No Words No Regrets. Budapest 1938

This story was written for the 750 Word Project 2025, below this line are exactly 750 words.

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Budapest. 1938.

The station stank of coal smoke and damp wool, the stink of a country waiting for the next war. I hated the smell. It got in your coat, your hair, your lungs. You carry it with you, the same as the lies, the guilt.

I stood near the cloakroom, hands in pockets, collar turned against the cold. I wasn't waiting long before she arrived.

Tall. Built like something sinful. The kind of woman men ruined themselves over, except she wasn't here to be ruined. The cut of her coat was sharp, tailored. Under it, a dress, something dark, practical. I saw what was beneath, full hips, the heavy swell of her bust, the press of a corset keeping everything just so. A woman made for excess, yet everything about her was restrained.

She met my eyes, a flicker, nothing more. Then she turned, slipping through the cloakroom door.

I followed.

The door shut behind me, clicking into place. The light dim, a single bulb swinging overhead. The scent of wet fabric, old wood, something faintly sweet, her perfume, buried under the station's grime.

She reached inside her coat, withdrew the envelope. I moved to take it, but she didn't let go right away. A pause. A test.

Then her fingers released it. I tucked it into my pocket.

We should have walked out. I should have walked out.

She stepped closer instead. A single step, then another.

I felt the heat of her before she touched me, the warmth of her body seeping through the space between us. I didn't move.

Her hands were bare. Cool fingers brushed my belt.

I exhaled, slowly. Didn't stop her.

She unfastened the buckle, slipped the leather free. Fingers at my waist, unhurried, deliberate. Button by button, she undid my fly.

I clenched my jaw. The coat rack pressed into my back.

The fabric parted. She saw what she was looking for. I was hard, so very hard.

A low sound, not quite approval, not quite surprise. A knowing hum, as though she'd already been sure.

Her fingers traced the ridge of my prick, already thick, already stiff. I twitched against her palm.

Her lips parted, as if considering. She spoke, Hungarian, smooth and low. I didn't know the words, but I knew the meaning.

She curled her hand around me, fingers wrapping firm and sure. Not tentative, not teasing, measuring.

My breath left me in a slow exhale. I was thick against her palm, pulsing, leaking. She dragged her thumb over the head, spread the wetness there.

I shuddered.

She looked up, just once, her dark gaze catching mine.

Then she lifted her dress.

Heat. Wet. No barrier.

She took me in a single, unbroken slide.

Jesus. The heat. The tightness. The wetness.

I grabbed for her hips, fingers digging in, trying to ground myself. She was tight, clenching down around me, her body gripping like she meant to wring me dry.

My forehead pressed to hers. I had to stay quiet.

I thrust. Once, twice. A slow drag, the unbearable friction of silk and heat.

Her breath hitched. I felt her nails graze my coat sleeve, her other hand bracing against my chest.

Five thrusts. Six. Seven.

I came hard, thick pulses spilling inside her, my body locking, tightening, then collapsing into the relief of it.

Her cunt milked the last of it from me, a slow, squeezing flutter that left me raw.

She stayed still for a moment, letting me feel the aftershocks of her, letting me know exactly what she'd taken.

Then, just as easily as she had let me in, she pulled away.

She smoothed down her dress, not hurried, not flustered. Her chest still rose too fast beneath the wool, her breath not yet steady.

Her hair -- neat when she arrived -- had slipped slightly, a strand loose against her cheek.

She didn't fix it.

I stood there, cock still half, hard, slick with her.

She lifted a hand. Fingers cool, brushing my jaw, my cheek. A pause, as if committing the moment to memory.

Then she turned.

The door opened.

I watched her step out, the hem of her coat shifting as she vanished into the station.

No words. No glance back.

Just the sound of her heels against the tile, swallowed by the world beyond.

I breathed in, felt the weight of the envelope pressing against my chest.

Lit a cigarette with unsteady hands. Through the smoke, I saw the door swing shut.