Five p.m. Friday. London Bridge tube station. The northbound platform is hot
and dirty and as steamy and crowded as anyone’s ever seen it. A blond
man frowns and wipes his immaculate forehead with an immaculate handkerchief
as if he doesn’t want to be contaminated. He looks disgusted enough to
wear it over his mouth and nose as a filter.
A train races in to the station and the gush of fumy air must be pure oxygen to the commuters the way they hustle forwards to breathe it in. Every carriage is packed with hopeless red-faced passengers who look to be well past their expiry date. The man uses his elbows as a battering ram and almost forces his way into the end compartment but in the end even he has to concede that it’s a physical impossibility to fit a quart into a pint pot. He frowns again as the train departs with scraps of floral summer dress poking out from between the rubber edges of the closed doors.
The electronic sign announces that the next three trains are all headed for Mill Hill and the man shuffles his feet and looks out toward the exit. It’s the first indication of human weakness he has shown. By the time an Edgeware tube arrives, the platform is once again filled to bursting. Forcing his way into the nearest carriage the man finds himself pressed up again the glass dividing screen and it’s not until the train reaches the next station that there’s a slight release in pressure as passengers struggle out of the doors and he’s able to swivel around and lean back. It would almost be a comfortable ride if it wasn’t for the inevitable onslaught of fresh bodies intent on crushing him into submission. People pour in like dirty water, filling every available space and everyone watches in horror from behind their copies of The Standard as a group of young college boys push their way through, throwing several passengers out of the carriage as they do so.
The man seethes visibly as he watches two of them weave their way through the commuters ending up in the aisle between the two rows of seats joking with each other and lashing out at anyone who looks as if they’ll take it lying down.
The third yob lounges against the screen; his grinning, gum-chewing face no more than four inches away from the man. He smells the scent of fresh sweat and hot suntanned skin and glares at the youth because he’s far too arrogant to play the ritual tube game of don’t look, don’t speak. He can do whatever he wants because he’s so high above them he can hardly see the world from his supercilious perch.
Perusing the thug with a well practiced look of disinterest the man takes in the jeans that are ripped and faded and so baggy they’re barely hanging on for survival, only the jut of hipbones keeping them in place. Sneering at the tribal tattoos and piercings that adorn that once perfect body, he gets his comeuppance when the train follows the bend in the tunnel at high speed and he’s thrown against young firm muscle. The look of disgust on his ice-cold face is noticeable to all. Spinning around he squeezes himself into the corner looking out at cables and soot stained Victorian brickwork trying to ignore the soft snigger of laughter that is secretly working him up into a frenzy.
They arrive at the next station and suffer another influx of passengers. It’s becoming hotter than hell now. The handkerchief comes into play once more as the man wipes the perspiration from his face in relief when it seems that his small comfort zone of personal space is to remain unbreached but then a group of tourists make a final push for glory and he finds himself nose to nose with the young man, their bodies jostled unceremoniously close together.
Angry at his inability to come up with a workable solution to this problem the man shoves with palms and hips and there’s a long drawn out moment when it seems as if the boy is about to topple over but then the surrounding bodies bend like trees in the wind pushing him back and all that’s left is absolute fear in both pairs of eyes when erection makes startling contact with erection.
The man should move but everything is pinned firmly in place, his blue eyes meeting with dilated brown ones as they both willingly allow the movement of the train to stimulate them, cock against cock, arms raised as they hang on tight and sway in synchronicity.
The faces around them are oblivious but then isn’t London Underground culture all about being oblivious to everything? Eyes widening from the inexplicable thrill of this moment, the young man shifts slightly and begins this slow erotic thrust that increases the danger and excitement to penthouse level. The man breathes in a soft huff of air then gives in, slipping his fingers around between metal and cotton and then sliding down between skin and denim to cup a smooth warm buttock.
They remain trapped as the train howls its way into the next station, the youth still pumping his hips, the man, braver now, squeezing both arse cheeks and feeling the flesh mould between his fingers. As the train fills and moves off once again they’re pressed so close together they’re able to exchange breath. Too personal now for eye contact they stare at anything but each other, hands and bodies moving together as they rock and sway and head closer and closer toward climax.
The man can feel his heart thundering in his chest as fingers wander into the pocket of his suit pants and rip a hole in the lining. He bites at his lip as a palm surrounds his cock and the contrast of the cool silver rings and hot sweaty skin makes him shiver. Unable to stop himself he begins to fuck the boy’s fist.
Delving into that cleft between the buttocks the man searches up and down trying to find the tiny indent in this most awkward of positions and having discovered it, he expels a covert sigh and circles the puckered skin with the tip of his finger watching that pretty face contort into a grimace of shocked delight. The look disappears immediately but it increases his thrill tenfold. He can do nothing more than tease, rubbing up against the young man with finger and hips but it seems the slightest touch in this bizarre situation is magnified beyond comprehension.
Almost forgetting where they are, the man is horrified to see that they’re approaching the platform and it’s coming up fast on their side of the train. There’s no time to react. The doors next to him slide open and they’re caught like rabbits in the headlights, on view to the station with their fingers caught in personal places. Terrified, the boy slips his hand free and the man makes the most of the confusion, swinging them both around and pushing the youth back into the corner.
Fear is a definite aphrodisiac. Harder than ever they grind bodies, breath coming fast and hot against skin as they keep to the minimal eye contact rule. The boy’s mouth is open, his tongue darting out to wet dry lips and the man gulps, almost able to taste the stranger’s kiss. Pulling back he glances down and sees the stain of pre-come darken the front of the boy’s jeans and he wants that cock so bad he can taste it as much as he can taste tongue.
The train rattles round a series of bends and the lights flicker off and on the way they do every now and then. Finding himself caught up in a surreal moment which is high up there in the insanity stakes, the man reaches down, opens both flies and presses their cocks together, wrapping his hand around as much swollen flesh as he can and slicking the flow of pre-come up and down overheated, over-sensitised skin.
Both of them hang on tight to the overhead handles as the sex between them gets more and more overt. Every breath catching in his throat, the man thrusts against the boy with a shimmy of hips, pulling back then fucking them both as hard as he can with his hand. Three or four repetitions of this and they’ve given up the pretence of not looking at each other and are staring, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, inches becoming fractions of an inch as they lean in and fuck without fucking, without speaking until they come in fierce shameful bursts. The handkerchief is no longer immaculate after it wipes away their semen.
Looking anything but ice cool and feeling anything but arrogant the man watches as the boy ties his sweatshirt around his waist then rejoins his friends on the platform at Kings Cross. They march rowdily out, creating chaos as they go, barging into people and shouting their dirty mouths off.
He’d give anything to feel one of those dirty mouths fastened tight around his cock.