The Telemachus Story Archive

Crowded Train
By Handy

Crowded Train

By Handy

Devon Parker, 23, stood amongst a mass of people on the station platform, waiting for the arrival of his train. The tall, handsome young man was stylishly suited with a professional, black leather shoulder bag and polished shoes completing the ensemble of an up-and-coming man of business. He was only in the first couple of years at his company but looking to impress, and he had the work ethic and drive to achieve.

His daily commute involved a forty-minute express train journey into the city followed by a short walk. Today his train was only running three minutes late, which was a positive start. On the downside, a root around his bag pockets revealed that he had left his wireless earphones in his flat, so today’s commute would involve a lot of dull window watching.

The train eased to a stop and the crowd of people surged forward. Devon was near the front and was swept inside with the rest. The train was packed – it was always packed, every morning – and while it wasn’t quite the “Japanese physically pushing passengers on to fit” kind of squeeze, there was certainly no room for movement once the doors shut. He didn’t even bother harbouring the hope of getting a seat.

He ended up just in front of the door on the opposite side of the carriage, standing with dozens of others in a tight bunch. Towering slightly higher than the average, he retained a clear view of the glass window in the door, through which he could watch the world fly by. There were only two men between him and the door, filling the few inches of available space. Both had turned to face at least partially towards him, one at his right shoulder and the other at his left. He nodded politely to each and they returned the familiar gesture; strangers united by the same daily ritual.

He reached one hand up to grip the handrail at the ceiling, his only support for the journey ahead, and hooked his other hand up to steady the strap of his shoulder bag. One man pulled out a magazine, the other a newspaper, and they began to read. Devon felt pressure behind as more people crowded in; soon there was a press of unseen people behind him. No one in the crowded carriage had any hopes of moving. Devon couldn’t even bring his arm back down if he had wanted to, there was just no space to put it at his side. Still, there was a certain reassurance in the press. Everyone knew how busy it would be, how to politely coexist, how to endure without causing difficulties for others.

The train pulled away, and Devon settled into the sightless gaze of the commuter, staring out the window ahead.

It began only a few minutes later, and he didn’t even notice the sensation at first. But he gradually became aware of a pressure on his thigh, a light stroke of a finger (or fingers) across the fabric of his suit trousers. He shrugged it off initially, thinking his mind was merely playing tricks on him. But it happened again, and then again seconds later.

He thought it might be the bags of one of the men in front of him brushing against his leg, but a quick look confirmed that one was bagless, and the other had it over an opposite shoulder. The pressure came again, and this time he definitely felt the five pressure points of fingers and the palm of a hand pressing and sliding on his thigh.

UP his thigh.

The sliding movement continued upward and then inward, to the crotch of his suit trousers. Without hesitation, the fingers began to stroke across his going with firm pressure. His boxer briefs ensure that his packaged was held tightly beneath, and there wasn’t any visible bulge to entice an onlooker, but nevertheless, someone was copping a feel.

Devon’s mind reeled with surprise, followed quickly by mixed anger and fear. This had never happened to him before, and the violation of the assault was a powerful but somewhat paralysing sensation. He didn’t know what to do. He thought about loudly calling it out; “STOP groping me!” but couldn’t quite muster the nerves. People didn’t always trust men when they were sexually assaulted, and sometimes such unfortunate men were laughed at. He had always imagined that HE would be too brave, too self-respecting for that, but now, in this moment...

The fingers stopped groping, and for a moment he thought his assailant had finished their game and left him alone. But a strange, familiar tugging sensation at his trousers suggested otherwise. He couldn’t quite place the movement in those first seconds, but as the warm sensation of warm fingers caressed his upper groin, he realised that the hand had opened his fly – and was now exploring inside.

He was frozen in shock as the hand closed again in a tender squeeze of his bulge, and his mouth parted with a gasp as the unseen thumb slipped below the waistband of his boxer briefs and pulled down. In a deft movement the elastic was directed down and over his manhood and tucked under his ballsack. His genitals were now hanging exposed outside of his suit fly, displayed to the clear glass of the train door in front of him. Even if he could let go of the handrail with his free hand without falling into the people around him, he would never find space to manoeuvre it below his shoulders in the crowded group of passengers... at least, not without drawing attention to his private parts.

