My First Time with a Man Started on the Train

I always thought I had a clear head about what I liked. Women. The curve of a hip, the weight of a breast in my palm, the taste of a painted mouth, the smell of a wet cunt. That was what kept me from sleeping well and woke me with my hand down my underwear, my cock hard against the waistband. That was my thing.

But there was also, in some darker corner, the other thing. The fantasy I told no one. The idea of feeling a stranger’s cock pushing against me, forcing its way in, pinning me still, sinking deep to the hilt. I’d imagined it a thousand times in the shower, alone, with soapy fingers clumsily searching for the hole I’d never dared to really explore, clenching my jaw every time a finger slipped inside me and made me come against the tiles without even touching my dick.

Straight, yes. But not entirely.

I’d been taking the same seven-thirty train to the studio where I worked for years. That line was always packed, especially on Tuesdays and Thursdays, for some reason I never understood. That October morning was one of those mornings. I got on at the third stop and immediately had to fight for a place near the door, holding onto the pole with both hands so the sway wouldn’t toss me onto the girl in front of me.

By the time we reached the center, the carriage was full in a way you can’t explain to someone who has never lived it. Body against body, coat against coat, breath against the nape of the neck. The smell of perfume mixed with leather and damp. And nobody spoke, because speaking meant admitting you were there.

First I felt the thigh. A firm thigh pressed against mine, barely separated by the fabric of our pants. I didn’t pay attention. There were six more people pressed against me and any movement of the train made them all jostle. It was normal.

Then came the hand. It wasn’t a hand that touched, it was a hand that stayed. Resting carefully on the small of my back, right where my shirt ended. It could have been an accident, someone holding on however they could. But the hand didn’t move when the train stopped at the next station. Nor when it started again.

I turned my head slightly, pretending to look at the route map. And I saw him.

He was a tall man, in his thirties, dressed in a gray overcoat and a white shirt open at the first button. He had a strong jaw, a neatly trimmed three-day beard, and his eyes were fixed on some point in the window, as if he were concentrating on anything but me. But the hand was still where it was.

I looked forward again. My heart was pounding in my throat.

I had two options. One was to move. Just take half a step, ask permission, change places. Anyone would have done that. The other was to do nothing.

I did nothing.

I waited. Three more stations passed and the hand stayed there, now a little lower. It pressed me just enough for me to know it wasn’t accidental. The fingers had found the edge of my belt and were roaming there with the patience of a hunter. My breathing wasn’t normal. The pole I was holding was wet with my own sweat.

Then I felt his cock.

It was hard. I had no doubt how hard it was, because it pressed against my ass cheek with the firmness of something that had an intention. The fabric of his pants and mine were the only thing separating us. I could gauge its thickness, its length, the exact shape of the head pushing between my cheeks. I could imagine what it would be like without clothes, thick and veined, throbbing against the palm of my hand.

And instead of moving away, I leaned back too.

It was a tiny movement, barely a millimeter. But it was enough. I felt him understand the answer. The hand tightened a little more on my back and his cock looked for a better place between my ass cheeks, separated by the two layers of fabric that at that moment felt like an insult. He pressed his dick against the line of my ass with a slow, deliberate shove, and I had to bite my lip not to moan in the middle of the carriage.

I closed my eyes. My mouth was dry.

I started moving too, carefully. Every sway of the train was an excuse. If anyone looked at us, they couldn’t prove anything. But I knew what I was doing and he knew what I was doing. And that was the only thing that mattered. I rubbed my ass against his fly with the slowness of someone trying not to be noticed, feeling how the head of his cock forced its way between my cheeks every time the carriage lurched.

His hand moved from the small of my back to my waist. Then down, slowly, until it settled on my hip, almost touching the front of my pants. I was hard too, my dick pointing upward, trapped against the waistband of my briefs, with a wet stain of pre-cum escaping from me no matter how hard I tried to stop it. I had it pinned against the pole, hidden by my own hand and by the back of the girl in front of me. His fingers went a little lower, brushed my bulge through the fabric, and squeezed once. That was enough to let out a breath between my teeth.

Three more stations. The carriage could hold no more people. I was like a whore, legs barely apart, pushing back every time the train jolted, feeling his cock grind between my cheeks like he wanted to tear open my pants by sheer rubbing. He was breathing near my ear now. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my ear, smell the mix of coffee and mint from his toothpaste.

“I get off at the next stop,” he said, so low I almost didn’t hear him.

He didn’t ask me. He didn’t invite me. He said it like information, like he was giving me a fact and I could do whatever I wanted with it.

My stop was four stations farther on.

I nodded slightly.

***

I got off behind him. The platform was crowded, so for about a hundred meters we walked as if we didn’t know each other, him ahead and me two steps behind. We went out to the street. It was an office district with old buildings. He walked three blocks without looking back. I followed him like a dog, still feeling the hard cock flattened against my pants, the stain of pre-cum cooling on my thigh.

