My wrists are going numb. That's the first thing I notice now that I'm flat on my back, arms pinned under me, the padded cuffs digging into the small of my spine every time I shift. The second thing I notice is that I can't stop talking.

"You think this is over?" I hear myself say it, and it comes out breathless, which ruins it. "You think I'm just — I'm not your pet, Anna. I'm not. I'm going to get you back for this, I swear to god, I'm going to—"

She doesn't answer. She's just kneeling there over my legs, watching me with those amber eyes, that little smile doing something unbearable to the corner of her mouth. Her black hair's a mess. Her dress is rucked up around her hips. And I can see — even in the dim swaying light of that brass sconce — I can see her cock straining against the velvet, thick and dark and already wet at the tip, and my stomach drops in a way I refuse to name.

"You're still going," she says softly.

"Because you're not listening. I said I'm not — I'm not the sub here, I don't care what you think you — you boarded first, that's the only reason you got the drop on me, that's the only—"

She moves. Just — moves, up my body, hands planted on my chest, one knee then the other settling on either side of my head, and suddenly the ceiling light is blocked out and there's nothing above me but her. Her thighs. The underside of her jaw. The soft chubby curve of her belly pressing down where her dress has ridden up. And her cock, hanging heavy in front of my face, so close I can smell it — salt and skin and something darker underneath.

My mouth keeps going. I don't know why. It's like my brain has decided that if I stop talking, something worse happens.

"—and anyway, this doesn't mean anything, this is just — you're just — you got lucky, that's all, you got lucky because I let you, I let you, because I wanted to see what you'd do, because—"

"Because you wanted this," she says. "Say it."

"I'm not saying—"

A drop of something wet lands on my cheek. Warm. I feel it slide toward my ear and my whole body goes hot.

"You talk too much," she says.

Flat. Not mean. Almost fond. Like she's telling me the weather.

"Then make me stop," I spit up at her, and my voice cracks right down the middle of it. "Go on. Make me."

"Okay," she says.

And then she pushes in.

Not gently. Not slow. Her cock slides past my lips in one long stroke and keeps going, filling my mouth, my tongue pinned flat under the thick weight of her, and then it hits the back of my throat and I — I gag. Hard. My whole body jerks, cuffs clanking against the leather bench, and my eyes flood with water so fast I can't see her anymore, just the blur of her shape above me.

She doesn't pull back.

She holds. Her hand comes down on the top of my head — not gripping my hair, just resting there, palm flat, steadying me — and she stays exactly where she is, buried to the hilt in my throat, letting me feel it.

I try to say something. It comes out as a wet, strangled sound around her cock. My hands jerk against the cuffs under my back, trying to find her thighs, trying to push, and I can't reach, I can't reach anything, and the train rocks and her weight shifts and she's still there, still filling me, and my throat is spasming around her, trying to push her out, and she just — waits.

"Breathe through your nose, little one," she says.

I hate her. I hate her so much. I breathe through my nose.

"That's it," she murmurs, thumb stroking once over my hair. "There you go. Just like that."

The gagging eases. Not much. Enough. Enough that I can feel the shape of her now, the sheer thickness of her stretching my jaw wide, the way my lips are already slick with spit and whatever she's leaking into me. My tongue presses up against the underside of her cock and I can feel the ridge, the vein, the pulse — god, I can feel her pulse in my mouth.

"There he is," she says. "There's my good boy."

Something in my chest cracks open at that. I make a sound — I don't mean to, it just comes out, a high thin whine around the base of her cock, and my hips lift off the bench entirely before I can stop them.

She laughs. Soft. Delighted.

"Oh," she says. "Oh, that's what does it. Not the cuffs. Not the leash. Good boy."

I shake my head as much as I can with her cock in my throat. Which is to say, barely. Which is to say, not at all. My ears are flat against my skull and my tail — my stupid, traitorous tail — is thrashing against the bench beneath me, and I can hear it, the soft whisper of fur on leather, and I know she can hear it too.

"I'm not—" I gasp around her, the words mangled, barely words at all. "I'm not your—"

"You're not what, sweetheart?" She tilts her hips a fraction and I lose the rest of the sentence to a wet choke. "Say it again. I didn't catch it."

She starts to move.

Slow at first. Pulling back until just the head rests on my lower lip, letting me gasp a breath through my nose, and then sliding back in — all the way in, until my nose is pressed into the soft hair at the base of her belly and my throat is bulging around her, and I gag again, and she holds again, and then she does it once more.

In. Hold. Out. In.

"Look at me," she says, and I do, I look up at her through the water in my eyes, and she's watching me with that same patient amber stare, like she has all the time in the world. "Keep your eyes on me while I use your mouth."

The rhythm of it gets into me. The train clatters underneath us, steel on steel, and she fucks my mouth in time with it, and I stop being able to tell which sound is the wheels and which is me choking on her.

My hands are still trying. I don't know what they're trying to do anymore. Push her off, pull her closer — the cuffs make it impossible to tell. They just jerk and clank and my shoulders are burning from the angle and I don't care, I don't care, I'm so hard I can feel my own cock leaking through the ruined silk of my dress, pooling wet against my belly, and I haven't been touched in — I don't know how long. Since she made me come the first time. Since she put her fingers in me and made me sob.

