I dream of fucking strangers

About this story

I think about it all the time: fucking strangers. My journeys into town, out of town, down to the shops to pick up milk: they’re all peppered with deeply personalised erotic fiction – flash-frame fucks starring people I pass on the way. Those guys standing on the corner by the park, taking long swigs from cans of lager they’ve pulled from plastic bags at their feet. They’re… Hungarian? Romanian? I’m shit at languages. It’s a pretty one, though – one in which any words growled filthily into my ear would have the desired effect. They’re there quite a lot, this group: lads who look like they do hard, physical work. They wear t-shirts just tight enough that I can see the bulge of their arms and shoulders through the cotton. Who wear trousers that sit so neatly on the top of the curve of their bottoms. A slight hint of underwear above the waistband. The kind of arses you have to bite your lip to keep yourself from biting. On the train, there are more. More fucking strangers. Men with sleeve tattoos – oh God bless you, summer , for bringing out the men with sleeve tattoos. I can picture them holding their arms tightly around my throat while we fuck against a wall. Whispering ‘ssssh’ in my ear to stop us from being disturbed. On the train, a guy looking awkward and uncomfortable in a suit. On his way to an interview for a job he doesn’t really want. He’s hot – in both senses. Dripping sweat in the July heat, and oozing that shy, nervous horniness that makes me wonder how his neat-cut trousers would look if his dick started twitching into an erection. I don’t stare – I don’t. I glance once, notice, memorise, then look away. Fucking strangers in my head The rest of it happens in my head. The guy in the sharp suit – I imagine how he’d raise his eyebrows in surprise if I passed him a note that said ‘fuck me.’ I picture that dick-twitch again. Flick my eyes down at just the right point, so he blushed with embarrassment. I imagine how he’d take my hand, swallow nervously once or twice, then nod to the train doors. We’d run through the crowds at Holborn and grab at each other on the escalator. More nervous swallows from him, eager groping from me, all over that fat, hard dick in smart trousers. We’d fuck in the toilets of the nearest Costa. Hard, quick, bent over the toilet that smelled of bleach and previous fucks. When we’d finished the staff would notice us trying to sneak away, and ask if we were going to buy any coffee. I’d get him a latte then throw mine away – not wanting to take away the taste of his dick on my lips. Then back again, on the way home, there are more guys with arm tattoos . Fucking strangers distracting me from every journey I take. The tattooed guy wouldn’t swallow nervously. In my head he’d push me onto my knees on the filthy floor of the tube carriage, forearms tense with the effort of pulling my face onto his cock. Choking and spluttering, through wet eyes I might make out another tattoo – on his stomach or wrist in that beautiful, soft dip just above his hipbone. But it doesn’t happen – fucking strangers. Because we have rules about this, for one. And for two: because if it actually happened I wouldn’t know what to do. I’d stammer, and splutter, and it would become starkly apparent that my fantasy self is just as imaginary as the strangers I’m fucking in my mind. So I don’t do anything, or say anything. I just continue my journey. Glancing away. Not fucking strangers. Just enjoying the things that they do in my head. As I get nearer home, the lads on the corner are still there. Carrier bag full of cans now sadly depleted, they dream of more, and another hour of daylight in which to drink it. I dream of them fighting over who gets to fuck which hole.