My Wild Train Journey

Author's Note:

Hey readers,

This is my very first story on Literotica. It's a slow burn—but soaked in lust and layered with depth. It's not just about Divya's transformation, but also the unapologetic past that shaped her into the woman who'll soon take on 48 strangers in a moving train in pubic—without fear, shame, and still craving more.

Every scene is here for a reason. So read till the end. Trust me—it'll be worth every second.

If you enjoy it, please rate and comment. That's how stories like this survive.

- Anjali

. I've never published anything before, but trust me, I've lived a life dripping with filthy confessions and slutty, cock-stuffed memories—each one dirtier than the last, and trust me, I'm aching to spill every single one and leave you begging for more. For now, enjoy my first fictional piece—one that's soaked in the kind of filthy, gangbang-fueled fantasies that leave me moaning, legs spread, and fingers buried deep, wishing it all were real. The story follows Divya, but every nasty little scene comes straight from my own raw, aching desires. Reality may hold me back for now, but fiction lets me be the cum-drenched, cock-hungry slut I truly am. So enjoy this filthy ride... and don't worry, my real-life slut stories are cumming soon—hard, messy, and unfiltered

Divya was a slut—and she knew it. She didn't need to say the word out loud. Her body said it. Her walk said it. Her wardrobe screamed it. Every outfit she wore was a calculated invitation. Her tops were always a size too tight or too small, hugging her 36e tits like they were gift-wrapped for the next pair of hungry eyes. She never wore a bra unless absolutely forced—just enough bounce to keep men guessing where to look. Not since her breast lift six months into marriage—38DD and sitting high, courtesy of Pankaj's deep pockets and her own filthy intentions. Her skirts were short, dangerously short, barely covering her ass when she bent over—because that's exactly what she wanted. And her sarees? Pure sin in six yards. Always sheer. Always draped low, the pallu pinned just enough to flash deep, jiggling cleavage with every step. Backless blouses, deep cuts, thin straps—cleavage was a necessity, not an option.

Divya didn't just dress sexy. She dressed like she needed to be stared at. Like the world was her mirror and every man was part of the fantasy.

Her figure only added fuel to that fire—

38DD-28-38

, soft in all the right placessculpted by regular hours at the gym, tight where it mattered, soft where it counted. She didn't hide her body. She framed it. And she knew exactly what it did to the men around her.

And it worked. The stares, the murmurs, the hard cocks hiding behind newspapers—they didn't embarrass her. They fed her. She called herself a free spirit, but the truth was filthier. She didn't want freedom—she wanted submission. Use. Heat. Shame. Her dirtiest fantasy? A public gangbang. Dozens of cocks. No names. No limits. Just her, cum dripping, ruined, and fully seen. She touched herself to that thought almost every night... sometimes twice.

Her husband, Pankaj, knew she'd been "easy" back in college—or at least, that's what the rumors said. But he never heard the real stories. The truth wasn't just wild—it was

filthy

. Divya wasn't the girl who flirted at parties; she was the one caught sucking cock behind them. Boys talked about her like a legend—one you hoped to experience, but never expected to keep. And yet, Pankaj married her anyway. He liked bold, sexy girls—tight clothes, loud energy, curves that turned rooms quiet. But he had no idea how deep that boldness ran in Divya. He thought he was marrying a confident woman. He didn't realize he was marrying a cock-hungry slut who'd taken more men than she could count—and still came home smiling, playing the perfect wife like nothing had ever happened.

She was a little chubby, sure, but her curves were sculpted where it counted—hips built to bounce, tits that made heads turn, and an ass that never needed help being noticed. He loved her laugh, her bite, her don't-give-a-fuck attitude. But if he knew the kind of things she still did behind his back... he might've married her faster. Or not at all.

Because Divya hadn't changed.

Divya hadn't stopped taking cock—she just got better at hiding it. Smarter. Selective. And the thrill only grew with the secrecy. Every time she dropped to her knees for someone else, she told herself it was just a release. Just her body. But deep down, she knew: she needed this. She needed to be watched, wanted, used. Needed to be

owned

—just not by one man.

She wasn't cheating.

