Date: Tue, 10 Jun 2008 03:13:08 +0800 From: webmarten Subject: Seat 72 Seat 72 by webmarten@gmail.com Story features m/m, ws One of the few impressive things about Germany are its ICE trains: a fast, reliable, punctual network linking every major city in the country with each other and the rest of the continent. On June 4th, I arrived in the early morning from a 12 hour flight at Frankfurt airport, and transferred via the Fernbahnhof to one of those fabulous ICE trains. Exhausted, smelly, shirt as wrinkled as my face, I fell into the comfortable leather chair ready to enjoy another three hours of travel. One doesn't expect much on such journeys, except a newspaper, a cup of tea or coffee, the conductor validating one's ticket, and the view of endless countryside, interspersed with industrial estates and neat cities. I was, on this warm June morning, the only passenger in the first class carriage, and the thus the only one in a small cubicle with four seats, shielding me from view on all sides except the panoramic window. A few minutes after leaving Frankfurt airport station, the train stops again at Frankfurt main station. It was there that he got on: young, with a short stubble, in an expensive suit, a perfectly ironed white shirt with almost imperceptible pink stripes, a loosened tie, a notebook bag under his arm, a sandwich in a paper bag, and the Frankfurt Allgemeine Zeitung grasped firmly in his other hand. The back of his strong hands showing the clear outlines of veins,, the skin covered in a fluff of dark blond hair. He couldn't have been more than 35, short blond hair, and the chiseled features with a square jaw one so appreciates in Teutonic males. He was absolutely gorgeous. The young lawyer or banker type, on a business trip. The only other passengers in first class. I, on the other hand, was less than presentable after my long-haul flight. As much as I admired my German lawyer-hunk, who had now taken off his jacket and revealed the outlines of a muscular torso albeit with the onset of a small paunch, and sat down in the cubicle opposite me, I was hardly a catch, on this warm summers day. I must have looked awful. To my surprise though, the banker made eye contact, and smiled at me. Seeing a copy of The Economist on the table before me, he said in English, without the usual comic German accent: "They always put people so close together, when you make reservations". I nodded, and smiled. "You can move though, take any other seat if you want more space." Having unwrapped his sandwich already, he hesitated for a moment, probably pondering whether my comment had been a suggestion that I wanted him to move. He looked at me again, and I smiled, then checked him out in an unmistakably gay manner, resting my eyes first at his upper chest, then again at the location of his crotch, then looking up slowly again, and grinning. "I think I stay", he said, smiling back. "Enjoy your sandwich", I said. He looked unbearable cute with his mouth full, now nodding back at me. The conductor came, validated his ticket, asked if we wanted anything from the dining car, then disappeared. The sun shone softly through the window as the train departed and moved towards Hanau, when I succumbed to the morning warmth and the rocking of the train, and fell asleep. The last thing I remember thinking was "don't fall asleep, stupid ass, chat him up". I woke when the train had just stopped at Würzburg and was moving again. Lawyer-boy was seemingly engrossed in his FAZ and paid me no heed, so I closed my eyes again. The moment I did, I perceived that he had lowered the newspaper. I opened my eyes again, and up came the paper again to hide his face. I closed them again, and again perceived the rustling of the newspaper as he lowered it. He was playing a game. Was he staring at me now? Hardly. I kept my eyes closed, Let him get a good look. I squinted a bit and saw him looking at my crotch. I was wearing jeans and only now did I realize that I had -- as one often does during and after long flights -- a raging hard-on. Anyone could see the outline of my big tool pressed against the inside of my right thigh. Regardless of my disheveled appearance, lawyer-boy obviously took an interest in what I had between my legs. So be it, I thought, and opened my eyes fully and stared at him. I caught his glance in the exact moment his tongue flicked over his lips. "Would you like to take care of that for me?" He said nothing. His face reddened perceptibly. Then he nodded, very slowly once, then quickly two or three more times. He licked his lips again, swallowed, then opened his mouth and out came a faint "Yes Sir". Oh yeah! Banker-boy