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‘On a train home’ - 2019-07-24
Wild Ride with a Pornstar.
Finally getting some on the train home from Amsterdam.
***
The world outside the train was a haze, but it was nothing compared to the demanding thud of the dominant leather man’s weight against me. Sweat stung my eyes, blurred my sight. His massive hands pinned me firmly to the seat, while the scent of rugged cowhide and his raw heat filled my lungs. He wasn’t just taking me; he was claiming the space. The ten-inch pumping length was a hard, undeniable reality against the back of my mouth. His sudden overwhelming dominance was everything I had been hunting for during my holiday, but could not find.
Was this really happening? Was I really getting it on the train home, but couldn’t find it in Amsterdam? Jesus… what was this massive leather man going to do to me?
The heat in the first-class compartment was stifling. As my head got pressed into the sticky fake leather of the train seat, my mind raced back to the quiet apartment I’d left days ago. I had been starving for sex. For weeks, the itch under my skin had grown into a fever that my small town couldn’t break. I didn’t just lust for sex; I wanted the kind of man-to-man intensity that felt like a collision. So, I’d packed a bag, booked the cheapest ticket to Amsterdam, and went looking for a ghost that — until this moment — I thought I’d failed to find there.
***
But let me back the story up a bit. Let’s start at the beginning. Back in my small town, I was just Peter — the quiet, introverted guy who’d been openly gay for years but still spent most weekends alone. I’d had my share of short-term connections, but they were usually with guys just ‘testing the waters’ to see if they even liked it with men. I was tired of being someone’s experiment. After 23 years, I was looking for a man who knew exactly what he wanted — and how to take it.
I was so freaking hot that I needed something more. It had been over a year since I had proper sex with another guy. And I was looking to get off. I wanted to try the Glory Hole scene in Amsterdam. An anonymous cock to suck was better than no cock at all, I thought. And somehow, the anonymity excited me.
The long weekend began very early on a Friday morning, my backpack stuffed with high hopes and a few essentials. Mid-summer heat had already settled over the local station, and the train was unusually quiet with the schools on break. I had two and a half hours and several change-overs to obsess over my itinerary: touristy landmarks by day, and the deepest corners of the Amsterdam gay scene by night. I was on a mission to get lucky.
• The Arrival.
Amsterdam Central Station was a chaotic hive of energy. I navigated through its passenger tunnels toward the city center, my heart thumping in time with my footsteps. That was when I saw him: a skinny, grungy guy leaning against a soot-stained pillar. He was scanning the crowd like a predator, and the moment our eyes met, he gripped his crotch through frayed jeans.
He wasn’t my type — not even close — but the sheer boldness of the gesture sent a lightning bolt straight to my groin.
“Want to have a good time, mate?” he whispered as I drew near.
“I… I have to check into my hotel first,” I stammered. My voice was steady, but my cock was a traitor, straining against my zipper with embarrassing enthusiasm.
The hustler saw the bulge and let out a jagged, knowing laugh. But as I closed the distance, the fantasy curdled. The air around him was thick with the stench of stale tobacco, dried sweat, and cheap beer. I saw the needle tracks scarring his thin arms, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. It wasn’t heat I felt anymore; it was a cold wave of pity and revulsion. I looked away and kept walking, my pace quickening.
“You don’t know what you’re missing, asshole!” he spat, his voice echoing off the tiled tunnel walls after me. I didn’t look back. I hadn’t come all this way to settle for a nightmare.
The hotel I booked was a budget affair — narrow stairs and a room that smelled faintly of industrial cleaner — but it was a sanctuary. I didn’t need luxury; I just needed a base of operations. I checked my reflection, brushed my teeth, and felt that familiar, restless itch return. My plan was simple: play the tourist by day, and the hunter by night. I’d even paid the extra fee for ‘overnight guests,’ a hopeful investment in a future I could almost taste.
By early afternoon, the city was calling. I took my time for some window shopping and a visit to Madame Tussauds. I headed toward a massive sex shop I’d found online — a three-story palace of vice. It was quite the hike to the other side of the city center. The ground floor was all toys, DVDs, and cheap bondage gear; the first floor was a hetero cinema, but the top floor… that was the goal. A dedicated gay cruising area and glory holes.