She was just being herself

She used every opportunity to tease, to seduce—whether it was bending just a little extra in the kitchen when her brother-in-law passed by, or letting the neighbours get a peek down her blouse as she watered the plants. She had to be careful now. Living with her in-laws meant keeping the slut in check, at least on the surface. They never commented on her sarees or dress choices—too scared, too polite—but their eyes said it all. Still, caution was necessary. Pankaj was rich. Very rich. And Divya had no plans of going back to work. Playing the perfect wife under his roof meant she had to be discreet with her filth, but it didn't mean she had to stop. Behind that pallu, she was still the same cock-hungry girl from college—just smarter about hiding it.

The day had finally come—I had a train to catch. The Guwahati-Mumbai LTT Express. Originally, I had booked a flight, but thanks to the devastating Assam floods in June 2022, the airport was shut down. I could've been annoyed, but instead, I smiled to myself and thought—why not a train journey? It had been forever since I last traveled by train, and this was going to be a long one. A full 49 hours of travel. Nearly two full days on rails.

While booking my ticket in a rush, I had accidentally selected "male" under the gender option. I didn't even notice until the confirmation hit my inbox. It made me chuckle, but then I realized I was traveling alone—and in 3AC class, the only one available when I booked. Just in case it raised questions, I asked Pankaj what to do. He was as casual as ever—"Just inform the station master when you get there, it won't be a problem." Easy for him to say—he wasn't the one stepping into a 3AC coach full of strangers with 'M' printed on her ticket, a clingy white sundress hugging her hips, and just enough cleavage showing to keep every pair of eyes exactly where I wanted them. Still, I figured I'd swing by and speak to the station staff once I arrived—better safe than sorry..

I'd never spent more than one night on a train before—just those quick college trips from Nagpur to Pune, or a family ride here and there before marriage. Always with someone. Always behaving. My train journeys had rules. Eyes down. Legs crossed. Saree pinned tight. Because I was never alone.

But this time?

Forty-nine hours. Alone. Unchecked.

No husband. No in-laws. No one watching my every move. And suddenly, I wasn't just boarding a train—I was

releasing

something.

I've never been a slut on a train... but that's only because I've never had the chance.

Now I do.

And if the stares at the station were any hint, this isn't going to be a journey. It's going to be a 49-hour performance—starting on the platform... and climaxing somewhere deep in coach B5.

.

I hadn't packed with a train journey in mind. I'd only brought a few body-hugging one-piece dresses and some heavy sarees for my friend's wedding. I spent three extra days exploring the Northeast like a tourist, burning through my wardrobe one slutty outfit at a time. Now, I was left with only two options: a red mini-dress and a white sundress.

The red one? That was dangerous. Barely-there straps, skin-tight fabric, a hemline that flirted with indecency. I'd bought it to make a statement—but even I hadn't found the courage to wear it out in public. Not yet. It wasn't just revealing—it was a walking scandal. And wearing it on a train full of strangers? It felt insane. Or irresistible.

So I chose the white sundress instead. Full-length. Breezy. Soft. The neckline dipped just enough to flash my 38DD cleavage without screaming for attention—though I knew it would get it anyway. Not the boldest piece in my closet, but still slutty enough to turn heads.

Well, you can imagine. And if you've read this far, you already know how my wardrobe tends to lean—tight, short, and made for sin.

The train was scheduled to depart at 4:50 PM. It was just 2:30 when I arrived, with nothing better to do. My friend, the bride I'd come to attend the wedding of, had already left for her sasural (in-laws)l. She had begged me not to "act slutty" at her wedding, and I'd kept myself mostly in check., extra days exploring the Northeast like a tourist—

with my friend's in-laws—so being openly slutty was off the table

But that also meant I hadn't made any new friends in Guwahati. And now, here I was—heels clicking, hips swaying, my white dress hugging my curves just right—as I stepped into the station alone, dragging my two suitcase behind me. I checked the time, then slowly made my way toward the waiting hall, every step echoing with quiet confidence... and just a hint of mischief

The waiting hall was stuffy and smelled faintly of sweat, old metal, and chai. A few pedestal fans creaked lazily from the ceiling, doing more noise than cooling. Families were spread across benches, bags stacked like miniature forts, kids chasing each other barefoot across the tiles. And then there was me—sinking into a corner seat, crossing my legs, sundress stretching just enough to flash a little thigh. I knew the eyes would come. They always did.

