What I Do in the Last Carriage No One Suspects

I still make myself dream about him. I close my eyes in my bed and imagine him on top of me, his firm body crushing me against the mattress, his cock sliding into my wet cunt centimeter by centimeter while I squeeze the walls tight to please my man. I imagine his young shaft opening me slowly, the glans pushing against my soaked entrance, and then that dry thrust that drives it all the way in. Since the first night I met him, I haven’t stopped using the dildos my partner keeps in the drawer, thinking about D, always D, first shoving them down my throat to salivate all over them as if it were his cock, and then ramming them into my cunt while I pinch my nipples and bite the pillow.

Lately he writes to me less, and that’s driving me out of my mind. I never thought I’d need so much the words and photos of such a young boy. A boy who treats me like a princess and, at the same time, makes me feel like the biggest slut in the world.

It’s not a contradiction. It’s exactly what I am when he talks to me.

Thanks to D, I’m burning all the time. That’s the truth, and I’m not ashamed to say it. Since he showed up, the number of times I touch men on the subway has gone up. Almost every day I give some guy a handjob. I love feeling a good cock getting hard in the palm of my hand while its owner pretends to look at his phone, feeling it throb under the fabric, swell, the way the guy clenches his jaw to keep from moaning in the middle of the carriage.

It started as a game to distract myself when he didn’t answer. A brush on the platform, a hand that stayed a second too long. Then it stopped being a game. It became a habit, almost a physical need that makes me leave the house early just to catch rush hour. I do it so I won’t think about D, and I end up doing it thinking about D. It’s a circle I don’t want to get out of.

I have to tell you about the other morning, because I can still feel it between my legs.

***

I got on at the busiest station, at the time when the carriage is so packed no one knows whose hand belongs to whom. I like that time. People crowd together and touch stops being an accident and becomes an excuse. I dress for that: tight skirt clinging to my ass, sheer stockings up to mid-thigh, tiny thong already getting damp before I even get on, and my lips painted a red that leaves no doubt what mouth I am.

As soon as I stepped in, I felt him looking at me. A man in his mid-fifties, gray suit, briefcase between his legs. He had gray hair and big hands, hands of a working man, and a ring shining on his ring finger. That last bit always turns me on more. Knowing that somewhere someone is waiting for him, and that the mouth trembling for me tonight will be kissing another woman.

I know that even though I like men, I’ve got the face of a dirty little slut, a face everyone picks up on without me saying a word. And my gaze, without me deciding it, always drops to the bulge in other people’s pants. It’s like an instinct. The animal goes looking for its food.

The man realized I’d looked at him down there. And instead of getting uncomfortable, he adjusted himself. Casually, with two fingers, he repositioned his cock over the fabric while he kept driving his eyes into mine. I saw him shift it to the side, saw the bulge mark out thick against the seam of his pants.

This is going to be easy.

The train lurched forward and we all tipped a little with it. I took advantage of that natural push to press myself against him, my thigh against his leg, then against something else. I felt it there, still soft, pulsing slowly under his pants. I didn’t move away. I let my leg squeeze him with every brake, every curve, rubbing against him like a cat in heat, as if the carriage were doing the work for me. I felt that cock swelling against my thigh, rising, going from a warm bulge to a hard bar imprinting my skin through the stocking.

He wasn’t breathing. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, pretending to read an ad, but his body was answering me in another language.

I lowered my hand.

I took him over the pants, with my palm open, and stroked his cock from top to bottom. Slowly at first, then with more intent. I squeezed the base with my fingers, moved my hand up to the tip and rubbed the glans through the fabric in little circles with my thumb. I felt it grow under my fingers, harden, take up my whole hand. It was thick. My mouth watered just thinking about how it would look out of the pants. The man let air out through his nose, a long sigh he tried to cover with a cough.

—Sorry —I murmured, as if I’d brushed against him by accident.

—It’s nothing —he answered, his voice tight.

That was the whole conversation we needed.

