Chuck Tingle
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Trained By The Living Biker Train - (Classic Tingler Revisited)
🕑 Added 2024-08-23 17:49:04 +0000 UTCfor todays classic tingler we are trottin WAY BACK. kind of amazing to see that this one is almost nine years old. dang buckaroos i have been trottin at this for a while and today i feel so much gratitude for the journey we have been on together. it is kind of amazing to think how much old chuck was made fun of and laughed at back then, but really i feel like my focus is on HOW DANG COOL it is to feel like my art is finally appreciated now.
back then the INTERNET IRONY POISONING ran a little deeper than it does today. it is still here, but i think we are moving towards a place of saying that you can have FUN and JOY and SILLINESS in a sincere way. it is okay to just like something unusual for what it is.
anyway i have written a lot of dang tinglers and many of them i forget BUT I STRONGLY REMEMBER GETTING IDEA FOR THIS ONE. it was one specific image actually, i just thought 'dang it would be really cool to have a sentient train ride a motorcycle' and THUS A CLASSIC TINGLER WAS BORN.
Jeff is an author in search of inspiration. After writing a hit novel about the fascinating world of motorcycles, Jeff’s publishers are anxious for a follow up, but the novelist soon finds himself with a case of the sophomore slump.
To cure his writer’s block, Jeff heads out across America by train, but he drums up more than just inspiration after sparking the homoerotic interest of the very train that he’s riding in, Dylan. The two share a hot motorcycle date in downtown Chicago, but it’s not until they return to an abandoned train yard that things really start to heat up.
Now Jeff finds himself in the troughs of gay passion with this powerful machine, resulting in a climax so hot, it will have you coming off the rails.
This erotic tale is 4,400 words of sizzling human on gay train action, including anal, blowjobs, rough sex, rim jobs, cream pies, and hot train love.
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TRAINED BY THE LIVING BIKER TRAIN
By Chuck Tingle
Sometimes inspiration can be hard to find, but when inspiration is the way that you make your living, that search for excitement can mean the difference between keeping yourself healthy and happy, or living out on the street without a roof over your head. It’s hard out here for a writer, especially one whose publishing house is breathing down their neck, calling every other day for an update on the next great American novel.
I suppose there are worse places to be than the position I’m in, much worse, and after a very successful debut book about the inner workings of the motorcycle industry, I’ve had it easy coasting off of my advance over the last year.
Now, however, the men in suits want me to repeat myself, to make lighting strike twice, and that kind of power is not something that every author can just wield at will. I had my whole life to write my first novel, and now suddenly I’ve got a year to write the second.
Based on the advice of a few of my other published friends, I decide to get out of town for a bit in an attempt to drum up inspiration. My first book was seen as a love letter to American innovation, written from the back of a rumbling motor bike that crisscrossed over state lines leaving trails of blood, sweat and tears. It’s a good book, but the critics are being generous, especially because much of what I wrote in that massive tome I have still never actually seen for myself. Instead, the scenes that feature amber waves of grain and soaring bald eagles were crafted entirely from the depths of my own imagination, and I was lucky enough to get them right.
But, like I said, lighting doesn’t strike twice, and I need a way to recharge my perception of this great country.
My first thought, obviously, was to take a road trip from coast to coast, starting in my hometown of San Francisco, California and riding the pavement all the way to New York City, chronicling my adventures in between. The problem, however, is that I have a deadline to meet, and writing while driving is just not something I am all that comfortable with.
It’s not long before a solution hits me in a stroke of brilliance, however, and soon enough I’m buying a solo cross country train ticket for the journey of a lifetime.
Traveling by rails is perfect. From the window of my cabin on board, I’ll have an upfront view of an entire gamut of American landscapes, from the coast to the lonesome deserts of the Midwest, to the towering city skylines of Chicago.
“All aboard!” I hear a conductor call as I arrange my things; my laptop positioned squarely on my cabin desk and facing to look out from my small, but incredibly useful, picture window.
I boot up the computer and lean back into my chair, trying my best to clear my thoughts and prepare my brain for the onslaught of new adventure that is sure to be headed its way. I’m positioned in exactly the right place to receive all the inspiration I need, I just need to make sure that I’m open to it when it actually arrives.
Right then and there, I make a promise to myself. Whatever happens on this trip; no matter how strange and unexpected, no matter how much it pushes my boundaries, I’m going to answer with a resounding ‘yes’.
The train begins to pull away from the station slowly, the skyline of San Francisco creeping away from me gradually until it disappears into a wall of trees and lush forest, my first few steps into the great outdoors.