"You're drooling on yourself," she says mildly. "You're a mess, little fox. You're doing so good."

"Shut—" I try, and she pushes deep and cuts me off, and my throat convulses around her, and I hear her breath catch — just once, just a flicker — and it's the first crack in her, the first sign she isn't made entirely of patience, and I want to grab it and pull.

She pulls out. All the way. And I gasp like I'm drowning.

"Look at you," she says.

I can see her now, through the tears. Her thighs braced on either side of my head, her hand still resting on my hair, her cock slick and shining and standing straight up from her body, wet with my spit and her own leaking slick, and her face — god, her face. She's not even smug. She's just looking at me. Like I'm something she's been waiting a long time to see.

"Please," I hear myself say. And I don't know what I'm asking for. To stop. To keep going. Both. Neither.

"Please what, pet?"

The word lands in my gut like a fist. I should argue. I should tell her I'm not her pet, I'm not anybody's pet, I'm the one who was supposed to — I was supposed to be on top. I was supposed to be the one holding the leash. That was the whole plan. That was the entire point of the last six months of texting, of the pictures, of the promises.

Instead I say, "Please don't stop."

Her smile goes sharp and soft all at once.

"Good," she says. "That's what I thought. Ask me again. Nicer."

"Please," I say, and my voice comes out small and ruined and I hate how much I mean it. "Please keep going. Anna. Please."

"There's my good boy," she says, and it lands like a hand on the back of my neck. "Open up."

And she pushes back in.

Harder this time. Her hips actually move now, a real thrust, and her cock drives past my tongue and into my throat before I can prepare, and the gag is violent, my whole body convulsing under her, my cuffed hands slamming against the bench. She doesn't stop for it. She holds my head steady with both hands now — thumbs at my temples, fingers spread over my ears — and she fucks my mouth like she's been thinking about it for months. Like she's been saving it.

"Take it," she says, low and even. "You wanted to be on top. You wanted to hold the leash. Look at you now. Take it."

My eyes stream. My nose runs. Spit is leaking out of the corners of my mouth and down my chin and onto my collar and I can feel it soaking into the leather under my neck. The train rocks and her rhythm catches the rock and every time the car sways she goes deeper, and every time she goes deeper I make a sound I've never made before, a wet broken thing that isn't quite a gag and isn't quite a moan.

She's talking to me. I can barely hear her over the blood in my ears, but she's talking.

"—so pretty like this. So much prettier with your mouth full. You should see yourself, little fox. All that mouth and nowhere to put it. All that fight and nothing to fight. Just take it. Just take it, sweetheart, you're doing so well—"

My hips jerk again. I can't help it. Every time she says good, every time she says pretty, every time she calls me little, something in my spine lights up and my cock throbs and I rut against nothing, against the air, against the ruined silk bunched over my belly, and I'm so wet down there I can feel it slicking my thighs.

She notices. Of course she notices. She notices everything.

"You're leaking," she says. "Through your dress. You're making a mess of yourself and I haven't even touched you."

"Don't—" I gasp, the word torn in half by her next thrust. "Don't look at—"

"I'm going to look at whatever I want," she says. "You're mine to look at. Say it."

I shake my head. Denial. The only thing I have left. My hands have stopped trying to push her away. I realize this slowly, through the fog — my cuffed wrists have gone slack against the small of my back, fingers curled loosely, no fight left in them. When did that happen. When did I stop.

"Say it," she says again, softer, and her thumb strokes my temple, and the softness is worse than the command. "Tell me whose mouth this is."

"Yours," I whisper, around her. The word is barely a word. It comes out wet and small and it's the truest thing I've said all night.

"There it is," she breathes. "There's my good boy."

And she goes deeper.

I don't know how. I didn't think there was deeper. But her hips tilt and her cock slides down my throat at a new angle and my nose presses into her belly and she holds — holds — holds — and I can't breathe, I can't breathe at all, and I'm not fighting it. I'm just lying there with my throat full of her, tears running into my ears, hands slack, tail limp against the bench, and something in my chest has gone very quiet.

"That's it," she says, so quiet it's almost to herself. "There you go. Stay right there for me."

She pulls back just enough to let me drag a breath through my nose. Then she pushes in again.

And again.

"Good boy," she says, each time, in time with it. "Good boy. Good boy."

And I don't argue. I don't say a single word. I just lie there under her and take it, and let her say it, and let it be true.

The compartment has gone silent except for the train. The clatter of the wheels, the creak of the bench, the wet sound of her cock sliding in and out of my throat, and under all of it, so soft I almost miss it — her breathing. Steady. Controlled. Like she could do this all night.

She probably could.

We have eight hours.

My eyes are closed now. I don't remember closing them. I just float there in the dark behind my own eyelids, mouth open, throat open, letting her use me, and the strangest part — the part I'm going to think about later, when I can think again — is that it doesn't feel like losing.

It feels like being held.

Her thumb moves against my temple. Small. Almost tender.

"That's it," she says, quiet, almost to herself. "That's it, sweetheart. Just like that."

And I stay there. Mouth full of lynx, cuffed and leashed and ruined, on a night train somewhere between Tampere and the top of the world, and I don't fight her anymore.

I just take it.