He always changed trains at my Tube station, this young man. He reminded me of a smart young guy I used to pass every morning on my walk to work in the city where I grew up and had my first job. In those days, I used to give fictitious names to the strangers I passed in the street regularly and I would even create a domestic background for them from my imagination. But the quiet and innocent simplicity of those days had now been superseded by the crowded and hectic life of commuting to work in London.
This particular chap was about 19 years of age and was called Craig; at least that’s what I called him. He was about my height; slim, clean-shaven and lightly built. He usually wore the same grey tweed jacket and plain grey trousers; the latter fitting beautifully around his crotch, so that there was always a nice packet showing. He had light brown hair, slightly tousled; he always looked like he had just got out of bed. He probably had. His complexion was clear and smooth, slightly pale. And he had grey eyes. Whether or not he chose his grey outfit consciously I never knew but, in any case, he had an instinctive awareness of what suited him. He looked delicious, actually.
We are all creatures of habit, aren’t we? He nearly always came in on the same train and came across the platform from the other line in exactly the same place on the platform, to wait for the train on the main line; the one I got on. On the train, he always stood in the corner by the doors, with his back against the partition. I always tried to stand opposite him, so that I could look at him, imagining his body, undressed and in his underpants – or sometimes naked altogether.
Having looked at him a number of times, I had examined every inch of his clean-shaven face and well-packed crotch and I could see that he dressed to his right. Very occasionally, I had spotted what I was sure was the bulge of an erection, slightly across to his right, indicating that he wore briefs rather than boxer-shorts under those tight grey trousers. The briefs were white, of course and the erections fairly frequent; after all, he was only 19 and not long out of bed. I used to wonder what he might be thinking about.
This morning was different, however; he came in on his usual train alright, and stood in exactly the same place, but today he carried a grey coat over his arm. The weather was overcast and threatening rain, so he was prepared. So was I. When the train came in, I got on next to him.
Today the coat was in the way of the view, as he held it over his right arm in front of him. Nevertheless, I knew what was there – or had a pretty good idea. And fate was about to offer me the opportunity of a lifetime.
The train seemed to be making very slow progress between stations; there was some trouble up ahead, it seemed. When we came into the next interchange station, there were masses of people on the platform and it was clear that an earlier train had been taken out of service and had deposited its passenger-contents on the platform to get the next one. The result of this was that when the doors opened, the crowds surged forward onto our train, desperate to get a seat, or at least a space.
I moved quickly. In the confusion of the crowd, I moved across in front of him and positioned myself with my left hand on the partition behind him and my umbrella in my right hand. I pretended to attempt to keep some space between us but, of course, because of the surging crowds, this was difficult. Even as the train stood there with the doors open and solid with people, more were desperately trying to squeeze on and eventually, I was pressed quite firmly against him, he with his back against the partition, still in his corner. He was still holding his coat over his right arm, in front of him and just above waist height.
Eventually, the doors closed and the train moved off. As the carriage swayed, I slid the back of my umbrella-hand behind his coat and against his crotch. Against the back of my hand, I could feel the slightly rounded shape of his packet, bunched in the front of his white underpants. I pressed a bit, then released and slid my knuckles backwards and forwards across his packet, while I looked over his shoulder. I didn’t look directly at him, for fear that this would be too obvious and he might push me away; instead, I hoped that the movement against him might be thought to be merely accidental. Then, if he was offended by my touching him, I could just apologise and stop what I was doing.
At the moment, he seemed unaware that what I was doing was deliberate. So I carried on; a bit more pressing, and sliding, back and forth across his package. It had the desired effect. Even against the back of my hand, I could feel that his package was getting much firmer and was now bulging into his already snuggly fitting trousers. Still holding my umbrella, I extended my index finger in the direction of his right thigh and, true enough, there was a bulging ridge.
