My Swiss student Adi had always promised me that one day he’d take me across Switzerland in a landscape train, and last Christmas this finally happened!
Adi and I arrived on the platform with a few minutes to spare, the air full of chatter and the hiss of engines. He carried himself like someone who knew exactly where to go, guiding me through the crowd of tourists toward the far end where the Gold Standard carriages waited. The uniformed attendant met us with a professional smile, checked our names against a list, and then slid a keycard across a sleek reader. A discreet click, and the glass door opened onto our private compartment. The noise of the station dropped behind us as if we’d stepped through a threshold into another world.
Inside, the space felt less like a train and more like a boutique hotel suite. Two wide armchairs in supple beige leather faced one another across a table of dark polished wood. Panoramic windows rose from shoulder height into the ceiling, framing the snowy peaks outside like a gallery of shifting canvases. A thick gray carpet muted even the faintest vibration underfoot, and a brass coat stand stood ready by the door. The table was already set: two tall crystal flutes, a silver ice bucket with a dark green bottle nestled in crushed ice, two lunch trays with sets of triangular sandwiches with fish, ham, and hummus, two packets of chips, and a box of pralines. The compartment smelled faintly of cedar and linen, clean and warm, like luxury distilled.
We shed our coats and hung them on the stand, then sank into the armchairs. Adi reached for the bottle with a grin, his movements confident, casual, as though he’d done this a dozen times before. He freed the foil and eased the cork loose with a soft pop that seemed to echo in the quiet room. We clinked glasses, leaning a little across the table, and let the first taste wash over us while the station still framed the view outside. Around us, the train remained still, only the muffled sounds of other passengers boarding filtering through the corridor. It was a pocket of calm, of anticipation, a toast made to the journey before it had even begun.
Adi leaned back in his chair, glass in hand, the pale bubbles rising in lazy strings. He lifted it toward me, half-smiling, and said, “You will enjoy it.” His tone carried the same certainty he probably used when talking about snow conditions or winning times on a slope—it wasn’t a suggestion but a promise. He nodded toward the wide window, where the station lights glinted on the glass, and began to sketch the journey ahead as if he were narrating a route he knew by heart.
“We’ll climb through the Matter Valley first,” he said, sipping from his flute, “then follow the Rhone as it winds east. When we reach the Oberalp Pass, the train will crest nearly two thousand meters—it’ll feel as if we’re floating above the world. And later, the Rhine Gorge, the Swiss Grand Canyon. Steep cliffs, wild water below, all of it sliding past these windows like a film.” His eyes lit as he spoke, a skier’s love for the landscape spilling over into every word.
“It isn’t just a train ride, it’s Switzerland unfolding, piece by piece,” he said and leaned back again.
The first lurch of motion came so gently it felt more like a sigh than a departure. Outside the vast window, the platform began to slide away, the figures of people waving at the train shrinking as the train eased out of Zermatt. Sunlight hit the snowdrifts beyond the tracks, flashing so bright it made the champagne in my glass sparkle. The hum of the engines deepened, steady and confident, a sound that promised hours of unbroken travel through the heart of the Alps. I glanced at Adi, who was watching the window with a faint grin, his shoulders relaxed as if this journey belonged to him as much as the mountains did.
Once the station vanished behind us and the rhythm of the rails settled into a calm cadence, Adi stood. He moved to the compartment door, slipped the bolt into place with a quiet click, and then turned back toward me. “Welcome to our private little world,” he said, his voice low but carrying a kind of theatrical flourish, as if he were presenting me with something rare. He gestured lightly around the cabin—the plush armchairs, the table set with chocolate, sandwiches and champagne, the floor-to-ceiling glass through which the landscape was beginning to unspool. It was a kingdom on rails, cut off from the shuffle and chatter of the other passengers.
He returned to his seat, stretching his long legs beneath the table, and lifted his flute again. “Now,” he added, his grin widening, “we can forget everyone else exists.” Outside, chalets huddled against the slopes, smoke curling lazily from their chimneys, while the train climbed higher into a valley already drenched in winter light. Inside, the silence felt intentional, chosen, like the closing of a curtain. It was just the two of us, the sweep of the Alps, and the faint, rising notes of jazz piped discreetly through hidden speakers.
