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🚆 Stranger on the Train – Part 3: No More Waiting
It was raining harder today.
He sat on the train, soaked in anticipation more than the weather. Her instructions from yesterday echoed in his head:
“No underwear.”
He obeyed.
His jeans were the only thing separating him from full exposure. And tucked discreetly around him — the cock ring she'd given him. He could feel every throb, every pulse. It was maddening. Especially knowing what — or who — might be coming.
The doors slid open.
There she was.
This time she wore a sleek black trench coat, high heels clicking against the train floor, and beneath it — God only knew. Her eyes locked with his. She walked over and without a word, sat beside him again.
He swallowed.
Her perfume. That smirk. That fucking remote in her hand.
She leaned close.
“You did what I told you?”
He nodded.
Click.
A silent press of the remote.
The ring around him buzzed to life — a low hum directly on his most sensitive nerves. He tensed instantly. She smiled like the devil.
“Good.”
Her hand disappeared beneath her coat for a second — then emerged holding a small black lace thong.
“Took mine off just before I got on,” she whispered. “Figured it was your turn to taste.”
His heart pounded so loud it drowned out the train noise.
Suddenly, she stood.
“Come with me.”
They walked together, past empty rows, deeper into the last car. Barely anyone was there. She opened the restroom door, yanked him inside, and locked it behind them.
The moment the door clicked, she shoved him gently against the wall.
“You’ve earned it,” she whispered, dropping to her knees.
She unzipped his pants with practiced ease. The ring buzzed once more as she licked slowly along his shaft, savoring the reaction.
“Still not allowed to touch,” she murmured, wrapping her lips around him.
Her mouth was hot, wet, relentless. He gripped the railings to stay upright. She worked him over with her tongue, one hand massaging his thighs, the other tapping the remote occasionally — making the ring buzz in bursts that sent him wild.
He tried to warn her.
“I’m gonna—”
But she didn’t stop. If anything, she went deeper.
And he came. Hard. Gasping. Shaking.
She swallowed every drop, wiped her lips, stood up, and kissed him softly.
“You’re mine now,” she whispered, breath against his lips.
Before he could speak, she was fixing her coat and unlocking the door. Just like that, she stepped out — hair perfect, face calm — and vanished back into the train.
He stumbled out a minute later, dazed, throbbing, ruined.
On his seat, folded neatly, was a napkin with her number… and three words:
"Next time: hotel."