Eventually, the trip becomes something of a blur, not because it’s an incredible whirlwind of new and exciting experience, but because the entire thing is so god damn monotonous that I can’t tell anything apart.
That’s one thing they don’t tell you when you set out by rail to write the great American novel; you’re gonna be stopping along the way, a lot.
I swear, the second I begin to get into any sort of flow, zoning out peacefully while my fingers fly across the keyboard and the beautiful scenery whips by, the train stops. As a writer, it’s more than a little frustrating but, I’ll also admit, as a smoker it’s a bit of a relief.
With every stop, I climb out onto the streets of the city and light up for a few minutes, looking around at the people loading and unloading from our strange little community on wheels. Usually, the train station has been built in a part of town that doesn’t quite present the best version of whatever city we’re stopping in, so I concentrate on the little things; the way that people greet each other when returning home, the similarities between coffee shops from one town to the next, the aggressiveness of the local rodents searching for food scraps on the station floor.
Being a writer has given me a keen eye for observation, and it’s that eye that eventually brings me to notice the fact that the motorcycle riders of each and every city seem to be riding exactly the same bikes no matter where we go.
An untrained observer would probably end things there, assuming that whatever brand is parked right outside the train station must be the most popular thing on the road right now, but after working on my first novel I know the differences between bikes like I know the faces of my own mother and father.
These are not any generic motorcycles that you’d just buy from the shop, these are highly customized choppers and they would make any collector salivate. After careful inspection over the last two stops, I’ve become slowly aware that, despite all logic and reason, these cycles appear to be the exact same bikes, following us from train station to train station along our journey.
Sure, it’s possible that whatever biker gang these glorious machines belong to could just happen to be on the same transamerican route as us, but what are the chances that they’ve also decided to check out the local train station in every single city.
Determined to get to the bottom of this mystery, I eventually spot the train conductor himself, seated outside of a quant coffee shop as we wait to depart for our next destination.
I approach the man with a smile and an extended hand.
“Nice job up there.” I tell him.
The conductor looks at me with surprise; happy to be recognized for his service, then shakes my hand. “Thank you.” The man says with a nod. “I appreciate it. Would you like to have a seat?”
“Absolutely.” I say, suddenly realizing how excited I am to have a conversation with another human being after a full day alone in my tiny mobile cabin. I sit down in the chair across from the conductor. “I’m Jeff.” I say.
“Manny.” The conductor offers. “I’ve seen you coming and going, you enjoying the trip so far?”
“Oh yeah.” I nod. “It’s fantastic. Listen, I know you’ve gotta get back in there soon, so I won’t take up too much of your time. I was just curious about something.”
Manny takes a long sip of his coffee, a twinkle in his eye, and then finally gives me the go ahead. “Shoot.”
“Have you seen these motorcycles at every station?” I ask him. “What’s the deal with that? They’re the exact same bikes everywhere we go. Are we shipping custom cargo or something?”
The conductor shakes his head. “Oh no, this train is passenger only, no cargo. We are carrying those bikes, though.”
I stare back at Manny with confusion, not exactly sure how all of this is supposed to add up. “What does that mean?” I ask. “The bikes belong to a passenger?”
Manny laugh. “Those bikes belong to the train, he’s a big time rider and collector, won’t leave home without them.”
“Oh!” I nod, finally understanding. “The train itself?”
“Yes. His name’s Dylan, really nice guy.” The conductor tells me. “If you’ve got any questions about his motorcycles just ask him, I’m sure he’d love to talk your ear off about them.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, excited at the prospect of a little company to break up to brutal monotony of my journey.
“Sure.” Confirms Manny. “Frankly, I’m sick of hearing about those bikes. Just ask Dylan, he’ll tell you everything that you need to know.”
I smile, having finally gotten to the bottom of the mystery.
“Oh shit.” Manny says, looking down at his watch. “Time to roll.”
Back in my cabin, I wrack my brain for exactly the right way to open my conversation with Dylan the living train. I’ve been riding inside of him for several hundred miles, but I still feel like I hardly know the guy.
“Those were pretty nice bikes outside.” I finally announce loudly to my empty cabin.
There’s a long pause, the only sound in my cabin coming from the loud rattling of the rails that pass rhythmically beneath us. Finally, Dylan the living train speaks. “Thanks man, you ride?”
I grin, charmed by the machines casual nature. “Yeah, a little. I wrote a book about it, actually.”