The train slid past the first pines and the clack of wheels settled into a steady heartbeat. I turned from the window, met Adi’s eyes—those glacier-blue irises flecked with grey—and held them until the world outside blurred into white. “Look at me,” I said, voice low enough to match the rhythm of the rails. “Nothing else matters but this moment, this breath. I am here to love all of you.” He exhaled, shoulders dropping, and I mirrored him—inhale, exhale—until our chests rose and fell in perfect sync. The compartment smelled of alpine air and new leather; sunlight flashed off snowfields, strobing across his face. With each rail-joint click I felt his nervousness loosen, replaced by a quiet electricity that hummed between us like the overhead cables. When our breaths finally matched the cadence of the train, I smiled, and the shyness in his eyes answered yes.
I sank to my knees on the carpeted floor between his long legs, the train’s gentle sway tipping me forward until my forehead rested against the warm fleece of his sweatshirt. I lifted my head up, he leaned in, and our mouths met, tongue sliding over tongue while the rails drummed beneath us like distant thunder. My palms skated across the soft fabric, mapping the rise of his chest, thumbs circling the small knots of his nipples until they stiffened under the cotton. Each time the carriage rocked I let the motion press us closer, breath catching, the friction of fabric and heat building a current that hummed from his sternum to my fingertips—no hurry, just the promise of what was waiting beneath.
I peeled off my shirt and undershirt in one slow tug, cool Alpine air tightening my skin, then sank back between his knees. Our mouths reconnected, slower now, and I traced the zipper of his hoodie downward while kissing him, palms sliding under the fleece onto the hot skin of his chest. His breathing deepened; I felt the soft thump of his heart quicken under my fingertips, and lower, inside the soft pants, a tiny rigid knob finally nudged my forearm—his thin cock already standing at its full six centimeters or so, but hard as ski-wax beneath the fabric.
A shy grin flickered across his face; he broke the kiss long enough to shed the hoodie, then grip the hem of his sweatshirt and pull it off over his head. The fleece cleared his head and revealed a skier’s torso—lean, lightly dusted with blond hair, long muscles carved from mountain miles. The early morning light slid across his collarbones and down the centerline of his chest, catching on the small silver cross he wore on a chain. I let my palms rest on the warm slope of his pecs, thumbs brushing nipples that stiffened instantly, and felt his exhale tremble against my hair as the train swayed us together.
I unzipped my chinos, let the fabric fall around my knees, and sat back on my heels. The cotton of my shorts tented outward, aching, but I ignored it for now; my focus was the vision in front of me. Adi lifted his narrow hips, the motion effortless as a ski-jump take-off, and pushed his sweatpants down long, muscular legs until they pooled at his ankles. Underneath, deep-blue briefs clung to him like glacier water: the pouch curved gently, showing the soft weight of generous balls and, above them, the neat, thumb-sized ridge of his dick, already stiff and pointing toward his hip. I leaned in and mouthed the outline—licking along the ridge, kissing the soft swell of his sac, even catching the fabric lightly between my teeth so he felt the scrape of danger. Each touch earned his sharp inhale; his fingers threaded my hair, guiding, praising without words. While I worshipped, he slipped one foot free of the pants, toes seeking my crotch, and rubbed the length of my trapped shaft through my shorts—slow, deliberate strokes that matched the rhythm of the rails and made me groan into the damp cotton pressed against his skin.
I paused, breath still damp on the blue cotton, and rose just enough to slide my shorts down and kick them aside. The cool Alpine air kissed my bare skin as I settled back between Adi’s knees, now naked and reverent. Before I could lean in again he placed a gentle hand on my cheek, smiled, and peeled the briefs away himself. They peeled off with a soft, wet sound—fabric heavy from my mouth—and the scent of warm skin and clean cotton filled the compartment.
What greeted me was a study in quiet perfection: a low, loose sac hung heavily, its skin was thin and lightly veined, cradling two fairly large balls that swayed when he shifted. Above, his pubis was smooth-shaven, the skin pale and almost luminescent in the morning light. Rising from that soft plane stood his cock—no longer than my thumb, but rigid as carved pine, pointing straight up like a tiny exclamation mark. The shaft was slender, two delicate blue veins threading beneath translucent skin; the head round and neat, almost fully capped by foreskin so fine I could see the blush of glans beneath. It pulsed with his heartbeat, a small, proud monument, and I felt awe bloom in my chest at the beauty of something so precise, so perfectly formed.
