It started innocently enough, or at least that’s what I told myself. A late-night text from him: “Meet me at the train station. Wear that short black skirt. No panties.” My thighs clenched just reading it. I obeyed, of course. The anticipation already had me slick before I even left the house.
The platform was packed—rush hour in full swing, bodies jostling, everyone staring at phones or the tracks. I spotted him leaning against a pillar, that wicked smirk I love so much. When the train pulled in, we squeezed into the crowded car together. No seats, just standing room only. He pressed behind me, one hand on the overhead rail, the other sliding under my skirt like it belonged there.
His fingers found me instantly—bare, wet, aching. I bit my lip hard as he teased my clit in slow circles, the train’s rhythm rocking me onto his hand. A businessman stood inches away, scrolling emails, completely oblivious. Every sway sent his fingers dipping deeper, two now, curling inside me while his thumb pressed just right. I gripped the pole tighter, thighs trembling, fighting the moan building in my throat.
“Quiet, baby,” he whispered against my ear, breath hot. “Or they’ll all know what a needy little slut you are.” The words made me clench around him. He pumped slowly, deliberately, stretching me while the car filled with the scent of strangers and my own arousal. When the train lurched, I ground back against his palm, chasing it, so close—then the doors opened at my stop. He pulled his hand away, licked his fingers clean right there, eyes locked on mine. I stepped off shaking, dripping down my thighs, already plotting the next time.
A week later we escalated. Dinner at that upscale spot downtown—the kind with white tablecloths that drape almost to the floor. I wore a low-cut dress, easy to hike up. We sat side by side in the corner booth. As soon as the waiter left with our wine order, his hand disappeared under the cloth.
He traced up my inner thigh, found me bare again (I was learning fast). Two fingers slid in without warning, thick and insistent. I gripped the edge of the table, smiling sweetly at the couple across the aisle while he fucked me slowly under the table. The waiter returned with appetizers; I thanked him in a voice that only cracked once. My partner never stopped—curling, thrusting, thumb circling my clit in lazy strokes. I came silently, biting the inside of my cheek, body shuddering as waves rolled through me. He kept his fingers buried deep until the tremors faded, then fed me a bite of scallop with the same hand, making me taste myself.
I excused myself to the bathroom afterward, legs weak. In the stall I touched myself again, replaying it, coming harder just from the memory.
But the park at dusk—that was when I truly lost control. Golden hour fading, leaves crunching underfoot. We found a secluded bench half-hidden by trees. He pulled me onto his lap facing away, skirt bunched at my waist. No one close, but joggers passed every few minutes. He unzipped, guided his cock to my entrance, and sank in deep with one slow thrust.
I rode him quietly at first, rolling my hips, feeling every inch stretch me. His hands gripped my waist, controlling the pace. “Louder,” he growled. “Let them hear how much you love being fucked like this.” I whimpered, then moaned—soft at first, then desperate—as he slammed up into me. A couple walked by, dog on a leash; they glanced over, curious. I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. He reached around, rubbed my clit furiously until I shattered, clenching around him, soaking his lap. He followed seconds later, filling me while I trembled in his arms.
The movie theater was next—dark, half-empty late showing. We took the back row. As soon as the lights dimmed, I straddled him, dress hiked, panties shoved aside. His cock slid home easily, still slick from earlier. I rocked slowly, grinding down, biting his shoulder to muffle my gasps. On screen explosions lit the room; in our corner I rode him harder, chasing another orgasm while strangers sat rows ahead, munching popcorn. When I came, I buried my face in his neck, body shaking violently. He held me through it, then flipped me, bent me over the seat in front, and fucked me from behind—quick, deep thrusts until he groaned low and spilled inside me.
Every time we push further, the rush gets stronger. The fear of eyes on us, the thrill of staying hidden just barely—it consumes me. I’m addicted to being his public secret, his shameless exhibitionist. And the best part? Next weekend we’re hitting the library stacks. Bookshelves, quiet floors, and me on my knees…
What happens when someone turns the corner? Guess we’ll find out.