Becoming Gaels Slut

It's late by the time I reach the platform, and the train that pulls into the station is half-empty. I wish now that I hadn't stayed for that last drink; it'll be well past midnight by the time I get home and my husband will be pissed off, turning over in bed to complain that I've woken him and he has to be up early in the morning. There was a time when he wouldn't have worried about that, would have reached up and pulled me down on top of him and not given a shit about how soon the alarm was going off; but that feels like a lifetime ago now.

I step into the carriage and take a seat at the end. My head is warm and fuzzy from the alcohol, and I rest it against the partition and close my eyes. The hum of conversation washes over me and from amongst it I pick out two voices, male, lilting, further down the carriage. I can't make out what they're saying, but there's something about one of them; it's familiar somehow, and with the familiarity comes a feeling of heat, closeness. I shift on my seat and press my thighs together, enjoying the sensation, knowing that no-one can see what I'm doing.

The train is slowing as we enter another station and I hear the rustle of clothes and bags as people ready themselves to leave. The voices are louder now, more distinct: "Okay, this is me."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

It's like an electric shock. My eyes snap open.

And my blood is rushing in my veins because I know that voice. I recognise it; would recognise it anywhere. It's the voice that I've listened to so many times, snatching moments downstairs after my husband has gone to bed, finding his page on the site, plugging in the earphones, wet as soon as I hear him speak, my hands working between my legs, fingers buried in my dripping cunt.

Cum for me, you little slut.

I look up, feeling the blush spread from my neck to the roots of my hair. His friend is about to step from the carriage. He turns one last time and raises his hand.

"See you, Gael."

Jesus Jesus Jesus.

He's sat diagonally opposite, just three seats down on the other side of the carriage. I can't help myself: I'm staring at him, my breathing shallow and my mouth dry. If I don't stop it he's going to notice; but I can't, I can't drag my eyes away. What he's done to me. What he's done

for

me. I've imagined him so many times, picturing his thick, hard cock as he spins his stories, describing how he's touching me, telling me how to touch myself.

No-one, and I mean no-one, knows how to suck and eat your pussy like I do.

And I've whispered my answers to him, skin slick with sweat, nipples hard as bullets, imagining he could hear me:

God, I want you, fuck me Gael, fuck me with your big, hard, Irish cock.

And now he's here, sitting in the same carriage on the tube, almost close enough for me to reach out and touch.

"See you tomorrow, mate."

God, that voice. Just a few words and I'm wet. For a second I shut my eyes, try to get a grip.

I open them again. He's looking right at me.

I feel the heat suffuse my face and I know I'm giving myself away. He knows I've recognised him and he knows why. He knows what I've done, obeying his instructions, hot and moaning, almost in tears because he makes me feel so fucking good.

With an effort, I look away. We're moving out of zone 1 now, out of the centre of the city, and I realise with a shock that the next station is where I get off. No-one has got on to replace the passengers that left at the last station and there are only three other people dotted through the carriage. I look at them, trying to distract myself, trying to bring my breathing under control.

At the far end, a woman in jeans swipes methodically at her phone, her expression blank. There's no reception here: she's playing a game. At the other end, beyond

him

, a young guy in jeans and headphones is on his feet at the door, waiting to make a quick exit when the train pulls to a stop. And between us the last person, a man in his late 30s, his tie loosened and his shirt untucked. He's been for after-work drinks too and he's had one or two too many. He's watching me, a smirk hovering on his lips, some instinct having alerted him to my arousal.

As if it needs instinct. I'm flushed and panting and I'm so wet he can probably smell me.

My face burns with shame and I want to get out of there, away from his prying eyes. The train is slowing, it's time to go. I reach for my bag and the smirking guy gets to his feet; but I'm looking at him again, at Gael, and my heart leaps into my mouth when he catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. Christ, he's so fucking hot. I want him so much I can't move, can't think of anything except how it would feel to have him inside me.

The train has stopped and smirking guy is getting off, looking back at me over his shoulder, disappointed, I think, that I'm not joining him. There are only three of us now, the woman with the phone making our third wheel.

What am I thinking? Why didn't I get off the damned train?

Oh Jesus, he's getting up. He's walking down the carriage towards me, all confidence and easy grace, and I have to force myself to look away from his crotch. What the fuck is wrong with me? I'm like a bitch on heat.

But of course I am. He's my Pavlov and I'm his bitch – he speaks and I cum. That's how it is, every time. Every fucking time.

