Stranger on the Chiang Mai Train

I arched my head back, doing what I could to stifle my groans in a coach that wasn’t full but was occupied enough to worry about those in surrounding bunks knowing what we were doing—what he was doing to me—in their midst as his finger entered me, and then another and another, as he explored and I moaned. My legs still bent, I placed my feet flat against the underside of the bunk above me and pressed up each time the fingers invaded. I rocked my pelvis on his hand, whimpering and panting. If the upper bunk hadn’t been the one assigned to me, the occupant would have been bounced rhythmically into the ceiling of the coach by the pressing of my feet to the rhythm of his finger penetrations.

“Now. Now. Fuck me now!” I sobbed into the palm of his hand as he slid inside me. He fucked me then—or at least he and the train did. He provided the cock. The moving train provided the friction. I had never been fucked like that—by the combined efforts of a man’s cock and a train’s motion—before. I turned my head to the window, following the flashing lights of whatever civilization was awake at night outside the lurching train, while he reached me deeper than Brad ever had—than Brad ever could.