They Used Me on the Subway and I Asked for More Humiliation

For several days I’d been sunk in that heavy apathy that comes over me from time to time, like a damp blanket that takes away my desire to talk, go out, or even touch myself. My friends insisted I go with them to a huge party on the other side of the city. I was about to say no again when I opened my wardrobe, pulled out a blue dress that was far too short, and felt that sharp jolt in my lower belly that brings me back to life better than any plan ever could.

I put it on slowly, looking at myself in the bedroom mirror. The fabric barely covered my ass when I walked, and when I leaned forward slightly I saw my nipples showing beneath the dress. I’d had piercings for months, small and cold, and the metal outlined two insolent points beneath the fabric. I put on a white thong out of sheer habit, turned around, looked at myself for another second, and smiled. Then I pulled it off again.

I didn’t put on a bra either. I wanted to feel the dress rubbing directly against me, the warm air, the possibility of just enough showing through. It wasn’t accidental. It was hunger. A very specific kind of hunger, the kind that isn’t satisfied with kisses or gentle caresses, but with a body pressed against another, with risk, with the feeling of behaving like a slut and enjoying it.

My partner was in the living room when I came out wearing my heels. He looked up, ran his eyes over me from head to toe, and let out a short laugh, the kind I knew well.

“Well, look at you,” he said. “You’re asking for trouble.”

I walked over until I was standing between his legs and put my hand over his trousers. He was already hard. I squeezed him without the slightest delicacy, feeling his breathing deepen at once.

“Later, if I’m still in the mood, you can do whatever you want with me,” I whispered. “But I’m leaving now.”

He lifted my dress from behind and slipped his hand between my thighs. He found my hot, naked pussy, already wet before I’d even left the house. He clicked his tongue and gave me a sharp slap on the ass that made me jump.

“What a slut you are,” he murmured. “And you’re not wearing anything underneath.”

“That’s exactly why.”

He gripped my jaw with one hand and forced me to hold his gaze. That simple gesture was enough to turn me on even more. There was something about being treated that way, with that mixture of possession and playful contempt, that opened my legs from the inside even while they remained closed.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said.

“I’ll do whatever my body tells me.”

He let me go with half a smile. He knew perfectly well what that phrase meant coming from my mouth. I closed the door with my pulse racing and headed down toward the station with the feeling that something had already begun.

***

The platform was packed. Adults sweating inside pale suits, dressed-up women, groups eager to party, couples, people alone staring at the screen with resignation. Heat rose from the tunnels and mingled with perfume, cheap deodorant, and that electricity crowds have when everyone is headed to the same place. I walked among them, feeling the air on my bare thighs and the dress clinging to my hardened nipples.

When the subway arrived, we pushed our way aboard. It wasn’t difficult to end up trapped among bodies. The difficult part was choosing. I glanced around while looking for space and saw him leaning near a side door: a man roughly my age, in a thin shirt, with the rough jaw of the end of the day and that tired face that changes at once when a woman gives him the right reason.

I moved closer little by little, taking advantage of every stop, every surge of the crowd, every murmured apology. No one would notice my intention because the car was so full that any contact seemed inevitable. From the outside I was just another woman squeezed among passengers. Inside, I was already playing.

I positioned myself in front of him, with my back to him. At first I allowed only the slightest contact, the edge of my ass against the front of his trousers. I felt him tense. Then I didn’t move. A few seconds were enough for him to understand that it wasn’t an accident. His breathing reached me near the nape of my neck, and his pelvis moved a little closer, testing me.

I answered by pressing myself more firmly against him. With one hand I held my purse in front of me; with the other I lifted the hem of my dress slightly, a minimal gesture, just enough for the fabric to catch a little higher. Between us there was nothing but his trousers and my bare skin. No thong. No barrier. Nothing.

“So you came out here giving yourself away,” he said beside my ear, in a low, hoarse voice. “Look how easy.”

I didn’t answer. I just slowly pushed my ass back to fit more snugly against the hardness beginning to grow between his legs. I felt it taking shape in full, thick, growing firmer against the cleft of my ass. He let out a hot breath and placed one hand on my hip, testing first, as if giving me the chance to pull away.

I didn’t pull away. On the contrary, I moved my hips with the sway of the car, giving him a rhythm that could no longer be passed off as accidental. His cock hardened completely and began rubbing against me hungrily. Heat rose into my face. I looked around without turning my head all the way. Most people were still minding their own business. Most of them.

In front of us, holding the rail, an older man was watching us without pretending otherwise. It wasn’t a wandering glance. He was watching us. Watching me. I realized it the instant his eyes dropped to my raised ass and then returned to my face. A flash of shame and arousal so strong shot through me that my pussy clenched.

The stranger behind me noticed too. He tightened his grip on my hip.

“You like being watched,” he murmured. “It shows.”

I turned my head just enough for his lips to brush my cheek as he spoke. Then I looked for the voyeur and slowly bit my lower lip. The older man didn’t look away. His expression changed. It wasn’t mere curiosity anymore. It was old, concentrated hunger.