is a cock slut and needs some feeding, I thought. How lucky for me. "What did you say, boy?" I said in a commanding voice. "Yes Sir", he repeated, this time loud and convincing. "Well, banker-boy," I said, "get down on your knees then." "Here?" "Where else?", I said. "We go to the toilet?" "No, you suck my cock right here. Give me that newspaper." I took the FAZ for him and unfolded it so that even a passer-by could not see my crotch nor the space between my legs. The rest of the view was blocked by seats and the sliding door of the mini-compartment. Lawyer bitch hesitated, so I grabbed his pretty head and pushed him down. He didn't need much pushing though. He was drooling already. His eyes looking at me, sparkling in anticipation. He undid the three buttons of my fly and reached inside. Disengaging my long hard cock from its comfortable position, which it probably had enjoyed for the past 12 hours or more, wasn't easy, but he managed. When banker-slut had the tool in front of him, ripe with musky men-smell, I could actually see saliva run from the corner of this mouth. This bitch-boy was hot and hungry. And here is what separates the men from boys, so to speak, and the "true" cocksucker from the wannabes: nine of of ten men don't know how to suck cock. They do not anticipate the taste of the member on their tongue, they do not hunger for its taste, they do not enjoy the engrossed manhood filling every part of their wet mouth. Most can't deep-throat, and most only suck cock because it is "part of the ritual", or because they saw it in one too many porn movies. The average gay man wants to move on to you-suck-me and hugging and kissing, then to I-fuck-you and You-fuck-me, and then some more hugging and kissing. Not the true cocksucker. For the true cocksucker, the act of satisfying another man with his mouth, however long it may take, is enough. The act of oral pleasure is enough. The true cocksucker delights in giving pleasure with his mouth. He doesn't use his hands. He doesn't tire. He enjoys the feeling of the cock in every corner of his mouth. There is no anal intercourse needed. No hugging, no kissing, no strocking, no smelling of armpits or rimming of arses necessary to increase pleasure. The true cocksucker assures that that very feeling -- your hard cock in his wet mouth -- is all you need tonight. You don't need to pick him up and kiss him, you don't need to fuck him. You just want him to play his instrument, the gorgeous wet orifice engulfing your cock. Lawyer-bitch was a true cocksucker. He was hungry for it, and he showed it. Before he even dared to show me his tongue, he closed his eyes and smelled my cock. He took a deep, long breath, then wet his mouth and lips in anticipation. He knew how to pleasure a man by starting to prepare his pleasure tool, lest I felt dryness of lips, or his teeth on my foreskin. Before he moved forward and engulfed my cockhead, he made sure he would only give me pleasure, not pain. He made sure that from the very insertion of my cock, every second of the act would be pure bliss. I could see his tongue as it circled around my piss slit. He pulled back the foreskin gently, and the smell wafted all the way up to my own nostrils. Cocksucker-banker enjoyed it, and took another deep breath. A tear was forming in the corner of his eye, as he felt true happiness facing a big cock. And then he went for it: in one big gulp he took my monster, all the way down, without hesitation, sure of his skills. I could feel out the tip of my cock touching the back of his throat. His face turned red, and the tear which had formed in anticipation now ran down his cheek as a tear of utter pleasure. He pushed further down and buried his lips in my pubes. He held my cock there for a few seconds, then withdrew with a loud gasp. Having seen it with his eyes, he had now measured it with his larynx. He loved it. He looked me in the eye, and smiled in appreciation. His eyes said: thank you for feeding me. Then he turned his attention back on my cock, and from that moment on, for the next fifteen minutes, my cock was all his saw and felt. He forgot the world around him. Saliva ran down the length of the shaft, over his chin, onto his crisp shirt. The door at the far end of the car opened. A young girl came running in, and I hid banker-boy underneath the large newspaper. Instead of waiting for the girl to go away, he took the concealing newspaper as a clue to proceed even more intensely. He slurped and sucked, he swallowed and licked, deep, and wet. It felt wonderful. The girl stopped at the sliding glass door of our cubicle, looked at me, and ran away. Lawyer-bitch was now