As I walked through the winding streets of the city center, the sights and sounds of Amsterdam blurred past. My mind was already upstairs in that dark cinema, wondering who would be waiting behind the partition, and if they would finally be the ‘real man’ I had traveled two hundred miles to find.
• A sex shop cinema cruise.
Inside the sex shop, the roar of Amsterdam faded. This shop catered to every whim. The toys, DVDs, and glossy porn mags on display were overwhelming my senses. I bought a thick black silicone cockring, a large toy, and some lube, trying to look cooler than I felt. With the day-pass to the cruising cinemas in hand, I headed upstairs, stopping for a quick leak on the first floor.
This turned out to be a mistake. The muffled moans from the hetero cinema next door and the frantic rhythm of a couple in the adjacent stall made my pulse spike. Trying to piss with a stiff dick was a losing battle; I finally gave up, cleaned myself as best I could, and climbed to the gay cinema on the second floor.
The atmosphere changed instantly. It was darker, thicker with the smell of musk and anticipation. The gay cinema and glory-hole area were jam-packed — the international holiday crowd had arrived in full force.
I claimed a private video cabin and locked the door. The screen flickered to life with a scene of two men, but my attention was on the two wooden partitions flanking me. After dropping my jeans, I freed my eight-inch dick from my jockstrap, letting it throb against the cool air. I tapped on the walls, a silent invitation to my neighbors, but the response was discouraging. I’d see an eye peer through the hole, a brief moment of hope, only for the sound of retreating footsteps to follow.
This went on for hours. Lookers, but no takers.
Just as my frustration was peaking and I was ready to call it a night, a shadow blocked the light from the left-hand hole. Then, a massive black cock slid through. Its size stole my breath — even half-soft, it was a masterpiece. I didn’t hesitate. I leaned in, my tongue circling the head as it surged to full, vein-ripping life under my touch.
The moans from the other side were deep and guttural. The black dude began to thrust, his rhythm demanding as he pushed deep into my mouth. I met every shove, my own hand working my shaft until I couldn’t hold back. I came hard, the hot load splashing over the tips of his cowboy boots visible under the partition.
“Oh fuck, I’m gonna blow!… Take it… swallow every drop, boy!” he groaned.
He lunged forward, his cock throbbing as he filled my mouth with hot, sticky spunk. Outside the cabin, I heard a passing guy chuckle.
“Another one gets his face fucked full,” he joked to a friend.
I swallowed, gasping for air as he pulled back.
“Do you want to fuck me, too?” I whispered through the hole, my body still buzzing. He was still hard, still throbbing, but he just let out a low, satisfied huff, tucked himself away, and vanished.
The silence that followed felt heavy. I sat back on the small bench, a lingering disappointment settling in my chest. I’d been fed, but I hadn’t been used the way I craved. After a few more minutes of watching the screen, I realized I wouldn’t find what I was looking for here. I pulled my jeans up and headed back out into the cool night air, bound for one of the famed gay bars in the city center. There was still plenty of time to score a date.
The ‘Cuckoo’s Nest’ was thick with the scent of hops and male sweat. I perched at the bar with a Heineken, trying to look approachable, even striking up a few conversations that seemed promising. But every time I felt a spark of connection, the guys would offer a polite nod and slip away into the shadows. I didn’t realize then that they weren’t leaving the bar; they were heading to the labyrinth of cruising tunnels and the dungeon hidden in the basement.
Ignorant and feeling like a failure, I finished my beer and walked back to the hotel through the quiet streets. The solitude stung. After a hot shower, I reached for the twelve-inch dildo I’d bought earlier — a cold, silicone substitute for the man I actually wanted. I used it to vent my frustration, fucking myself until the tension finally snapped. I shot a couple of lonely loads across my stomach, the physical release finally allowing me to drift into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
• A drink, a meal, and more disappointment.
Saturday was for the tourists. I played the part, wandering through the Amsterdam Zoo and drifting along the canals on a boat tour, but my mind was never far from the night before. I was surrounded by people, yet the loneliness felt sharper than ever. By late afternoon, I headed to a gay-friendly restaurant I’d scouted online, hoping a good meal might change my luck.
