Date: 6/19/2017, Categories: True Story, Oral Sex / Blowjob, Consensual Sex, Straight Sex, Gay, Author: Bulge Voyeur, Source: sexstories.com
I’m not sure where the sexiness of it all comes from but the great director, Hitchcock, used it to great effect many times. “Strangers on a Train” is a disturbing story of homoerotic intrigue and murder, while in “North by Northwest”, the train rushes into a tunnel, just as Cary Grant and his paramour finally kiss. Well, it was considered quite naughty in 1953! On this occasion though, I was taking the Caledonian Sleeper from London Euston to Scotland and I had booked a First-class single compartment. The compartments on British sleeper trains are really small but I still enjoy the thrill of the dribbling trickle of hot water in the tiny sink with its fold-away top, the crisp coldness of the bedding on the narrow bunk bed and the seductive blue of the night-light; then waking in the morning to a new and barren landscape passing your window as you shave, naked in the middle of desolate Rannoch Moor……makes me horny just thinking about it. On this trip however, I got an extra thrill for my First-class fare, as I threaded my way with my coat and bag along the corridor to find my compartment, because I spotted another guy, nice looking and a bit younger than me, apparently on his own and coming the ‘wrong way’ down the corridor. I say the ‘wrong way’ because the corridors are so narrow that there are notices telling you which end of the car to get on. But he was nice looking, so I forgave him instantly – especially when I realized that we were going to have to pass one another in ... such a tight space! He was about 5’10”, with thick unruly dark hair and a clean-shaven but slightly weathered face with a broad mouth and luxuriant eye-brows. He was slim too and was wearing a chunky grey and black sweater and rather fetching pale grey ‘Craghopper’ hiking trousers – the sort that are hard-wearing but which cling snuggly in all the right places! On his back, he had a ruck-sack and over one arm he carried a jacket, while in his hands he had his ticket - and a grey and silver cycling helmet. My imagination was getting to work already! As he approached, I noticed the clinging folds of his grey ‘Craghoppers’, forming around an interesting bulge to the left of his flies. He looked at me apologetically and gestured with his eye-brows to one of the compartments past me and I heard his voice for the first time, “I think that’s me just there,” he said in an accent that sounded Irish but not the nasal twang of the North; rather the soft and seductive lilt of the South, I thought. Now, I’m a sucker for an accent, that’s my trouble. And when issuing from the gorgeous mouth of a soft-spoken, fit young Irish guy, I’m putty in his hands – or would be given half a chance! So I decided to ‘give way’ (well, that’s where I usually end up, so why fight it?) and I put my bag down and tried to make myself slimmer than usual against the wall of the corridor for him to get past me. As he squeezed past, I could now see his face up close; close enough to see the pores of his skin which ...