Work Text:
Autumn 2005
Martyn doesn’t mind the old trains. The roar and whine like a struck drake retreating to its cave, the deep sweaty musky staining the bland pattern upholstery that is trying so hard to seem artsy, and the floors are always weirdly sticky. It’s grimey and a little rough around the edges, just like he likes. But best of all, it jostles and shakes like a ship on stormy waters.
And that gets him into situations like this.
His retreat from his late night office job, something to cover rent that getting his back blown out in front of camera doesn’t, lands him on the Hammersmith & City and Jubilee lines smouldering and exhausted from inputting mindless data into spreadsheets and answering customer service calls with a rasp earned from an early morning shoot and Cleo’s fat cock.
The highlight of his day was someone recognising him at the water cooler: which means they have likely seen Martyn with cum painted across his face and Ren’s balls on his face. Awkward…
Ren and Tango did say his first tape was selling really well.
If they say anything, well, they are outing themself. That’s a little mutually queer destruction for you.
That little mortifying humiliation makes the day drag longer than it should have. Last thing he needs is this blowing up his respectable masquerade of a job he can show off to the family.
The train jumps him from his seat and plants his face into the crotch of a complete stranger standing in front of his seat. Cute bike shorts, the smooth stretch of Lycra and nylon is comforting against his cheeks, a musky sweat gets his cock throbbing and his shoulders slump, and a hand in his hair that seemingly intended to catch Martyn or steady himself but remains there like a cautious claim.
Martyn looks up at him, eyes tired and crinkling with performative humiliation: simultaneously sparkling with a hungering need, a distraction, a want, anything he’s willing to give.
The stranger looks back at him less embarrassed - he's got a cute boy huffing his bulge After all - although he is nervous, looking around the carriage. Martyn gets it, either he’s having a few realisations about himself or he doesn’t want to get hate-crimed on the bloody jubilee line… But he keeps him there, against his bulge, let’s Martyn nuzzle and press a gentle kiss to the spandex.
There are people in the carriage… a few, mostly reading or passed out or this couple making out a bit too ardently for a Thursday night - sluts.
Martyn sucks the strangers cock right then and there.
Lad’s pretty good size, a bit above average, just enough to tickle his gag reflex if he pushes his face into the bush.
It’s a quick and messy affair.
Martyn swallows him down and works every inch of him to the back of his throat and just rolls in the bliss of it. A stranger’s cock throbbing on his tongue, rivulets of pre gliding down his throat, the soft panting and moans outing down on him like September rains, is just what he needs after a day like today.
Hand clasping over his mouth to stuff the groan back down, the stranger cums with a jostle of the train on the track that shoves him to the back of Martyn’s throat. He gulps him down, bitter and salty, although in his rush to get off - cause the next stop was totally his - He pulls out while still coming, finishing on Martyn’s chin and chest and practically throws himself on to the platform as soon as the train stops.
“Thanks man, laters!” he blurts out and disappears down the horrid off-pale yellow tiles of the underground station.
Martyn huffs a little pout as he looks at the thick mess soaking into his work shirt, and the globs furthering the stickiness of the carriage flooring between his legs.
Great… Now he’s gonna have to go to work with a cummy shirt tomorrow. Martyn hangs his head and sighs long and deep, the after taste of the strangers cum lingering on his palette. Granted, it’s like spilling milk on white but it will still stain, still will have that linger odour of spilt pleasure. His cock throbs at the thought, enough that Martyn can feel a pinprick of wetness bleeding through his boxers and a sliver of humiliation in the base of his spine like a knife.
The thought of his office finding out what a slut he is, showing him off, teasing and humiliating him down to his knees - ”oh we won’t tell Martyn, as long as you’re the office's free use whore, but you’d like that…”
Martyn’s fantasy is interrupted when a shadow is cast over him and a pair of polished, brogued, leather shoes clicks before his eyes.
Drags his head up, golden hair tousled and a little sweaty spilling either side of his face, he half expects to see a business man who has nasty words about the ‘performance’ he just put on, half expecting to be punched, or worse.