Within minutes, I could feel it—almost everyone in the hall had turned their attention toward me. Subtle glances. Lingering stares. Pretending not to look but failing miserably. I didn't need to do much. Just sit, shift, and exist in that dress. The fabric clung to my body like a second skin, the neckline teasing a generous view of my cleavage, and the way it rode up my thighs when I crossed my legs? Deliberate. Well, you can imagine.

Feeling the heat between my legs grow with every stolen stare. The red dress would've made this far worse... or better. But the white one was proving to be its own silent weapon. A few more men had started to notice me now. One older guy, maybe in his forties, stood by the wall pretending to look at the train schedule but kept peeking. His eyes dropped to my chest, then shot back up as I met them with a smirk. I knew exactly what I was doing—and so did he.

Two college-aged boys sat just across from me. The younger one in a hoodie kept stealing glances, pretending not to. The taller one in a grey T-shirt didn't even bother hiding it—his eyes had already scanned every inch of me like he was trying to memorize it for later. I could feel them crawling over my chest, freezing on my legs when I shifted. I uncrossed and crossed again—slowly—just to watch their reactions. The quiet, boyish lust made me smile.

They weren't going to talk to me, though. Not with all the aunties and uncles around. Maybe they were too shy. Maybe they thought I was too "respectable." Poor things had no idea they were sitting across from a cum-dripping housewife with a checklist of fantasies.

And I hadn't fucked or sucked anyone at a railway station yet Maybe it was time to fix that.

So I leaned forward, letting my neckline dip just enough to make their eyes flicker again, and smiled. "Hey, I'm Divya. I was thinking of grabbing some chips and water... the stalls are a bit far though. Would you mind watching my bags for a few minutes?" I nudged one of the suitcases gently with my foot. I had two with me—stuffed with heavy wedding sarees and a few gold ornaments. Too bulky to drag around, and too valuable to leave unattended.

The taller one immediately offered, "We can go get it for you, didi. Just tell us what you want." The other quickly nodded, eager to please.

I gave them a warm smile—part sweet, part wicked. "Aww, so sweet of you both. But no need. I should stretch a bit anyway. I've been sitting forever " I paused, playing with the strap of my dress, "...I have to check with the station master too. I booked my ticket under the wrong gender—put male instead of female by mistake. Just want to make sure I won't get in trouble for it later." I laughed lightly, flicking my hair off my shoulder. "Besides, I want to browse myself. Maybe find something tasty."

I rose slowly, giving them the view they clearly hoped for. My sundress clung to my curves as I adjusted the strap casually, pretending not to notice their eyes on my chest and thighs. "Thank you, though. You two are sweet. Keep an eye on my bag, yeah?"

I turned and walked off, letting my hips swing naturally, each step echoing with confidence and just the right amount of temptation. I wasn't just bored—I was aching to be watched. And I knew I wanted everyone's full attention.

I stepped out of the waiting hall, the heat outside hitting me like a soft, sticky wall. The fabric of my white sundress clung just a little tighter with the humidity, swaying around my legs as I walked across the platform toward the station master's office. The stares followed immediately. Men turning their heads, pretending to look elsewhere a second later. Some subtle, others shameless. A vendor paused mid-gesture with a customer, eyes tracing the curve of my hips. I didn't rush. I let them look. My walk had purpose—and every sway of my hips was deliberate

The station master's office was in a small brick building tucked near the center of the platform. I knocked once and stepped inside. A wall fan buzzed loudly, barely cutting through the heat. The man behind the desk was in his fifties, balding, dark-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. As I entered, his eyes rose from the register—and stopped right at my chest. No hesitation, no flicker of guilt. Just a bold, lingering stare, like my boobs were the only thing worth talking to.

"Yes?" he asked, but his gaze stayed planted in the valley of my cleavage, as if my tits were the ones doing the talking. His tone was flat, but his stare was laser-focused. Very few men ever stared that directly—most at least pretended to blink or look away. But not him. He was having a full-blown conversation with my boobs. And I wasn't even mad. I smiled inside. I loved the attention.