“Oh yeah?” Asks Dylan, curious.
“It’s called ‘The Long Year, The Longer Road.’” I continue.
“Hold up!” Dylan starts. “Are you Jeff Harrington?”
I nod.
“Holy shit, man!” Dylan the train laughs excitedly. “This is crazy, I love your book. I must have read that thing like four times by now.”
“Whoa, thank you.” I gush. “Well, I guess we’re mutual fans now because I love your bikes, they’re gorgeous.”
“Fuck.” Says Dylan, clearly touched. “That mean’s a lot coming from you.”
“So you just take your cycles around with you from city to city?” I ask him. “Do you ever get a chance to ride?”
“Well, I’m a train.” Dylan says, stating the obvious. “So I can’t really ride them very often, my schedule is crazy, you know? I just like to take them along with me in case I get a little time off, which never seems to happen.”
“That’s rough, man.” I offer.
“Tell me about it.” Says Dylan.
Our conversation stops again, and for a moment the two of us just sit and enjoy each other’s company as the picturesque landscapes drift by. I notice now that we’ve started to enter the suburbs of a large city, the wide-open Midwest falling away as it’s replaced by homes and businesses.
“Well, I’d really love to talk about bikes with you more, but I’m afraid this is the end of the line for us.” Says the train.
My heart sinks. Within the first few minutes of us speaking I had immediately sensed a spark of some kind, a strange, electrifying buzz that was already beginning to draw this charming train and me together. I wanted to know more, and seconds later it suddenly strikes me that I’ve found exactly what I was looking for out here: inspiration.
“Actually…” Dylan starts, the train’s single word making my heart skip a beat within my chest. “I have a day off tomorrow before heading back to San Francisco, would you like to go for a ride?”
“Of course.” I respond, trying to stifle my enthusiasm slightly but having a very hard time with it. “I’m staying at the Great Chicago Hotel for a few days before heading to New York.”
“I’ll pick you up there at seven.” Says the train.
The next night I’m more than a little nervous for my date with the handsome and charismatic train. There is no doubt in my mind that the vibe I’ve been picking up between us is highly sexual, but at this point in my life I’m not entirely sure that I’m ready to take on something as daunting as a train/human relationship. Being gay can be tough enough in today’s society, let alone loving a gay train, but as soon as I start to get too disparaging I think back to what I told myself at the beginning of this trip. No matter what happens, I need to at least be open to Dylan, to accept the hand that life has chosen to deal me and see where my path leads.
I head down to the lobby of the hotel at precisely seven o clock, and quickly discover that Dylan is parked out front, waiting for me on his bike.
“You look nice tonight.” Dylan offers as I emerge from the lobby’s double doors to greet him in my sharp blazer and tie.
“Thanks.” I say with a smile. “You too.”
It’s not a lie either; the train looks absolutely dashing atop his incredible, shiny motorcycle. His black hair is combed back neatly like an old fashioned greaser with a modern twist and, now that we’ve finally come face to face, I’m taken aback by the disarming glint of Dylan’s soulful train eyes.
“Ready to roll?” The train asks.
I nod.
“Then hop on the front.” He instructs with a laugh. “Obviously, there’s no room to sit behind me.”
I look back at the rest of the chiseled train, which stretches for hundreds of feet down the block behind him and then snakes around the corner, disappearing behind a building. “No, I guess not.” I say, climbing onto the front of the bike.
The face of this handsome train feels warm and safe pressed up against my back, and I try not to react to the slight tingle of excitement that runs down my spine when Dylan revs his motorcycle’s engine. “Hold on.” The machine says.
The next thing I know, we are flying up and down the city streets of Chicago, having the time of our lives as the cool night air whips past our smiling faces. By the time we pull up to the restaurant I feel completely at ease with Dylan, comfortable in his presence as the feelings of gay romance flow back and forth between us.
The train has called ahead and reserved us a table outside on the patio, where he is free to stretch his entire length down the block behind us. Apparently, this would normally cause an issue for the city of Chicago, but Dylan casually informs me that it’s only two hundred dollars to purchase a street closure downtown, and this time of night on a Sunday it’s usually not much of a hassle to have the length of a passenger train lying around.
I immediately find myself impressed with Dylan’s resourcefulness. It’s not often that you find yourself in the presence of a gay train who is this charming to begin with, but Dylan appears to be particularly well put together. I’ve certainly never had a man close the entire street down on a first date before.
The two of us order quickly from a selection of fancy, delicious looking Italian food, then immediately fall into it, chatting like old friends from way back.