Fortunately, the people currently standing in front of him on either side were facing inward, towards his face. They couldn’t move or turn any more freely than he, and so for the time being no one would see his naked penis. But at some point, they would, unless he could find a way to cover himself. And he needed to find a way to cover himself, for it had already occurred to him that if he tried to call attention to his assailant, the hand would simply disappear, leaving him as the train pervert who got a kick out of exposing himself. It was unlikely anyone would believe anything else, and that sort of story would ruin a man’s reputation, if not his life.

His face must have flushed red in embarrassment, or his expression changed noticeably, as the man to his right met his eyes with slightly raised eyebrow. Devon forced a polite smile and nod, and turned his eyes back to the open door with feigned nonchalance. The man glanced back at the magazine held up in front of him. Devon tried to focus on breathing normally.

The hand, meanwhile, was not still. It had strayed to Devon’s scrotum and began to probe his generously proportioned balls. He had shaved himself carefully only three days ago, and his skin was extremely sensitive to the touch of the fingers trailing over it. First the hand traced delicately around his left nut, stroking the front, back and sides of his testicle; then it mirrored the movement on the right. The hand continued to switch back and forth between his delicate eggs, tenderly teasing and tickling.

Devon endured this with gritted teeth. His sense of frightened violation was now matched by an awareness of just how pleasurable the sensations were. Under consensual conditions he loved having his balls played with, and the unseen hand was very good at this. He clamped his lips against the rising groans in his chest, and was aware of how hot his face had become.

He glanced up to his wristwatch, on the hand that held the railing. Thirty minutes to the station. Thirty minutes to extricate himself from total humiliation and irreparable damage to his reputation. He wondered briefly who his assailant was. It was impossible to tell from the feel of the fingers – no long acrylic nails, thank goodness – but he naturally assumed it was a woman. That’show he leaned when it came to sex, anyway, but there was no reason why it had to be. In fact, it seemed unlikely... Surely a man was more likely to do something as kinky and domineering as this in public?

The hand was now stroking up and down the outside of his scrotum, and occasionally stopping to cup his entire sack. The warm fondling had awakened his sleeping penis, which now reared up higher and higher with each beat of his heart. Devon’s dick pointed straight up to the sky when he was erect, and right now he felt that it was halfway there and climbing fast. He could feel it bobbing slightly as it extended forward, plumping up as blood rushed inward, responding to his undesired arousal.

The hand did not appear to have noticed this, but it moved now to tickle the back of his scrotum. Devon couldn’t stifle his moan at this favoured sensation, but covered it with a short cough. No suspicion from the men around him, for which he was thankful. The hand tickled merrily away at his dangling plums, sending more signals to his growing boner. Beyond his sight somewhere below, his sausage had now expanded to its girthy fullness, and reached straight upward toward his belly.

The train shook slightly as it hit the next turn, and the movement caused a slight jostling as the momentum caused all the passengers to shift and adjust their balance. The hand left him, and he felt the crowd press in and adjust around him. He held his breath for a moment until everyone settled back into their tight press. He remained undiscovered, and realised that his prominent erection must be standing tall right between the two men in front of him, only inches from the glass pane of the train door.

Warmth around his balls. The hand had returned.

No, no, no., go away... he pleaded in his head, then realised that he must have muttered it aloud as the man to his left turned to look at him sharply. Devon stared straight ahead, pretending not to notice, and hummed tunelessly in the hopes that the man would assume he had misheard.

The hand began to caress his crown jewels with the zeal of a passionate lover, and Devon bit his lip hard to stop from crying out. The pleasure in his groin was growing, hot and fast. The big problem, he now realised, was one of biology. He had not had sex in at least a month (or was it two?) and hadn’t wanked in over a week. His virile balls had continued to play their role for his prime age reproductive system, he just hadn’t had time to satisfy them, and now his cum tanks were well and truly full.

