The following is a complete work of fiction.
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The following story may contain erotic situations between consenting adults. If it is illegal for you to read this please leave now.
"Damn! She is one hot girl!" he said, swivelling his head to watch her jiggle her way off the train and then looking back at me. Expectantly.
"Yeah, I can see."
"You saw that ass?" and he turned his head back toward the exit, as though he would still be able to catch a glimpse of her, even though we'd left the 34th Street station and were already in the tunnel.
"Oh, yeah; I saw the ass. But what I meant was that I can see you thought she was really hot." I looked at him with a little knowing smile. I resisted the urge to raise my left eyebrow--I was a flirt, but I also had a sense of self-preservation. The specimen before me was prime, somewhere around 25 or so, sandy-colored hair, lightly tanned skin, probably about 6', 190 lbs. Pretty much all I'd seen of him from the time he got on in Brooklyn at Jay Street 'til now were his slim-hipped, nicely packed jeans. Diesels. He'd been standing in my line of sight for the entire ride from Brooklyn; the view was equally pleasant from both front and back. And for a change of pace, his thighs filled the denim like two well-stuffed....
"I just asked how you could tell I thought she was really hot?"
I looked up at his face again and said, "You mean apart from your locking onto her like a tractor beam and following her every wiggle out the door?" Then I raised my left eyebrow and held his gaze for a second, dropped my eyes to his crotch (where I could almost make out through his jeans whether he was cut or not--it sure looked like he was), let them linger there a moment, and then returned my glance to his.
He grinned. "So I guess girls ain't your thing?"
"Why do you say that?"
"Hmmm," he said and lifted his eyes to the ceiling of the car as though he were pondering this. Then he locked into my gaze and then dropped his gaze to his own crotch. It was noticeably softer now, but the bulge was still pretty obvious. He returned his gaze to mine and said, "Why do you think I'd say that?"
"Don't straight guys check each other out?"
"Yeah, but we don't make it obvious. Or talk about it, either." He tilted his head to the right and looked at me. After a pause he asked in a more subdued tone, "So you don't find girls hot, huh?"
"Oh, I know a hot girl when I see one...."
"You know what I mean."
"Well, then no. Or, rather, girls don't do for me what they do for you." I glanced at his crotch again.
"But boys do, right?"
"Yeah, sure. I mean, that follows from what we've already established, I guess." I looked back up at him with a half-way flirty pout.
"And we've established that I like girls."
We rode in silence a bit. The train stopped at Times Square and was coming into the station at 51st Street when he said, "But sometimes I play with the boys, too."
"Oh, yeah?" I was all nonchalant. "That's cool."
Most of the riders got off the car.
The seat beside me was vacant now, but still he stood, his hand gripping the bar above my head, slightly to right of me. His back was thus toward the rest of the car.
His arm was muscular, and he wore a red cotton t-shirt. It was printed with a white and black vaguely Asian design that started somewhere around his right nipple and meandered over his left shoulder. The short sleeve was fairly tight around his bicep, but there was tiny gap between the fabric and his skin under his arm; it was like a little, dark cave, and I had a sudden vision of myself standing up and pressing my face to his bicep, my nose buried in his pit, my tongue tentatively exploring this little cave, tasting the salty trickle of sweat....
"How about it?" he asked, staring down at me quizzically.
"What?" Having just been jolted back to the present from my own private perv, I had no idea what he had been talking about. I hadn't been aware he was talking at all.
"What do you think?" And with this, he dropped his eyes back to his own crotch, and he kinda cupped his bulge with his right hand. He had large, masculine hands, and his skin was a nice light tan color. The hair on his arms was a pale golden. His nails were trimmed close, and they were clean; possibly he bit them. "Do you like to suck boys' dicks?"
"Not boys I don't know," I shot back and looked back up at him. I tilted my head and gave him a little half-smile.
"Sorry," he said, and he extended his hand--the one that had been touching himself--and said, "I'm Randy."
"I noticed," I replied, and we both laughed. I shook his hand.
"And you?" he asked, still holding my smaller hand in his tight grip.
"I'm Paul."
"So, what about it? Do you like to suck boys' dicks, Paul?"