“So what are you looking for?” Dylan asks me at one point, his words vague but loaded with all kinds of simmering subtext.
“Like… for my book?” I ask.
“No, what are you looking for?” Dylan asks me again, his eyes intensely burning into mine.
The heat between us has become almost unbearable, a tension so thick that I can barely do anything but think about just how badly I want this train to fuck me. I want us to exchange pleasure in every way possible, to make him understand the way that his presence has transformed me from a mild mannered writer into a depraved, gay, trainfucker.
“Someone like you.” I finally say, my heart pounding within my chest. “I’ve been looking for someone like you.”
Dylan smiles. “Do you want to get out of here? Head back to the train yard for a bit?”
I nod, and before I know it we are back atop the train’s motorcycle, on our way to the empty train yard on the edge of the city. As we ride, my thoughts are flooded with all kinds of passionate cravings, explicit desires that have been hiding just beneath the surface and are now aching to be set free. I’m on fire, blazing with lust for this incredible living train.
The train yard is just as empty as Dylan said that it would be, a vast stretch of desolate rails and run down, unused boxcars. There isn’t a soul in sight, save for the lone coyote that I spot as I climb off of the parked motorcycle.
“So here we are.” I say, my breathing heavy as I awkwardly stand before the powerful locomotive.
“Here we are.” Dylan repeats. Somehow he’s positioned himself on a short set of tracks, and slowly but surely the train begins to move towards me until his massive face is pressed right up against my body. It feels incredible being so close to him, and before I know it I’m kissing Dylan hard, running my hands up and down across the front of his black, metallic face.
I can feel the handsome train slowly beginning to heat up, a powerful gay passion brewing inside of him as we explore each other’s bodies.
“Let me suck you off.” Dylan finally demands. His confidence is more than a little arousing, and I abruptly unzip myself to expose my rock hard cock. “That looks so good.” Dylan tells me.
I place my dick at the edge of the train’s lips and then groan loudly as he takes me into his mouth. I’m instantly reeling from the machine’s incredible skills, my eyes closed as he works my shaft.
Dylan pumps up and down confidently across my length, each change in direction causing me to tremble with satisfaction. For a massive, gay passenger train, the guy sure knows how to pleasure a human.
“Fuck, you’re so great at sucking me off!” I can’t help but tell Dylan, encouraging his efforts.
With this, Dylan pushes forward as far as he can and takes my entire cock down in a stunning deep throat. I find myself entirely consumed by the train, my balls resting tight against his metallic chin as Dylan holds in place, letting me savor the depths of his throat.
I just can’t take it any longer. I need this train to fuck me.
“Where’s your cock?” I ask desperately, pulling my rod out of Dylan’s mouth. “I need you to pound me, right fucking now.”
“It’s on the last car.” Dylan tells me, his voice trembling. “Hurry!”
Immediately, I take off running down the length of Dylan, who stretches on and on for longer than I could have ever expected. By the time I reach the caboose I’m entirely out of breath, but still rock hard and aching for the powerful machine to ram me.
I climb down onto my hands and knees and look under the train, then gasp in shock when my eyes fall upon Dylan’s gigantic rod. The train’s cock is absolutely enormous, hanging down under the caboose in all of its fleshy glory.
Carefully, I climb between the wheels and position myself beneath this beautiful cock, then playfully lick Dylan from balls to tip.
“Oh shit.” I can hear the train’s voice echo down towards me through the train cars.
“You like that?” I ask playfully, then do it again as a metallic trembles rattles across the powerful machine.
I cradle his hanging train balls with one hand and then take Dylan’s rod into my mouth, swallowing him down as far as I can before pulling back with a gasp. I bob up and down across the train’s shaft a few times, making sure to cover his length with as much slick saliva as I possibly can, then finally release him and crawl forward, into position.
Beneath the train on my hands and knees, I pop my ass back towards his enormous hanging cock, letting the head of his shaft playfully tease the rim of my tightly puckered asshole.
Dylan’s size is terrifying, but I make sure to remind myself that I’m out here looking for new experiences, not running away from them. With my newfound confidence, I take a deep breath and then push back slowly, but firmly, onto Dylan’s massive rod.
“God damn.” I let out a long, powerful groan as the train stretches my limits, my sphincter just barely able to expand around the size of his glorious trainhood. I brace myself against the gravel before me, my entire body quaking with ecstasy.
