I needed to hurry him along. I had a train to catch. I dug my heels into the mattress and pushed up on my pelvis, changing the angle of his thrusts, such as they were, to being more direct, a bit deeper—ensuring that, when the thrusts picked up intensity as he neared ejaculation, he wouldn’t dislodge from me. He was paying me extra for barebacking. It wouldn’t satisfy him to pop out and cream one of my thighs.

I tightened my channel and rippled the muscles of my passage walls to undulate over his hard, but not impressively large, cock—although I guess it’s impressive just to be able to get it up in your sixties, which I gauged him to be. First reaching in and lifting the roll of fat of his paunch so that it pressed higher and less painfully on my belly, I then reached around, grasped his wrinkled buttocks cheeks, one in each hand, squeezed them rhythmically to encourage him to match the beat of the fuck, and guided him in a more insistent thrust. Lifting up with the leverage of the soles of my feet, I thrust up as I pressed on his buttocks to help him thrust down.

I was providing more than half of the friction of the fuck. He was panting hard and emitting obscenities—”Fuck, Brian. Shit, fuck. Fuck you’re a sweet lay”—which was a bit incongruous for a professor. They came out in his natural West Virginia twang rather than the affected British he normally liked to use in the classroom. Not that he fucked me in the classroom—although if it would ensure an A in his course . . .

I had become adept in giving old university professors a good fuck. I planned on graduating on time.

Three, four, six, eight thrusts, with me hissing, “Yes, like that. Fuck me hard, Daddy. Give it to me. Do me hard,” and, with me clutching his buttocks so he’d stay in, he jerked, came, and collapsed on top of me. I allotted him two and a half minutes of kisses and fondling and then rolled out from underneath him and off the bed and headed for the bathroom.

“Are you coming back?” Professor Cranley asked from the bed. “You know it’s always better the second time. I can get it bigger and hold off longer.”

“Sorry, I have a train to catch,” I answered as I kept moving. “I told you that, remember?” I added as I got to the bathroom door.

“You know what I like afterward,” he said in a whine. He was such a baby. But, yes, I knew what he expected for his hundred dollars and grade consideration for a toss in the bed.

“If you’ll take me to the Amtrak station and I don’t have to walk or rustle up a cab, we will have time to finish with the usual,” I said.

“Of course I’ll drive you to the station,” he said. “But do you have to go up to D.C. this weekend? I have a sketching session on for tomorrow night and I was counting on you to model.”

Howard Cranley was an art professor at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. I was one of his students. I also modeled for his classes and for a group of his old goat friends—in the nude. I also was his rent-boy. He pimped me to these same old goat friends. I had to use the assets I had while I had them to cover my college costs and living expenses.

A few of them weren’t so bad. All of them put it in me. I was addicted to cock.

The sketching session he was referring to was more of a club of old codger randy artist friends of his he pulled together occasionally at his house than an art class. They all were marketable artists already; they didn’t need to practice that. Most of them could use all the practice in cock play that they could get, though. A few of them wouldn’t be able to get it up much longer. For some of them I had to do an act even now to give them the impression they could go hard enough to be effective inside me.

I didn’t mind putting out for older men. Sometimes they were more experienced than the young, hard-cocking guys, and they always were more appreciative and generous with their money.

Five or six of these friends would be there, with one or two young men as models, being sketched in the nude. They’d sketch for an hour and a half, mingle with the naked models with drinks and small talk for a half hour or forty-five minutes, and then they would fuck the models, each model taking up to four of them, in succession, or together for a bit extra. The models would be paid $500 each. It was good money—money I needed—and wasn’t too taxing, as most of the artists who were included were in their fifties or sixties and weren’t exactly firecrackers in bed. There were a couple of exceptions—somewhat younger, more robust, better hung, and forceful men, and they were more fun in bed. And for some young men, like me, who liked to be watched, it was an extra high for one of the more robust artists to be fucking me on a material-draped platform while the others gathered around and watched—or sketched.

Two of the younger artists were bruisers; one was hung the other was rough and cruel. I gave it to them free for extra art lessons and just because I liked to be fucked by vigorous, hung, demanding men.

