He confuses me. Then, a stinging pain and a crack through the air. He has slapped my right arse cheek. I wince but try not to recoil from it. Thwack! He does it again. And again on the other side. Ten times he whacks his hand across my rump, five on each side, hard, forceful spanks which resound through the carriage each time. I can’t stop a little whimpering, as much from hot pleasure as pain.
‘There. Much better,’ he declares, a definite note of satisfaction in his voice. Some of the others move round for an appreciative glance. ‘Now, down.’
I lower myself again, my arse aflame but wanting so much more.
The head of his cock touches my arsehole. For the first time on the entire journey, I tense. Not because I don’t want it, but because I can’t quite believe this is happening. The other men, some sitting, some standing, watch me intently.
The Suit’s hands are on my hips and he pulls me down. There it is. The stretch. My puckered little hole is stretching to take cock. And it does. The thick, full head moves into me. It never stops stinging: that glorious sting of fullness which I so crave. I sigh out rapturously and he takes the opportunity to pull me further down onto him. I brace myself on the armrests, needing to control this as much as possible. Down again. He’s deep now; he’s fucking deep. I wonder how much of him I can take.
‘Good girl,’ he murmurs in my ear and I love it. I love that rich, honeyed voice pouring its appreciation into me. I move down again and feel him almost fully in me. ‘More.’ I sink further. ‘Deeper,’ he insists. I do so. ‘Very, very good girl.’ There’s a pause. His hot, ragged breath is on my hair – he’s as lost as I am. ‘Now, move.’
I start to rise up, the pull-off even more sensational and tight. I rise so that only his head is still in me then lower myself again. He holds me, guiding me, but I grip the armrests hard and the fuck is a perfect symbiosis of bodies and wills. We both want exactly what the other is giving and taking.
Just when I think it’s enough, when I want to forget myself in the cock in my arse, I hear him. ‘Someone take her clit.’
Forcing my eyes open, I see T-shirt Hottie drop between my legs. And – oh, holy fuck! – he is sucking me so beautifully.
‘And her tits.’
Violin Pirate and Hip Hop take a nipple each in their hands, managing to grip on to them while I continue to be fucked in the arse. I stop every so often to revel in the clit-sucking, but T-shirt Hottie is a clever boy, able to keep himself on me even as I move.
I’m gone. I’m not even sure which way is up. The train rumbles on, passing more stations, more amazed, gawping faces at the window. Yes, yes, I want it. I want it all.
Painter Man is the only one not touching me, but he seems happy enough. He sits opposite, his eyes glued on the sight, his hand pumping his cock hard. I meet his eyes briefly and know he’s close. So am I.
‘Don’t come yet,’ warns The Suit, as if reading my mind.
I groan. ‘I can’t stop. I can’t.’ Still I plunge up and down on him, still my clit is tormented. T-shirt Hottie has at least three fingers up my cunt now. I’m not sure I’ll survive my next orgasm. It’s building so hard and so fast; my muscles are tensed, my skin’s on fire. Please, please.
‘Don’t you dare fucking come,’ The Suit hisses again, dangerous in my ear. I sob. A very real tear is forced from my eyes. The train tears along the track, hurtling its way through the tunnels.
‘Wait … wait …’
On and on, cock and mouth and hands and tongue.
‘Now!’
He holds me still, his cock as deep in me as it’ll go. The fingers on my nipples pinch, the fingers in my cunt flex, and the mouth on my clit sucks.
Release. Am I flying? Am I flying alongside the train? I’m a blur of pleasure. My body freezes and shatters. The climax shakes me from head to foot, longer and harder than anything I can remember.
And then, with a sound of sweet abandon from a man I thought wasn’t even interested, The Suit comes. He comes hard, I can tell that. I can practically feel his hot spunk as he explodes copiously into my arse.
I slump forward, and all is quiet.
The journey is nearly over. We’re approaching the last station.
Silently, but with a contented communion of sexual completion, we extract ourselves from each other, wipe down as best we can and dress. One by one, in turn, Hip Hop, Violin Pirate, Painter Man and T-shirt Hottie come up and kiss me: soft, pliant grateful kisses I’ll never forget. Only The Suit does not. He’s reading the FT again. I shrug; it’s his prerogative. That’s part of the deal: no names, no numbers, no future.
We all sit in our original seats. Hip Hop puts his music back on.
The train pulls in and, for the first time since we set off, the doors of our carriage open. With a warm look or a smile for me, the men leave. Only The Suit gets up and goes without a glance. It pains me a little, I admit.
But, my body still heavy and happy after countless orgasms, I smile to myself. A night to remember. I’m reluctant to leave the carriage and stand stock still, fixing the scene into my mind. When at last I turn to head off, I see that The Suit has left the FT on his seat.
Drawn to this reminder of him, I go over and pick it up. I’m about to toss the newspaper back onto the seat when I notice words written in an elegant script in the top corner.
‘You are perfection. Call me.’ And there’s a telephone number.
A ripple of delectable happiness curls through me.
Oh, don’t worry. I will.
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Watching Me, Watching You Page 23