The man behind me moved his hand from my hip to my thigh and back up, brushing the inside, right where my ass began. When he realized I really wasn’t wearing underwear, he let out a low, incredulous laugh.

“Fuck. You’re naked. What an obedient, filthy little slut.”

The word entered me like a finger. Not because it truly humiliated me, but because it put me exactly where I wanted to be: exposed, used, turned into the secret center of that subway car. I spread my legs a little farther, just a few centimeters, enough to invite him. The movement made his erection fit even better between my ass cheeks.

He started fucking my ass from the outside with his trousers still on, thrusting from behind in small strokes that took advantage of every jolt of the train. I followed him. I rocked against him. I could feel the head of his cock taking shape even through the fabric, searching for a place, moving up and down between my flesh. My pussy was so wet that I felt the moisture running backward.

“Look at you,” he said. “You’re dripping.”

He slipped two fingers between my thighs from behind and barely brushed the entrance to my pussy. I had to bite down on my expression to keep from moaning. He didn’t put his fingers inside me; he only ran them through the wetness and then stroked the inside of my thigh with them, as if he wanted to see how far he could take me without us causing a scandal.

“No,” I whispered for the first time, though it didn’t sound like a clear refusal, but rather a twisted plea.

“No what?”

“Not there. Not like that.”

I said it while continuing to rub myself against his cock. He understood the contradiction and laughed against my neck. He had a large, rough, confident hand. He moved it up to my belly, held me firmly, and began pressing his pelvis against me again without shame. He wasn’t hiding anymore. If anyone looked closely, they would see. And that was exactly what I wanted.

The older man across from us continued watching every movement. He glanced down once toward his own trousers and then looked back at me. I squeezed my thighs together. I was aroused by imagining that he was hard watching us, that I was making him that way without touching him. The whole car seemed to keep spinning around us while the three of us shared the same filthy secret.

The stranger’s hand rose to my chest and grabbed one of my tits over the dress. He pinched the nipple between two fingers, feeling the piercing beneath the fabric. My knees almost buckled.

“So that’s why it shows so much,” he said. “You came prepared to be touched.”

I pushed his hand away for a moment, afraid of drawing attention, but he grabbed me around the waist again, firm and possessive. I felt his mouth very close to my ear.

“If it bothers you, move away. But you keep pressing against me. So don’t take me for an idiot.”

He was right, and that made me press my ass harder against him. I liked being read so easily. I liked him speaking to me as if he’d already seen straight through me. It was a minimal, improvised game of domination, without promises or names, and yet it worked with obscene precision.

“Such a good girl,” he whispered. “I’m going to use you until my stop.”

I felt his hand moving down to his fly. My heart slammed so hard my ears began to ring. I looked around again. No one seemed to be paying us any attention except the voyeur, who was hypnotized. The stranger discreetly struggled with his zipper, pressed against my back, partly covered by my body and the crowd. When he managed to pull it out, I knew before touching it: the temperature changed, the pressure lost the muffled texture of fabric and became hot, living flesh, hard for real.

He positioned his cock between my ass cheeks with a skill that made me think this wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this. The head slid along my wet crack and I closed my eyes for a second. Fuck. It was thick, very hard, and he had it bare against me, in the middle of the subway, with dozens of people all around.

He began rubbing himself slowly, up and down, letting the tip strike my wet entrance from time to time. Every contact jolted my belly. I moved just enough to help him, keeping the dress slightly raised with one hand. I could feel it getting smeared with my own wetness.

“You’re screaming for it,” he told me. “If I wanted to, I’d put it inside you right now.”

I immediately shook my head, although my body did the opposite and leaned backward, seeking him. I didn’t want him to penetrate me just like that, not that way, not bare and without control. But I didn’t want him to stop either. I wanted to live right on that edge: on the verge, brushing against the intimate crime one commits against oneself, my pussy throbbing from the lack of a thrust that shouldn’t come.

He respected the limit, but turned it into a punishment. Instead of entering me, he pressed his cock against my entrance again and again, hard, wet, insistent, without putting it all the way in. The tip opened my lips for a moment before withdrawing. Every time it made me shudder. Every time I grew wetter.

“That’s better,” he said. “Fuck yourself and take it.”

That sentence turned me on in a filthy, perfect way. Take it. Be treated like a hot thing that didn’t deserve complete relief. While he used me from the outside, the older man kept watching us with his mouth slightly open. This time I had no doubt: he had put one hand over the front of his trousers, doing a poor job of hiding it. He wasn’t openly touching himself, but he was adjusting an obvious erection.

I held his gaze. Then I tilted my head back slightly, offering him my profile and my neck, and the stranger took advantage of it to gently bite my earlobe. I almost moaned.

“Look at the old man,” he ordered in a low voice. “Look how he wants you.”

I obeyed him. I felt that obedience soak me more deeply than any caress. My pussy pulsed. The stranger’s cock continued sliding between my ass cheeks, brushing my entrance, coating itself with me. He held me by the hip with one hand and the belly with the other, as if he were truly controlling me.

