Her weight shifts, and the wet sound of her pulling out of my mouth is obscene in the small compartment. I gasp — actually gasp, air hitting the back of my throat like I'd forgotten what it was for — and then she's sitting back on my chest, her thighs bracketing my ribs, and I can feel every ounce of her through the velvet.

She's breathing hard. I can hear it. That soft, lilting purr of hers is gone, replaced by something rawer, and when I crack my eyes open she's just... looking down at me. Her cock rests heavy and slick against my sternum, still twitching, still wet with my spit. It leaves a trail of it across my skin when she shifts her hips.

My wrists pull against the cuffs behind my back. The padded leather gives, just a little, but the lock doesn't. My shoulders ache from being pinned under me this long. My jaw aches worse. My throat feels scraped raw and used, and every time I swallow I taste her.

"Eight hours," she says.

I blink up at her. "What?"

"Eight hours." She drags her thumb through the mess on my chest — her mess, my spit, both — and smears it slow across my collarbone. "And I haven't even gotten this off you yet."

Her fingers find the hem of my dress. The pink silk is ruined — bunched and twisted and damp where I've been sweating into it, rucked up around my hips from when she climbed on top of me. She works it up over my belly first, and the cool air of the compartment hits my skin and makes me shiver. Then higher, over my ribs, and I feel the fabric drag across my nipples and my whole body jerks.

"Wait—"

"Shh."

"Anna, wait, I—"

She gets it over my head. The collar catches for a second, and she has to work it free, and for one stupid moment I'm blind and helpless with silk over my face and her hands on my throat, and my cock jumps so hard it slaps against my own stomach.

Then the dress is gone. She tosses it somewhere — I hear it land soft on the compartment floor — and I'm just lying there. Thigh-highs. Arm warmers. Collar. Cuffs. Leash running from the ring at my throat up to her fist, which is resting easy on her own thigh like she's holding a dog she's already trained.

"Look at you," she purrs. "All unwrapped."

"You're enjoying this way too much."

"I'm enjoying it exactly the right amount."

My smaller cock is leaking onto my belly. I can feel the wet spot spreading, cool where the air hits it. I haven't been touched below the waist since she started, and I'm so hard it hurts, the knot at the base of me already swelling, already aching, and she hasn't even looked at it yet.

She looks at me now.

Really looks. Her amber eyes move slow, from my face down to my throat, to the collar, to the leash in her hand, to my chest, to the soft curve of my belly, to my cock lying flushed and dripping against my own skin. Her ears — those tufted lynx ears — swivel forward. Her tail curls behind her, stubby and thick, and I watch it flick once, twice, like a cat watching something it's about to eat.

"Oh," she says. Quiet. Almost reverent. "Oh, look at you."

I turn my face away. The brass sconce glows on the wall, dim and orange, and the train clatters under us, and I can't look at her while she says things like that.

"No, no." Her hand finds my jaw. Turns me back. Her grip is gentle and absolutely immovable. "Look at me when I'm looking at you, pet."

"Don't call me—"

"You're leaking onto your own stomach."

I close my eyes.

"That's not a question, sweetheart. That's just true." Her thumb strokes along my jaw, and her voice goes soft and mean at the same time, the way it does. "You're lying there in your little stockings with your pretty collar on, cuffed and leashed, and your cock is so hard it's making a puddle on your belly, and you want to tell me you're not my pet?"

My tail — I hate it, I hate it — wags against the leather bench. I feel it move and I can't stop it.

"There it is," she says.

"That's — that's just —"

"That's just your body telling the truth while your mouth runs its little mouth." She leans down. Her hair falls forward, messy and black, and her breath is warm on my face. "I've been waiting months for this. Months of you typing all that big talk. I'll wreck you. I'll make you beg. I'm gonna put you on your knees. "

I feel my face go hot. "I meant it."

"I know you did." She kisses the corner of my mouth. Soft. Almost sweet. "That's what makes it so cute."

"I'm not cute —"

"You're adorable." Another kiss, this one on my chin. "You're the most adorable thing I've ever had on a leash."

My cock twitches so hard it actually lifts off my belly and slaps back down, and I hear the wet sound of it, and I want to die. She hears it too. Of course she does. Her ears flick toward the sound and her smile goes sharp.

"See," she says. "Your body agrees with me."

"My body's a traitor."

"Your body's honest. You should try it sometime."

She sits back up. The leash goes taut for a second as she settles her weight, then slack again, and I feel the little tug at my throat like a second pulse. She's still straddling my chest, her thighs warm and heavy on either side of my ribs, and I can feel how wet she is through the velvet of her dress where it's pressed against my sternum. Her cock rests against my chest, half-hard still, slick with everything I did to it.

"Eight hours," she says again. "That's a long time, pet."

"Stop calling me that."