He stopped in front of an old building, one of those with a worn marble entrance and a cage elevator. He took out his keys, unlocked the door, and went in. He left it ajar.

I stood on the sidewalk for three seconds, wondering what I was doing. I had a meeting at nine. I had a girlfriend who would be waiting for me to have dinner that night. I had a whole life that fit on the other side of that door.

I pushed it open and went in.

We went up six floors in silence. The elevator was so small we had to stand facing each other. He looked at me properly for the first time. He had green eyes, dark ones, and a tired smile on his lips. He smelled good. He smelled like a man who took care of himself, like cologne with woody notes, like something clean mixed with sweat. He lowered his gaze without hiding it to my fly, where the bulge was still obvious, and looked back up at my eyes with a slightly wider smile.

“First time?” he asked.

I guess he had read me. The way I was breathing. The awkward way I had followed him.

“Yes,” I said.

He nodded. He didn’t say anything else. When the doors opened, he got out first and opened the apartment. It was a large studio, with the bed unmade in one corner and books piled on the floor. The curtains were half closed. A half-finished cup of coffee sat on the table.

He took off my coat. He slid it from my shoulders with a calm I hadn’t expected, as if he had all the time in the world. Then he took off my sweater. He left the shirt on. He pushed me gently against the wall and stayed there, looking at me, his palms pressed to either side of my head.

“If at any moment you want to leave, you leave,” he said.

I nodded.

And then he kissed me.

I had never kissed a man. I thought his beard would rub against me, that I would feel disgust, that my body would suddenly remember this supposedly wasn’t for me. None of that happened. The only thing I felt was the weight of his mouth, the exact pressure, a tongue that moved in with the confidence of knowing what it was doing, pushing against mine, twisting, sucking my lower lip until it swelled. I grabbed his waist without thinking. I slid my hands to his ass, squeezed, and felt him press his cock against me again, now without coats, a rock-hard bulge against my hip.

He slipped one hand under my shirt and pinched a nipple until a moan escaped into his mouth. With the other, he opened my belt, pulled down the zipper, and slid his fingers into my briefs. When his hand closed around my dick, my hips moved on their own, fucking his fist like a teenager. My tip was so wet his fingers were slick with my own pre-cum.

“Look how worked up you are,” he said in my ear, his voice rough. “You’re dripping, you motherfucker.”

He knelt down. He unbuttoned my shirt from the bottom one button at a time, then yanked my pants and briefs down to my knees in one pull. My cock sprang up hard, pointing at his face, the head shining with a fat drop hanging from the tip. He took me by the base, held me firmly, and stuck out his tongue to lick that drop as if tasting ice cream. I closed my eyes.

And then, without ceremony, without asking permission, he took it all into his mouth in one go, down to the root. I felt the back of his throat squeeze my tip, felt him swallow around me, felt his tongue swirl under the head without stopping sucking. I had to grab his shoulders so I wouldn’t fall.

I let out the breath I’d been holding since the station.

He sucked me slowly, pulling me out to the tip, sucking the head with his lips tight, then swallowing me back down to the hilt. Every time he came up, he made a wet, obscene noise that filled the apartment. He ran his tongue under me, sucked my balls one by one, taking them fully into his mouth, and then went back to my cock, now with more saliva, swallowing me hungrily. I grabbed his head with both hands without meaning to, and he groaned around my dick when I tugged his hair.

“I’m going to come,” I warned him, my voice breaking.

He pulled my dick out of his mouth with a wet sound and looked up at me from below, lips shiny and eyes dark.

“Not yet.”

***

He made me kneel in front of him. He opened his pants and took his cock out. It was thick, thicker than I had imagined through the fabric, with a purple head and a pronounced vein running beneath it. His balls were heavy, hanging out of his briefs, and a smell of clean man hit me full in the face.

I took it clumsily. I didn’t know what to do. I worked it in my fist a few times, feeling the weight, the skin sliding over the hard flesh beneath. He watched me from above, not rushing me.

“Stick out your tongue,” he said.

I did as I was told. He rested the head of his cock on my tongue and rubbed it along my lips, leaving a trail of his pre-cum in my mouth. It was salty, heavy, denser than I’d expected. I tasted it fearfully at first, with the tip of my tongue, then opened my mouth and took him in as far as I could, which wasn’t much. I gagged. He held the back of my neck patiently.

“Slowly. Breathe through your nose.”

It was hard at first, but I found the rhythm. I sucked him the way I had seen it done in the videos I watched in secret when my girlfriend was asleep. I pulled back, licked him from top to bottom, ran my tongue over his balls, took him back into my mouth. Once I understood how, I didn’t want to stop. I focused on the tip, on that vein underneath, licking his full length while moving him with my hand. He began to groan softly, his fingers tangled in my hair, letting me do it.

“That’s it, you motherfucker,” he said. “Like a first-timer whore.”

He pulled it out of my mouth before I could come. He lifted me by the arm and took me to the bed.