Meanwhile, the train was not making much progress. It was moving in fits and starts and we were now stationary in the tunnel. It was rather warm and people were getting restless and were shifting from one foot to another. I took the opportunity to appear to do the same but, in fact, in the crowd, what I was doing was moving my umbrella to hang over the inside armpit of my jacket. My right hand was now free to return to where it was and he was now, surely, aware that I was deliberately arousing him. Whether or not he was gay was immaterial; any sexually-aware 19 year-old would enjoy the selfish indulgence of an erection, however caused, just as long as it wasn’t obviously associated with the person causing it. So my hand went back to its treasure-mound and was not rejected.
Once the train moved, so did I. I twisted my hand around, covered by his coat, and found the zip at the top of his flies. I opened it out and gently slid it down as far as it would go and waited to see if he reacted. He just continued staring over my shoulder, pretending to ignore me. So I slid my hand inside; it was a bit tricky because his trousers were quite snug and I needed to get around to his right side. At last I did it and amidst the folds of his shirt, my fingers traced their way through to his underpants. I felt soft cotton and the seams that revealed that he was wearing Y-fronts, or something like them, and they were now bulging excessively under his tightly-constrained erection. He was quite a big lad, it seems. I grasped the bulge and began gently massaging and squeezing it. As I did so, his erection throbbed fully into life and began stretching his briefs really tight, his organ pointing slightly downwards and across his thigh. As he expanded, I coaxed his tool around in his pants so as to point diagonally upwards into the ‘expansion room’ of his Y-fronts.
The thing is, him being such a well-developed young man, his organ quickly filled the ‘expansion room’ right up to his waist-band and the result of my maneuver was that his organ was now just inside the top of his underpants above his right thigh. He was still standing looking over my shoulder but I was so close to him, I could see the pores of his features and the side of his face and ears, beautifully soft and inviting. I could have kissed him then and there.
I now slipped my hand over the waist-band of his Y-fronts and grasped his tool. Against my lower fingers, I could feel his pubic hair, quite short but also quite dense and tightly curled, reflecting his tousled hair. Taking advantage of the motion of the train to disguise any sudden movement, I began gently sliding the foreskin of his tool up and down over the engorged head now protruding from his underpants inside his trousers. His organ was solid and rock-hard. He was only 19 and clearly enjoying the secretiveness of this selfish pleasure but he surely must have known what was going to happen.
Suddenly, I felt him breathe in sharply against me and I saw the skin around his white shirt collar flush. Pink blotches began appearing over his pale, clear cheeks. And then I felt his organ pulsing in rhythmic release, as his man-fluid shot out into my fingers, over his tummy, over the waist-band of his knickers and into the folds of his shirt inside his trousers. Five or six times I felt his tool pulse until it began to subside, still throbbing slightly. Meanwhile, his ears were glowing and his eye-brows were furrowed, his flushed lips parted and I could feel him suppressing the need to gasp, as he breathed in and out sharply, in short panting breaths. Crushed in that overcrowded train carriage, the other passengers around us just carried on reading their books and newspapers, or stared vacantly into the crowd, blissfully unaware of the act of intimacy occurring right there, under their noses.
His organ was still erect; now slippery and sensitive, still in my grasp. As my finger worked over and around his cock-head, I felt his groin pull away from me involuntarily, and he used his right hand (which was still carrying his coat over his arm in front of him) to gently push my hand out of his flies. I moved a little away from him but the crowd in the carriage made it difficult to move much. I looked directly into his grey eyes and saw his pupils, massively dilated. He glanced at me and, as he did, I raised my eye-brows and gave him a little smile. He just looked at me for a second – just enough to acknowledge me – and then blinked and looked away. What was he thinking at that moment?
Craig got off the train at the next stop and hurried away into the morning rush-hour. I continued my journey to work, thinking about all that cum in his underpants and soaking into his shirt. His first task of the day was going to be a trip to the Gents to clean himself up as best he could, but all the rest of the morning, he would be reminded of his adventure en-route to work by that uncomfortably cold, damp feeling in his groin that none of his friends or work-colleagues could have any inkling about, as they innocently chatted to him………