Her hand slides down my belly, slow, like she's got nowhere to be for the next eight hours. I feel every inch of it — the heat of her palm through nothing at all, because I'm bare everywhere except the collar and the cuffs and the arm warmers bunched at my elbows. The leather bench is cold under my back. The train rocks. Her fingers stop just below my navel and rest there, and I can't breathe.

"Look at you," she says. "Still open for me."

Two fingers slide in before I can answer. They go easy — I'm slick from earlier, from her fingers and her mouth and everything she did to me before she told me she had a plan. Three, then, when she feels how loose I am. She works them in and out and I hear it, the wet sound of it, and my face burns.

"That's — " I start, and don't finish, because her thumb presses somewhere and my voice cracks in half.

"That's what, pet?"

"Nothing."

"Mm." She curls her fingers and my hips come off the bench. "Try again."

My tail moves before I tell it to. It curls around her wrist, the whole bushy length of it, holding her there like I've got any say in this. She looks down at it and then up at me, and her smile is small and terrible and kind.

"Your tail's honest, at least."

"My tail's a traitor."

"Your tail's the only part of you that isn't lying." She pulls her fingers out slow, drags them up over the soft of my belly, leaves a wet streak there. "Everything else in this compartment is still pretending."

I want to say something sharp. I had lines ready — I had six months of lines ready, typed out in the dark of my apartment in Tampere, all the things I was going to do to her the second I got my hands on her. I was going to pin her. I was going to make her beg. I had it all planned down to which wrist I'd cuff first.

And then she was standing on the platform in the amber light with her collar on and her ears up and that little velvet dress, and I forgot every word of it.

"Please," I say.

It comes out quiet. The train clatters over a joint in the rail and for a second there's nothing but that sound, and then the silence after it, and both of us hear what the word actually was. It wasn't for her fingers. She knows it wasn't for her fingers. I know it wasn't for her fingers.

"Please what?" she says. Not mocking. Just asking. Like she wants me to say it in my own mouth, with my own voice, while I'm looking at her.

I look at her. Her ears are tipped forward. Her amber eyes don't move off mine. There's a little smear of me on her fingers and she hasn't wiped it off, and somehow that's the thing that undoes me — that she's just holding it there, holding me there, waiting.

"Please," I say again, and my voice is doing something I don't like. "You know what."

"I want to hear it."

"You've heard it. I typed it. I typed it like forty times."

"Typed isn't the same." She shifts her weight, comes up over me, one knee on either side of my hips. The dress rides up her thighs. I can see the shape of her through the velvet, thick and heavy and already wet at the tip, and my whole body clenches around nothing. "Typed is you in your apartment with the lights off and nobody watching. This is you on a train with my fingers in you and your tail around my wrist. Say it here."

I try to hold it. I really do. I set my jaw and I look past her at the ceiling of the compartment, at the brass sconce with its little glow, at the rack where she leashed me earlier like I was something she'd brought aboard on purpose.

"I want your knot," I say, to the ceiling. "I want you to put it in me. I want you to fill me up and I want to feel it after."

She's quiet for a moment. Then her hand comes down on my cheek, not hard — just there, warm, turning my face back to hers.

"Good boy," she says. "Look at me when you say it."

"I want your knot."

"And?"

"And I want to be told I'm good." My throat hurts. "I want you to tell me I'm good while you do it."

"I will." She sits back on my thighs and reaches for the little bottle on the bench beside us, and I watch her slick her palm, watch her hand close around herself. Her cock's thick — thicker than mine, and mine's not small, whatever she says — and the knot at the base of it is already swelling, fat and round, and I feel my ass clench just looking at it. "You asked for it, pet."

"I know."

"Say it again."

"I asked for it."

"Good." She leans forward. The head of her cock presses against me, blunt and hot and slick, and my eyes go wide. "Now take it."

She pushes in.

The stretch is — I can't. I can't describe it, because there aren't words for the first inch of her, the way my body opens around her like it's been waiting all night for exactly this, like every finger she put in me was just a rehearsal. I make a sound. It's not a word. It's high and thin and it comes out of me without permission, and I hear her breathe out slow above me, like she's the one being filled.