"I just wanted to confirm," I said sweetly, shifting my posture so my chest lifted just a little higher, "I booked my ticket online and selected the wrong gender—male instead of female. It's 3AC class, and I'm traveling alone. Will that cause any issue during checking?"

Station master :

"No problem,"

he said casually.

"It happens a lot with online bookings. TTEs usually ignore it."But just so you know... when the system sees 'male' during auto-allotment, it usually clusters you with male passengers. Especially in 3AC. That's just how the algorithm works."

His eyes dropped again. Back to my chest. And now

I

froze—but not out of worry.

Out of heat.

So I'd be in a coach full of men. Surrounded by strangers. For forty-nine hours. Wearing this.

Something clenched low in my stomach. Not fear.

Anticipation.

I smiled politely, thanked him, and turned away.

But inside?

I was soaked.

Dripping, throbbing, aching in all the worst—and best—ways.

I'd never been in a room full of strange men for this long.

Not for hours. Not overnight.

But forty-nine hours?

My pussy pulsed at the thought.

No husband. No in-laws. No rules. Just a sealed metal box on wheels, packed with men and filthy possibilities.

I was soaked not just from arousal... but from imagining all the things that could happen if even one of them decided to test my limits.

And god help me—I wouldn't stop him

As I stepped back into the open platform, my body tingled. My thighs pressed slightly with every step, the fabric brushing between them. I was alone. Alone and on public transport for the next two days, surrounded by strangers, and this trip was already lighting something inside me. I wasn't even in my coach yet, and the fire had already started

I made my way toward the vendor stalls, choosing the same one where I'd caught that man staring earlier. He'd stopped mid-sale to eye me when I passed on my way to the station master's office—like his customer had disappeared, and all he could see was the sway of my hips. It only felt right to give him a closer look now.

As I approached, his posture straightened instantly. His eyes locked onto mine—and then, predictably, dropped straight to my chest. My sundress might have been full-length, but it hugged my curves in all the right places, and the heat made it cling tighter with every step. His gaze lingered on my cleavage, then dipped lower to my thighs, before finally dragging back up to my face. Barely.

I said, "and two packets of chips. Masala, if you have."

He nodded quickly and turned to grab the items, but he wasn't the only one who had caught his attention. In the minute or two I spent at the stall, at least five more men drifted over. A stall that had been nearly empty just moments ago now suddenly had a line of "customers"—all of them pretending to browse, to pick snacks, to decide on drinks they clearly weren't planning to buy. I didn't even have to turn to know what was happening. I could feel it. The weight of their eyes. The fake coughs. The stolen glances. The way one man fumbled with a packet of biscuits for a full minute without actually picking it up.

I glanced briefly at the vendor. He met my eyes, just for a second, and in that quiet exchange, we both knew the truth: they weren't here for the snacks. They were here for the view. For me. And god, I loved it.

**He handed me the chips, his fingers brushing mine, warm and slow. I didn't pull away. I held his gaze just long enough to make him uncomfortable—or maybe just hard. That same wicked smile played on my lips. The kind that said, Yes, I know. And I like it. **

I turned and walked away, the crowd parting just enough to let me pass. My hips swayed naturally, but I knew what effect it had. I could feel the slickness between my thighs with every step. I hadn't even boarded the train yet, and I was already soaked. The looks, the unspoken lust, the way men kept orbiting me like moths around a flame—every second was corrupting me further. For better or worse? Who knows. But I was too far gone to care.

I settled back into my seat in the waiting hall, the lingering weight of all those stares still clinging to my skin like heat. It was 3:40 PM—over an hour since I walked into the station, and just over an hour left until my train. Time to breathe. Think. Let my body cool off.

Though let's be honest—

cooling off wasn't going to happen

. Not with how wet I already was. I glanced over at the two boys again.

They were still there.

Still stealing glances. Still pretending to scroll through their phones.

And I thought,

if these two don't grow a pair and start talking to me soon, I'm going to walk onto that train with soaked panties and wasted potential.

Because at this point?

I hadn't had a cock in five days. Not since I promised my friend I'd behave at her wedding and during the family trip. Five whole days of teasing stares, tight clothes, and no release.