A Couple Forbidden Fruits on Amtrak

An hour-long left in a commute is, under most circumstances, something to celebrate. An hour dwindles like few other measurements of time. It's robust enough to offer plenty of reflection and opportunity but can also vanish without warning. I jostle, or to put it more accurately, am jostled by the movement of the train car I'm in. A train, I thought, is not a horrific way to pass an hour, but I only reflect on it because I know the approximately fifteen to twenty-five dilapidated churches I will have to pass by before the brakes are engaged and we slide into the modest metropolitan area my friends all decided to congregate in a few months ago, two hours away from reasonable housing prices.

Looking at the vividly green, marshy forests as the aging carriages bumbled along wasn't the worst way to spend a trip. The cars were often hot, crowded, and filled with people who would rather not rub elbows with you in the typical humidity, but fortunately only a few people apparently decided Amtrak was a good idea this weekend. I attempted to, failing every few minutes, to keep my attention trained to the moving images outside, to stop focusing on the unusual element of my ride sitting across from me in the booth. This part of the train was primarily empty, apart from an elderly couple I saw dozing before the train even left the station. The abundance of space hadn't stopped the glowing couple from sitting across from me from choosing my booth. Being a young, plain-looking man, this feels shockingly forward on their part. They offer all the characteristics you think you want in a nearby traveling companion until you find yourself having to reckon with it: severity, attraction, respect for quiet. The woman has dark auburn eyes, looking precise and splendidly angled in a black and white patterned sunflower dress, only speaking in the occasional whisper to her male companion, eliciting the occasional giggle. The man looks unnervingly like me, almost like a doppelganger who has gone through some measure of improvement before being debuted to the world. It could be I lack the imagination for what differences could visually exist across two bearded white men on public transit. Still, though, his scruff was well-trimmed, and I enjoy how the slight unbuttoning of his shirt gives way to dark curls. I'm suddenly aware of how unkempt I looked in comparison, baggy chinos and a t-shirt doing nothing for me in present company. Who looks this stunning on a fucking Amtrak?

The mostly empty car meant for a cooler overall temperature, except for his furtive glances and hazel eyes that, I can only imagine, regularly tightens chests, quickens pulses, etc. He was pleasantly unremarkable otherwise, apart from the occasional look, which carried with it such a forceful, direct appeal that a square jaw and standard scruff looked less like a standard college coffee shop barista and more like an eruptive opportunity. I notice my throat feels like I've swallowed sandpaper and I decide that, despite the table between us, to cross my legs for good measure. I focus on passing imagery, trying to redirect attention from an overactive imagination and a swell in my lap and instead onto the life outside the window. I try to feign like I'm paying attention to numerous non-functioning LED church screens, the yellowed egg-white signage shouting phrases like "FORBIDDEN FRUITS FRUITS CREATE MANY JAMS" or "SIN: COMMIT TO NOT COMMIT!"

The couple's hand-holding has turned sensual in the passing moments, and while a woman stroking the forearm of the man next to her isn't necessarily lewd behavior, I still found it hard to focus. I don't have an issue with public affection, I think, as I distract myself by thinking about which volunteer position in a Christian church oversaw the making ridiculous awareness campaigns via public road signage. This is not, however, an effective distraction when she begins to kiss him with intent, and I notice how alarmingly smooth their embrace is. The woman's slim, ponderous face pressing forward into the man's, parting her lips at a width generally frowned upon in most public contexts. I cannot do much of anything as I see how graceful the push and pull between them is. What is the point in pretending not to see? I consider. Instead I admire how there was none of the typical haphazard missteps in a typical embrace, no callous smashing of the lips, a miscalculated tongue, or anything else clumsy. The blasé nature of a perfect kiss on a train would have been less shocking had it not immediately escalated. Suddenly I'm weighted deeper in my bench when his hand cups first her face and then, moments later, gently take her breast in his palm.

I try to make mental calculations for when the last time an employee walked through the car, but instead, I uncross my legs and the following freedom and pulse renders questions like "How will this end?" or "Will I be banned from trains?" irrelevant. My hand shifts onto myself, feeling the warmth through the fabric as the man, between long, face-melding kisses, tenderly attends to her nipple, erect between his fingers. A thumb and index circles it, occasionally pinching the enlarged pink, which jolts her a little, while her free hand yanks her blanket over both of their laps.