"You've got eight hours of train left and I've got eight hours of ideas." She runs her free hand down my chest, over my belly, and stops just above my cock. Doesn't touch it. Just rests her palm there, warm, and I can feel the heat of her hand an inch from where I need it. "And right now I've got one specific idea."

"Anna—"

"Say please."

"I'm not going to—"

"Then I'll just sit here." She settles her weight more firmly on my chest. "For eight hours. And you can leak all over yourself and think about it."

My hips lift off the bench. I can't help it. I'm straining up toward her hand, and she pulls it back an inch, and I make a sound I don't recognize — something high and frustrated and desperate that comes out of my throat before I can catch it.

She laughs. Low and pleased. "There he is."

"Please." It comes out cracked. "Please, just—"

"Please what, sweetheart?"

I grit my teeth. The cuffs dig into my wrists behind my back. The collar sits warm and tight around my throat. I can feel every single inch of the leash between us, that thin line of leather running from my neck to her hand, and I hate how much I like it. I hate how much I've liked all of it. I hate that she can see it on my face.

"Please touch me," I say. "Please. Anna. Please."

"Good boy."

She says it soft, and it lands somewhere under my ribs, and my tail wags again and I don't even try to stop it this time. Her palm presses flat against my belly, slides down, and then her fingers wrap around my cock and I forget how to breathe.

"Oh — oh fuck —"

"There we go," she murmurs. "There's my good boy."

She doesn't stroke. She just holds it. Her hand is warm and dry and she's got me gripped loose at the base, thumb resting along the underside, and she just... looks at it. At me. At my cock in her hand like it's something she's considering.

"It's so little," she says. Fondly. "It's so much smaller than mine."

"Fuck you."

"It's cute." Her thumb drags up the underside, slow, and my whole body arches. "Look at it. It fits in my hand with room left over. You're all knotted up at the base and it's still smaller than my palm."

"I swear to god—"

"You swear to god what, pet?" She squeezes, just a little, and my voice dies in my throat. "What are you gonna do? You're cuffed. You're leashed. You're on your back with your legs open and your cock in my hand. What exactly are you gonna do about it?"

Nothing. I'm gonna do nothing. We both know it.

"That's what I thought," she says, and lets go.

I make a sound — a real one, a whine, and I hear it and I hate it — and she just smiles down at me and shifts her weight back, off my chest, settling onto the bench between my spread knees.

"There we go," she says. "Now let me see you."

She runs both hands up the inside of my thighs. My stockings are damp with sweat and the friction makes me shiver. Her thumbs press into the soft meat of my thighs, spreading me wider, and I let her, and she sees that I let her, and her ears flick forward again.

"Look at that," she says. "You're not even fighting me."

"I'm tired."

"You're good." She leans down and kisses the inside of my knee, through the stocking. "You're so good, sweetheart. You've been so good for me all night."

The praise hits me somewhere low and warm and I hate it and I want more of it and I can't say either thing out loud. I just lie there and let her kiss up my thigh, slow, one kiss after another, working her way higher while my cock lies untouched against my belly and drips.

"Anna."

"Mm."

"Anna, please."

"Please what?"

"Please — your mouth." I can hear how wrecked I sound. "Please put your mouth on me. Please."

She stops. Lifts her head. Looks at me down the length of my own body, and her smile is so sharp and so soft at the same time that I don't know whether to be scared or grateful.

"Since you asked so nicely," she says. "Beg me again."

"Please, Anna. Please, I need it. Please."

"Good boy. Keep your hips still."

And then she bends down and takes me in her mouth.

All the way. In one motion, no hesitation, her lips sliding down my cock and past it, and I feel the wet heat of her mouth close around the knot at the base of me and take it — the whole thing, my whole cock and my swollen knot, and her throat opens and I'm inside her and I arch off the bench so hard the cuffs yank my shoulders back and I make a sound I have never made before in my life.

It's not a word. It's not even close to a word. It's something animal and broken and it comes out of me at full volume in this little compartment and I don't care who hears it.

She hums around me. Hums. I feel the vibration travel up my cock and into my spine and my thighs clamp around her head and she doesn't stop, she just works her tongue along the underside of me, slow and wet, and her throat keeps swallowing around the head of my cock and I can feel every single swallow.

"Oh — oh god — Anna—"

She pulls up just enough to breathe, her lips still sealed around the head, and looks up at me with those amber eyes. Her mouth is stretched around me and she's smiling with her eyes and I want to grab her hair and I can't because my hands are behind my back.

"Please don't stop," I hear myself say. "Please. Please don't stop."

She sinks back down. Slow this time. Deliberate. I feel every inch of my cock disappear into her throat, feel the tight wet squeeze of it, feel her tongue press flat against the underside and drag, and my hips try to buck and she pins them with one hand flat on my belly.

"Stay," she says around me. The word vibrates through my cock. "Stay still, pet. Let me have it."