"There," she says. "There he is."

"Anna — "

"Keep going."

She sinks deeper. I feel every ridge of her, every throb, the slow heavy drag of her cock through me, and my hands are cuffed under my back so I can't grab anything, can't hold onto the bench, can't do anything but take it and feel it and let her see my face while she does it. The leash swings from the ring on my collar with each rock of the train. My tail's still wrapped around her wrist. I can't make it let go.

"Breathe," she says, and I realize I haven't been. I suck in air and she slides another inch in and my back arches off the leather. "That's it. That's my good boy."

"It's too — " I gasp. "It's too much, it's — "

"You can take it." Her voice is steady as anything. "You've been taking me all night. You took my fingers. You took my mouth on you. You'll take this."

She's right. She's always right, that's the worst part, she's been right since the platform, since the first message, since the very first time I typed something brave into my phone at two in the morning and she typed back cute and I felt my whole chest go hot. I hate her. I want to be under her forever.

She seats herself deep and stops. Just rests there, buried to the base, her hips flush against the backs of my thighs, and I feel the knot — the fat swell of it — pressing right at my entrance, not in yet, just there, promising.

"Feel that?" she says.

"Yes."

"That's what you asked for."

"I know."

"Tell me you want it."

"I want it."

"Tell me what you are."

I know what she wants. I've known since the platform. My mouth is already open, my lips already moving before my brain catches up, and that's the thing I'll think about later, on the long dark stretch north of Oulu, the way my body answered her before I decided to.

"I'm yours," I say.

"You're mine." She rolls her hips, just a little, just enough that the knot presses and slips and presses again, and I make a noise like something breaking. "You're my pet. You're my toy. You're my good little faggot on a train in the middle of the night with your tail around my wrist."

"I'm your — " My voice won't hold the word. I try again. "I'm your good little faggot."

"That's right."

"I'm your pet."

"You are."

"I'm your toy."

"Good boy." She says it soft, almost gentle, and then she pushes the knot in.

I come with a cry.

I don't mean to. I don't decide to. It just — happens, the knot forcing me wide and my whole body locking around it, and I'm spilling across my own belly before I even understand what's happening, hot and sudden and endless, my hips jerking under her while she holds herself deep and watches me come apart with her ears up and her eyes half-lidded like she's listening to music. The train rocks. The sconce light shakes. My tail's squeezing her wrist so hard I think I might hurt her and I can't stop.

"There it is," she says. "There's my boy."

I'm still shaking when she starts to move.

Slow. Deep. The knot swelling inside me so every stroke drags and catches and drags again, and I'm so sensitive I could scream, and she knows it, she's watching my face while she does it, cataloguing every twitch like she's taking notes for later.

"Anna — " I gasp. "Anna, I can't, I just — "

"You can."

"I already — "

"You can again." She rolls her hips and I whimper. "You're going to. You're going to come on my knot and then you're going to come on my knot again, and by the time we get to Kemijärvi you're not going to remember your own name, and you're going to be glad."

"I'm — "

"Say it."

"I'm glad."

"Say what you are."

"I'm your good boy."

"Again."

"I'm your good boy." My voice is wrecked. I don't care. "I'm your pet, I'm your toy, I'm your — "

"Mine," she says.

"Yours."

She leans down over me, close enough that I can feel her breath on my mouth, close enough that the tip of her ear brushes my cheek. Her hand comes up and finds the ring on my collar and holds it, not pulling, just holding, like she's reminding me it's there.

"Eight hours," she says. "We've used one."

I look up at her. Amber eyes, black hair sticking to her forehead, the little silver ring of her own collar catching the light, and behind her the window shows nothing but black and the occasional smear of a distant farm light going by.

"Don't stop," I say.

"I told you I wasn't going to." She kisses my mouth, soft, and then she moves again, deeper, and my whole body answers her like it was built for this, like the six months of typing was just the train pulling out of the station and this is the part where it finally gets somewhere.