Oh. I belatedly realize how far this would go. The muffled twinkle of a belt being undone is heard, and the lean muscle in her arm has gone taut while reaching beneath the fabric. The man's almost anonymously soft demeanor has been made more solid with a pronounced vein in the neck, the kissing presumably failing to distract from how passionately she was attending to him underneath. I glance down the aisle—there's no discernible reason for me not to crawl under this table, and in a moment of delirious courage I try a hand underneath and try to brush a knee for some sign of interest. I find the woman's, and she cracks open an eye and addresses me directly as she pulls away from her embrace. Get down there. It has the terse quality of a formal order, but she attaches a sly smile to the end of it before continuing to wrap her tongue around her partner's. How do two people kiss for such an extended period? I thought of my last kiss, how dry and chaste it was, and how much I'd been missing what I was being shown. It was motivation enough to begin to fold my body underneath the table.

Suddenly thankful for my ability to navigate small spaces and Amtrak's spacious legroom, I dip into the black and find the blanket and go underneath, hearing the brush of skin and wet sounds—his hand had found her underneath the dress, and I could hear the soft sounds of her being played with. Who would want this interrupted? I ask myself, but I steel my nerves and take my hands and run them up his legs, which are more pronounced and defined than I expected, kissing the skin of his thighs until I found the combination of her hand and his cock. I lick at the wet tip that pulsed in reply to the sudden appearance of my mouth. What was the point of having any reservation at this point? Is the last coherent thought I could offer myself before opening my jaw, intent on taking as much of him as my mouth would allow. I slide each inch slowly down my tongue, pressing and swirling around his thickness as I worked my way down. I can see nothing, overwhelmed by the combined musk and intimacy of the squelching sounds of his fingers plunged in her. I know he has a comforting thickness and work my mouth up and down it with vigorous intent. How long was this hour? I press him deeper down my throat and quietly hope the hotness of my breath nets me a visceral reward before we stop.

I feel deliriously disconnected from what's happening above. I only know two different hands have found my face. A soft palm, the woman's, strokes my face while he works his fingers between strands of my hair, tugging just enough to encourage my salivating mouth up and down, his cock beginning to pulse in response. I hear two separate sets of whimpers, which should have alarmed me, but my hand had wandered to her, found him gyrating her clit with his hand, so I complimented it with fingers between her lips, up until I find the ridges of her walls and circled. I attempt to sensitively press against her but balancing it between that and a growing cock in my cheek is a difficult balance. I am barely aware we can be found any moment, or soon to be stopped by the time if nothing else. Suddenly motivated, I diversify my deep, suckling swallows with long caresses of my tongue up his shaft. The whimpers on his side become more frequent and I suppress the internal smile I feel when I realize this.

The woman's legs begin to twitch, tightening slightly in response to our fingers. Her hand is a more forceful presence on my face, guiding my pleasure of her companion. I pull his length from my mouth and tug at it from the base to his foreskin while wrapping my mouth around the tip, my own cock twitching and dripping in response to what was about to flood my mouth. What a delirious dream to reflect on, but there's no reflection to be had at the moment when a stranger on a train swells against your tongue without too much warning and begins to shoot warm, sticky come down the back of my throat. I was suddenly, gleefully parched; he squirmed in response, but I held him stiffly in my hand, suckling with intent, drinking in both him and the encounter. With his come still coating my tongue, I lean to the side and find her legs textured with small fine hairs, kissing past them and careful to not let any of the white drip from my mouth. I gently kiss her clit, still swollen and sensitive, before I slide my slick, coated tongue between her lips, which issued a pleasurable, quiet Fuck somewhere from above, and enjoyed the combined tastes of both their pleasure.

In a more just world, where an hour stretches into three, I'd detail something more dramatic, but it wasn't along after getting a mouthful of him that the train started to slow down. I was sheepish when I climbed up, cleaning come out of the corner of my mouth. I only noticed afterward how plainly attractive both were, a typical chestnut brown hair across them both, unremarkable with a few small exceptions, like the two broad, sly smiles that adorned them both. What else is impossible to notice when engulfed in a moment? I was still so hard I felt I must be radiating tension, but there wasn't time for an ideal scenario, where I nestle between them and see how to exchange three bodies on a single train bench. I'm of the opinion an hour is absolutely nothing, I think with frustration, before noticing they were telling me something significant. We take this route frequently; would you be willing to exchange phone numbers?

On second thought, wasn't there everything to gain within an hour?