I stay still. I don't know how. I lock every muscle in my body and I lie there shaking on the leather bench while she works me with her mouth, slow and deep and relentless, her hand flat on my belly holding me down, the leash slack in her other fist, and the train clatters on toward Kemijärvi and the sconce glows orange and I can hear myself making sounds I don't recognize, little broken ones, every time she swallows.

She pulls off. A string of spit connects her lips to the head of my cock and she doesn't wipe it away. She just looks at me.

"You're gonna come in my mouth," she says. Not a question. "You're gonna come in my mouth and you're gonna swallow whatever I give you back, and then we're gonna talk about the next eight hours. Understand?"

I nod. I can't speak.

"Say it."

"Yes." My voice is gone. "Yes, Anna. Yes."

"Good boy."

And she takes me all the way down again, to the knot, and this time she doesn't stop, and I feel it building low and hot and tight, and I grip the cuffs behind my back and I hold on and I let her have it, all of it, everything, on a night train somewhere between Tampere and the top of the world.

The crest hits me like the train hitting a switch — a hard jolt somewhere under my ribs, and then it's coming, it's coming out of me, and I can't warn her, can't say anything, just arch off the leather with my shoulders yanked back by the cuffs and my thighs clamping hard around her ears.

She doesn't pull off. She stays down, throat working around me, and I feel every pulse of it leave my body and land somewhere deep in her mouth. My knot swells and she keeps it there, sealed behind her lips, and the pressure of it is almost too much and exactly right at the same time, and I make a sound that comes out of my chest like something being torn.

She swallows. Once. Twice. I feel the second one travel down her throat around the head of my cock and my whole body jerks with it.

"Anna — Anna, I can't —"

She hums. That's all. Just a low hum that vibrates up through me, and my hips give one last helpless twitch against her hand, and then I'm done. Spent. Boneless on the bench with my knees fallen open and my chest heaving and my throat making little broken noises I can't control.

She stays down a moment longer. Just breathing through her nose against my belly, her lips still wrapped around the base of me, her tongue flat and still. Then she pulls up — slow, so slow, and I feel every inch of myself slide out of her mouth, wet and oversensitive and twitching.

Her lips are swollen. There's spit on her chin, and something else, and she doesn't wipe it. She just looks at me from between my own spread thighs, and her amber eyes are half-lidded and bright, and her ears are angled back like a cat that's just finished something it enjoyed.

"Look at you," she says. Her voice is wrecked. Hoarse. It's the first time all night she's sounded anything less than perfectly in control, and I don't know why that makes my chest do what it does. "You made a mess of me."

"You —" My voice is gone. I try again. "You told me to."

"I did." She wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist, and then looks at the shine on her skin, and then — deliberately, watching me the whole time — she leans forward and presses her wet mouth to the corner of mine.

I don't understand what's happening for a second. Then I do. She's got her own mouth full of me, still, everything I just gave her, and she's holding it there, and she's looking at me with her eyes wide open an inch from mine like she wants to watch me figure it out.

"Open," she says against my lips.

"Anna —"

"Open your mouth, pet."

I open it. I don't know why. I do. And she kisses me — properly, deep, one hand coming up to hold my jaw so I can't turn away — and she pushes it into my mouth with her tongue. All of it. My own come, warm and thick and salty, sliding from her tongue onto mine, and I make a strangled noise into her mouth and she doesn't let me go.

She holds the kiss until I swallow. I feel my throat work around it, feel it go down, and only then does she pull back, just far enough to look at me, her thumb still hooked under my chin.

"There," she says softly. "Now you know what you taste like."

I can't speak. My face is burning. My cock is still twitching against my belly, softening, slick with her spit. My tail is curled so tight against my own thigh that I can feel the fur standing up on it.

"Was that so bad?" she asks.

"You're —" I swallow again. I can still taste it. "You're insane."

"Mm." She sits back on her heels between my legs, and the leash goes slack and then taut again as she shifts her grip on it. "You said that already. Try something new."

"You're a menace."

"Better."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't." She reaches down and runs two fingers through the mess on my belly — mine, cooling now, smeared across my skin — and then lifts them to her own mouth and licks them clean without breaking eye contact. "You're lying there with your legs open and your collar on and your come on your own lips, and you want to tell me you hate me."

My ears flatten. I feel them do it. I can't stop them.

"There it is," she says, and her smile goes soft at the edges. "That's my good boy."

"Stop saying that."

"Why? It's true." She leans forward and presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, through the damp stocking. "You've been so good tonight, sweetheart. You took all of it. You didn't fight me once at the end."

"I —"

"You didn't." Another kiss, higher, on the soft inside of my thigh. "You just lay there and let me have it, and you came in my mouth exactly like I told you to, and you swallowed everything I gave back. That's good. That's so good."