The compartment creaks. The bench creaks. Somewhere down the car a door slides shut, and neither of us looks up.

She pulls out slow, and the knot drags against every ring of me on the way, and I hear myself make a sound like I've been punched. The cold air hits where she was. I'm empty and wet and gaping and I hate how much I miss her already, three seconds in.

"Up," she says.

"What?"

"Up, pet. On your knees." She's already moving, sitting back on the bench with her legs spread, her cock standing up off her belly slick and shining and still fat with the knot. She pats her thigh. "You wanted it. Come take it."

My wrists are still cuffed behind me. I get up on my knees anyway, wobbling on the leather while the train sways under me, and I have to look down at her — which is strange, being above her, being taller, and she tips her head back and smiles at me with her ears up and I understand immediately that being taller means nothing in this compartment.

"How am I supposed to — "

"You'll figure it out." She reaches up and takes the ring on my collar and pulls me down, not hard, just enough that I have to plant my knees wider and lean, and then her other hand is on her cock, holding it straight up for me. "Sit on it."

"Anna — "

"Sit on it, good boy."

I lower myself. My thighs are shaking before I even get close. The head of her presses against me, blunt and hot, and I have to stop and breathe and try again, and she just watches, thumb stroking the ring of my collar, patient as anything.

"There you go," she says when I finally sink down an inch. "Look at you. Doing it yourself."

"Shut up."

"You're doing so well."

"I said shut — " and then I drop another inch and the word turns into a gasp, and she laughs, low and pleased, and I want to bite her. I want to bite her and I want to keep going down and I do, I take her deeper, my knees sliding on the leather, and the stretch is different this way — I feel it in the front of me, low, deep, a place her fingers never found — and my whole spine curls.

"That's the spot," she says. "Isn't it."

"Yes."

"Say it properly."

"Yes, that's — that's the spot."

"Good." She lets go of the collar and both her hands find my hips, not guiding, just holding, thumbs pressing into the soft of my belly. "Now ride it."

I try. I lift up and sink back down and the knot catches at my rim and I have to push past it, and the noise I make is not a noise I've ever made before, high and cracked and desperate. Up. Down. The train rocks one way and I rock the other and somewhere in there the two rhythms find each other and it gets easier, and then it gets worse, because easier means deeper and deeper means I feel the knot swelling every time I come down on it, fattening, catching, refusing to let me up clean.

"Slower," she says.

"I'm going slow."

"Slower." Her thumbs dig in. "Feel it. Don't just bounce on it like you're trying to get it over with."

I slow down. I take her an inch at a time, all the way down until my ass is flush against her thighs and the knot is seated inside me so deep I can feel my own pulse around it, and then I just stay there, breathing, sweating, my head hanging, my hair sticking to my face.

"Good," she says. "That's it. That's my boy."

"Anna." My voice is wrecked. "Anna, it's — the knot, it's — "

"I know. It's not going anywhere." She rolls her hips up into me, just a little, just enough to make me whimper, and then settles again. "You're going to sit on it and ride it and you're not going to come until I say. Understand?"

"I — "

"Understand?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I understand."

"Yes, what?"

I look down at her. Her amber eyes are steady. Her ears are up. There's a bead of sweat running down the side of her neck and she doesn't wipe it away, and she's so calm, so absolutely calm, buried in me to the knot, and I know exactly what she's waiting for.

"Yes, master," I say.

Something moves through her face — quick, satisfied, almost tender — and then it's gone and she's smiling again.

"There he is." She lifts me by the hips, just an inch, and lets me drop back down, and the knot punches the breath out of me. "Now ride it like you mean it."

I do. I plant my knees wide on the leather and I lift and sink, lift and sink, and the wet sound of it fills the whole compartment, and she holds my hips and watches my face and tells me things. That's the part I wasn't ready for. She just — talks. Low and steady, under the clatter of the rails, while I work myself on her knot like it's the only job I've ever had.

