Amtrak feelings are always transient
Dilf Frank x College Reader. → You guys meet on the Amtrak. Everything you do is in good fun until it isn’t, and you find yourself three years later, emotionally dependent on him.Â
Possible (slight) DD/tags: Age gap (you met at 18), Guilt, Problematic Dilf Frank, Unreciprocated feelings, It’s implied that he’s just using you, Co-dependency, Paranoia, Some things could be interpreted as him paying you for your “affections”–compensating you or whatever you want to call it
AN: This may be my most dead-dove writing so far. I’m not totally sure how I feel about the switches between times, so please be nice about that, lol.
Also: I’m not too sure if I did it successfully, but I tried to do some sort of “in between the lines” dialogue? Like the font usage, and text (lack of/specific words used) are very important to get a bit of more insider info into what Frank and you are feeling/thinking.
Amtraks—for anyone who has never been in one—are some of the busiest, most unconventionally developed trains in all of the North East.Â
Nonetheless, the relationship you’d formed with your recurrent train stops was one of sick and twisted comfort. Comfort in visiting familiar places and leaving behind the bustling atmosphere of classes, city work, and nonstop due dates; a place for you to recharge and re-find yourself in family and the friendships that have survived post-high school life.Â
The sick and twisted part came in the (oftentimes) revolting, sickly-sweet feeling of euphoria that overcame you when waiting for Frank’s stop to approach. Anxious butterflies ate at the pit of your stomach, forcing you to curse at yourself for eating lunch just by thinking of what you’d say to him–what he’d say to you.Â
You’d met Frank your freshman year of college, on your way back home for your first-ever school break. Your relationship with him blossomed after he’d helped you haul your over-packed duffel bags on the overhead storage racks. His confident attitude–despite not being that tall to begin with–lowered your guard just enough for you to shyly thank him and ask to sit next to him.Â
His boyish smile and unique charm definitely could have fooled you; his mannerisms were consistent with someone in their early twenties, not (you supposed) middle-aged. You weren’t complaining, though; he was handsome and confident–even after slightly struggling to get your stuff over his head. He joked with you that his joints were rusty and weaker than when he was around your age from years of tossing himself around on stages and giving too many “uppies” to his kids. It was endearing.Â
Conversation flowed so naturally with him. The questions you asked each other made him feel like he was back in high school playing 20 questions. He asked about your reason for travel, admitting he was on his way back home from–very important, secret–meetings.Â
His fast-paced life, filled with meetings and concerts, made you feel lame for pursuing such a basic degree. But he immediately applauded your dedication to keep learning, admitting that he never had the motivation to finish his degree.
You kept talking well after the chatter around you died down, your conversation turning cheeky in the early morning hours when not one single soul remained awake.
His flattery was a lot bolder than your reciprocation, preferring to keep playing the cutesy-innocent college girl he seemed to like. He’d said something along the lines of you being too pretty to be traveling in such a stuffy place like dingy Amtrak trains. His body heat warmed you up from the proximity while he slid one of his big, rough hands over your thigh–keeping it there and giving a tentative squeeze that had you not-so-subtly clenching your legs together.Â
His actions had you leaning more and more towards him, his soft words and overwhelming touches making you fumble with your words a bit. Your bite-back of him possibly not being that big of a rockstar if he was also traveling in “dingy Amtrak trains” had a few stutters in between that he found so adorable.Â
Every time you thought back to that conversation, you couldn’t help but be proud that your snippy comment made him laugh. How he leaned in to whisper behind your ear–what he said, you couldn’t remember, all senses backfiring and hyperfocusing on the way his hand slid further up your leg until it rested comfortably on the inside of your thigh. The addicting electric shocks sparking from your cunt, making you shiver noticeably.Â
He, of course, noticed the state you were in and couldn’t help but feel proud of himself for still being able to make girls like you ruin their panties.
You didn’t even notice that he’d taken your hand and guided it to his crotch for you to feel him up. The warmth of his boner making you take a deep breath in to force yourself back into focusing on what was happening.Â
Looking back at the moment, you were now kind of glad there weren’t that many people on board to begin with. Everyone in your carriage either sleeping or too far away to get a clue on what was happening. The closest person to you, facing the opposite way. Â
But still, even with the lights off, the possibility of being caught doing what you inferred you were about to do stilled your movements, your brain trying to force you to snap out of whatever delusions Frank had put on you.Â
You ignored them as soon as you made eye contact with him, his sweet demeanor dimming the severity of your actions when he’d told you that the workers had already passed through your section and that the lights were off anyway.Â
In moments like this, when he grabs you by the back of your neck to push you down onto his crotch, you don’t really care. His sweaty hands, his small huffs, and the way he pulled on your hair as you sucked him remind you that he will always be with you–even if, physically, it was for just a few hours.