The praise lands somewhere under my ribs again, warm and low, and I turn my face toward the wall so she can't watch me take it. The sconce glows orange. The train rocks. Somewhere down the corridor a door slides shut and someone laughs, muffled, and I remember with a jolt that we're on a public train, that there are other people on this train, that anyone walking past could have heard me scream.

"Hey." Her hand finds my jaw again. Turns me back. "Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere."

"Liar." She studies my face, and something in her expression shifts — softer, more careful. "You okay?"

It's the first time she's asked me anything like a real question all night. It catches me off guard. I blink up at her.

"Yeah," I say. And I mean it. That's the part that scares me. "Yeah. I'm okay."

"Good." She strokes her thumb along my jaw once, slow, and then her voice goes sly again, the softness folding itself away like she's decided I don't need it anymore. "Because we've still got —"

"Eight hours," I say with her.

"Eight hours." She grins. "And I haven't even gotten your stockings off yet."

She reaches for the top of my left thigh-high, and I feel her fingers find the elastic, and I tense — not to stop her, just because I don't know what else to do with my body — and she notices, and she pauses.

"Still with me?"

"Yeah."

"Say it properly."

"I'm with you." I swallow. "Anna. I'm with you."

"Good boy." She peels the stocking down my thigh, slow, and the cool air of the compartment hits my bare skin and makes the hair on my arms stand up. "Then let's see the rest of you."

She works it down over my knee, over my calf, and I have to lift my leg for her, which means I have to open myself wider on the bench, and she watches me do it with that same half-lidded cat look. The stocking comes off my foot and she tosses it onto the floor next to my ruined dress. Then she does the other one. Same slow ritual. Same pause at the top. Same cool air on my bare skin when it's gone.

I'm lying there in nothing but my arm warmers and my collar and the cuffs. My fox ears are flat. My tail is curled up over my hip. My cock is soft and wet against my thigh, and she's looking at all of it, and I've never felt more exposed in my life.

"There," she says. "Now I can see all of you."

"You're staring."

"I'm admiring."

"Same thing."

"Not even close." She runs her hands up the outside of my bare thighs, warm palms on cool skin, and I shiver. "When I stare, it's because I'm trying to figure out what to do to you next. When I admire —" She leans down and presses her mouth to my hipbone, right where the fur of my tail starts. "— it's because I like what I'm looking at."

The kiss lands somewhere low in my belly and I feel my cock twitch against my thigh. Already. Again. She notices — of course she notices — and her ears flick forward.

"Oh," she says. "Already?"

"Shut up."

"You're nineteen and you just came and you're already getting hard again." She sits back up, and there's genuine delight in her face, mean and warm at once. "That's adorable."

"I'm twenty-two."

"You're adorable." She reaches down and wraps her hand around me again — loose, easy, just holding — and I feel myself fill out against her palm, thickening, the knot at the base already starting to swell. "Look at that. You fit in my hand so nice."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it keeps being true." Her thumb drags up the underside, slow, and my hips lift off the bench and she pins them with her other hand flat on my belly. "Stay still. I'm not done looking."

"Anna —"

"Hm?"

"What are you —" I stop. I don't know how to ask it. I don't know what I'm asking.

She looks at me for a long moment. Then she lets go of my cock and sits back on her heels, and the leash goes taut between us, and she tugs it — just once, gentle — until my chin lifts off the bench and I'm looking up at her.

"Here's what's going to happen," she says. "I'm going to take my time with you. All eight hours of it. And you're going to lie there and let me, because that's what you came here for, and we both know it."

"I came here to —"

"To put me on my knees." She smiles. "I remember. You typed it very confidently."

My face goes hot again. "I meant it."

"I know you did, sweetheart." She tugs the leash again, and my throat pulls against the collar, and my cock jumps. "That's what makes it so cute."

She lets the leash go slack and leans down over me, her hair falling forward, and she presses her mouth to the hollow of my throat, right above the collar, and I feel her teeth graze my skin — not biting, just there, just a warning — and my whole body goes still.

"Eight hours," she says against my throat. "And I've got you leashed to the luggage rack."

"You've got me cuffed to the luggage rack," I correct, and I don't know why I say it, except that I want to hear her laugh.

She does. Low and pleased, right against my pulse. "Look at you," she says. "Still arguing."

"Someone has to."

"Someone's about to be very, very busy." She lifts her head and looks down at me, and her amber eyes are bright and her mouth is still swollen from me, and the train rocks under us and the sconce glows and somewhere ahead of us the tracks run north toward Kemijärvi. "Last chance to tell me to stop."

I look at her. At the collar around her own throat, silver ring catching the light. At the leash running from her fist to mine. At the way she's kneeling over me like she's already decided everything and is just waiting for me to catch up.

"Don't stop," I say.

Her smile goes sharp and soft at once. "Good boy."