"You're so wet," she says. "You hear that? That's you. That's how much you wanted it."

"I know."

"You've been leaking on my belly this whole time."

"I know."

"Say it."

"I wanted it." I'm panting. "I wanted your knot, I wanted — I wanted to be full of you, I wanted — "

"You wanted to be used."

"Yes."

"By who?"

"By you."

"By who, pet?"

"By my master." The word comes out and my whole body clenches around her, hard, and she feels it, she has to feel it, because her hands tighten on my hips and her breath catches for half a second before she gets it back.

"Again," she says.

"My master."

"Again."

"My — my master, my owner, my — " I can't keep the words straight anymore. My thighs are burning. The knot's so fat now I can barely get up off it and every time I come back down it seats deeper and I'm making a sound on every stroke, a little uh, uh, uh that I can't stop. "Anna, please."

"Please what?"

"Please let me — "

"Let you what."

"Come." It comes out like a sob. "Please, I need to, I can't — it's right there, it's been right there since the knot went in, please — "

"Not yet."

"Anna — "

"You can beg better than that." She lets go of one hip and reaches up and takes the leash off the rack, and I don't understand what she's doing until she clips it to the front ring of my collar and gives it a gentle tug, pulling me down closer to her face. "Go on. Beg me properly."

I'm leaning over her now, my cuffed hands behind my back, my chest almost against hers, her cock buried to the knot inside me. Her breath is on my mouth. Her ears brush my hair. I can smell her — sweat and something sweet, the velvet of her dress, the lube, me.

"Please," I say. "Please, master, please let me come. I've been good. I've been — I did everything you said, I said everything you wanted, I rode it, I — please, I'm your good boy, I'm your good boy, please let me come on your knot."

She holds my eyes for a long moment. Then she smiles, and it's the small terrible kind one, and she says, "That's better."

She tugs the leash and I come down on her hard, and she meets me with her hips, and the knot drives in and I see white. My whole body locks. My cock jerks against my belly untouched and I'm coming, I'm coming with her name in my mouth, my ass clamping down on that fat knot so hard it hurts, and it just keeps going, rope after rope of it across my own stomach and her dress where it's rucked up between us, and I hear myself saying please please please like it's the only word I know.

"There it is," she says, soft. "There's my boy."

I'm still shaking when she stops moving. She just holds me there, seated on her knot, my forehead dropped against her shoulder, breathing in gasps against her neck. The train rocks. The sconce light swings. My tail has found her wrist again and wrapped itself there and I don't have the strength to make it let go.

Her hand comes up and strokes my hair, slow, from the crown down to where my ears start.

"Good," she says. "That was so good."

And I don't know why that's the thing that makes my eyes sting, but it is. I keep my face against her shoulder so she can't see it, and I feel her chest move with a breath, and her hand keeps going, over and over, down the back of my head.

"We've used two hours," she says quietly. "Six left."

"Six."

"Mm." Her fingers find the ring on my collar and turn it, gently, like she's checking it's still there. "I'm going to keep you on my knot a while longer. Then I'm going to take this dress off you — the one you ruined — and I'm going to find out what else that mouth of yours can do. And somewhere north of Oulu I'm going to put you on your back and fuck you until you forget your own name."

I lift my head. Her face is very close. Her eyes are half-lidded and warm and absolutely certain.

"Is that a promise?" I say.

"It's a schedule."

I should say something sharp. I should tell her I'm still going to get her back for this, that she's going to regret the leash, that I had a plan. I open my mouth to say it and what comes out is, "Okay."

She smiles and kisses me — soft, unhurried, her thumb on my jaw — and then she rocks her hips up, just once, just enough to remind me she's still buried in me to the knot, and I gasp into her mouth and she swallows it.

"Six hours," she says against my lips. "Let's see how many times you can say master before we get there."

She doesn't let me up. She keeps me there, seated to the knot, and every time I shift my knees on the leather to try to find a better angle, her thumbs press down on my hipbones and hold me exactly where she wants me. The train takes a long curve and leans, and the whole weight of me rocks onto that fat knot, and I make a sound into her neck that I would take back if I could.

