else around. But I have faith in him and only a few minutes later that faith is justified.
He returns, still blushing. Tugging at his M&S jumper and wiping his still damp hands on his cords. The damp hands that have probably been washed just to get the tang of spunk off them.
Dirty boy.
Did he really think he could have me miss such a thing, and get away with it? Now I’ve missed all the lovely detail: him licking a filthy wet stripe over his palm before sliding it nice and slick down the length of his shaft. Doing it nice and hard because he can’t wait and knows he only has a few minutes in which he can be disobedient. Thighs trembling, cock swelling tight against his unsteady grip – and then an orgasm that makes his arse cheeks clench and his teeth draw blood.
The thought almost makes me want to go to the men’s and check the sink for stripes of come. I want to lick what he’s dirtied.
I settle for taking his hand all cute and loving and raising it to my mouth as though to kiss. And then I lick his longest finger from knuckle to tip.
It’s only when I get said finger right into my mouth, however, that I taste what he’s done. I suck hard, and that musky-salt flavour floods my mouth. It’s easy to detect, even under the cheap train bathroom soap. I’m used to boys being dirty, all over their hands and bellies and maybe over me, too.
He clears his throat as I continue licking and sucking his fingers in a manner that the girl and guy across the train seem to think is pretty lewd. When he clears it again, though, that’s when I get the picture. Now he’s all relaxed he can be disapproving. He can make a little sound that says: give me my hand back.
But then I look at him and a fierce blush swamps his face. Once my eyes are on him, he has to come to terms with the fact that he’s just masturbated in a train bathroom and now I’m tasting the evidence on his lovely long fingers.
He doesn’t clear his throat again. His eyes go down, and thickly lashed lids drop over them. I bite, lightly, on the meatiest part of his forefinger, and those lids flutter prettily.
He’s going to love what I have in store, next. I lean forward, and press my mouth to his.
His lips are parted, so it’s not hard to achieve my objective. I just push forcefully against him until his head hits against the seat back and my tongue is pressing wetly into his mouth, and then – oh look at that. He gets to taste what I’ve just tasted.
I’m generous, that way.
He groans in this meek, almost-disgusted sort of fashion, but he’s a fool if he thinks I’m buying it. It doesn’t take him long to eat my face off, after all. He’s soon kissing back at me sloppily, the hand in mine squeezing and squeezing. His other hand daring to go to my waist. The taste of his come between us, filthy and lovely all at the same time.
When I break away from him, he puffs soft words against my lips: I didn’t mean to. Of course I could tell him here that I forgive him, that him saying words like that makes me wet, so wet, but that’s just not the point of this game. He doesn’t need to be soothed and I’m not going to tell him how aroused I am.
Instead, I order him to describe what he’s just done in the bathroom.
It’s a calculated move. The couple opposite us have gotten bored or embarrassed and both are listening to their Ipods – most likely special sweetheart love song playlists they’ve both made for each other – so it’s safe for him to talk. But it’s also still nasty. Good boys don’t talk about jerking off on trains.
It’s all about balance, I feel.
‘Don’t make me,’ he says, but I don’t have to make him. I don’t have to say another word – I just stare into his big bright eyes and wait, and wait. Eventually he cracks and whispers, and each sound he makes streams hot air against my lips. It’s a sensation I’ve not really thought about before, but Lord I’m thinking about it now. It goes directly to my cunt, and makes me want to kiss him again, long and wet.
‘I went to the bathroom,’ he begins, and I silently applaud his thoroughness.
‘And then what?’
‘Then I … unzipped my trousers.’
He gives a little shrug, as though that’s all there was to it. As though he just pissed, then, and came back here. So I stick out my tongue, and flick it over his swollen lips.
Before he continues, he licks my taste off himself.
‘My hands were shaking …’ he says, as though turning such a detail over and over in his mind. Why on earth had his hands been shaking? ‘… but I didn’t want to stop.’
‘I’ll bet you didn’t,’ I say, against his mouth. We’re almost kissing, but not quite.
‘I wanted to touch myself.’
‘I know. I know. Go on.’
‘It felt so g
ood to wrap my hand around my co – myself.’
I shiver, to hear him dodging the word cock.
‘Did you do it hard, or soft? Fast, or slow?’
‘Really quick. I jerked myself so hard it kind of hurt.’
‘But you liked that, right? That little edge of pain?’
His eyes roll back in his head. I think he’s searching for inspiration. That, or help.
‘… yes.’
‘You’re getting hard again, just thinking about it.’
‘I’m getting hard because you’re making me talk like this.’
‘Is that what I’m doing? Making you?’
‘Ye-e-es,’ he whines, suddenly twenty years younger than he most likely is.
‘Are you sure? If I stop, and pull away, will your erection fade?’
I put my hand over the renewed jut in his trousers, for emphasis. He swallows hard, and looks away at nothing. It looks to me like his answer tastes bitter, but I bet it’s sweet, too.
‘No.’
‘You’re going to masturbate forever, thinking of this – aren’t you?’
He nods, after the barest of hesitations. His cock jerks, beneath my pressing hand. I almost think he’s going to be relieved, when the couple get up at the next station and leave in a cloud of giggles, but the groan that comes out of him doesn’t sounds relieved at all.
I think he believed they were his lifeline, tethering him to no-sex-on-a-train. He’s wrong, of course, but I’ll let him cling to the idea.
When the door closes behind them, I straddle him. He flusters and blusters and says something that might be oh no wait. But then my stretched taut and too-damp knickers brush over his equally covered cock, and I think he forgets what he was asking me to wait for. His hips hump up at me – against his will, I’m sure – and he groans loudly, now. The warmth alone must feel good, and it’s going to feel even better when I get my knickers down.
Not that I have to. He goes for them suddenly, shoving up under my skirt to yank them down as far as they’ll go. They stretch over his thighs like a band caging him in.
Sex, Love & Valentines Page 13