Girl on the Net

Continuing the series of erotic fiction set on tube trains (I heart TfL), here’s some aching, surreptitious fucking on the Victoria Line. Note that this story is fiction. Don’t do it in real life. 

The carriage is already rammed by the time we get on – him, me, a few friends. All of us slightly tipsy from the gig, but eager to continue the night back home in Walthamstow. Home, where the booze has been pre-bought from Tesco and we don’t have to queue behind Gen Z amateurs at the bar. The train is packed by the time we get on but we squeeze down to the end of the carriage anyway. When someone gets up to push past us, in deference to his ever-present backache I offer my boyfriend the seat. Then, because my feet are hurting and I’m a little bit pissed, I sit on his lap.

Skirt spread out across his thighs, I squirm a tiny bit as I plonk myself down. One of our friends makes a joke about it, and gets a sarky response. We’re tired, is all. It’s late. You’re just jealous that you don’t have a lap to sit on. You know the kind of thing.

Beneath me, I feel this tiny little movement – he thrusts up about half an inch. No more than that. It’s almost nothing at all, and if I hadn’t been focusing on how warm he felt beneath me I probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all. I purse my lips slightly to stop myself from grinning, then squirm a little more, just to let him know that I felt that.

He puts his hands round my waist. I rest my bag on the floor in front of me, then use my free hands to spread my skirt out further. Subtly, of course – I don’t want the person sitting to my right to wake up, or indeed for anyone nearby to notice what I’m doing.

What am I doing? Nothing, really. Just shifting my clothes so that instead of sitting my almost-bare, thong-clad bum on a layer of rustling polyester, instead I’m perched on the rough denim of my boyfriend’s jeans. With that layer gone, I can feel the zip of his fly pressing coldly against my skin, and even imagine I feel his cock growing harder beneath me.

Wait… maybe I’m not imagining it. There’s a noticeable bulge just beneath my right buttock, and I squirm a tiny bit against it, just to check.

Beneath me, he gives it one single, pulsing twitch.

I can’t stress enough just how small my own movements are – infinitesimal. You would never know to look at us that we’re horny instead of tired. Other passengers might assume we’re drunker than we are perhaps – you don’t often see adults sitting on each other’s laps – but there’s nothing excessive about what we’re doing. Nothing lewd. We’re just cuddling in the tube carriage on the way home from a gig. His head leaning forwards to rest on my back, me sitting up straight and yawning occasionally, for effect.

But every now and then, as the train jolts and screeches northbound through the city, I allow myself a little wriggle, to check how hard he’s getting.

I’ve always loved the feeling of a cock growing rigid in jeans. The restrictiveness of the fabric, caging it and causing it to be crushed against a thigh rather than springing free… it’s far sexier – far more obscene – than a naked cock, in my opinion. I like to know that not only is he hard for me, he’s hurting for me. His boner comes with an agony of discomfort as he shifts back in his seat, thrusts up at me that quarter inch by quarter inch, positively aching to be released.

I squirm back a little, and he pulses it again. Murmurs something I can’t quite hear. I lean back, pressing myself against him, and mutter back “what was that?”

He says it again, and again I miss his words. They’re so loud, these trains, especially when they’re rammed full of Saturday-night revellers. Our friends have started to ignore us, just yelling at each other over the din, continuing a chat from an hour ago in the pub. Other people have their headphones in to block it all out, or they’re tube-level yelling at their own mates in turn, making plans for when they get off the train.

Which takeaway are we getting? Your place or mine mate? I’ve lost my fucking Airpods again, I swear they were inside this pocket.

I take one of my boyfriend’s hands, still clinging tightly to my waist, and I squeeze it ever-so-gently as I ask him again:

“What was that?”

Sitting up and leaning closer, so his words are directed into my left ear, he whispers… “I want…” and then pauses, before continuing all in a rush… “I wanna be inside you.”

This time I do grin. And I was right that no one would notice – they’re all far too busy shuffling around to make sure those who are getting off can push past the bodies in the aisle.

In the confusion and kerfuffle of passengers, no one notices my boyfriend slide slightly down in his seat, and put his left hand beneath my skirt to release his cock from his jeans. The thrill of feeling his bare, marble-hard dick against the naked flesh of my arse makes my cunt gush. And I can feel the tingle of wetness on my lips as I shift my weight slightly to make the most of it.

My thong is still in the way, but for now I’m happy just squirming. Millimetre by millimetre, I push myself back against him, feeling his taut rigidity digging into the meat of my bottom. It reminds me of some of my earliest sexual experiences – this tiny-movement exploratory grinding which right now is necessary to avoid detection, but used to be a way of gradually testing the waters.

Back then, I could never believe that a boy would let me grind against his erection so shamelessly. Today, I just can’t believe that I’m getting away with it.

He still has his face pressed to my back, and that’s how I know that he lets out the smallest of moans. I wouldn’t have heard it otherwise, but his lips are crushed against the fabric of my top, and I can feel them vibrating as he does it: mmm. Just a tiny moan. Involuntary, of course: I don’t need to ask him to know that he will be even more scared of being caught than I am. All it would take would be for me to stand up swiftly and he’d be exposed.

I won’t, of course. What I will do, though, is shuffle again at the next station – as if I’m just making myself a tiny bit more comfortable. I take my weight off his lap and carry it in my thighs, then as the doors open and passengers start to spill out as others push on, I squish upwards and back.