The food was excellent, but the real dessert was waiting in the restroom.
When I walked in, I caught the busboy in one of the stalls — door wide open, pants around his ankles. He sat leaning back, eyes squeezed shut, his hand working frantically under his apron. I stood at the sinks, watching his reflection in the mirror as he stroked himself into a frenzy.
“Want a hand with that, buddy?” I asked, my voice bolder than I felt.
The guy’s eyes snapped open. He turned a deep, panicked shade of crimson, fumbled with his clothes, and bolted out the door without a word.
A few minutes later, he reappeared at my table with the dessert menu. He wouldn’t meet my gaze, leaning in close only to whisper, “Please… don’t tell my boss.”
I gave him a reassuring smile and a slow wink. “Don’t worry about it, man. But if you still need that hand, the offer stands.”
He turned red all over again, stammered through taking my order, and vanished into the kitchen. I didn’t see him for the rest of the night.
Once again, I walked back to my hotel alone. The cool night air felt mocking. I wanted the real thing — the heat of another man, the weight of him, the friction — not just the silicone toy waiting on me in my hotel room, as good as it felt. I was in the most open city in the world, surrounded by sex, and yet I was still starving.
• A leather novice looking for an upgrade.
I found myself wandering the streets again, my feet heavy with the day’s disappointments. I passed the Red Light District, but the idea of paying to get off felt hollow. Then, I saw the sign for Mister B. I’d seen the name online — a spot for the ‘kinkier brothers.’ Back home, a guy in full leather would have been met with whispers and judgment; it was definitely not my scene. I was a vanilla guy, more at home in denim than hide, but as a tourist, I figured looking couldn’t hurt.
The moment I stepped inside, the leather scent hit me like a physical weight — deep and elementary. The shop was filled with tough-looking gear and toys that felt intimidatingly hardcore. Against my better judgment, the sheer masculinity of the place made my pulse jump until a damp spot began to bloom on my jeans.
I wandered over to a rack of classic biker jackets. Just for a laugh, I pulled one in my size and slid it on. The weight was surprising, like a heavy, protective shell. I stepped in front of a full-length mirror and froze. The twenty-three-year-old looking back at me looked… different. More rugged. For a second, I could almost pretend I was one of them.
One of the customers — a burly, handsome man in full gear — stepped up behind me. The well-fit hunk looked to be in his mid-thirties, possessing the kind of seasoned, muscular maturity I could only dream of. He was a man, and standing next to him, I felt every bit the inexperienced boy. He gave me a sharp, stinging slap on the ass.
“Looking good, boi!” he barked with a stern, mean grin. He pointed to the heavy bulge straining against his leather trousers. “Now get on your knees and serve your master’s cock!”
I was stunned by the sheer audacity of it. My small-town sensibilities told me to be offended, but I found myself rooted to the spot. There was something about him — a sense of recognition that didn’t make sense. I didn’t know men like this, and certainly not ones who carried themselves with such dominant authority, yet his face felt strangely familiar.
A shop assistant drifted over, a knowing smile on his face. “Do you like the jacket?”
“I don’t just like it,” I blurted out, my voice louder than intended. “I’m fucking loving it! What… what does this gear cost?”
A few guys in the shop chuckled appreciatively. The assistant pointed at my crotch with a wink. “I can see that. You might not be a leather man yet, but your body seems to like the idea.”
When he told me the price, the ‘small-town Peter’ came rushing back. The cost was more than my entire travel budget. I sighed, reluctantly sliding the jacket off. It was a nice fantasy, but I wasn’t about to drop my savings on an outfit for a life I didn’t lead. “I… I think I need to find something a bit more entry-level.”
I settled on a leather wrist wallet, a cool ballcap, and a metal-studded cock-strap — small souvenirs to remember the trip by. As I took them to the counter, the older leather man gave me an approving nod.
“You have to start somewhere, right?” I murmured as he passed close behind me.
“Hell yeah,” he joked, his hand hovering near his fly. “But I can think of a better place for a boi like you to start.”
“Leave him alone, Tony! He’s not one of your clients,” the assistant called out, though he was smiling. The name stirred something in my memory, but, annoyingly, I still could not place him. Where had I seen this guy before?