"Yeah, sure," I replied. "Of course."
"Sure what?" he asked. "Of course what?"
"You know," I coyly said. Suddenly I was being quite the coquette.
"Say it," he said. He pulled my hand towards his crotch, which appeared to have lengthened again. I pulled away.
"We're in public!" I said.
"We're the only people in this end of the car," he said. "You're not being a very cooperative boy, Paul. Tell me what you like to do."
I looked at the four or five other people in the car, and true enough they were down towards the middle or at the other end. No way they could hear us talking low down at this end of the car. And, typically for New York, none of them seemed interested in what we were doing, either.
We pulled into Columbus Circle, but nobody got into our car. A girl with a backpack and a copy of Catcher in the Rye got off the train. She had been the closest person to us. The bell sounded and the doors closed. The train slowly pulled out of the station.
"C'mon, what do you like to do, Paulie?"
I felt emabarassed. I was beginning to feel like some kid caught doing something wrong by this man standing in front of me. I looked at the floor and mumbled, "I like to suck."
"What does Paulie like to suck?"
"Dicks," I replied, still looking at my shoes. "I like to suck dicks."
Randy put his hand under my chin and lifted my gaze slightly. My eyes were level with his crotch. He was definitely hard. And definitely cut.
"Yeah?" he asked. "Like this one?"
"Yes."
"You like my dick, Paulie?"
"Yes."
"Say it," he commanded.
"I like your dick," I said, and I licked my lips unconsciously. I was nervous as hell. But turned on as hell, too.
"Yeah, I knew you did. I've seen you looking at it. Watching it grow, wanting it. Anybody could tell you're a cock-hungry little faggot."
I looked up at him sharply, and he shrugged. I actually felt a tightening in my throat, and I could feel tears well slightly in my eyes.
He continued his taunt: "It's true, though, right? You like dick, sucking dick, right? In most people's book--mine included--that makes you a faggot." I was so fucking turned on!
"Not that there's anything wrong with that." He smirked. "In fact, right now, there's nothing wrong with it at all." And he brushed the back of his hand across his stiff package. Then he tousled my hair.
"So I guess you're not gonna suck it for me here, huh?" We both looked down at the folks at the other end of the car. "Nah, but it would be hot as fuck, wouldn't it, baby? Those fine, upstanding citizens down there watching you slide down to your knees, begging for my stiff one, begging me to make you my cocksucker. Yeah, that'd be so fucking hot, wouldn't it, Paulie, just letting it all hang out, letting folks see you as the cock-worshipping little homo that you are."
My face was so flushed right now; I could feel the heat of the blood signalling my shame. But my face wasn't the only place my blood was rushing. My dick was so hard it was getting uncomfortable; it was bent almost double in my tighty-whities, imprisoned in my jeans. I was dying to touch myself, to touch Randy, to give in to his seductive voice and just let myself submit to what I really, really wanted: That thick, fleshy, veiny, pulsating fuckstick snaking down his leg just inches from my face. I could fucking see it throb in his jeans.
He laughed. "Yeah, you're so fucking hungry for my dick, ain'tcha, babe? You like the way I'm making it pulse for you, don't you? You're like some fucking mongoose mesmerized by a cobra. Well, mine ain't hooded, so I guess it's a python; but you don't care, do you? You're just about hot enough to do anything to get it, aren't you fagboy?" His left hand idly stroked his nipple through the thin cotton fabric of his red t-shirt. He traced a line down his chest and rubbed his belly. "Ah, baby, I feel so horny, too; look at those pretty lips of yours. I bet they're so soft. I'm gonna be feeding you some prime meat real soon now." He slipped his hand under the hem of his t-shirt and rubbed his tight belly. As he caressed himself, his shirt raised enough to let me see his golden skin, his smooth belly--no six-pack, but naturally lean and tight--and the wisps of golden fur that marked a beeline to the treasure in his jeans.