“Can’t tomorrow night,” amsterdam shemale I said. “I have to be in D.C. Some Cezannes are being exhibited at the National Gallery for the first time in a long time and I’ve arranged to be able to do some studies of them. If you can put your session off to Sunday or Monday night . . .”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Cranley said. “You know you are a favorite at the sessions. Not as many will come if you aren’t one of the models.”

It was true about the National Gallery exhibiting the Cezannes and I would be there the next afternoon to sketch them, but that wasn’t really why I had to go up to D.C. from Charlottesville on The Crescent, the Amtrak train coming up from New Orleans, today. But Howard didn’t need to know all of my business.

“Now. Come back to me. I said I’d drive you to the train,” the professor said and I moved back to the bed and stood before him, manipulating his head of gray, wavy hair, with the bald spot on the top, with my hands as he opened his mouth to my cock and sucked me off.

He was right. He was able to maintain a hard longer and to satisfy me more the second time.

He was dressed when I came out of the shower and was sitting on the side of the bed. He liked to watch me dress—almost as much as he liked to sketch me nude and then fuck me afterward.

“What are those?” he asked as watched me tuck three handkerchiefs in the back pockets of my jeans, each one hanging out so that a number showed. The white one had the number 20 on it, the green one the number 30, and the red one 100.

“These are tickets to get past the guards at the art gallery through the behind-the-scenes areas,” I lied. This was another aspect of where I was going and what I was going to do that Howard didn’t need to know about. “Are we ready?”

“You want me to take you to the Amtrak station now?” He knew I was joking about the meaning of the handkerchiefs, but he also wasn’t that interested in them.

“Yes, please. I can take care of the reading assignment you gave us this morning while I wait.”

I scooped up the hundred-dollar bill from his dresser and headed for the bedroom door.

“Tell you what,” Cranley said as he heaved himself off the bed. “I’ll put a session together for Sunday night, late, anyway, if you’ll be back from D.C. Even if it’s just you modeling. You’re the best draw from these sessions.”

“Remember that it’s no more than four for $500 in addition to the art session.”

“We’ll put more money in the pot if more want to do it,” he said, and I didn’t object to that.

* * * *

When The Crescent came to a stop at the Charlottesville Amtrak station, which was the old Southern railway station, on West Main Street, I walked down the line of passenger cars—there were only seven of them—scanning the windows for a sign of Mike Henley. There were only two roomette carriages, so I didn’t have to look for long. He was hunched down in the window of his compartment and gave me a smile when he saw me. I took the red, $100 handkerchief, out of my back pocket, waved it at him, and folded and retired it to a front jeans pocket. He came to the carriage doorway and called down to me that he was in D compartment of the 7072 carriage.

“I’ll wait until the train goes through Orange,” I called back. I had a coach ticket and would have to wait until the conductor had been through the train checking tickets before I could go to the roomette carriages. I also wanted to do more than the $100 business on this run to Washington, D.C., if I could.

Henley was a regular. He lived in Nashville, Tennessee. He occasionally had weekend business in Washington and he’d used my services before. He paid $500 for the weekend—a train fuck, which was a fetish of his, and then I’d stay with him Friday and Saturday night in a hotel and he’d do me as often as he could get it up and wanted to do it. His business appointments left me plenty of time to do whatever I wanted to do in D.C. during the weekend. That saved me hotel costs while in D.C., and he didn’t stint on the hotels he used.

He was a pleasant guy, with a good cock, and good, strong thrust technique. He was in his late thirties, in great shape, and could stroke for hours, fire a thick load, recover quickly, and stroke and fire off again. I wouldn’t get much sleep, but I’d have time to do my National Art Gallery work and would receive room and board. The routine with him was that he’d text me when he was coming through Charlottesville on the train and I’d give him the weekend if I was able. $500 is $500. Sometimes he’d be coming back south on The Crescent on the same train and I’d give him another free fuck before I got off in Charlottesville just to keep him signing up with me. Handing out freebees occasionally gave the impression you were more into the john than just for the money. They loved that.

I walked through the train as much as I could before settling in coach for the ticket check. I still had a $20 and $30 handkerchief that could be brought into rotterdam shemale play, and those who were in the know about The Crescent gay sex handkerchief code needed to know that one of the players was on board.