Instead, a man with salt and prepper hair and a rough, strong sort of face stands there in a suit Martyn could only dream of touching let alone wearing. One hand places a case so fine and polished that it makes the sticky carriage floor more lavish by sheet proximity while the other grips the handrail pole next to Martyn’s seat on the corner of the seat row. He’s being boxed in, more than the happenstance fumbling from the biker.
“Eyes up stud,” his voice is gruff, making the roar of the carriage seem like a field mouse, brushing on Martyn’s ears like calloused hands tracing each curve and spiral. He can’t help the shiver that ripples through him, or the way he looks down at him makes his thighs press together. Martyn is eye level with his crotch and the heavy bulge that would tear through his pants and belt if they weren’t so expensive, he moans a little at the sight, “I’m up next.” Martyn watches the bulge twitch, throb. Struggle against the confines like a caged beast craving a return to lush pasture to hunt.
Who is he to deny such a handsome rich man?
The expensive flyer sings like a stradivarius violin as the man pulls it down and after a short shuffle of fabric, his cock and balls spills out his open fly and Martyn can feel his heart jump to the precipice of his threat with burning desire.
The man is hung, he’s hung for hung. Martyn’s eyes trace the thick vein he can see pulsating at the base, he salivates at the shiny ring of silver through his cock head, and the loose pendulous balls that hang heavy. If Martyn wasn’t already hard, the sight in front of him would have him cutting diamonds.
He just stands there with his cock out, taunting Martyn.
“You gonna stare or you gonna throat it like a proper whore?” Doc inquires, voice roasting him like coals and Martyn’s breath flutters at the pitch and gravel, hushed just enough that it might sink below the rolling roar of the carriage: but it might not. Past the man Martyn will shortly learn is called Doc, on the row of seats opposite, a young lad staring out the window, flicks his eyes away from Martyn, his cheeks rosy. It’s not even that hot in here.
Something low and caustic broils his gut, but he can’t help himself. Martyn goes to grip the base, but Doc’s sharp click of his tongue is like a jolt that fries his motor function.
“Come on, pro like you: you don’t need hands princess,” Doc purrs low. Martyn keeps his hands on his thighs as he leans forward and wraps his lips around Doc.
Martyn’s only sucked three cocks today, including current, but it certainly feels like he’s done about fifteen with how this throat choking down Doc. The prince Albert rolls on his tongue, a harshly pristine metallic taste fronting the savoury warmth that follows as Doc presses past lips glossy with saliva.
His lips ache at the stretch, stuffing Doc into his mouth. Throbbing on his tongue, Martyn can tell he’s pent up, the corporate types always are.
Working him into his mouth, the sway of the carriage does half the work for Martyn - joustling Doc forwards to meet his lips halfway. Thick ropes of saliva hang from his cock as Martyn pulls back, watching the runoff spill onto those heavy balls Martyn feels compelled to bury his face.
Doc gets easier to take by the time his Prince Albert is tickling Martyn’s uvula. Sliding into his throat with a pleasant fullness that makes Martyn’s head swim and get fuzzier like a low fog is rolling in.
The gruff moans that Doc growls out, tight and restrained are a sweet sound that has him desperate to hear more, despite how much he can feel himself threatening to split with every inch Martyn stuffs down his throat.
Martyn bears down on him, eyes watering as he stuffs Doc into his mouth despite his body screaming at him. Doc throbs as Martyn’s throat squeezes him and he can feel the white hot want burning his tongue as he forces himself to the base steadily, working far too fast.
But Martyn wants - nay, needs - Doc stuffing his throat to bursting despite how much his body tries to reject him in spasming bouts of constricting, thrumming muscles that try to squeeze him back out of Martyn’s throat.
Before Martyn’s stomach can flip, his throat seizes as he gags loudly around Doc, enough that it probably sneaks into the neighbouring carriages despite the roaring wail of the tracks. Spilling out in a slick mess, Doc’s cock taps his chin as he sputters and gags, tears threatening to spill but Martyn keeps them.
Doc chuckles, low and almost impressed.
“Calm down kiddo,” Martyn moans loudly at that. The words, filthy and demeaning, slide into him like a scorching knife, bleeding searing pleasure into his muscles, has Martyn’s eyes rolling back. “I ain’t going anywhere.” That little gruff reassurance twists ugly in Martyn’s chest - he sounds too much like. No. Don’t let him ruin this.