His watch showed twenty-five minutes to the station. The hand found the base of his cock, and began to trace his rigid rod upwards. Up his shaft, slowly and sensuously, reaching the widening of his cockhead. The fingers closed at the top, stopping just millimetres from the point where the taut foreskin stopped to expose his bare slit. Then they slid gently back down the base. Upon reaching it they continued down, fingers sliding outward around the outer edges of his orbs until they met again on the underside of his coin purse. They paused for a moment, then reversed the movement. Back up around his testicles to the base of his pole, then slowly up his girth to the head. Pause. Reverse again.

This repetition continued without stopping for five solid minutes. Sweat had gathered around Devon’s hairline and his face was fully flushed. His knuckles, gripping shoulder strap of his bag and the handrail above, were pure white. His legs felt weak. He was helpless; he dare not draw attention to this assault nor could he protect himself from it. His tormentor had him by the goolies and wasn’t showing mercy.

Surely it had to be a man. No woman could have had the clear understanding of how to touch and tease so lightly, so artfully. It had to be a man, who knew just how it felt. Right? Did it even matter?

His balls were fully of the opinion that they needed to be emptied and welcomed the pleasurable torture that made orgasm ever more desirable. His cock FIRMLY agreed, wondering why he hadn’t taken care of things with his own hands sooner, and wondering why it should now resist the hand that wanted to satisfy the situation. He felt another familiar sensation now – the tingling retreat of his foreskin off the head of his supremely aroused cock, leaving his red bell end fully vulnerable. He turned his head and pressed his mouth against his bicep to muffle his frustrated yelp.

“Are you okay?” The man on his right looked concerned, head cocked to the side.

Devon pushed his face into a smile and nodded with exaggerated good nature. “I’m good mate, It's just very hot in here. Thanks, though.”

The man nodded back and returned to his magazine. Devon leaned his head against his raised arm. The hand slid up once more and found his retracted foreskin and paused to feel the wrinkled flesh bunched under his helmet, tracing to one side and then the other. Devon could feel his cock shaft bump lightly against his belt buckle as it throbbed, and imagined the sight that was hidden from his view. His prick head stood bare and proud, stimulated skin an angry red that brushed against the tip of his necktie. He was a significant precummer, and already there was probably a glistening bead at his slit if not a slight trickle.

And there it is... A single finger found slickness and began to slide smoothly over his tip, polishing the glans and dome in a swirling motion. Round and round it teased, stopping occasionally to tap his tight meatus. He realised he was holding his breath again and forced himself to exhale, every fibre of his body on edge and humming with sexual tension. His watch showed fifteen minutes to the station.

Just breathe, he told himself silently, breathe. Breathing will help to calm you, help to relax you.

The unseen hand seemed to be psychic. In a symbolic ‘Ha ha, fuck you’ it returned to its previous pattern. It started under his balls and slid up the outside, pausing to tickle his bulging orbs thoroughly along the way. Devon choked back laughter and bit his suit sleeve to muffle himself. The hand teased up the shaft again, tracing prominent veins until it reached his knob end where the next bead of crystalline precum sent it sailing sensitively around his twitching tip. Then back.


And again.

And again.

And again.

The process didn’t vary, but the speed did. Sometimes it was quick and eager, other times painstakingly slow. Devon couldn’t predict it, and despite his best efforts to control his breathing, there was no way to calm himself under this assault. Tickling, teasing, stimulation, pleasure; all flooded his body from the nerve centre of his groin. Slowly, surely, he was being driven insane.

The train slowed down as it approached the next station; this was not part of the usual routine. Were they waiting for another train to pass? Was there an obstruction on the line? The hand left his tool suddenly, and Devon peeked out from behind his sleeve to see the train stop right next to a crowded platform. Between the two suited men before him his manhood stood a quiver, bare-balled. He prayed aimlessly and urgently that the suits of the two men were somehow shielding it from view, but fate was naturally against him. A middle-aged woman stood right before the door and immediately he saw her eyes widen and her mouth open in surprise. She batted the arm of the women next to her and pointed towards his waist. The other woman’s mouth also fell open and she pointed too.

