Train
“The sound of fucking, the sound of fucking, the sound of fucking,” the mantra in his head rolled over and over like a freight train churning wheel by wheel into a blind tunnel. Countless hours had been spent in this bourgeois hotel room, air littered with stale smoke, listening to the couple in the room that shared the wall with his bed. The sound of fucking.
“The sound” was reserved for the bang of the headboard, “of fucking” syncopated directly with the woman’s throaty plea for more. He lit another cigarette with the last one and took a long drag as he rooted the empty butt among the dozens that marked the hours prior.
Earlier, when they had just begun their evening wall banging, he had lain there for not quite twenty minutes, knowing the scene on the other side of the wall. Face buried in thighs, he imagined. An invisible penis rubbing uncomfortably against the prickly cheap hotel bedding nearly identical to the gaudy geranium print that covered his bed.
He took a drag off his cigarette, pausing to contemplate whether or not he was hard enough to fuck through the wall and to the other side, when her moans escalated to a near scream and then stopped unexpectedly. He heard nothing but murmurs, which he translated in his head, out of a keen and not the least bit remorseful jealous spite, into words of disappointment.
He knocked back a glass of vodka, his black hair screening his eyes as he tipped his head forward, and he glanced in the mirror at his lean, nearly naked body. As he stood, admiring and loathing himself at once, the contradiction wreaking havoc on his poor confused cock, the sound of fucking started.
Like a viewer late for a movie, he rushed to pour another glass of vodka and quickly strode back to the bed, stripping his shorts off and landing on the bed in one swoop. He lay like that, naked and without contact for what could have been hours, repeating his mantra, letting their rhythm mark time in his head. And, he thought later, it wasn’t that he wasn’t interested, it was that they were pounding into him so hard he couldn’t think of anything but the sound.
He heard the man, a stern voice, finally breaking his trance. The voice was low and commanding, nearly clear enough to have been directed straight into his tympanic membrane. “Roll over now,” he intoned. “I want to fuck your ass from behind.”
He rolled over obligatorily, knees splayed, grasping his growing cock with ferocity. He heard the woman murmur with disagreement, and with slight chagrin he felt far too easy, his tender asshole opened to the room above. Before he could lose the momentum to embarrassment, however, the soft purring sounds of the woman in front of him allayed his fear. He rocked back and forth on his knees, feeling his ass pumping uselessly into air as he stroked his cock with one hand, down the length, two fingers sliding over the tip, successfully milking a small amount to slick his entire hand.
One hand on his cock, the other on the wall in front of him, he fucked the air, listening for any sound he could hear coming from ahead. He closed his eyes and saw the woman in front of him, pose identical, slight shame in her face nearly masking her open want, degraded and lusty. He saw the man, finger knuckle-deep in her ass, one hand on his impatient cock, stroking and slowly heading towards his goal. Letting go of the wall, he balanced himself on his knees, both hands on his cock, as he ran the middle finger of his left hand down the length and under his balls.
“You want this, don’t you?” he heard the man ask. “Yes. Fuck my ass,” he replied without thinking, and he slid his middle finger into himself, millimeter by millimeter.
The woman in front of him let out a sharp grunt, and he heard a dull double thud, knowing her hands had braced her sweat-slick body against the wall. At first, the sounds of her groans were confusing, walking the thin line between pleasure and pain, and he buried his finger as deep into his ass as he could reach, turning it up to massage himself as he panted into the starched white pillow. She grew louder as the man fucked her deeper and deeper, and he almost saw her reddened cheek making an impression into the wall above his head.
The man grunted with delight as she begged him to pull her hair, and he fucked himself with his hand in time to her growing pleas. Leaving his cock to its own accord, he pushed himself up on the bed and laid his cheek, he imagined, next to hers, opening his ass further with his free hand and sliding a second finger in with the first.
“Fuck me, fuck me. Fuck. I’m going to come,” he heard the man gasp. “I’m going to come all over you, bitch.” In a flash, he was on his knees facing the wall, facing the woman about to be covered in cum. He closed his eyes and saw her ripe, smooth ass waving lonely in the air, saw the man’s hard cock ready to empty itself relentlessly on her arched back, saw her open mouth, gasping for air, begging for more. He closed his fist over himself, his penis inches away from her mouth, and began to come in her face with firework spurts, behind his closed eyelids the man coating her from behind. His body wracked with spasms, he shot his load over and over again, watching her open her mouth, her tongue searching for as much as it could capture.
As his ejaculation waned to nothing, he opened his eyes and lazily watched his semen slide like melting ice cream down the wall.
Copyright © 2004 by Jezebel. All rights reserved.
Jezebel is a fledgling erotica writer with a penchant for the dramatic and a talent for walking into stationary objects. She’s currently working on a full-length novel, which will be ingenious – if it ever breaks the 30-page mark.
If you enjoyed the story, why not let the author know? Type your message below and we’ll send the author email. Leave the from box empty to be anonymous, but include your email address if you want a reply.