Now, instead of being crushed against the back of my arse, his cock lies – fat and solid and pulsing – in the slit of my cunt between my thighs. I’m sure he can feel how damp my knickers are against the shaft of it. As I’m sure, too, that the cotton of the gusset must chafe a little against the sensitive skin of his prick.

This time, instead of a moan, he squeezes my hand. I don’t need to be good at reading people to understand what this squeeze means. He’s excited. He’s grateful. He wants to slip inside me.

Disguised by a cough and a shuffle in his seat, he slips his left hand beneath my skirt again and in one swift movement, tugs my thong to the side.

Another gush, as my cunt tenses at the horny shock of how quickly he removed that final barrier to penetration. I’m now throbbing with a desperate need to have him inside me too. My whole body is so tense it’s almost trembling. But not just yet. There’s been too much movement lately – too much shuffling. I can’t risk making that final move immediately, not until things have calmed down, at any rate, and our mates have gone back to their loud conversation. Not until the other passengers become buried once more in books and music and games.

I sit stone-still, but beneath me I am all softness and gushing urgency. You’d be forgiven for thinking we were just a tired couple on the tube on the way home. I think (hope?) that to outside observers we look relaxed and exhausted. But perhaps if you looked more closely you’d see the strain in both of our bodies – the way he grips me so tightly around the waist. The flush on my neck and chest. The way we’re squeezing each other’s hands so hard our knuckles turn white. I hold my thighs as tense as they are when I’m squatting, just hovering on the brink of sliding his dick inside.

At the next stop, I can’t wait any longer. I forget to tune in to the announcements or look around me to see if anyone’s watching. I’ve become a pure, white-hot, thrumming point of need, right where his dick presses firmly against the soaking entrance to my cunt. It’s time.

With a slow, deliberate motion, I pretend to reach forward for my bag, lifting myself ever-so-slightly from his lap. My skirt, fanned out around me, conceals my nakedness from view as I shift forward just enough to envelop the head of his prick. I pause briefly – less than half a second – to make sure that I’ve angled it right… then with his hands tense around my waist to encourage and guide me, I sit. Sliding the pulsing shaft of his aching cock completely – and deeply – inside.

Again, I feel rather than hear the vibrations of his guttural moan. Mmmm. And lucky we timed it like this, because we’ve just hit Highbury and Islington and there’s a mass exodus as the tube carriage half-empties: passengers stand up, shuffle off, and leave seats free for our friends to take. Our friends who are by now completely engrossed in their chat. Who’ll never guess what we’re doing, and probably wouldn’t believe it even if we told them the story.

We won’t tell them the story. This is just for us. Our secret.

Because as the doors close and the tube trundles off, I clench the muscles of my cunt around his prick, and he squeezes my hand in response. Then again, but the opposite – he clenches my hand and I squeeze around his cock. In this hyper-focused, adrenaline-fuelled state I imagine I can sense every single atom of his dick. The thump of blood that causes it to twitch, filling everything from the thickest veins to the tiniest capillaries. I imagine, too, that he can feel every single wet ridge and ripple inside me as I flutter around him.

Finsbury Park.

Again, the doors deposit more passengers onto the platform. And as they do I take the opportunity to switch from a deep, internal convulsion to a full-body squirm. Raising myself ever-so-slightly from his lap – no more than a quarter of an inch – then pressing myself back down against him, grinding him into me, right up to the hilt.

No more moans now, the carriage is too quiet for him to risk it. Instead he lets the tension and the pleasure out by allowing his hands to start trembling. Pulling me down onto him, thrusting back no more than a few millimetres, and positively shaking with an urgent need to come.

By the time we reach Seven Sisters, my fingers have almost turned numb from how tightly he crushes them in his grip. And I respond in kind, with the tension in my cunt. By Tottenham Hale, he’s clearly starting to forget that we’re still in public. And millimetres of thrusting has become a centimetre or more, so I squirm again and gently tap his hand to say ‘enough.’

Chill out. Calm down. Leave this to me.

I close my eyes and drop my head as if I’m nodding off to sleep – all the better to focus entirely on the way that every single inch of his cock feels as it rests inside me. I angle my body forward, shifting him inside me so that the tightest ring of my muscle envelops his coronal ridge – the most sensitive part of his dick.

He clenches my hand in his again and squeezes me so tightly I can just about breathe, but with pursed lips and intense concentration I continue to deliver those little tremors of sensation. The sensation is so powerful I almost come myself – with him angled like that I’m pulsing the fat shaft of his cock directly against my g-spot, and I know that if I don’t come now I’ll have to tear into him the second we get in the door. But I bite my lip and hold off because now that I’ve started I know I’ll get far more joy from victory than from simple orgasmic pleasure.

By the time we hit Blackhorse Road, I’ve developed a rhythm of clench and release that massages – almost milks – the first shot of spunk from his cock. Thudding powerfully through the shaft and pumping inside me, I can feel every single warm shot of it filling me up.

And each time he spasms with another wave, he grips my hand again as if in thanks. I respond with a spasm of my own, and clasp his hand in return. I am simultaneously tense and sated. Full to the brim with sticky heat and the still-solid length of his spent, satisfied cock.

By the time we reach Walthamstow Central and our friends hop up and urge us off the tube, I have run out of energy to hide my triumphant grin.

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