"Shit, it's hot in here, ain't it?" he said, and he popped the snap on his jeans. I could just glimpse the hem of his underwear, a pair of black Calvin Kleins. For some reason my only thought at that moment was how much I hoped they were boxer briefs, and I saw myself on my back in my own bed at home sniffing his cum-stained shorts and flogging my own hard little dick as I replayed all the dirty, nasty, hot acts that I hoped--no, I knew, I knew Randy would have me do to him and for him. I was so fucking turned on that I was about to come in my own underwear.
He slid his hand down the waistband of his CKs, and I about swooned. He scratched at his crotch, and all I could think about was that hand down the back of my own jeans, beneath the waistband of my own underwear, groping my firm little ass, caressing my own crack, his long, thick, masculine index finger homing in on my hot, tight, moist hole, teasing my pucker by drawing tiny circles around it, pushing insistently against my sphincter 'til I yield--willingly--revelling in his touch as he fingers me, loosening up my boypussy for his ramrod....
"Sniff this, boy!" Randy has shoved his left hand under my nose, and I come back to reality sniffing the pheromone-laced crotch funk on his fingers. Another sex-jolt hits my brain, and I am even more consumed with the desire to consume his mancock. I wonder at first what the high-pitched whine in my head is, and then I realize it's me whimpering in lust and frustration. I am in a haze of desire and anticipation, unaware of where I really am anymore, ready to submit myself totally to his kinky whims when he draws his hand away and turns around.
"C'mon," he says.
He takes a couple of steps toward the inter-connecting door that leads to the next subway car. He opens the door and steps onto the platform between the cars. I quickly jump up and follow. Maybe the next car is empty or something, I think.
I step out onto the platform to find him standing on the platform jutting out of the adjoining car. There's about three feet of space between the two doors; there's a guardrail of three chains on either side of the two platforms.
He has opened him jeans, and his stiff cock is hanging out of his fly.
It's 7 1/2 or 8 inches of prime manmeat, girthy and surmounted with a thick, flaring purple mushroom head. His forefinger and thumb on his right hand grip the base of it, and his balls are still nestled snugly in black undershorts. I was right on both counts: They're boxer briefs, and he's cut. His dick is beautiful, and I can't tear my gaze away from it. He wiggles it back and forth.
"C'mon, baby. Blow me. Let me see what that faggot mouth can do for my joint." The train is hurtling through the black tunnel at 30- or 40-miles-an-hour, the platform beneath my feet wobbles as the train sways on its track, the breeze ruffles my hair. "There ain't much time. Get down there and suck me!"
I drop to my knees and gratefully open wide, wrapping my lips around the flared cockhead, sucking in my breath to create suction as I twirl my tongue clockwise from the underside and then back again, reveling in the heady tang of its pre-cum coating. I pull back slightly to increase the suction, and then I push my head forward, taking about two inches in to my hot, wet mouth. As I swallow this next stage of his rock-hard dick, I part my lips slightly and lick them quickly so they'll be lubed enough to go all the way to the root on my next attempt. I wrap my lips around his cock again and suck back again.
Randy holds the handhold on his car with his left hand, and his right hand cups the base of my skull, urging me further onto his fuckrod. "That's it baby, suck that fucking cock!" he says, his voice raised slightly so he can be heard above the din of the wind and the subway wheels on the track. I moan in full agreement as I plunge my head forward, taking him all the way to the root and holding him there, massaging his pulsating head with my throat muscles. Yeah, eight hard inches, I think. Experience has taught me to gauge cocksize by how far into my throat a guy can penetrate.
"Ah, fuck," he cries and pulls my head even tighter into his crotch. My nose is buried in his lush auburn pubes, and as I struggle to breathe through my nose I am wafted away on the heady funk that so enticed me earlier.
I am on my knees on the corrugated steel platform of my car, my left hand gripping the bottommost chain of the guardrail for support, my right hand grabbing the back pocket of Randy's jeans, pulling him into me, holding on for dear life. Between us is a chasm of four- or five-inches through which you could see the railroad ties blurring past if your face weren't buried in a hot guy's crotch with you moaning around his stiff 8-inch tool buried into you to the hilt. Talk about hard and fast!