Dylan begins to roll back and forth on the tracks, pumping me slowly while I adjust to his size, and then faster and faster until the train is absolutely throttling my asshole with every bit of his force. I can’t even imagine how much horsepower his engine equates to, but within my asshole it’s unlike anything that I’ve ever felt.
“Oh my god, oh my god!” I start repeating as a blissed out manta. “Oh my fucking god!”
I continue to brace myself with one hand and then reach back with the other, spreading my asshole and giving all of myself to this incredible train. My head and my heart are swimming in a sea of lust, but at this very moment I find myself accepting both Dylan’s train-cock and his train-love fully within me. The connection between us is more real than anything I’ve ever felt, and despite the obvious complications that come with the sexual partnership of a man and a train, I now believe that I’m ready to take the plunge. I want to give all of myself to him.
“Cum inside of me!” I demand. “I want it so badly.”
I can feel the entire train starting to quake above me, heaving with erotic tension as he pushes further and further towards the edge of orgasm. Dylan’s rhythm is like a jackhammer, moving at a blur-like pace within my reamed asshole.
“Do it!” I command. “I want your train load and I want it now!”
Seconds later, Dylan let’s out an animalistic cry of satisfaction, his massive cock exploding within me. I can feel his shaft pulsing with every ejection of hot spunk, filling my ass to the brim until there is just no room left and the jizz begins to spill out of me. It runs down my back and my legs in pearly streaks of white as the train pulls out, utterly satisfied.
“Now it’s your turn.” Dylan says. “Have you ever cum at one hundred miles per hour?”
I shake my head, climbing out from under the train’s carriage. “I can’t say that I have.”
“Come back to the front and I’ll show you how it’s done.” Dylan offers with a devilish laugh.
Once again I find myself running the entire length of the train, only this time I pay no mind at all to how utterly exhausted I am. I need to cum, and my train lover’s erotic proposition has my mind racing with just how that’s going to be accomplished.
When I arrive at Dylan’s front end I find that the train has managed to switch himself onto a new track, which appears to run a circular route around the train yard in a never ending loop.
“Get on.” Dylan nods.
I do as I’m told, climbing onto the front of the train with my bare ass against Dylan’s handsome face. He reaches around with his powerful arms and holds me in place with one hand, then grabs onto my cock with the other.
“What is this?” I ask as we start to pull out onto the track, rapidly gaining speed.
“The worlds fastest reach around rim job.” Responds the train.
The next thing I know, we are flying around the circular railway at lightning speed. I have no way of measuring, but Dylan’s hundred miles an hour estimate feels pretty spot on to me.
In any other setting, the sheer speed that I’m traveling at would be incredibly unpleasant, but as the train simultaneously beats off my cock and licks my asshole with his powerful train tongue, the thrill is absolutely incredible. It’s not long before I find myself speeding towards an orgasm of my own.
“I’m gonna cum!” I warn with my eyes closed tight. “I’m gonna cum!”
Seconds later, I explode, my jizz blasting from the head of my cock and then splattering across the side of the train behind me. The sensation is unlike anything I’ve ever felt, a full body orgasm mixed with the wonder and excitement of a roller coaster.
Dylan slows down, eventually coming to a stop and allowing me to hop off of the front of him in a delirious, post orgasm haze. My heart still pounding hard within my chest but I’m overwhelmed with exhaustion. I sit down onto the gravel, struggling to catch my breath.
“Did you like that?” Dylan asks.
“I loved it.” I tell him.
I lie back onto the ground and stare up at the stars above, my entire body feeling as though it’s still doing laps around the train yard.
“I don’t ever want to leave you.” I tell the train. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“You don’t have to leave me.” Dylan says.
I try to respond but exhaustion has caught up with me, and moments later I’ve fallen fast asleep.
I jolt awake, unsure of my surroundings but pleasantly surprised when I find myself aboard a moving passenger train. Outside the windows, beautiful and unfamiliar scenery whips past in a rapid blur.
“Where am I?” I ask myself aloud, standing up and stumbling over to the door of my cabin.
I throw the door open and step out into the hallway. “Hello?” I call out. I make my way up and down the length of the car, searching for any other signs of life.
“You’re the only one here.” Comes a booming voice.
“Dylan?” I smile. “What’s happening?”
The train laughs. “I know that you were headed to New York, so I thought I’d join you. I took some time off of work, figured I could show you the scenic route and maybe we could find some inspiration together.”
I that moment I’m completely flooded with love and admiration for my gay train lover. “This is incredible.” I tell him.
“You’re incredible.” Dylan responds. “I love you.”