There were several prospects who gave me the eye as I walked through the train. One young business and sports type grabbed the white handkerchief as I went through one of the coaches. He looked familiar but I didn’t think I’d ever serviced him before. I trusted that he knew what he was doing when he grabbed the handkerchief. If so, he knew that I’d come looking for him when I could fit a blow job in. That’s what he’d signed up for.

After the conductor had been through, there was an exodus to the observation car, which also was the bar car. Smoking cars on Amtrak were an amenity of the past, but the train services hadn’t given up on high-priced booze yet. There were three levels of accommodations on the train—the tiny roomette private compartments, with their own combined toilet and shower stalls; the sleeper cubicles that were miniscule compartments, with single seats across from each other that could be folded down to an upper and lower bunk that took up all the room in the compartment and a toilet at each end of the carriage; and sit-up coach seats, with a toilet at one end of the carriage. This was all on the upper level. There were other toilets available on the lower level, where baggage and freight were being hauled.

It was while I was working my way through the observation car, making sure that anyone who knew the Code on The Crescent saw me, that an arm reached out and grabbed the hand job, green, $30 handkerchief. I turned and looked—and shuddered. The guy was black and mean looking and was the size of a tank. A sleek tank, for sure. He had to be a pro football or basketball player or maybe even a boxer. He looked that mean, and he had a cruel smile on his face. I both melted to the possibility of him and worried that he might be too much to handle on a limited-space train. I did a lot of my cock sucking and hand job work in one of the train’s toilet compartments. I didn’t think that this big black bull and I would even fit in one of the train toilets together.

“I’ll find you when I want it,” he growled in a low tone that was meant to keep the transaction from others who were moving around the observation car.

I shuddered in anticipation of this and went looking for Mike Henley’s compartment.

I found him, in a business suit, but with his cock out, stroking it. I closed and locked the sliding door behind me and pulled the curtain over the window in the door.

“Thanks for giving me the weekend, Brian,” he said. “You know what I want in the time we have before D.C.”

It would take nearly two and a half hours for the train to pull into D.C.’s Union Station. He liked for me to be naked on the train and him to be fully clothed for me to give him a cowboy, facing him. In bed, he wanted us both naked and he fucked me in all of the positions that he could manage in the time available and as long as he could stay hard—and he had little trouble staying hard.

He sat on the bench seat, his hands gripping my waist, while I, naked, sat on his cock—jutting out of his open fly, facing him, arched back, and fucking myself on his shaft, using the leverage of my feet planted at the base of the bench’s back cushion. Half way through the fuck, I raised my ankles to his shoulders and arched way back to the floor of the compartment, and, using strong arms, Henley pulled me on and off his cock to our separate ejaculations.

Time was limited, so I used all of the passage wall undulating muscle tricks I knew to make him come earlier than later. At the hotel, I would pay attention to what he wanted me to do and I would do it. There would be a longer ride before the money shots then. But here the point was a quick fuck—and, more important, a quick, but full, release. He understood that. Mike Henley knew about deadlines and meeting them. He very much was in control of a fuck, and I appreciated that I didn’t have to do the planning—I only had to listen to instructions and follow them.

Thirty-five minutes after entering Henley’s compartment, I exited, having cleaned myself up with a sponge bath. I found the guy in coach who had pulled the blow job handkerchief, a guy who said he was a high school girls’ softball team coach even though I hadn’t asked him, and I led him to a remote toilet downstairs, pushed him against the wall straddling a toilet, barely managed to get down on my knees in front of him, unzipped him and pulled him out, and gave him an expert, efficient, and effective blow job. He paid me the $20, and I washed my mouth out, combed my hair, and moved back toward my coach car, hoping at that point that the black bull who had pulled the green handkerchief forgot he’d done so.

He didn’t forget he’d done so. I barely made the top of the stairs, with a coach car to my left and a sleeper car to my right, when a muscular black arm reached out and pulled blog shemale me into the sleeper car. The black guy had one of those private sleeper cars. It had a sliding door on it that locked and a curtain to pull over the window in the door. There was hardly enough space on his side of the compartment for him to hover.