“Do you like being the show?” he asked.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“I can’t hear you.”

My cheeks burned. The car rattled, the people swayed, and I, pressed between clothed bodies, with my bare ass beneath my dress and a cock out rubbing against me, answered without being able to keep pretending.

“Yes. I like it.”

He slapped my ass again, muffled by the closeness and the noise, but enough to make me shudder.

“That’s what I thought. You’re a fucking exhibitionist.”

This time his hand slid straight to my pussy. He opened my lips with two fingers and touched my clitoris for an instant, just an instant, barely a filthy, precise circle. My breath caught. If he’d continued a little longer, I would have come right there, standing up, with the subway packed around us. But he didn’t. He withdrew his hand and grabbed me again, leaving me burning.

“You haven’t earned it.”

I wanted more. I wanted him to put his fingers inside me, his cock, anything. I wanted to come all over him and get off at the last stop with semen running down my thighs. But I was still playing on the edge, and that frustration was driving me crazy.

“I’m getting off soon,” he said. “And I’m going to come using you. Don’t move.”

I don’t know why that word went through me so deeply. Maybe because it didn’t come from someone important in my life or from a rehearsed fantasy, but from a stranger I had chosen myself as an instrument. I stayed still. Truly still. I only let the car move me.

Then he began thrusting harder between my ass cheeks, rubbing his bare cock up and down with an increasingly urgent rhythm. At times the tip pressed into my entrance and I had to restrain myself from pushing my ass backward and letting him enter. My breathing was short now. My thighs were trembling. The older man continued watching as if nothing else in the world existed.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he grunted. “Look at you, you’re a fucking puddle.”

The head slid again, and this time it pushed a little farther than intended. I felt it opening me slightly, a minimal brush of penetration, brutal because it was unexpected. I let out a muffled moan and gripped my purse tighter.

“I told you not to move.”

I nodded. I was completely surrendered to the moment, the risk, and the humiliation I had gone out looking for myself. The stranger increased his pace. His hips were now striking my ass without shame. I felt tension building throughout his body. He gripped me hard, almost digging his fingers into me.

“I’m going to come, slut.”

I wanted to pull away. I really tried. Not because I regretted it, but because of the last shred of common sense I had left. But he held me more firmly and kept rubbing against my pussy from behind, the tip too close, too slippery, too deeply coated in my wetness for me to tell exactly what was happening in that precise second. My body jerked backward in a pure spasm, and then I felt it: a deep shudder, thick heat, the first spurts bursting against me.

He was coming. He was coming pressed against my entrance, half inside, half outside, and the hot semen began spilling over me at once. It ran between my lips, mixed with my own wetness, and kept sliding down the inside of my thighs. I froze for a second, not from cold, but from the impact. Then an obscene wave of pleasure swept through me as I felt it dripping.

He stayed still, breathing in ragged bursts, completely pressed against my back as he finished emptying himself. I kept looking at the older man, who lowered his gaze to my legs as if he could follow the path of every drop. His expression was almost reverent.

When the stranger finally moved away a little, I pulled my dress down with trembling hands. I could feel the semen running almost to my knees. I squeezed my thighs together as much as I could, though that only made me feel the wet mess between them even more. He tucked his cock away and quickly pulled up his zipper.

“Thank you,” he said in my ear, without a trace of tenderness, only satisfaction. “I knew you’d behave like that.”

I looked at him for the first time, barely in profile. He was smiling like someone who had just gotten away with something. The doors opened at the next station and he got off among the crowd without looking back.

I remained rooted where I stood, my heart racing and my legs wet. I could feel the mixture sticking to me, still warm. I didn’t know whether I wanted to laugh, insult him, or put two fingers in myself right there. I looked up and found the older man again. He was still in his place. This time he gave me a slow, conspiratorial, indecent smile.

I held his gaze and, very slowly, slid one hand along my thigh, as if I were merely smoothing my dress. My fingers touched the wetness still running down. When I pulled them away, they gleamed. The older man swallowed.

I didn’t bring them to my mouth, though I’d been tempted. Instead, I spread my legs slightly to feel the warm trail between them more clearly and leaned against the rail with a small, trembling smile. The subway started moving again. I had one stop left.

During that final minute, I didn’t think about my friends or the party. I thought about my partner waiting for me at home, about how I would spread my legs to show him what I’d done, how he would smell me, insult me, and fuck me after hearing every detail. I also thought about the stranger, his firm hand, his voice giving me orders, and the dark pleasure of having obeyed just enough.

When the doors opened, I got out carefully, still feeling semen sliding toward my thighs. The platform was crowded, noisy, normal. No one knew anything, and at the same time I felt as if I were wearing it written across my skin. Before disappearing into the crowd, I looked back toward the car one last time.

The older man was still inside. He held my gaze and raised two fingers to his temple in a silent farewell. I smiled, turned around, and kept walking with my legs slightly farther apart, soaked, humiliated, aroused like a beast. The apathy was gone without a trace. All that remained was my body asking for more.