He made me get on all fours without saying anything, just his hand in the middle of my back, pushing me down until my face sank into the pillow and my ass stuck up. I heard him open the nightstand drawer. I heard the click of a cap. I felt the cold of the gel first on the crease of my ass, then on the tip of his finger as he opened me slowly.

One finger went in easily, with all the saliva and gel he’d put on. Then two. He opened me slowly, patiently, searching inside with his fingertips until he found a spot that made me lift my head from the pillow with a moan I didn’t recognize as mine.

“There it is,” he said, touching me there again. “You’re ready.”

He slid in a third finger. It burned a little, but the burn blended with the waves of pleasure rising from where he was touching me inside. I pushed my ass against his hand without realizing it, taking his fingers like a bitch. I was so hard that the tip of my cock was staining the sheets with pre-cum.

“Please,” I whispered into the pillow.

“Please what.”

“Fuck me.”

He laughed low in his throat. I heard him put on more gel, slide his palm over his cock a few times. I felt the head of his dick resting against my hole. Big. Much bigger than three fingers.

He pushed slowly. The head went in all at once, with a sharp pain that made me clench my teeth and hold my breath. He stayed there, unmoving, with the tip inside and the rest still outside.

“Breathe,” he told me, one hand on my back. “Relax.”

I did as he said. I let the air out. And then he started to enter. Centimeter by centimeter, unhurried, giving me time to get used to each new millimeter. It was a mix of pain and something I couldn’t name at the time. Something like the first time you try a strong drink and it burns, and at the same time you want more. I could feel myself opening from the inside, feel his cock finding room where there shouldn’t have been any, my body forcing itself around it.

When he was fully inside, when I felt his balls resting against my ass, he grabbed my waist with both hands and stayed still. He waited for my body to get used to it, for me to start pushing back. And when I started, he started too.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t brutal. It was as if he knew exactly what I needed, as if he had studied me for years instead of minutes. He started with long thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and pushing back in to the hilt, giving me time to feel every centimeter of his cock going in and out. Every thrust ripped a new sound from my throat. The bed creaked. The curtains filtered a yellow light that moved with the wind. The sound of his hips slapping against my ass filled the apartment along with my moans muffled into the pillow.

Little by little he picked up speed. Deeper each time, faster each time, hitting that spot he’d found with his fingers, now pounding it with the head of his cock again and again. I started moaning without being able to control it, biting into the pillowcase, pushing my ass back against him to get him deeper. He grabbed my hair with one hand, lifted my head, bit my shoulder. I felt his teeth sink into my skin and arched under him.

“Touch yourself,” he said in my ear, not stopping fucking me. “Come for me.”

I slid my hand underneath me. My cock was hard as a rock, slick with the pre-cum that had not stopped leaking from the train onward. I grabbed it and started moving it to the rhythm of his thrusts. I only needed ten strokes. I came with a long moan, face against the pillow, shooting hot ropes of cum onto the sheets and my own stomach. My ass clenched around his cock and drew a growl from him.

“You’re going to make me come,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Inside,” I begged without thinking. “Leave it inside me.”

He drove his hands into my waist and sped up. Ten, fifteen more brutal thrusts, his body pressed against my back. Then he buried himself to the hilt, went still, and I felt his cock throbbing inside me, felt him filling me with hot semen, felt each spurt painting the walls inside me. He groaned low, his mouth at my nape, wrapping my back in his arms, collapsing over me with all his weight.

We stayed like that for a long while. I don’t know how long. His cock slowly softened inside me until it slipped out on its own, and I felt a thread of his cum run down my thigh. Then he got up, brought me water, asked if I was okay. I said yes. It was true.

While I got dressed, still feeling that lovely burn between my ass cheeks and his semen dripping inside my briefs, he asked if I took the train at the same time every day.

“Almost every day,” I said.

He smiled to one side. He didn’t ask for my phone number. He didn’t give me his. He went into the kitchen while I tied my shoelaces and made me a coffee. I drank it standing up, looking out the window.

When I was leaving, at the door, he grabbed the back of my neck with one hand and kissed me again. Slowly. As if it weren’t the last time.

“If you get on the wrong carriage again,” he said, “you know where to find me.”

I went out onto the street. It was nine twenty. I had missed my meeting and a text from my girlfriend asking where I was. I walked to the station with my legs still trembling and my ass throbbing with every step.

That night I had dinner with her. I told her I’d had a complicated morning at the office. She believed me. When I fucked her in bed later, I made her come twice and bit her neck harder than usual. She laughed and asked me what had gotten into me. I told her nothing. I kissed her forehead when she fell asleep and stayed up staring at the ceiling, with the ghost of another cock still marked between my ass cheeks.

I’m still straight. I still want women, especially mine. But now, when I get on the seven-thirty train on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I look differently. I look at the hands, the gray coats, the sharp jaws, the bulges outlined in other men’s pants. I look all the way to the back of the carriage, waiting.

Nobody knows what a man is looking for at rush hour. Sometimes, not even he does.