the cold metal handrail

He groaned into my hair, a low, guttural sound. The pale hand on my mouth moved, sliding up under my top to find my breast. He palmed it roughly, then pinched my dark nipple, rolling the tight peak between his fingers. A jolt of pain-pleasure arced straight to my core, and I clenched around him, milking his length.

That broke his control. His thrusts became faster, harder, more desperate. He reached for the cold metal handrail in front of me, gripping it on either side of my body, caging me. Now he was fucking me in earnest, his hips slamming into my backside with a force that drove me into the bar. The metal dug into my pubic bone, a counterpoint to the internal pounding. I was pinned, utterly possessed, a secret act of raw sex unfolding in a carriage of oblivious strangers.

I could feel my orgasm coiling, a tight, screaming spring in my belly. He felt it too. “Come,” he breathed, the word a hot puff of air against my ear, his English accented of Japanese, rough with need.

It was the permission I needed. The spring snapped. Pleasure detonated, white-hot and all-consuming. My cunt clamped around him in rhythmic, violent pulses, my body shaking so violently I would have collapsed if not for his iron grip and the rail. A silent scream tore through me, my vision blurring with the neon streaks outside the window.

My climax triggered his. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself as deep as he could go and held. I felt the hot, liquid pulse of his release flooding me, jet after jet, marking me from the inside. He shuddered against me, his forehead pressed to my shoulder, his breath coming in harsh gulps.