“It’s okay,” I said, looking up at Tony. He had at least a decade of experience on me, and it showed in every line of his rugged face. “I love the leather look on you, sir. I’m just… just not that brave yet.”
Tony gave me a firm, encouraging pat on the back. “Call me when you are, boi.”
As I floated on air out of the shop, I tried to shake off the encounter. I wasn’t a leather guy, not like him anyway. And I certainly wasn’t looking to become one. I just wanted a ‘real man’ to show me a good time, and for a few minutes in that shop, the world had felt a lot more interesting than the one I’d left behind.
• Three masters, but still no luck.
That evening, I intended to head back to the hotel, but my feet had other plans. I found myself drawn to the ‘Cuckoo’s Nest’ again. I told myself I might find a friend there, but deep down, I knew I was looking for something more visceral.
After a couple of beers, I noticed a group of men in heavy leather walking arm-in-arm toward the back of the bar. They vanished through a doorway and down a steep flight of stairs. Driven by a sudden bout of bravery and a mix of nerves and curiosity, I followed them.
The air grew muggy, smelling of dusty concrete, weed, and piss. I found myself in a sprawling basement dungeon. The walls were painted a matte black, and narrow passages led under stone archways into a labyrinth of hidden rooms. Red lights cast long, eerie shadows over kinky furniture: cages, metal bars, and mirrored ceilings. The space was alive with the sound of rhythmic slapping and low, guttural moans. I felt like a complete rookie, totally out of my depth, yet I couldn’t bring myself to leave.
I completed one circuit of the labyrinth, my heart hammering against my ribs. The scene was overwhelming. Just as I decided to head back to the safety of the upstairs bar, a pair of thick, leather-gloved hands clamped over my face, muffling my breath. A mighty hand twisted my arm behind my back, hauling me backward into a large chamber. Before I could protest, a blindfold was cinched tight over my eyes.
Rough hands stripped me down, leaving me in nothing but my jockstrap and leather wristband.
“Let’s show this fucker what real men do to boys like him!” a voice growled, followed by a chorus of mean-spirited cheers.
I was hauled against a wooden cross, and my limbs were lashed tight. The sharp crack of leather straps hitting the air next to my ears sent a jolt of pure terror through me. My brow grew slick with sweat, causing the blindfold to slide down just enough for me to see.
The three leather masters were taking turns with two other younger guys and me. One boy was pinned over a rack, getting fucked mercilessly by all three men in rotation. He looked broken, but the masters didn’t care; down here, only their pleasure mattered. After they finished with him, they moved to the second guy, giving him the hot wax treatment — even holding a candle dangerously close to roasting his balls.
All the while, I was pinched, prodded, and whipped. It wasn’t the romantic encounter I had dreamed of, but my body responded with a betrayal of its own. I was rock-hard throughout the entire ordeal. But as quickly as the session had begun, it ended. I was untied and told to dress and get out. I watched the other two guys being used as human cum-dumpsters, but for me? Nothing. The three masters laughed at the sheer disappointment on my face as I slunk away.
Sunday became a blur of half-hearted sightseeing and another visit to another gay cinema, but the spark was gone. I headed back to the hotel alone, once again denied the one thing I had traveled for: a proper fuck down from a man who actually wanted me.
That night, I comforted myself with my new toys and a few porn movies, dreaming of leather men until the early hours. I slept so deeply that I nearly missed my alarm. With no time to shower, I scrambled to pack my bags. I felt dirty, my skin still smelling of the stale smoke, and my asshole still slick from the oil-based lube I’d used the night before.
• The ride home got exciting.
The heatwave had broken over the capital, leaving the morning muggy and oppressive. Up north, the weatherman had warned, sudden thunderstorms could form. Dressed only in gym shorts, a loose sweatshirt, and my new leather wristband, I rushed to the station. I’d splurged on a first-class upgrade for the intercity train home — a quiet, private compartment where I could finally sit in peace.
I settled into the center seat, aiming the air conditioning vents directly at me as the train began to pull out of Amsterdam Central. I pulled the curtains shut, seeking total privacy, unaware that the weekend I thought was over was actually just beginning.