The two men before him noticed the movement and looked at the platform, then the door in front of them. Devon braced himself for an outraged yell and accusing looks... But the train suddenly jerked forward, the pointing women lost to view, and the two men looked at each other and shrugged, returning to their reading material. Devon sagged slightly, relief flooding through him as the train sped up again.

Immediately the hand was back, and with clear purpose. After another loving fondle of his twins, the thumb and last three fingers took a loose grip of his fattened johnson. The pad of the index finger came to rest right on his banjo string, and began to play his instrument rhythmically. With metronome regularity, the finger swiped back and forth every second, strumming his frenulum and an inch of his glans.

Strum. Strum. Strum. Strum. Strum. Strum.

Deep within his pelvis, muscles tensed and fluid churned.

Strum. Strum. Strum. Strum.

His scrotum tightened, drawing his testes up to huddle at the base of his joystick.

Strum. Strum. Strum.

His helmet swelled, flushing purple.

Strum. Strum.

His cock slit flared.



Seconds ticked by without any movement from the finger. All of the coiled energy of imminent orgasm, held tightly in every muscle of his body, began to ebb and drain away. More seconds ticked by without further event, and Devon’s mind began to resume the rational thoughts it had abandoned in the face of the approaching explosion.

Strum. Strum. Strum. Strum.

Immediately his body tensed again, balls heaving heavenward as his prick prepared to propel its juices.

Strum. Strum.

He bit his sleeve once more, and squeezed his eyes shut.


Kegel muscles clenched.

Fuck fuckfuckfuckfuck screamed Devon in his brain. His body was desperate for orgasm; primed for it, and now the hand intended to deliver the ultimate torment by NOT delivering it. And trapped on the crowded train, he could do nothing.

Strum. Strum. Strum.

Strum. Strum.

Strum. Strum. Strum.

Throwing caution to the wind, Devon released the hand holding his bag strap and hauled upwards, grabbing the handrail above with it. His bag shifted heavily on his shoulder and the man to his left looked briefly irritated at the sudden movement. He stood with feet firmly planted against the floor and both hands gripping the rail with white-knuckled tightness, bracing his body in the gently rocking train car. He hid his face from the view of the two men in front of him by pressing his arms together and buried his mouth against his sleeves once more.

Down below, seemingly a mile away from him in the crush of people, his enraged manhood bucked between the fingers of the unknown demon who had claimed it as its plaything. A slick, continuous river of precum trailed down the shaft and over the fingers.

Strum. Strum.


Strum. Strum. Strum. Strum. Strum. Strum. Strum.

I’m going to cum I’m going to cum I’m going to cum


Strum. Strum.

Strum strum strum.

I'm cumming I’m cumming I’m cumming I’m cumming thank f



Strum. Strum.


I’ll kill you I’ll kill you bitch I’llfucking kill you if I get my hands on you you’re



Minutes ticked away, but it was hours in the personal hell of Devon Parker. The finger was entirely without mercy, teasing and edging constantly. His mind was not capable of truly rational thought; the last one he had entertained before desire tore his mind to shreds was that he was experiencing the last few minutes of life as he knew it. One of two things was about to occur, and it would ruin Devon’s current existence.

Either the hand would continue to deny him all the way to the station, at which point doors would open, people would move, and his tumescent manhood would be exposed for all to see. He would never be able to cover himself in time, even if it didn’t involve wrestling his steel-hard rod back into his pants. People would see, stare, point, make outraged demands, and before he knew it he’d be before the police for indecent exposure.

Or the hand would finally finish its work, and Devon would cum. Over a week’s worth of white gold was boiling under pressure, and no matter how crowded the train, no one would be able to miss the fireworks show that would spew from his wedding tackle – nor fail to hear his volume when the moment arrived. Keeping silent would be a simple impossibility. And having seen a pervert paint the train so lewdly, he’d again be back before the police.