back to deep-throating, which he seemed to enjoy most of all. He thrust the weight of his entire head and torso onto my pulsating cock again and again. He savoured it filling his oral cavity, its head tickling his tonsils. Then he withdrew, licked around the head, down to the base, took my balls in his mouth with a big, wet slurp, only to return and swallow the whole organ again and again. Getting my cock sucked by a dedicated, well-trained professional like him is double pleasure after a long flight, because my cock is unbearably hard, and it takes me a very long time to come. Unfortunately -- well, fortunately for some -- because of a certain numbness due to the long period of inactivity on the plane, I also tend to lose total control over my urge to piss. It usually returns at the most unexpected moments, like now. So the question was: was lawyer-bitch up for it? I looked deep into his eyes, and lost all doubt. He would do and take anything I wanted him to. Therefore I matter-of-factly announced: "I am going to piss down your throat, bitch-boy. Don't spill any." My fat cock still in his mouth, he nodded. His eyes brightened with a sparkle as he did so: there it was again, the frivolous anticipation. He wasn't shocked at all: he was in heaven. I concentrated on pissing. I told him to keep my cock in his mouth but stop moving. He sat down on his haunches in order to lower his head and let my piss flow more freely (he knew what he was doing!). I closed my eyes to concentrate. The first drops flowed out into this mouth, and I could see the effect of the bitter taste on his tongue in this face. Then I felt his tongue trying to catch the piss and savour it along the full length of the sensory organ. He wasn't just an expert cock-sucker, he was also a trained and eager toilet. More piss started to flow. Then the door of the car opened again. A passenger came in, two in fact, with luggage. But by then it was too late for me. While a long thin stream of dark yellow piss pressed through my pounding hard cock, and flowed down the throat of my piss-boy, the loud and obnoxious Australian couple tried to find their seats. "Look up there, darling, here's the numbers, you need to look at these numbers there", he said, and she answered "I am, Henry I am, but they don't match, we are number 23 and 24 and all the numbers here are 50 and 60 and 70. We are in the ..." And while my piss still flowed, and lawyer-bitch still swallowed, the man turned round and shoved a train ticket in my face. "Do you know where these seats are, mate", he said in usual colloquial Australian fashion. I looked at the ticket, my piss flowing without interruption into the lawyer's mouth. "You are in the wrong train, mate," I managed to say, at the very moment the end of my yellow stream brought relieve. We could all hear bitch-boy swallow under the newspaper. "Oh well, gotta get off then. Thanks mate," said Henry, and he and his wife wife left in the same loud manner they had entered. Bitch-banker gave me no respite. He had now starked to pump my cock with his right hand. He was hot and he was high, and he was going for it: he wanted my cum. Now that the pressure from my bladder was relieved, I felt my manjuice rising as my eager cocksucker's tongue flicked around the base of my tool again. He deep-throated it again, and again, then proceeded to move his head up and down, slowly increasing the pressure, sucking my cock tighter and tighter. When he reached the head, he added the skill of his quick tongue to the soft wetness of his mouth. It moved in my piss-slit and circled around my glans, while his right hand massaged my nuts. Then he withdrew and took my cock in his fist again. He stroked it hard, trying to ascertain how close I was to shooting my load. He forgot that was supposed to pleasure me only with his mouth, so hungry he was for semen. I took control of the situation by putting the newspaper aside, pushing his head back and telling him to open his mouth wide. Then I pumped my cock three, four more times, and shot a fat load all over his eyes, nose, and several fat wads of cum right into his mouth. He wiped the cum from his face into his mouth, sucked his fingers clean, then placed his mouth over my cock again and proceeded to suck the last drop from it. Both of us exhausted from the exercise, he sat up in his seat, rearranged his clothes. I took the napkin from the paper bag his sandwich had been in, and wiped a last drop of cum from his chin. He smiled, grabbed my hand, and sucked my fingers, his gaze fixed on my eyes. I stood up, bent over, and kissed him, his mouth warm and wet, with the taste of my cum on his lips.