As the train pulled out of the station, the conductor checked my ticket and wished me a pleasant journey. I stowed my backpack on the rack and settled into the center seat, aiming every air conditioning vent at my chest to fight the humid heat. I slid the curtains shut, blocking out the hallway and the sun, seeking total privacy. I thought my weekend was over. I was wrong.
Without warning, the compartment door flung open.
My heart skipped a beat. Standing in the doorway was the leather man from Mister B. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a nightmare or a fever dream: leather chaps over cut-off jeans, a heavy codpiece, and a harness visible beneath his open biker jacket. He still had the sunglasses and gloves on, looking every bit the burly, powerful macho man I’d admired in the shop.
I couldn’t help it. I looked the beefy man up and down, my eyes lingering on the sheer power of his frame.
“What the fuck are you gawking at, bitch?” he barked, his voice booming in the small space.
“Well,” I answered, the words out of my mouth before my brain could stop and consider them, “I was thinking you must be very hot in all that fucking great leather gear, sir.”
• Getting it from a real Dom.
He had a mean, no-nonsense look about him. He threw his weekend bag on the seat beside me and stepped into my space — so close I could smell the hot, spermy scent of his leather crotch right in front of my face. The aroma was overpowering, and despite my fear, I loved it.
“You like this leather, you dirty little bitch-boy?” he growled. He grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my face toward his crotch. Without thinking, I inhaled deeply. He pulled my head back, forcing me to look him in the eye. “You’re going to get fucked, boy. Now smell my leather!” He meanly shoved my face back down.
“No!… please don’t…” I sputtered out of fear of getting caught. But my protest only fueled him. He pressed me harder against the hide of his chaps, rubbing my nose against the rugged texture of his jacket.
“Touch my leathers, bitch-boy. You’re not in control anymore,” The leather-clad man commanded, his tone dark and mean. “Lick it. You’re going to get me hard. You’re going to make me feel good.”
My hands trembled as I rubbed the sleeves of his jacket and licked the cool, cum-tainted leather of his chaps. With a rough grunt, he ripped the codpiece from his crotch. His cock and balls were already straining against the opening in his cut-off jeans. He pressed his rock-hard, ten-inch length against my lips. “Open up!”
I pressed my hands against his thighs as if to push him away. I didn’t want to make it too easy on him. “No, not here!… Please… anyone could see us.”
With one hand, he reached back to slam the compartment door and jerk the curtains shut. With the other, he pinned my head against the seat and plunged himself into my mouth.
“Suck it! Take it all, you dirty little piggy!” He held my head in a vice grip, his hips driving forward. He was face-fucking me, his hands preventing me from moving as he pinned my arms above my head against the back wall. My eyes watered; I was gurgling and choking on his massive meat. I wasn’t just nervous anymore — I was scared. He was too rough, too detached. I’d come to Amsterdam for a good fuck, but this was a total takeover.
I managed to wrench one arm free and shoved a fist into his chest. The blow threw him off balance. As he stepped back, I shouted, “Are we going to have a good time or what? I want to serve you — but you’d damn well better make sure I like what you’re doing to me, too… Tony!”
He froze, looking at me in complete shock. “That’s Sir Tony to you, little pig!” he barked, but the edge in his voice had shifted. I could see the gears turning behind his eyes: “How the fuck does he know my name?”
The mean fuckers mask slipped, and for a second, Tony actually smiled. I seized the moment, grabbing his leather collar and pulling him back toward me. I licked my lips, and this time, when he leaned in, it was a kiss — intense, deep, and mutual.
“Now… are we going to do this properly?” I whispered sternly, stroking the grain of his jacket. “I’ve been looking for a real man all weekend. You showed me what I was missing at Mister B, and I never dreamed I’d actually get a leather stud like you, Sir Tony. Now do me… do me good… but do me right.”
I was ready for it. I wanted Tony’s pornstar-sized cock. I needed the brutal attitude he provided.
He stepped back in, but the energy had changed. It was still dominant, still intense, but he was with me now. He pushed back into my throat, and I met him halfway, licking the shaft and swirling my tongue around his balls. He let out a deep, guttural groan, clearly impressed by the change in my technique. Before long, he buckled, shooting a hot, thick load into the back of my throat.