"That's it," she says. "Rock it. Don't lift off."

"I can't — my knees —"

"You've got six hours of knees left in you." Her hand slides up my spine, over the sweat, and finds the nape of my neck under my hair and grips it — not hard, just there, just enough that I feel owned. "Go on. Show me what you can do without lifting off."

So I rock. I grind down onto her in small circles, my thighs trembling, and the knot drags against something inside me that makes my vision swim every time I roll forward. She's still hard. She's so hard inside me I can feel her pulse against my walls, a second heartbeat that isn't mine, and every time I clench around her she breathes out through her nose, slow, controlled, like she's counting.

"You feel that," she says. "That's me getting fatter. Every time you clench, it swells a little more."

"I know."

"You're going to be stuck on it soon."

"I know."

"Say you want to be."

"I want to be stuck on it." My voice cracks in the middle. "I want — I want your knot so big I can't get off it, I want to be — Anna, I want to be full of you until I can't think —"

"Good boy." She kisses the corner of my mouth, quick, and the praise goes through me like a swallow of something hot. "Keep going."

I keep going. My thighs are shaking so hard now that my knees slip on the leather and I have to catch myself with my cuffed hands behind me, which just arches my back and drives her deeper, and she laughs — that low pleased laugh — and lets me flounder for a second before she takes the leash again and steadies me with it. The ring on my collar tugs, gentle, and I follow it down until my chest is against hers and I can't move much at all, just breathe and clench and shiver.

"There," she says. "That's the spot for you, isn't it. Being held."

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I like being held." My face is hot. "I like — I like when you hold the leash."

"I know you do." Her free hand comes up and cups my jaw and turns my face so she can look at me, really look, her amber eyes moving over my mouth and my eyes and the wet track down my cheek that I didn't notice was there. "Look at you. Ruined. And we've barely started."

"Barely —" I laugh, or something close to it. "You've had me on your knot for an hour."

"Two."

"And you're still hard." She glances down between us, where my cock is pressed against her belly, slick and leaking and leaving a wet smear on the velvet. "Still dripping on my dress. Poor thing."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't say it like that."

"Like what, pet?"

"Like I'm —" I can't finish it. She knows exactly what she's doing. She's been doing it since Tampere.

"Like you're my good little toy?" she says, soft as anything, and my whole body clenches around her so hard she has to stop and breathe. "There. See? Your body agrees with me even when your mouth doesn't."

I drop my forehead against hers. I'm so full. I'm so full and so hard and so empty of anything except her, and the train keeps rocking, and somewhere out past the window it's dark and cold and there's nothing but forest going by, and none of it matters. There's only the knot and the leash and her voice telling me I'm good.

"Anna," I say.

"Mm."

"I'm going to — if you keep talking to me like that, I'm going to come again."

"Not without permission."

"I know. I'm just — telling you. So you know."

"Thank you for telling me." She says it seriously, which is somehow worse than the teasing. "That's very good. You're being so good for me."

"Stop."

"Never." She rolls her hips up, slow, deliberate, and I feel the knot shift inside me and my eyes roll back. "I'm going to keep telling you until you believe it. You're good. You're soft. You're mine. And you're going to come when I say, and not one second before."

I nod against her. I can't do anything else. My tail is wrapped so tight around her wrist that it's gone numb, and my ears are flat back against my hair, and I've stopped trying to be above her — I'm just draped over her now, cuffed and collared and leashed, and she's holding all of it, all of me, with one hand on the small of my back and one on the leash.

"Ride it," she says. "One more time. Slow. All the way down."

I lift. The knot catches, refuses, and I have to push past it with a sound that's half whimper, and then I sink back down and it seats itself so deep that my whole spine curls and I feel it in my throat. She holds me there. She holds me there for a long time, both of us breathing, the rails counting off the seconds underneath us, and then she says, quiet, against my ear:

"There's my boy. Six hours left, and you're already exactly where I want you."