His reputation would be ruined, and his job would be gone forever.

Strum. Strum.




The train clacked more loudly, and repeatedly, as multiple tracks crossed together, which was fortunate as the extra noise covered the sound of Devon’s whimpering sobs.




I’m so close I’m so close I’m so close I’m so close


Devon hung there, body quivering nanometres from orgasm. All other thoughts were gone, all other concerns disintegrated. He had to cum. There was nothing more.

He had to cum.







His watch showed three minutes left, although Devon was far beyond noticing with his eyes squeezed shut so tight.

Suddenly the rhythm returned.

Strum. Strum.


Strum. Strum. Strum. Strum. Strum. Strum. Strum. Strum. Strum.


The train entered a tunnel, plunging everything temporarily into darkness. And Devon came.

The noise of clacking track and rushing wheels echoing back and forth drowned out all other sounds, including the guttural roar that burst from his lungs despite the teeth that clenched and tore at his sleeve.

The view was truly incredible, although no one saw it. The fingers around his shaft angled it forward an inch, and the index finger continued to play the banjo. Devon’s fat baubles heaved repeatedly, shifting centimetres up and down as they pulsed. Veins throbbed around his ballooning prick, and the whole meat appeared to spasm. The head expanded and launched majestic volleys of happy juice in thick, creamy ropes that struck the glass at high pressure. The finger didn’t stop twitching and Devon’s cock kept firing. For fifteen seconds his manhood was an unstoppable hose of spunk.

The train exited the tunnel and daylight returned. Devon’s legs had given out; thankfully he always worked his arms hard at the gym. His body sagged and only his arms kept him aloft. He sucked in air, gasping for breath after the power of his orgasm, and was only dimly aware of any other sensation.

The hand continued to fondle his penis, which remained mostly erect, so aroused was he. Fingers caressed him from tip to scrotum tenderly, and lightly massaged the last dribbles of cum across his genitals.

The man to his right was talking to him, part concerned, part indignant. “Are you all right? You look rough.”

“I’m... fine...” Devon wheezed weakly.

“You’d better not be sick!” This from the man to his left.

“I won’t...”Too late, he thought. My cock just vomited across the door.

He was too exhausted and overwhelmed to care about what happened next, and simply hung there as the train neared his station. To his surprise, he felt the hand move to the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs and pull them out, gently guiding his semi-erect penis and balls back inside. He felt a strange sensation, a dry object sliding next to his groin, then the elastic was carefully released,and the zip of his fly zipped up.

The train arrived at the station a minute later.

Devon was in a fog, but had just enough presence of mind to turn quickly and exit the train before anyone could see the door before him. He caught a brief glimpse of the glass, which was covered in a huge blast of man-milk, as he turned and stepped off the train with the crowd. His brain took over on autopilot and walked him into the toilets, where he entered the last stall and latched the door.

Still shaking, he unbuckled his belt, dropped his trousers to his ankles, and inspected his groin. His boxer briefs were stained in dark blotches of sticky semen, and he slid them down to reveal his still semi-hard prick glistening with streaks of his willy milk. His balls also had shiny droplets of cream decorating them.

He stood for a minute, gradually replaying the events of his commute through his brain. In response to what had turned out to be the most erotic experience of his life, his big boy pulsed back to full strength between his legs. Wordlessly he began sliding his loose fist up and down his slippery shaft, while using the other hand to extricate the post-it note that had also been posted into his underwear. He stuck it to the stall wall, freeing his hand to begin massaging his balls as he jerked off.

He read the note slowly, dumbly, then re-read it. In casual, handwritten letters, it said:

That was fun! Until next time...

With a quiet sigh, he shot his second load of the last ten minutes against the cubicle partition. He leaned back, hands still clasped on his genitals, and considered the note.

Next time.

Next time?

Devon Parker, in that moment, could not decide if the implication was a dream or a nightmare.