Oh God, to touch him...

He's sitting down opposite and I should look at him, shouldn't I? I mean, he's here now, in my eye line, he must want to talk to me for some reason. Or maybe he just wants to be nearer the door? Maybe he's going to get off at the next station.

Please God, don't let him get off at the next station.

"Excuse me, do you have the time?"

For a moment, all I can hear is that voice, that accent, that sexy Irish lilt, and my brain is struggling to process that he's asking me a question. He's smiling, enjoying my confusion and it's a smile I recognise, the full version of that teasing little picture in his bio.

I look down and try to make sense of the hands on my watch when all I can think of is his hands on my body. I say, "It's almost midnight" and my voice is husky with desire.

"The witching hour."

I'm looking at his hands, those long fingers, imagining how they'd feel on my clit, sliding down to my cunt. My eyes travel to his wrist; he's wearing a watch.

He follows my gaze and laughs, that low, soft laugh I know so well. He says, "Just wanted to check it was working."

The train is slowing again, the pitch of the engine changing as it pulls onto the platform. There's a movement at the end of the carriage and I hold my breath: the woman with the phone is leaving. The doors slide shut behind her and I turn back, everything seeming to move in slow motion, back to meet his eyes.

He's leaning forward in his seat, his legs apart, hands clasped loosely between his knees. His eyes are on my face and I'm transfixed, watching as they travel slowly down my body, lingering on my breasts (can he see how hard my nipples are?) and my legs (can he tell how wet he's made my pussy?).

But no. This is wrong. I can't do this.

I raise a trembling hand and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, my left hand, slowly so that he can see the wedding ring.

He follows the movement and meets my eyes with a smile. He doesn't care. And God forgive me, neither do I.

I don't know who moves first but somehow we're both standing and his hands are in my hair and his tongue is in my mouth and I can feel him, hard against my stomach. I push against him and my cunt clenches and drips in anticipation, begging to be filled.

He knows what I want, just like I knew he would. He pulls at the front of my dress and I gasp as it rips. The thought runs through my head:

how will I get home like this?

but I'm already too far gone to care. And now his hands are tugging at my bra, pulling it down so that my tits come free, pushed up by the underwiring, huge and lewd in the harsh lighting of the carriage.

He groans and takes each nipple between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing hard, twisting until I cry out; but it's such sweet, sweet pain; it travels to my cunt and it clenches again in response, the juices running down my thighs now, and I think

it's never been like this before and there's nothing, nothing I wouldn't have done to be here now, like this, with him.

"Gael..." his name is on my lips like it's been so many times before; but now I'm breathing it into his mouth while his hands are on my tits and through his jeans his hard cock is pressing into my stomach. He dips his head and my knees weaken as his tongue finds my nipples, licking and sucking, flicking and squeezing one with his fingers as he works on the other with his mouth, sending flames of pure lust straight to my cunt.

I grope blindly for his crotch, desperate for his cock, desperate to see what I've pictured so many times. He takes a step back to help me but my hands are shaking and I'm fumbling with his buckle.

He says, "Tell me what you want."

Can I do this? I look into his eyes and I'm shocked to see my own desire mirrored there.

He says again, "Tell me. What. You. Want."

Of course I can do this. How could I not?

I take a breath to steady my voice. "I want to please you. I want to be your slut." I swallow. Can I say this? "I want to be your dirty little whore."

His eyes narrow and I see something change, some switch pressed. He pushes me to my knees and I think

Oh Jesus, yes, at last,

and so quickly I can't understand how he's done it he's freed his cock, his huge, fat, hard cock, and I have a second to think it's just as beautiful as I imagined before he's pushing it into my mouth, deep and fast.

It's so big I can't breathe and I stretch out my hands to steady myself on his thighs; but he growls "No. No hands," and I know what he's going to say before he says it, "A good slut doesn't use her hands." And I want so much to be a good slut for him; I want so much to make him feel as good as he makes me feel.

So I hold my hands behind my back and I try to relax as he takes my head in his hands and pushes his cock into my mouth, hard and fast, hitting the back of my throat, making me gag and drool. My eyes are watering now and my jaw is aching, but I'm loving it, loving the size of him, his smooth, sexy cock, velvet over steel, loving his power over me.

I can feel him building as he talks to me. "You like that, baby? You like taking that big, hard dick? That's what you want, isn't it? You want to be my dirty little slut, don't you? You love that, don't you? Taking my cock in your mouth. Taking this big, stiff cock all the way down your throat."

