It took twelve journeys in the end. I only got fined on three of them, but still – three hundred quid is a pretty hefty blow. Worth it though, to find the guy. The one train guard who’d let me off a fare in exchange for a grope of my tits and a sloppy face-fuck.
This one’s erotic fiction, obviously. I wrote it while I was on a train, which is why that train line gets a mention, but I assure you the guard was incredibly polite and I slammed my laptop shut at light-speed when he came to check my (valid) ticket. Note that this story might contain elements of coercion, if it weren’t for the carefully-written thousand-word intro that I stuck on the front of it to make it a bit more consensual. Feel free to ignore it if you like the non-con/dub-con stuff, or revel in it if you like your stories more consensual and your heroines more gleefully slutty.
As I say, I’d been riding the train for a while in the hope of finding him. Word of him had spread around my friendship group like one of those urban legends. Cara said she knew a woman at work who’d been offered a free ride in exchange for a hand job, and Alex said they’d heard similar but had never been able to confirm it. Reminded me of the last days of sixth form, when people used to whisper that Julian Connor would fuck you behind the bike sheds for a KitKat – and he could pick you up and everything. Put you against the brick wall with your knickers hoicked to one side so you didn’t have to lie down in the mud and get your clothes all messed up.
This one spread as fast as that – the rumour of the horny train guard. The one difference is that we’re adults now, so most dismiss the rumour as obvious bullshit and go about their day, focusing on meeting men like normal people do (on apps, late at night, when swiping faces feels marginally less depressing than the downward doomscroll on BlueSky). If you’re me, though, you resolve to have a big wank to the thought of it when you get home, and in the meantime you dig for further info.
“Which train? Which line? Any idea what his shifts are?”
The group laughs at my eagerness, and I style it out with a giggle too, but also… you know. I’m deadly serious. I’ve always kinda lusted after a fuck-for-money connection. Not like work, like a hobby. There’s something grimly compelling about the kind of man so desperate to empty his balls that he’ll put his job on the line to risk doing it. In my early twenties I used to shoplift on the off-chance those buttoned-up security guards might take me in the back room for a belting and a bent-over fuck in lieu of calling the police. Hearing about this grubby train guard made me horny in just the same way.
A seedy way. A curious way. A way that feels worth risking the odd fare dodge fine or two.
After eleven journeys, I’m almost ready to give in. The effort it takes to get dressed up just so I can ride back and forth is starting to wear thin. On too many evenings I’ve admitted defeat and had a wank in the toilets instead – imagining one of the frustrated, besuited commuters taking me roughly against the cheap plastic sink, or dragging one of the harassed-looking mums away from her gaggle of rugrats and kissing her up against the door in the gap between carriages. Running gentle fingers through her hair and more insistent fingers through the folds of her cunt, whispering that it’s OK to moan aloud now, I’ll catch her murmurs in my mouth.
But yeah. Lot of fantasies, not much action. Eleven journeys and still nothing. I settle on completing the dozen, but don’t hold out much hope. The rumour is probably bullshit, most of these are. Julian Connor couldn’t actually pick me up either, not even for a Kit Kat Chunky. We had to make do with the shed at the end of the sports field, fucking amidst a pile of hockey sticks (uncomfortable) and ancient gym kit (which stank). I told him to pull out so I could see the cum squirt from his cock, and he was so eager he ended up spitting half of it over my shoulder and into a pile of trampled netball vests. Never watched a game in the same way after that.
On journey twelve I know, the second I see him, that this guy is the one.
You want me to tell you he’s tall, dark and handsome, don’t you? Well I won’t. That’s not how it works and you know it. The ones who are willing to do this kind of thing, it isn’t about looks – it’s an aura. A vibe. This guard patrols the train with an air of smug authority. That’s how I know it’s him. The confident entitlement of a petty man who’s proud of his own little fiefdom. Even if it only spans the narrow stretch of rail track between Winchester and Woking or wherever. In the limited zone of these six carriages, this man believes he’s a king.
He struts down the carriage, scrutinising tickets. Insisting on seeing each and every rail card and seat reservation. Eyes lighting up when someone fumbles, in case this means an opportunity to assert his trivial dominance.
Bingo.
I let him get really close before I even start pretending to rummage for a ticket. The train’s pretty quiet and there aren’t many people in my carriage, but nevertheless I don’t want them to see what I’m about to do.
As the train guard approaches I can feel my nipples stiffen under my top, and while he’s busy scanning a QR code four rows down, I pinch them gently through the flimsy fabric of my top (no bra, much easier) to make sure he can’t miss them when he looms over me.
I let him stand there for a second while I pull out my phone. Give him time to note every observable curve of my tits. I let him stare for so long he feels the need to assert his power. Or maybe it’s just that power is his only means of expression when the blood’s started to flow to his chubby cock.
“Do you have a ticket?” I can’t quite tell if that’s menace in there, or excitement. He’s either keen to threaten me with fines, or excited to have the chance to make me pay in other ways. Put his foot down. Show this slutty young lady who’s king of the coaches.
