Train Sex Story

A train sex story is not supposed to happen in a second-class sleeper, and that is exactly where mine did — somewhere past Ratnagiri on the night train, in a berth that belonged to somebody else.

Train sex story

Priya had the lower one. I had the upper, and I had already given up on sleep, hanging my arm over the edge with my phone dead, when her curtain slid across and her voice came up through the dark.

“You awake up there?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t sleep. The man across is snoring like a tractor.”

She said it flat, like a fact, and I laughed, and that laugh turned out to be the whole beginning of it.

I climbed down. There was no chair, so there was nothing to do but sit on the edge of her berth with one knee up, and the train rocked and threw me sideways and my elbow caught her in the ribs.

“Sorry— sorry—” I said.

“It’s fine,” she said, but she was rubbing her side and laughing too, and then neither of us moved and the rocking just kept pushing us into each other, shoulder to shoulder, along the length of the berth.

The window was black. Nothing outside but the odd light going past like a match struck and thrown.

She had a blanket over her knees and a thin kurta on, and after a while of sitting there her hand came down and rested on mine — not holding it, just resting, the way you do when you’ve decided something and don’t want to say it yet.

I turned my hand over. Her fingers slid between mine and closed.

Nobody said anything for a long time, her thigh warm against mine under the blanket. The train counted for us.

Then she lifted my hand and put it on her thigh, over the blanket, and left it there and looked at the dark window, and I understood that this was the whole question and the whole answer.

I moved my palm up under the blanket.

Her skin was warm and smooth and she let her knees fall open, just slightly, and my hand went up the inside of her thigh, slow, and she turned her face into my shoulder and breathed out through her nose.

Somewhere down the coach a door slid and a voice called out for tickets.

We both went rigid, her hand clamped down on my wrist. Her hand clamped down over mine and held it still against her thigh, and I felt her heart through her skin, or maybe it was mine. The voice came again, closer, and then passed, and moved on down the corridor, and the door slid shut behind it.

She let out a breath and laughed, soundless, her forehead against my jaw.

“Five minutes,” she said. “He’ll be back round.”

“Then don’t waste them,” I said, and she hit my chest with the flat of her hand and then pulled me down by the shirt and kissed me.

It was cramped and clumsy, my knee jammed against the wall and her back pressed to the cold window. My knee banged the wall, her back was against the cold window, and we kissed like people who had forgotten how, noses bumping, until we found the angle and then forgot everything else.

Her kurta came up over her hips. Under it, nothing but skin and the thin line of her underwear, and I hooked a finger under it and pulled it down her legs while she kicked it away into the blanket. My mouth went to her throat and down to her breast, taking the nipple in, and she wrapped a hand around the back of my head and held me there and arched up off the mattress and pressed her thigh against my hip.

My fingers found her wet and open, and she made a sound she immediately swallowed, biting her own wrist to keep it in. I slid two fingers into her and she rocked onto my hand, taking them, gripping my forearm, her breath hot and broken against my ear.

“Wait—” she whispered. “Not like this. I want—”

She didn’t finish it either. She just pushed my hand away and reached down between us and unbuttoned my jeans herself, quick and impatient, and pulled me out into the warm dark of the berth.

Then she bent her head down and took me in her mouth.

I nearly came right there, her tongue moving slow and wet along my cock. The train rocked and her tongue worked along me, one hand braced against my hip, wet and hot and slow, and I had to grip the frame of the berth above her head and count the rails under the wheels to hold on.

“Stop,” I said, pulling her up by the shoulders. “Stop, or this ends before it starts.”

She came up grinning and swung a leg over me, and it was too low a berth and too short a space to do it any way but one, so she sat back against the window and pulled me between her thighs and I went into her with the blanket bunched against my chest.

She was slick and tight and the train threw us together in its own rhythm, and I just held her hips and let the rails do the work. Every shake of the bogie drove me deeper and she took the whole of it, one hand flat on the window, the other dug into my shoulder, her mouth open against mine and nothing coming out of it but air.

Her foot found the ceiling of the berth and braced against it, giving her something to push back against, and the whole compartment creaked gently around us.

I kissed the corner of her jaw and down the side of her neck and she tipped her head back to give me all of it and her hand tightened in my hair, and the train rode on beneath us like it had been doing it all night.

I put my hand flat on the window beside her head and she hooked one leg up over my hip to make the angle work, and the berth wall knocked against its frame with every push.

She pulled my mouth down onto her breast again and I took it, teeth just grazing, and she gasped straight into my ear and clamped both thighs tighter around my waist.

I watched her face in the dark of the window glass, her own reflection, mouth open, eyes shut, and I understood that she had decided about me hours ago and was only now letting me find out.

Her hand slid from my shoulder into my hair and she held my head against her throat while I moved, and I could feel her pulse there, fast and getting faster.

When I bent her knee up higher the angle changed and she pulled in a sharp breath and bit my shoulder to keep the noise in, and after that neither of us wanted it slow.

Down the coach somebody coughed and we both dropped to breathing only, moving slower, deeper, nothing left but the rails and the wet grip of her around me.

I slid a hand down between us and used my palm low on her while I moved, and her hips rocked up into the pressure every time.

She pulled one knee high and hooked it over my shoulder and the angle changed everything, deeper and tighter, and she bit down hard on her own fist.

I bent and took her other nipple in my mouth while my hips kept working, and she dug both hands into my back and dragged her nails down it.

Her breath came in quick pieces against my ear and her thighs started to tremble around my waist and she pulled me in with her heels.

I moved my mouth up her throat to her jaw and she turned into it and kissed me hard to smother the sound she made when I pushed in deep.

One hand was spread flat on the fogged window and the other on her hip, holding her steady through every jolt of the rails.

It got fast and hard, my hips driving into her and my hands clamped on her waist. It got desperate, her heels dug into the small of my back and her breath breaking against my ear. Her thighs clamped around my waist and she pulled me down into her with both hands on my hips and I felt her pull tight and shake and go quiet in the way that means the opposite of quiet, and I followed her over with my face buried in her neck.

We stayed like that, breathing, while the train ran on through the dark.

Then, far down the corridor, a door slid open again.

She shoved me off her so hard I nearly went onto the floor, and I scrambled up the ladder to my berth and lay there with my heart going and my shirt half off, listening to the ticket collector walk past beneath me, calling for tickets, calling for tickets, and not stopping.

In the morning her berth was made up neat and she was sitting at the window with tea, and she looked at me once, and neither of us said a word about any of it, and somewhere past Panvel she got down with her bag and did not look back at the window I was watching her from. More stranger encounter stories.