“Damn, boy,” he panted, breathless. “You’re good. There’s plenty more where that came from. You like that?”
“Thank you, sir,” I muttered, swallowing hard. I gazed up at him, my hands worshipping the smooth, dark leather of his jacket. “You taste perfect.”
• Forced into submission.
“Are you ready to get fucked by a real man, boy? I’m warning you — no sissy foreplay. When I fuck, your ass is going to feel it!”
He hauled me toward the edge of the seat, the leather of his gloves gripping my thighs as he ripped my gym shorts away. Underneath, I was still wearing the metal-studded cockstrap from Mister B. Tony froze for a second, a dirty grin spreading across his face.
“You kinky little fucker. Look at that! You’re already prepared. Now I remember you!”
Without a hint of remorse, he drove his entire ten inches into me. He expected me to cry out, but instead, he got another surprise.
“Oh fuck… you’re already lubed up!” he laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest as I pulled him down for a deep, desperate kiss. I wrapped my arms around his broad back, pinning him close to stop him from going too fast, giving my body a second to adjust to his massive size.
“All lubed up for you… sir,” I whispered, giving him a defiant wink. “Now, show this hole of mine a good time. Do it right, and I’ll let you cum inside.”
I didn’t wait for his permission. I slipped my hand into the back of his leather jeans, finding his own heat, and pulled him into a kiss that was as much a demand as an invitation.
I felt him falter for a split second — the rigid, predatory aggression in his posture finally snapping. I wasn’t cowering like the others; I was meeting him halfway, matching his power with my own brand of stubbornness. He let out a wild, ragged moan, his mask of cold dominance melting into a passionate, heavy rhythm that felt honest.
“What’s your name, boy?” he asked. The ‘bitch-boy’ attitude was gone, replaced by a voice that was low and rough with genuine curiosity. His gloved hand moved from my hair to stroke my cheek with surprising tenderness, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw as if he were seeing me for the first time.
“Peter, sir. My name is Peter. And I love your leather-clad ass… but please, go easy on mine. You’re bigger than anything I’ve ever had up there.”
He didn’t just grunt this time. He looked at me with a spark of admiration, his eyes softening behind his mirrored sunglasses. “You’ve got more fire in you than the five high-paying clients I’ve dominated this week, Peter. I like it this way.”
Every now and then, Tony pulled back and slammed his hips against my ass. The leather smacking against my buttocks. It wasn’t mean — or even scary. However, the stabs of pain made my eyes well up. Tony’s fat dong was much wider than the toy I bought in Amsterdam.
He leaned down, licking a stray tear from the corner of my eye before driving back into me with a slow, worshipful intensity.
“You’re really into this kinky shit, aren’t you, Peter?” he asked, his voice thick with genuine admiration.
He began to gyrate his hips, slowly pumping his thick, heavy length into me. He repositioned us, pulling my legs over his shoulders to open me up completely. He started slow, with long, deliberate strokes that filled me to the brim. But as soon as he felt me relax and begin to push back against him, the pace changed. He started to pound.
“Fuck, boy… you’re taking it better than any of the old, fat clients I had in Amsterdam this weekend,” he groaned, his movements becoming more frantic. “You’re the only one who took every inch of me down your throat and in your ass. You have such a perfect, tight hole, Peter. I’m going to split you in two! Take it, boy… take it all!”
I threw my head back, the sound of his leather jacket slapping against my skin driving me into a frenzy. “God, yes… fuck me harder, sir! I love it!”
I squeezed my muscles tight every time he pulled out and relaxed as he plowed back in, milking him for everything he was worth. “I love the way your leather hits me… Fuck your bitch, sir… Fuck me deep!”
• A second leather look.
Tony was sweating profusely now, the scent of salt and worked leather filling the small compartment. He pulled his length all the way out before slamming it back in with a rough, rhythmic desperation. He leaned over, his chest heaving, and kissed me deeply.
“You’re something special, boy,” he groaned against my lips. “I’ve never had someone like you… I could fuck you forever.”
“Well then,” I whispered huskily, my heart racing, “Why don’t you?”