I look him dead in the eye. This is my final check before I plough on with my plan. I’m reasonably sure that, if the rumoured guard exists, it’s this guy, but it can’t hurt to be sure. If in doubt, eye contact usually gives you a flavour of who someone is. I look him in the eye and run my fingertips along the neckline of my top. Tugging it slightly, as if I’m nervous. Fluttering my eyelids, like I’m about to confess to a silly mistake.
His gaze flicks down, taking in my rock-hard nipples and the curve of my tits. Assessing both my willingness and my value. Then lower, he glances at where my jeans pull tight against my crotch, like maybe he’s wondering how large a fare I’d have had to dodge for that.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, putting on a fake-feeble voice. Holding up my phone and flicking uselessly – almost sarcastically – between unrelated app screens. “I don’t have a ticket for this journey.”
Slouching in my seat like a sulky teenager (I’m forty two), I maintain a steady gaze and defiant expression, meeting his one of surprise. Maybe he’s not used to people courting this so directly. Maybe I’m wrong…? But no, no, he’s just trying to remember his script for this particular occasion.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to pay a penalty fare, madam.”
“Miss,” I correct him – the cheeky fuck. If we’re doing this, might as well go the whole hog on role play. When I tell him ‘miss’, he leers.
“Miss. You’ll have to pay a penalty fare. Either on-the-spot £100 or -” now, a pointed look. One that takes in the ache of my nipples, the wide open gap where he can see all the way down my top, past the curve of my breasts and to my stomach. I really want him to cum on it. “- come fill out some paperwork in the guard’s carriage and we can defer payment. Do you have ID?”
“Yes.” I don’t. Doesn’t matter, he won’t care. All he needs is a plausible reason to get me into the guard’s carriage. I grab my handbag and follow him out, making so little fuss that only a couple of heads turn to follow as we go. Minimal attention, that’s the way. Don’t want to spook him.
We sway and stumble through a couple more carriages before we get to the one with his little booth. Here’s where my work really begins. I’ve been too bold until now, too direct. Too… consenting. I think this man gets off on the power trip of it, not just the actual sex. So I have to switch from ‘slut’ to ‘sorry’, change my attitude from ‘no ticket, what you gonna do about it?’ to ‘I am so sorry Mr Powerful Inspector Man, please don’t dispense any punishment!’
Don’t worry, I’m practiced. I’ve done this before.
The train guard leans over me: coffee breath, I almost wince but manage to hold it.
“What made you think you could get on my train without a ticket, eh?”
‘My’ train. ‘Eh?’. He’s a half-second away from ‘young lady’, I swear to god. I mumble something and nothing, leaning against the wall of the corridor of the van, sliding down it ever-so-slightly to make myself look smaller. I look up into his eyes and shrug sheepishly, like a horny sixth-former caught fucking rugby boys for KitKats during lunch break.
“What shall we do with you, eh?” He takes a step closer. I can feel his breath on me now – hot and moist against my forehead. His prick’s growing hard. Satisfying. I want to reach out and touch it, but this man won’t want me to take the lead. I don’t want to take the lead, to be honest. That isn’t what I’m here for. That isn’t why I hunted him down.
He traces a finger down my neck and towards my cleavage, glancing occasionally at the door which leads back to the standard carriages and passengers and real life. If I hadn’t actively sought this out it would be threatening. Ominous, even. Grotesque.
“What do you say…” he murmurs, and in the way he says it I can see he thinks the tone is sexy. He believes this to be his ‘seductive’ voice, not his ‘creepy’ one. “…what do you say we chalk this one up as a mistake? Hmm?”
I nod, faux-shy. Playing a character twenty years younger and stripped of my power.
“T… that s-sounds great,” I mumble, then kick myself as I remember that I’ve never been able to fake stuttering. It just sounds sarcastic.
“What was that?” He asks, and now he’s pulling at the neckline of my top, right hand brushing down over my left tit, grazing it gently. He wouldn’t be doing this if he weren’t already certain of my answer, but maybe he just needs to hear it.
“Yes,” I say, meeting his gaze again. “Yes, let’s arrange something.”
At that, he pulls it one final centimetre, and the hem grazes over and past my nipple. The chill air in the guard van makes it pucker, taut and rigid. The sleazy guard dips his head, then, mouth wet and open and a pool of dribble gathering in the corner of his lips. He licks it first, tentatively, then sucks – opening wide and greedily pulling as much of my nipple and left tit in as possible.
Grunts, like ‘that’s it’. Pulls harder on the other side of my top so he can pinch the other nipple with cold, cruel fingertips. I let out a gasp. More sucks and grunting.
“Unngh,” he tells me now, aloud. “Unngh, you like that don’t you? You fucking tease.”
I give a non-committal ‘unn’. My tits are both out now, jiggling slightly as the train sways, and the guard moves his hands lower to start busily fumbling at my stomach and my arse, trembling slightly wherever fabric gives way to flesh.