I rose between his knees, palms sliding up the long slope of his thighs until our chests met, warm skin on skin, the faint dusting of blond hair on his pecs brushing my nipples with each sway of the carriage. My cock, thick and heavy, pressed against his—his thumb-sized shaft rigid as a ski pole grip—so the underside of my head nudged the soft skin above his balls, then slid alongside him, the two of us rocking in rhythm with the rails. I felt the lean power of his legs, the hard curve of his hipbones under my thumbs, the quick pulse in his throat as I leaned in.
Ah, the kissing was intense! First, I brushed my lips to his, barely contact, letting the train’s motion push us together, then apart, teasing breaths mingling. Then I caught his lower lip between both of mine, sucked it gently, released, and returned with a slow slide of tongue across the ridge of his teeth, tasting morning coffee and mountain air. Then I opened wide, sealed our mouths, and explored the soft palate with the tip of my tongue while his hands slid to my waist, pulling me closer, our cocks trapped between us, rubbing, pulsing, sharing heat and heartbeat as the Alps streamed past the glass.
I felt the full length of my shaft press along the underside of his—mine thick and heavy, skin sliding with each rock of the carriage, while his small, rigid column stood straight up, hard as carved pine, the head nudging just below my crown. The contrast was electric: my girth spreading warmth along his shaft, his tiny cock a steel rod against my underside, the soft skin of his sac brushing my base with every sway. I could feel the throb in him, a quick, eager pulse that matched the train’s rhythm, and the heat between us built until I thought we’d steam up the panoramic glass.
Soon I moaned into his mouth, savoring the way his breath hitched, the way his hands tightened on my waist, the way his small cock twitched against mine, a tiny but mighty engine of desire.
I slid down between his knees again, palms gliding over the warm skin of his thighs until my lips brushed the soft inner slope—tasting faint salt, feeling the tremor in his muscles as the train rocked us. I kissed a slow trail upward, breath ghosting closer to the low-hanging sac that swayed with each sway of the carriage.
I started by opening my mouth wide and taking both balls inside, letting them rest on my tongue while I licked in slow, broad strokes—feeling the thin skin shift over the firm orbs inside. Then I released them, blew a cool stream of air across the damp skin, sealed my lips around one ball and sucked gently, tongue massaging in tiny circles while he hissed above me. Next, I switched to the other ball, drawing it deep, then used the flat of my tongue to press and roll it inside the sac, feeling it slide against my palate as his fingers threaded my hair and his hips gave a small, involuntary rock.
I drew back just enough to look at him: that neat, thumb-sized shaft standing straight up, foreskin stretched tight, the tiny veins like blue threads under translucent skin. I marveled at how something so small could be so perfectly formed—how the round head peeked from the hood, how the whole length pulsed with his heartbeat. Then I leaned in and swallowed his rock hard dick completely, lips sealing at the base, nose brushing the almost perfectly smooth skin above his sac. I sucked gently, cheeks hollowing, feeling the firm core against my tongue. When he moaned quietly in response, I pulled back slowly, letting my tongue trace every millimeter—underside, sides, the tight rim under the head—then grazed the ridge with my teeth just enough to make him gasp.
Next, I circled the crown with the tip of my tongue, feeling the soft give of foreskin, the firm swell beneath, every tiny ridge and pulse, worshipping him like a precious stone while his fingers tightened in my hair and the train rocked us in perfect rhythm.
While my mouth worked his small, rigid shaft, Adi's feet came alive below. His toes brushed the underside of my cock, then scraped lightly along the shaft, then nudged the head with playful pressure. Each touch was different—light scrape, firm press, quick flick—matching the train's irregular sway. I moaned around his dick, the sound muffled, as the pleasant tension coiled tighter in my balls. His toes found the sensitive spot under the crown and rubbed in tiny circles, then slid down to cradle my balls, squeezing gently before returning to tease the slit. The random pattern drove me wild: a quick scrape along the urethra, then a soft brush against the base, then a sudden press against the head that made my hips jerk. The pleasure built in waves, each surprise touch making the pleasant itch in my urethra grow stronger, until I was grinding against his feet, moaning continuously, lost in the perfect chaos of sensation.
I pulled off his cock just enough to breathe, then let the first long, plaintive moan roll out of me—high, trembling, almost a wail that rose and fell with the train's sway. The sound hung in the compartment like a violin note, raw and open.
Adi answered with a short, deep grunt, the kind he might make driving his poles into a steep slope. Another grunt followed, then another, faster, sharper—like a skier pushing off each stride. The rhythm built: grunt-grunt-groan battle: first I moaned in long sad high-pitched moans, then Adi filled the silence with short growling grunts as if he is lifting something, the speed of these increasing with every second as we moved toward the cumshot.