In two swift movements, he’d pulled my jeans and briefs off my legs and his athletic shorts and a jock strap off his.

“Slow down, sport,” I said. “This is for a hand job and it’s thirty dollars up front.”

“It’s for whatever I want from you or I’ll report you to the conductor,” he growled. He did produce a ten and a twenty, though, which he stuffed in a pocket of my jeans that were puddled on the floor between the two facing seats.

“How are we going to do this,” I asked. Normally I could sit next to a guy in coach with a blanket over our laps and I could stroke his cock off by hand underneath the blanket. Occasionally the john wanted to pull on my cock instead.

“Like this,” the black bruiser said. He wanted it both ways.

He raised his legs, pushing the soles of his feet into the cushion behind me, which ended up with me sitting on his legs. Then he grabbed my ankles, hooked them on his shoulders, and slid me toward him to where my buttocks were resting on the tops of his upper thighs. This brought our released and engorging cocks to where he could fist them both together in one hand. I was big; he was gigantic. He played with the cocks for several minutes, all within the definition of hand job, even though a very inventive version. He frotted them, stroked them together. He docked them, putting them bulb to bulb and pulling his foreskin over my bulb and stroking them that way. And he laced his fingers through both sets of balls, and played the four balls together.

I panted and moaned, not being handled like this on a train before—or anywhere else for that matter. And I shot my load.

He didn’t then. When I’d ejaculated, he rose off his seat and came forward, getting his hand under my buttocks. I cried out in shock and pain as he pushed a couple of inches into my hole with his cock.

“No, no,” I called out. “It’s just for the hand job. Nothing else. You can’t—”

But it was obvious that he could. He pushed me, face down, into one of the facing seats and stood and crouched on what floor space there was between the seats. He grabbed my wrists and pulled my arms back. The width of the compartment was short enough that the soles of my feet pressed into the wall at the opposite end, with my head resting on one of the seats. Crouching between my thighs, he was deep inside me and pulled me on and off his cock. My attention went to the black bull cock he was working into my channel. I struggled against him, but that only helped him push in deeper. The cocking was so good and my options were so nonexistent that I soon decided just to make the most of the black bull fuck. This had happened to me on the train before. He was right, I wasn’t going to report any overstepping of the deal to anyone. Using the leverage of my feet on the opposite wall, I moved my body with his thrusts, taking him thick and deep.

Laughing a guttural laugh at how easily I gave in to him, he fucked the shit out of me. He pumped me from Culpepper to Fredericksburg. He pounded me from Fredericksburg to Alexandria, fucking me nonstop through the stops at the station. When he knew he had me under control, he released my wrists and clutched my throat with his big, black mitts to ensure I wouldn’t make too much noise while people were coming and going in the corridor just on the other side of the locked door.

It was a glorious fuck. He was among the biggest I’d ever had inside me, and once we’d settled down to giving and taking like two animals in natural, mutually pleasurable heat, I let my channel make love to this shaft. I came twice; he came twice. As we entered the suburbs of Washington, he roughly pulled his jock and shorts up and then my briefs and trousers, unlocked the door, and tossed me out into the corridor.

I had his $30 for the hand job but there was no hint that I was going to get the other $70 for an anal fuck. I was so blotto from the rough, unending, giant-cocked fuck that I barely could remember how to get back to the coach seat where I’d left my duffel bag before we were pulling into Union Station. There was no question of trying to get the rest of what he should have owed me from the black bull.

I staggered, bowlegged, off the train and almost fell into Mike Henley’s arms. He asked me why I was looking and acting so silly, but I couldn’t gather my thoughts enough to tell him. Happily, I had recovered before he took me to bed in his hotel that night and fucked me the night away.

I gave two blow jobs and two hand jobs on the return to Charlottesville, so it was a lucrative Code on The Crescent weekend. I was so worn out, though, that I called Professor Cranley to beg off the art session that night. But he told me that the younger artist who fucked cruel would be there, so I kept the appointment and just begged off my Monday classes as sick and stayed in bed all that day, my legs bent and open and with, it seemed, steam coming out of my ass—and dreaming of the big black bull on the train.



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