I have begun gotten into a rhythm. I pull back halfway off his dick and plunge back down on him, then I pull back 'til I can feel the flare of his helmet. I bob up and down a couple of time and then plunge all the way back down to the root again. I'm working my stud's meat this way, the train is swaying, the darkness is punctuated occasionally by a few seconds of bright fluorescent light as we zip through a local station without even slowing down.
Then I feel his dick swell even fatter in my throat. Randy grips the base of my skull tighter and starts to buck his hips into my eagerly sucking face, ramming his meat all the way into my gullet and then pulling almost completely out again before he rams his hard dick all the way down again.
"Take it, faggot," he screams above the screech of the subway. "Take all my meat down that cuntboy throat." He's jabbing me in short bursts now, only occasionally pulling back far enough to enjoy the friction of my desperate, quivering lips along the entire length of his shaft. He's close to blasting a full, hot load of his spunk down my throat, and his frantic pistoning of my submissive mouth signals that the desire to bust his nut is overcoming the need to prolong the fuck for as long as possible.
I look up as best I can as he continues to ravage my willing mouth. He still grips the handhold, but now his back is arched and his head is thrown back in a triumphant pose. His hair streams away from his face in the wind of the speeding train, and he shouts obscenities and insults to the ceiling of the subway tunnel. At this point Randy is pure male sexual energy, and he is about to fill me with a full measure of his masculine fertility.
"Deep beneath Manhattan, I eagerly suck this god's engorged phallus and pray for the strength to consume all he wishes to give me."
I am momentarily distracted as this inchoate babble overwhelms my mind, but then I realize that Randy has both his hands on the back of my head and is burying his throbbing prong deep in my throat. I am working my throat muscles up and down the length of his velvety hard shaft, milking the cum out of his dick, savoring the sensation of each jet as he unloads it deep into me.
"Fuck!" he shouts. "Fuck, yeah! Take my load, pussyboy. Eat my dick, cocksucker. Yeah! Fuck! Shit! Fuck!....." His ranting becomes profanity-laced gibberish as he disintegrates into sexual ecstasy, filling my moaning throat with his spunk. I contentedly take everything he gives me, deep in the warm glow of having been thoroughly used and of having given intense and satisfying pleasure.
He pulls back slightly and the sweet/salty taste of his cum floods my mouth. I continue working my throat, swallowing every drop of his delicious juice. His cock softens to a firm sponginess, and he starts to withdraw it. The rush of the wind lessens, and I feel the train slowing; somewhere in the back of my mind I realize we are finally entering the station, but I'm too busy nursing Randy's tasty cock to be too concerned about the complications this poses. My sex-saturated mind knows only that I want to extract every last drop of Randy's manjuice, and the tingling itch just past my sphincter insists that my ass will not tolerate being forgotten.
As Randy slowly draws his slimy cock from between my lips, I suck him for all I'm worth. As his cockhead slides out of my mouth, I flick my tongue into his piss-slit and retrieve the last taste of Randy's essence. Randy collapses back onto the door behind him, and I pivot onto my heels. From this squatting position I get unsteadily to my feet. A quick look through the window behind me reveal the clutch of folks still down at the other end of the car, apparently oblivious to the intense sex show that has just occurred a few yards away from them. Likewise in the other car, where a couple of people towards the middle of the car read their papers or listen to their iPods.
"Fuck!" Randy says, his right hand gently massaging his belly. The train's fully in the station now and coming to a stop. People line the platform to my left, and I smile to think about the eyeful they would have gotten had the train been just 30 seconds earlier in arriving. Randy's taste still coats my mouth, and his smell is smeared across my face. It fills my nostrils. I breathe deep and smile, looking him over from head to toe and back again. He has buttoned his jeans, and his shirt tail hangs out over his crotch. I remembered that my own pants are undone, and I quickly fix myself.
"Damn, boy! You sure know your shit!" Randy says, straightening himself up. "That was a totally hot blowjob! I coulda kept fucking that tight pussymouth for a lot longer, but I figured I better finish up before we got ourselves arrested!"
"I loved it!" I gush. "I loved the way you took charge there at the end and rode me hard all the way home!"
"We better get our asses off this platform," he says, heading into the car behind him. "You know, it's totally illegal to ride between the cars."