“Better get on with it,” he says, in between overly-moist sucks at each of my tits. That’s the part where my cunt floods – “better get on with it,” like I’m a chore to tick off. The marble-hard erection he’s now digging into my thigh shows far more enthusiasm for the task in hand, but that’s OK by me. That’s why I’m here.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask him. I want him to say it – need him to say it. I want the words to fall out of his open, dripping mouth. He pulls away and resumes his full stance, unzipping his own fly now with practiced ease.
“Wellllll,” he drawls, tugging open the buttons and allowing my gaze to fall at the opening of his trousers, “usually, when someone needs to pay off a fare dodge…” I don’t avert my stare, I keep looking. At where his fat – thick, dark red, but most notably fat – cock now sticks through his boxers… “when a slut wants to fare dodge, they let me come on their tits.”
He’s nudging me down to my knees with one hand. Fisting his dick in the other, gripping it tight like he wants to choke out all the cum. I squat, back against the wall, noting how cramped this corridor is. He uses his free hand to grab a chunk of my hair, pushing me against the cold metal, staring down and pointing the angry, smooth head of his cock directly at my nipples – still shining with spit.
He grunts and stares and rubs and grunts some more, occasionally letting out a ‘yes, that’s it’ if I shift in a way that makes my tits jiggle and sway.
“Unngh, that’s exactly it,” he says, moving his cock closer, so now the tip brushes against my left nipple and he’s smacking and swaying my breasts with each vicious jerk.
“Look at me,” he instructs, and in that moment I think he’s going to come. I imagine him aiming it into my eyes as I stare up at him, and the thought of that makes my cunt pulse. Shame he’s not going to fuck me, to be honest. Shame he’s only planning to squirt cum on my tits then let me go. But no, he wants more than that, and hearing him say it aloud makes me pulse even harder.
“Usually I come on their tits,” he tells me through pants. “But I think you’re an eager little…” one more grunt, brief pause while he relishes the feeling of knowing he’s about to say the next word aloud, to my face… “bitch.”
He liked the sound of that, so he says it again.
“You’re an eager little bitch, aren’t you?”
I look up at him. Silently, I nod. And that’s all the encouragement he needs: he forces the full length of his fat dick into my mouth, my head crushed tighter now against the wall. There’s a rail above him towards the top of the carriage, and he grips that with both hands, for purchase. Fucking his cock into my throat and grunting loud enough to carry over the sound of the tracks:
“Unngh, yeah, that’s it. Fucking take all of my cock you filthy bitch. Suck down all that dick, that’s it.”
My lips are wide open now, stretched. I can barely catch my breath. I’m gasping and choking as he slams his cock in. The scent of his crotch is stale and intense, the feeling of the head of him right at the back of my throat is bruising. I’m drooling now, strings of it are leaking from the corner of my mouth.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” like a steam train himself, now, getting into a rhythm. He tilts his hips a little more so the angle changes. I can feel my tits jiggling and hear the soft thud of the back of my head hitting the wall – cushioned only by my ponytail.
“Bitch,” the train guard says, and “unngh” as he keeps fucking. Building speed until eventually he has to take one hand from the rail above to grip my head instead. Holding my hair tight, and pulling me so deeply to the hilt of his shaft it’s like he wants to inject his spunk direct to my stomach.
“I’m gonna come,” he tells me, with feeling, then – even harder, with every ounce of distaste and disrespect and hatred for who I am and what I am letting him do… “…you fucking bitch.”
“I’m gonna come down your throat, you fucking bitch.”
And he does.
The first shot chokes me, seeps up and to the back of my nose. Thick and hot and gushing, in perfect unison with his aching moan of relief. The second shot, if anything, seems harder – like the first was just a warm-up. After two, the third squirt hits my tongue. I can feel that he’s scrambling to pull out now. This train guard’s greedy as fuck – he wants a double cum-shot. And why not? Who am I to deny him? This is what I’m here for, after all.
I lean my head back, choking already on the first three shots of his spunk, as he fumbles with his dick and points it downward, squeezing at the shaft and head so he can milk the last ones – four, five, an extra dribble – out of the end of his prick so they fall onto my tits.
Shining, milky, wet ropes of jizz to join the wetness of his saliva where he sucked at me, and my own where I drooled during the facefuck.
“Good girl,” he says, suddenly gentler as the waves of lust ebb away. “You’ve done so fucking well,” he emphasises, using the shining head of his cock to spread those last drops of cum around the areola of my taut left nipple.
I look up into his face as he puts himself away, watching for that telltale shame as he realises what he has done.
There it is. A flicker. A wince. Delicious. From this moment on, he will not meet my eye – that shame will keep him from staring. It’s my favourite, favourite part, that shame.
“Clean yourself up now,” he tells me, handing a wad of tissue from his pocket, “and don’t let me catch you dodging fares again,” he adds, ludicrously, as if this whole thing genuinely was all in a days’ legal work. As he wipes his dick and shoves it – still fat, though rapidly losing stiffness – into his shorts, he throws out a parting promise:
“On night trains when it’s quiet, sometimes I give ‘em the belt.”
If you enjoyed this you might also like some of the other grubby wank fantasies collected at this tag here.