And I murmur around his dick, unable to make words, looking up at him as saliva and pre-cum mix and run down my chin. He takes his cock from my mouth and I cry out, wanting it back; but he laughs and slaps it against my face and I'm loving the sound it makes, wet and heavy against my skin; and then he's back in my mouth, fucking it harder than ever, his hands twisting in my hair. I fix my eyes on his, wanting him to see how helpless I am, how I'll do anything for him.

He tenses and his hot cum shoots into my mouth, and I swallow and taste him, sharp and salty; but his cock is still throbbing and there's more and more and I take it into my mouth and then spit it out, letting it run down my face, hanging in thick white ropes from my chin, splashing onto my tits and soaking the front of my ruined dress.

He's pushing me into the seat behind me and I'm dimly aware that the train has stopped moving and I'm sat there with my tits out and cum all over my face; but he's kneeling at my feet and pushing my knees apart and I don't care who sees because his hands are moving up my thighs under my dress and pulling my soaking knickers to one side and those long, sensual fingers are running up and down my slit and I'm groaning and pushing myself forward on the seat, desperate to have them inside me.

He holds his thumb against my clit, circling it gently. "Do you like that, dirty girl?" His eyes flick between my face and my cunt, wet and wide open for him. "Tell me. Do you like

that?"

And he presses against my clit and I moan, long and low. "Fuck yes, I know you do. I can feel your juices on my fingers."

My breath is ragged. "Please, Gael..."

He's still circling my clit and I can feel my climax building.

"Oh Jesus, please..."

"Please what?"

I want to answer him but his thumb is pressing on my clit and waves of pleasure are sweeping over me and I have no voice.

"Please

what?"

I'm making sounds, whimpers and groans, and I'm on the edge and it's okay because he knows what I need and he thrusts his fingers inside me and I bear down, pulling him in deep, squeezing hard, and he tells me, "Let go, baby. Cum for me," and something inside me explodes as I obey him like I always obey him, and the waves of pleasure rip through me and my cunt is on fire and a sob tears from my throat as I keep cumming and cumming.

And I hardly know any longer where I am but my arms are around his neck and he's lifting me, tender now, brushing my hair from my damp face, feather light kisses on my lips.

I start to come to and I feel the partition at the end of the carriage against my back. He's holding me in his strong arms and I wrap my legs around his waist and his tongue is in my mouth again, hot and urgent and I can feel it, dear God, I can feel the head of his beautiful cock at the entrance to my cunt.

"Can you feel that, baby? Do you want me?" I squirm and press down, trying to take him inside me, but he grips my arse and holds me in place. "Tell me you want me. Say it. Say, 'Gael, I want your big, fat cock.'"

His face is next to mine and I stare into his eyes as I say the words. "Gael, I want your big, fat cock buried all the way inside my cunt."

And then it is, and the breath rushes from my body and I've never felt so stretched out, so full of cock. My cunt is gripping him, pulling and pushing, and he's panting as he talks to me with every thrust, "You are mine. Your cunt is mine. I will fuck you raw."

And his words and his dick are sending me over the edge again, and he's pushing into me so deep and fast, his balls slapping against my body, and I've never been fucked this hard, never been fucked this good, and I'm crying out, my nails scraping down his back. I can feel it building again and I think

can this be real?

But it is, and when he breathes in my ear, "Cum with me, you dirty little slut," I'm gone immediately, losing myself as my cunt contracts around his cock over and over and over again. He explodes inside me, in perfect synchronicity, and I feel his heat deep, deep inside, mixing with my own.

It's dark outside the windows of the carriage now, and the train is moving slowly, rocking us, and we're on the floor. His jeans are low on his hips and his beautiful, thick cock is lying against his stomach, a sheen of sweat on his skin. I look down and my dress is around my waist, my knees bent, and I know he can see the cum oozing from me and with anyone else I'd be embarrassed, try to hide; but not with him. With him I am wanton. I want him to see.

We must be nearing the end of the line now. It occurs to me that we may have been seen, surely we have been: we must have gone through so many stations when I was lost in him, not caring about anything else but the feel of his mouth, his fingers, his cock. Maybe there are police waiting for us. Maybe this will be the end of my marriage, my reputation. Maybe this will be the end of me.

He's smiling at me, that slow, sexy smile and I know it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. I would have sacrificed anything for this.

He leans towards me and I feel the heat of his skin as he whispers into my ear. "Tell me your name."

And I do.