***

I stroked him desperately, squeezing, letting go, gauging how his jaw trembled with every movement of mine. I ran my palm over his whole length, felt his balls through the pants, weighed them in my hand, went back up his shaft. I could feel my thong getting soaked. My cunt was throbbing to the same rhythm as his cock, clenching on its own, begging. At one point, without looking at anyone, he lowered his zipper a little. A silent invitation for me to put my hand in.

And I, gladly, did.

I rubbed over his underwear, the hot cotton, the hard shape underneath, the wet stain already marking the fabric at the tip. That wasn’t enough for me. It never is. So I lowered the elastic just a bit and found it, skin against skin, his cock hard as a rock and unbelievably smooth. I wrapped my whole hand around it. It was thick, thicker than his age would have suggested, with swollen veins throbbing against my palm and the broad, purple glans slick with pre-cum. I ran my thumb over the tip and felt him shudder. The crown was fat, the kind you know opens you up when it goes in. My cunt clenched just from having it in my hand.

I pulled my hand out for a second, just to wet my palm with my tongue, looking him in the eye while I did it. I sucked my fingers slowly, all the way to the wrist, making them nice and wet. I wanted him to see it. I wanted him to understand what kind of woman he’d ended up next to that morning. I slid my hand back in, slippery now, and started giving him a slow, tight handjob, squeezing the crown with every upward stroke. That sent him soaring. He closed his fists around the briefcase; his knuckles went white.

I gave him my most coquettish smile. The kind of smile that says: I’m about to do something crazy.

He got nervous. He looked to the sides, counted heads, measured the distances. We were in the last carriage, against the back door, surrounded by people with headphones on and eyes lost in the tunnel. Nobody was looking down. Nobody was looking at anything.

***

I took a few coins from my pocket and deliberately let them fall. They clinked against the carriage floor.

—You dropped something —said a woman kindly.

—Thanks, I’ll pick them up —I replied, and bent down.

But when I bent down I didn’t look for the coins. I turned my head just a little and ended up right in front of him, at the exact height, my face a few centimeters from that cock that was half-out of his pants, throbbing. There it was, thick, shiny, pointed at me. The smell of man hit me full in the face and everything downstairs tightened. The man looked down at me with huge eyes, between panic and lust, not knowing whether to stop me or pray I wouldn’t stop.

I didn’t stop.

As if nothing in the world were happening, I leaned in and kissed the tip. A soft, wet kiss, with my red lipstick leaving the mark of carmine right on the glans. Then I stuck out my tongue and licked the drop of pre-cum shining in the slit, tasting him, swallowing that first salty flavor. I ran my tongue around the crown, just a little, and took the tip into my mouth for a second, sucking it with my lips closed. I felt him shiver from head to toe, and a muffled moan escaped him that I barely managed to hear. I picked up the coins, straightened slowly, licking my lips, and went back to taking his cock in my hand as if those three seconds crouched down had never happened.

—Easy —I whispered in his ear, my lips brushing his lobe—. Nobody noticed.

He swallowed. He was red, sweaty, about to burst.

***

I stood up again. The carriage was still just as full, just as indifferent. A girl with headphones was singing softly a foot away from us, not noticing a thing. That’s the part I like most: people packed around me, the heat of all those bodies, and in the middle me, with my hand inside a stranger’s pants, tugging his wet cock with my saliva, making him moan on the inside while he grinds his teeth so he won’t give himself away.

I grabbed his cock by the base and started jerking him off for real. Closed fist, steady wrist, twisting the crown. I’d stroke all the way up and slide my open palm over the glans like I was peeling something, then drop straight down to his balls. I positioned myself so the briefcase covered everything, a trick I already know by heart. With my other hand I reached between my legs under my skirt, moved the thong aside and rubbed my clit with two fingers. I was soaked, dripping, a sticky thread running down my thigh. I shoved two fingers in, all the way, and pulled them out shining. I found his mouth with those fingers and ran them over his lips. The guy opened up, took them, sucked my own juice like a dog, eyes closed.

—Tasty, huh? —I whispered—. That’s how wet you make me, you filthy old pig.

He nodded, mute, while I took my hand back to his cock and resumed the handjob, my palm now sliding over his pre-cum and my juices mixed together.