Tony’s eyes widened, a slow, genuine smile breaking across his rugged face as he processed the challenge. He didn’t say a word; he just sat back and unzipped his leather biker jacket. He handed it to me. “Put that jacket on, boy,” he ordered, his voice returning to that stern, dominant gravel.
I watched, mesmerized, as he stripped off his biker boots, his gloves, and his heavy chaps. Stripped down to just his cut-off jeans, leather harness, and a thick cockring, he looked like a god carved from granite. I slid into his jacket. It was still hot from his body, heavy and smelling of him. The moment the leather settled on my shoulders, that same surge of power I’d felt at Mister B rushed through me, only ten times stronger.
Tony didn’t give me time to admire the reflection in the window. He turned me around, bracing my hands against the metal luggage rack above us. He didn’t hesitate; he drove his pre-cum-slicked cock back into my gaping heat. The intensity was on a completely different level now. Tony wasn’t just having fun anymore — he was a man on a mission.
That mission became clear within minutes. Tony began to pound into me with a primal force, his hands reaching around to squeeze my nipples and work my own throbbing, eight-inch length. I could feel the build-up in him, a tectonic shift of energy.
When he finally broke, it was a flood. I’d seen men cum before, but nothing like this. It felt like it took ages for him to empty his balls deep inside me, each hot stream punctuated by a rough, deep lunge that buried him to the hilt. I felt every pulse, the heat of him lubricating every inch of my cum-filled guts.
Finally, he pulled back and turned me around, guiding me to my knees on the floor. He let out one last, ragged groan as he painted the front of his own jacket and finished with a heavy stream into my yearning mouth. I didn’t waste a drop. I sucked him dry, my tongue worshipping every inch of his massive, throbbing dick until I felt him jerk one last time under the touch of my lips.
• The sudden departure.
The conductor’s voice crackled over the PA system, announcing the next station. I looked at Tony, still breathless, and told him I needed to clean up before the train came to a halt. I reluctantly slid out of his heavy leather jacket, wiped the cum from my face with my t-shirt, and headed for the nearest restroom. My body was still humming, and my dick was so rock-hard that I had to rub out one last, urgent load in the sink just so I could fit back into my gym shorts.
When I returned to the compartment, my heart dropped. Tony was gone.
In his place, neatly laid out on the seat, were his leather jacket, chaps, gloves, and harness boots. My eyes darted to a scrap of paper resting on the pile.
“Peter. These are yours now. You earned them. Honestly, you’re the best fuck I’ve had in years. I’ll call you soon to see how you’re getting on. — Sir Tony.”
I rushed to the window and leaned out. Through the crowd on the platform, I spotted Tony walking away — his broad shoulders unmistakable even in just cut-offs and a t-shirt. He had a weekend bag over one shoulder and sneakers on his feet, walking away without looking back.
A sudden moisture hit my face, and for a second, I thought I was crying. I was overwhelmed — had I really just been claimed by a leather master who left me his gear as a trophy? But as the sky turned a violent shade of purplish green, I realized the moisture wasn’t tears.
The storm had finally broken.
As the train pulled away, a massive thunderstorm rolled in, rain hammering against the glass. I sat back, surrounded by the scent of Tony’s leather, left with more questions than answers and feelings I didn’t know I was capable of.
By the time I reached my hometown station, the temperature had plummeted. I had no choice but to put on the gear to stay warm. Walking down my street in the heavy jacket and chaps, I felt ten feet tall. That leather did something to me that no coaching or self-help book ever could; I felt self-assured for the first time in my life. This was the new me.
PS. Later that evening, a muffled ringtone echoed from the hallway. I found Tony’s own cellphone tucked into the inner pocket of the biker jacket, along with a few other ‘goodies.’ I answered, and we talked for hours. Before we hung up, he told me he wanted me on a ‘job’ with him soon.
That night, still wearing the cool jacket and still feeling the weight of him inside my asshole, I fell into a deep, heavy sleep. I dreamed of everything I had learned and the man I was becoming.
- Don’t be afraid to try something new. Life is too short to leave the door closed.
• Continued in Part 2 •
Thank you for reading this story.
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And if your hands are not too dirty from all the spilled cum! 😋
© StrykerJ - January 2026