You found the routine between you to be comforting; always starting with a hand job, which eventually turned into a blow job when he started pulling your head towards his dick–always implying what he wanted, never saying it directly. Sometimes you’d get a couple of “good girls” thrown at you as recompense for having your throat abused a bit too soon.Â
But he never apologized– didn’t need to. You were happy to give yourself to him, in any way he’d want you to.Â
His harshness inside your mouth was soothed with lots of pets on your back. His hands roamed up and down your back before finding your tits and playing with your nipples.Â
As he was murmuring how much he missed you, you thought back to the thousands of times he’d told you he loved your tits in person while out of breath, a million times over text.Â
He described the way they felt in his hands as he kneaded them like poetry, loving on them as if he was afraid of losing them at any point.Â
You felt his cock jolt inside you at the same time he switched from one nipple to the next. Re-hardening them for his own pleasure.
“You’re so good…so–so fuckin’ good for me.” He panted, uncaring anymore if anyone were to hear him after years of doing this, “keep going, baby, I’m about to–I’m about to cum down your slutty–fuck–your slutty little throat.”
His words could get a little mean sometimes–especially if he was close to cumming. You didn’t care, though. The salty, addicting flavor of his cum hitting your tongue and going down your throat was prize enough to have learned to swallow with him.Â
You knew what awaited you as you got up from your seat to go to the bathroom and clean yourself up. You’d always–even after the first time you blew him–find him already packing up his things.Â
It makes your heart stop for a couple of seconds. The feeling fooled you into thinking you were having a heart attack the first time you felt it. Now, against your better judgment, you knew what it was; it will pass.Â
The first time, he at least had the decency to let you know that his stop would be the next one.Â
You thought back to that night while you watched him fumble for his phone charger and luggage. He’d given you his phone number and told you to text him as soon as you got home safely, throwing a wink your way while asking you to let him know what train you’d be leaving on.
Now, as you watched him silently from your seat, all dolled up specifically for him, he wouldn’t even turn your way. No longer did he remind you to get home safely, to let him know what train you were taking at the end of your break. All of those things were now just “implied.”
You weren’t a child; you didn’t need aftercare. But damn, would it be nice for him to go back to treating you like he used to back then. To greet you lovingly and call you all sorts of nice things–not just while he fucked your mouth.Â
You wanted him to laugh and engage with you like he did your first time with him. He would only do that now at the very beginning, his responses curt and dry as soon as it got dark inside the train. You’d learned to just shut up and let him lean in for a kiss before he shoved you downwards to give him a blowie.Â
Frank never had the balls to give you what you truly wanted. His defense was that it would technically be harder for him to do anything to you because your cunt was harder for him to reach while staying inconspicuous.Â
You’re quiet when the train slows down to stop, knowing that your time with him is up.Â
He kissed your cheek goodbye (he does that only sometimes now), and gave you a small box wrapped half-nicely (this, he does every time). The small gift, the only indicator of you having some sort of connection with him. But even then, nothing could ever really be tied to him, so no one would genuinely believe you.Â
You know he doesn’t want you–not romantically, at least–only what you can provide for him; a young mouth for him to defile in whatever way he wishes.
This became obvious after the first year of your activities. After the first time he didn’t show up to your (somewhat planned) rendezvous. He’d left you to share a business class seat with some old fart–to wonder if perhaps you didn’t entice him enough with the devotion of being there. He would never tell you his brain finally caught up, overwhelming him with the possibility of being caught with you; to find himself in the middle of backlash, headlines painting him as being a stereotypical man going through a midlife crisis.Â
He began leaving you on delivered pretty soon after that–It didn’t matter what you sent. Good morning/goodnight texts, vents about class, stuff that usually had him texting you within ten minutes could no longer get him engaged enough to not leave you on delivered for hours–sometimes, days.Â
You felt like a loser for waiting for him for hours to maybe text you back. Worse than one when he avoided conversations about either one of you visiting the other, telling you it was hard for him to go anywhere because of work and his kids.Â
The only thing that would genuinely give you his attention would be when you sent over a sexy video of yourself as a last resort for his affection. That, or when he was trying to butter you up to send him a “little something.”
All of your self-doubt and nights of nonstop crying when he would tell you he couldn’t see himself in a committed relationship at this point in his life with you, went out the window as soon as he plopped himself next to you. His cologne always invaded your senses, turning your brain off–ready to give him everything he asked for in exchange for him not leaving you.
You worshipped the ground he walked on, still. Blindly following him for as long as he’d let you—uncaring if in the process you lost pieces of yourself and went up in flames. The hundred of missing homework assignments and hours you could’ve used to study could wait. Everything that made you, you, could be put on hold and destroyed if he so wished.Â
Your avoidance of talking about your grades and upcoming exams had guilt eating at him. It meant you were failing, or on the brink of it. It made him make up his mind to start laying down ground rules with you–force you to accept there would never be anything more to your relationship than what was current.Â
He’d let you be the decision maker in whether or not you were up for it; he at least was conscientious enough to do that. Â
And you, like the fool in love you were, would tell him you were fine with the relationship you two shared right now; if that’s what he wanted, that's what you wanted. At the end of the day, you’d always find yourself looking out for him out your seat window, welcoming the ugly, obsessive butterflies that danced around your stomach as you waited for him to reach you.Â
To touch you;Â To love you.
You’d ride the wave of intoxicating euphoria with him, and submit yourself to the immense dopamine decline on your own.Â