The carriage bounces and Doc’s cock bounces with it - a thick chain of saliva shaking and breaking, falling heavy between their feet.
He slows - a little: savouring the drag of Doc’s cock against his lips and tongue as it slides back into his mouth. The rhythm is still steady, and Doc clearly wants to breed his throat, but there is a focused steadiness to it. Focusing on relaxing his throat, Martyn lets the bumps and joustling of the train guide his movements alongside Doc, shallowly thrusting his hips forward.
He just has to sit there all pretty and be a good hole: Martyn likes that, likes being useful - being used.
Martyn bobs his head at a pleasant pace, back and forth, slick slopping sounds filling the cabin as ropes of saliva bind him to Doc’s cock, throbbing on his tongue. His lids grow heavier, the heft of Doc’s cock on his tongue weigh him down, and the rhythmic roll of Doc’s hips bolstered by the carriage.
The lad on the row over and across is staring at them from the corner of his eyes. Probably can’t see all the filthy details of Doc’s shiny cock throbbing on his lips and disappearing down his mouth, but it’s enough to have him throbbing in his pants.
There’s a certain twist of humiliation from how he is watching him - no detached space like through his videos, he's watching Martyn be a whore without a script or camera, of his own freewill. Would no doubt be the subject of ridicule and humiliation (and hopefully fantasies) of people he will never meet. How he was so sloppy on a random man’s cock, how he gagged so loudly like he was begging for everyone’s eyes to devour what a reckless whore he is. It is deathly embarrassing and it turns him on like nothing else can.
Attention whore…
A hand brandished with a simple metal bands brushes his hair out of his eyes and pulls Martyn’s attention back to the task in front of him. It’s soothing, he leans into the hold like a needy pet and Doc chuckles low. The feeling of all those rings - Martyn can’t help how his mind wanders to how intense the sting of Doc’s hand against his ass would be.
“Don’t mind them… just worry about putting on a good show for me princess,” Doc voice scorches him so pleasantly and has his throat rolling out the red carpet for him. Martyn wants to show off. He can feel the eyes stoking that flame inside him - Doc’s and the passengers dotting the carriage - that has his lips sliding down Doc hungrily and his cock leaking into his boxers.
Spilling past the precipice of his throat, Martyn whines as he welcomes Doc in like his tongue is a red carpet. Fleeting little breaths suck in air in the thin gaps between his lips stretching wide around Doc’s thick cock, and Martyn is suddenly glad he is in a seat because he knows his knees would give out otherwise.
Doc bulges against his throat - Martyn can feel it. The way his Adam's apple slowly sinks in his throat, but that isn’t the usual lump in his throat, it’s Doc’s cock pushing against the hard nub and grinding against every breath and strangled moan until he is cumming.
“That’s it… swallow it all down, slut,” he growls, clutching the handrail.
Doc’s face tightens, a low growl managing to pass the iron gate of his lips, as his cock pulses and throbs on the entirety of Martyn’s tongue - the tight warmth of his throat milking Doc’s cock for all he can.
Gargling and sputtering, Doc pumps a thick load down Martyn’s throat that has his lungs burning. Thick heavy ropes of cum paint his insides - overwhelming the uneasy taste of metal lingering on the base of his tongue with something bitter and salty and maddeningly savoury.
Martyn’s eyes roll back and he almost doesn’t want Doc to pull out, but he has to, they are at the end of the line.
Fuck, he’s missed his stop. Double fuck, his shirt is saturating with cum and spit.
Doc still burns in his throat as he swallows down another mouthful sticking to his throat. Slumping back against the repetitious blue seat that has long since lost its plushness, Martyn finally breathes in the rechurned air of the carriage instead of Doc’s cock, and his heaving chest soaking with spit and cum sticking to his skin has a business card tossed atop it.
End of the line.
Martyn looks down at it, up at Doc tucking his cock, shiny and slick, back into his pants. He collects his case and leaves with a smile and wave. Snorting, Martyn sinks into his seat and waits from the driver to scurry across the platform to the other end.
He plucks the card off his chest and flicks a glob of cum off it.
At best, a constant hook up who might take him to night restaurants. At worst, someone to squeeze about their dirty secrets for a rent cheque.