It didn’t take long. I worked him with my wrist, firm, without hurry but without mercy, feeling his whole body tense against the door. Every so often I’d speed up, squeeze the glans with my palm on each stroke up, and I’d see him close his eyes, right on the edge, and then I’d ease off, circle the base with two fingers and wait, stretching out the torture. I wanted him to remember that morning for weeks. When I squeezed again, his whole pelvis jerked against my hand, involuntary. I ran my thumb in circles over the slit and that was it. On the next braking of the train, just as the lights flickered entering the station, he couldn’t hold back anymore. I felt him come. The first hot, thick, long rope burst out, spilling over my thigh, staining my stocking above the knee. Then the second, the third, shorter, falling between my fingers, sliding down his own cock, dripping into his pants. His cock kept throbbing in my hand, spitting out the last of it. I squeezed the base, milking out the very last drop, and watched it fall white on my skin.

I get so aroused when they finish somewhere on my body. The leg, the hand, the face, the ass, anywhere. Afterward I have to clean up, of course, but that moment when I feel the warm jet of semen on my skin is worth every inconvenience. I brought my stained index finger to my mouth and sucked it slowly, looking at him, swallowing that stranger’s load as if it were candy. I laughed to myself. Another stocking in the trash.

The man adjusted his clothes with trembling hands, tucking his cock, still half-soft, back into his stained underwear without daring to look at me. When the doors opened, he practically ran out, disappearing onto the platform among hundreds of people who would never know what had just happened against that door.

I stayed. I crossed my legs, felt the sticky semen sliding down my thigh and my own wetness dripping in my thong, and smiled at my reflection in the black glass of the tunnel. One more for the collection.

***

I got home still hot, my cunt throbbing and my stocking stuck with dried cum, and the first thing I did was check my phone. Nothing from D. Not a message, not a photo, not one of those words of his that melt me.

That’s what truly drives me crazy. I can make a stranger cum in the last carriage without my hand shaking, I can have a grown man at my mercy in thirty seconds, and yet I spend the whole day waiting for two lines from a boy who is too far away from me.

Because that’s what D is: too young, too impossible. I know it. I knew it from the beginning. To the world he’s just a boy barely starting his life, and to me he’s a king I shouldn’t desire this intensely. I know it and I don’t care.

Sometimes I wonder what he’d see if he knew about my mornings on the subway. Whether it would disgust him or whether, as I suspect, it would make him even hotter. Part of me wants to tell him in detail, to write him everything I do with the hands he kisses in the photos. Another part prefers to keep it to myself, to have a secret that belongs only to me, a parallel life throbbing under my skirt while I send him hearts from the screen.

For now I choose silence. Women like me learn early that silence is also a form of power.

I took the dildo out of the drawer, threw myself on the bed, ripped off my soaked thong, and spread my legs. I slid the toy over my cunt lips, up and down, soaking it in my juices, and drove it in with one hard thrust. I arched off the bed. I closed my eyes again. The man on the train disappeared from my head in an instant. In his place came D again, his firm body over mine, his young cock opening me, his voice calling me princess and slut in the same sentence. I rammed the dildo all the way in, pulled it out dripping, shoved it back in, setting a violent rhythm, imagining it was D fucking me, that it was his cock pounding my depths. I rubbed my clit with my other hand, in quick circles, pinching it between two fingers. I felt the orgasm rise from the soles of my feet, that cramp that starts low and shoots up through my legs.

I made myself come thinking of D, biting the pillow so I wouldn’t scream, my cunt clenching around the dildo and a second warm wave soaking my thighs.

***

That’s how things are. D has me burning like never before, even though I know nothing real can happen between us. And in the meantime I’ll keep going down to the subway every morning, dressed to be looked at, looking for hands, mouths, and cocks to keep me occupied until he writes to me again.

I need them. I need those strangers in the last carriage as much as I need his messages. They’re two different hungers, and both of them need feeding every day.

Thanks for reading, darlings. As always, I’ll leave you with my promise to come back with more, because tomorrow there’ll be another train, another platform, another gray-suited man who doesn’t yet know the morning waiting for him.

Kisses.

Sabrina Love.