I responded with a longer, higher moan, voice cracking, while my tongue swirled around his tiny shaft. He countered with machine-gun grunts, each one shorter, deeper, faster—until they blurred into a growling staccato that matched the frantic bob of my head. The compartment filled with our duet: my long, keening wails and his rapid-fire grunts, both sounds rising, racing, seconds from the edge.
The duet broke into one shared, rising note. I felt Adi’s thighs go rigid under my palms, his tiny shaft pulsing like a metronome against my tongue, sticky droplets of precum beading at the slit. My own breath hitched as his toenails scraped the sensitive ridge under my crown—one quick, bright scratch that sent a shiver from my heels to the base of the skull. The itch in my urethra snapped: three long, thick spurts burst out, splashing over his foot, each spurt accompanied by a raw, high wail I pressed into the soft skin of his groin.
Above me, Adi growled one last time, a single deep note, and his hips jerked. A hot, salty ribbon shot straight onto my palate, thin but sharp. I gagged once, throat closing around the sudden taste of alpine salt and sweetness, then swallowed, letting the single spurt slide down while the train’s rhythm slowed and our breaths crashed together in the steamy quiet.
I reached into my jacket pocket, fingers still trembling, and pulled out the small packet of unscented wipes I always tucked away for Alpine journeys like this one Adi’s foot rested on my bare thigh, long and elegant, skin winter-pale and dusted with fine blond hairs that caught the morning light pouring through the panoramic window. The toes were straight and slender, second toe just a breath longer than the big, nails trimmed into perfect pink arcs that looked almost polished. A thin silver chain glinted around his ankle—some skier’s talisman—and the arch curved high, a clean bow that flexed as he watched me.
I tore open the wipe, cool moisture blooming against my fingers, and began at the ankle, working downward in slow, deliberate strokes. The cloth glided over the sharp ridge of his instep, then between each toe, lingering on the webbing where my come had splashed in milky flecks. I cleaned the underside of each nail, pressing gently so he felt the cool swipe, then lifted his foot and kissed the warm skin just above the chain—once, twice—before wrapping my lips around the big toe and sucking softly, tasting the alpine salt and the faint ghost of my own release. He sighed, a quiet, satisfied sound, and I continued worshipping: tongue tracing the tendons that stood out when he curled his toes, lips brushing the ball of his foot, until every trace of me was gone and only the scent of mountain air and boy-skin remained…
As the train started slowing down, I pulled my shirt over my shoulders while Adi stepped into his briefs, the fabric sliding up those long skier’s legs until the waistband settled low on his hips. When he adjusted himself, I caught sight of him soft again: nothing but a small, neat fold of foreskin resting like a pale petal above his balls, the shaft completely retracted, the head tucked away so completely it looked as though he had no cock at all—just the faintest button of skin, a secret only I had tasted. The sight sent a warm shiver through me: proof that something so hidden could still rise fierce and proud under my tongue.
The knock came sharp and official—conductor’s knuckles on wood—followed by the polite announcement that we’d be rolling into Andermatt in three minutes. We locked eyes, shared a quick, conspiratorial smile, and moved with the practiced efficiency of men used to timing starts and finishes. I tucked my scarf, buttoned my coat; Adi slid into his ski jacket, zipped it high, and adjusted his beanie so only the faintest flush on his cheeks hinted at what had just happened. When the door slid open onto the platform, we stepped out side by side—boots thudding in unison, breath visible in the cold mountain air—two tall, composed figures striding through the crowd, the world none the wiser…
“Fuck,” said Adi suddenly. “We forgot the sandwiches!”
***
The departure lounge smelled of coffee and jet fuel, announcements echoing off glass. When the gate opened I stepped in, suitcase rolling behind me, and Adi followed me with that quiet skier’s smile. We hugged—arms tight, chests pressed—and I let my left hand drift just enough to cup the front of his jeans. Through denim I felt the soft fold of his cock, warm and pliant, and gave the faintest squeeze—enough to remind him of the Alpine compartment, of my tongue on that tiny shaft. He exhaled a tiny grunt against my collarbone, then pulled back, eyes bright, cheeks pink, no words needed. I released him, turned toward security, and walked away with the knowledge that beneath his calm exterior he’d carry my touch all the way to the slopes.
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