My Leather Skirt and the Stranger from the Platform

I have my cheek pressed against the cold tile of the station bathrooms. The smell of camphor mixes with urine and becomes something thick, sweet, a strange blend of cleanliness and rot that fills my nose and won’t let go. The wall, on the other hand, looks freshly scrubbed. I wonder whether it’ll keep the trace of my makeup when I’m done doing what I’m doing.

The skin of my face is still fixed to the wall, but the rest of my head is swaying. It sways to the rhythm of the cock coming in and out of my ass, over and over, without pause. I don’t know how long we’ve been at it. Long enough for my legs to have buckled twice.

The guy fucks me in a hurry and has barely said a word. His hips move fast, eager, like a dog that can’t hold out any longer. And yet his hands hold my waist with a gentleness that doesn’t fit with anything else. I’m fascinated by that. It soothes me, makes me feel safe, while he fills my insides with that thick cock that seems endless.

I turn my head because I no longer remember his face, and he smiles at me. Dark-haired, ugly in a cute way, a little chubby, unshaven for days. He looks like a good family man who’s just come off a night shift. Now I won’t forget his features. His expression changed when he came in to piss and found me here, planted beside the sink, as if I had suddenly cured him of all the exhaustion he’d been dragging around.

It turns me on that that kind, almost childish face is fucking the ass of a station tranny with such hunger.

Fuck, the man fucks well. I feel my knees start to give again, but I take a deep breath and manage to steady myself before I go under.

Behind him, beside the cubicle door, there’s an old man watching us. He’s fiddling with a penis that refuses to harden, his mouth slightly open and his eyes fixed on us. It doesn’t bother me. Quite the opposite.

—Keep going —I tell my man, trying not to raise my voice, putting as much of a feminine lilt into it as I can.

He slides his hands up and cups my bra. His fingers search, find my nipples through the padding, and he growls with pure excitement. I try to hold back my moan, but I give in. I go crazy when someone touches my silicone tits, even though we both know they’re nothing but pure fantasy. And it drives me even crazier that he’s doing it while he drills my ass with dry, animal thrusts that shove me against the wall.

Suddenly I remember the skirt. It’s leather, mini, and it’s been slipping lower with every hit of his hips. If he keeps going like this, his cock is going to end up staining it, or he’ll dirty it when he finishes if he takes the condom off any old how. I haul it up in one tug to my waist.

The guy misreads it. He grips my ass cheeks, pries them open roughly, carried away by what he thinks is an invitation. And I let him believe it. On top of the immense pleasure of his tireless cock, another different rush is added: knowing those thick fingers are going to leave marks on my ass for the next few days. Marks I’ll see in the mirror and that will make me remember this exact moment. I make a note of the skirt trick for next time I need it.

The pink thong I’m wearing is pinning my wet cock against me. Every thrust he gives it reverberates through it, shakes it, rubs it against the fabric. I think part of the string has gone into my ass along with him, and I start to fear I’m going to cum at any moment without even being touched.

***

I pant a little louder on purpose so he’ll speed up. It works. He lets go and starts moaning nonstop, so I join the whole sighing fiesta completely. He’s earned it with all those cock strokes. I give him that homage of moans like someone applauding a job well done.

The man trembles. On his last lunge he leaves me pinned between his soft belly and the tiles, with his hands dug into my hips. I think he’s making sure he doesn’t leave a single drop inside. My sphincter, without me asking it to, decides to help him with a choreography of little spasms that squeeze him, milk him, seal the deal.

All his. Every last drop.

He pulls his cock out slowly, millimeter by millimeter, and the emptiness he leaves behind tears another long moan from me. Luckily I didn’t get my panties completely soaked. I’m left on the edge, trembling, my breath broken against the wall.

I turn around and thank him. I take off the condom myself, carefully, as a gesture of courtesy. He’s satisfied, suddenly relaxed, with that look of a man who’s let go of a huge weight. I bring my face closer in case he wants to kiss me, without pushing, and he works up the courage to brush his lips against mine. It’s a clumsy kiss, brief, almost shy for someone who has just fucked my ass in a public bathroom.

He puts a folded bill in my hand and stands beside me to piss, as if we were old friends. There’s something about that naturalness that I like more than the fuck itself.

***

I look at the old man, who’s still there, patient, his penis halfway between laziness and desire. I step closer and jerk him off. He lets me, but there’s not much reaction. He turns his face toward me, parts his lips, and I give him a slow, generous tongue kiss. His cock hardens a little in my hand, just enough for mine to wake back up inside the thong, but I know the man won’t be able to give much more tonight.

I keep stroking him anyway, because it turns me on and because something tells me he might be a good client later on. You have to take care of the ones who come back. I squeeze him softly, whisper something in his ear, and he closes his eyes as if this is the closest he’s going to get to heaven in a long time.

The first man finishes pissing, zips himself up, and opens the door to leave. At that instant, through the gap, I hear the unmistakable sound of heavy boots in the corridor. The guard.

I let go of the old man, yank my skirt down, and leave the bathroom at a brisk pace but without running, because running is what gives you away. I cross paths with security at the threshold. He’s young, broad-backed, cap pulled low. He greets me with a short nod and I answer the same, avoiding eye contact. I don’t want trouble. Not tonight.

I leave through the station’s side door, the one that opens directly onto the parking lot. The cold dawn air slaps my face and wakes me right up. I walk between the cars to mine, fumble for my keys in my bag with still-shaky hands, and get inside.

***

When I sit down, the leather skirt rides up so high I can see the lace thong peeking between my thighs. I shut the door and the car’s silence falls over me like a blanket. The strong smell from the bathroom fades in my nose and is replaced by another, more intimate one, softer, a smell of ass and recent sex that belongs to me alone.

I can’t help smiling. I feel alive, electric, awake in a way I can’t get anywhere else. I look at myself in the rearview mirror: mascara a little smudged, lipstick almost gone, the face of a woman who has just done exactly what she wanted.

Without thinking too much about it, I pull my cock out from under the skirt and start jerking it. I like doing it like this, dressed and in public, with the risk that someone will walk by and see me. It’s that very risk that drives me on. I close my eyes and go back to the cold tile, to the hands on my waist, to the soft belly pressing me against the wall.

But then I hear the rattle of suitcases being dragged over the pavement. I open my eyes and see a group of travelers coming across the parking lot, sleepy, oblivious to everything. I mutter a curse and half-adjust myself.

I start the car with my shiny cock shyly peeking out from under the leather skirt. The engine roars and the headlights sweep over the row of vehicles. I have the whole road home ahead of me, a hot shower waiting, and the promise of finishing what I couldn’t finish here.

I pull out of the parking lot smiling, my heart still racing and the stranger’s taste still on my lips. Tomorrow, when I look at the marks his fingers left on my ass, I’ll know I didn’t imagine it. And that, for now, is enough for me.