Do she remember how it felt, Becky?
The turnstile was cold against her midriff. She walked onto the platform feeling naked under her clothes. She felt that everyone could see how hard her nipples were, how open and wet her cunt was. It were hard not to moan as she imagined a cock in her.
"Take it, you slut," she imagined him saying. She could felt him pushing all the way to her cervix. Almost against her will, her head fell back and she groaned.
The train looked wrong to her. As the doors slid open and she walked in she felt that there shouldn't be any lights. There shouldn't be any seats. The few windows ought to be high up, close to the ceiling. Other commuters filed in and she let herself get packed into the crowd. There were seats available but she preferred to stand. She grabbed an overhead strap. She grabbed it again, with both hands. Raising her arms did things to her chest under her sweater. She imagined herself chained at the wrists and hanging from the ceiling.
She closed her eyes and pictured the darkness of a cattle car. She summon up the smell of a hundred and fifty people, everyone stewing in their fear and sweat. In her fantasy, she was the only one naked.
She moaned out loud. A man looked at her. "Hmm?" he said. She looked up at him and bit her lip. He was a stranger, and middle-aged. Most times she wouldn't have given him a second glance. But the ghost of something was in her pussy. She could feel it when she squeezed. Her master's cock. Her master's gift. Moving inside her worthless cunt, bringing her closer to orgasm.
"Please," she said, making her eyes as big behind her glasses. "Please."
"Please what?" he asked.
"I-I need to cum." The humiliation made her breath catch.
He smiled. "Well, what do she want me to do about it?"
In response, she rubbed her thighs together and showed him.
"Damn," he said. There was a wet spot in the crotch of her skirt and she'd spread her juices all over her thighs. He put a hand on her knee and slid it up and under her skirt. Naturally, she wasn't wearing panties. She felt rough fingers brush her labia. She liked it.
"Please," she said, and he started fingering her right there in the train.
This hadn't gone unnoticed and she could see phones pointed at her. Flashes lit up and she turned her head, letting her hair fall over her face.
The man changed hands. Dry fingers pushed into her while wet fingers pushed into her mouth. She moaned and squirmed, her heart pounding. She was close. So close. But she couldn't cum without her master's word.
"Dammit!" she said.
* * *
"Well, that wasn't ideal," Lynne said.
"I knooooow," she said. "I still need to cum!"
She was sitting in her therapist's office. Dr. Vidal had known that something had happened on the train ride and showed her the bathroom so she could wash up. Becky had taken off all her clothes to shower and now sat naked on the couch.
"There's no telling what that man had touched before touching you," Dr. Vidal said. "God, Becky!"
"I couldn't help it, Lynne!"
The doctor laughed. Dr. Lynne Vidal was a small, compact woman and when she laughed she seemed younger. "Remember when you came to me the first time?"
"I went to see you for my depression," she said. "And for a while we seemed to be making progress."
"And then one day you woke up twice as horny as you'd ever been, after dreaming about an entire other life where you were an, er."
"A sex slave," Becky said. "He turned me into a sex slave."
"Haha, yes," her therapist said. "Hey, do you notice anything weird about this present moment?"
"No, why?"
"You're kneeling on my rug."
Becky looked down at herself. She was indeed kneeling, and still naked. Her legs were spread and her hands were on her thighs, palms up. She looked at her therapist, panting slightly.
"Do you remember getting off the couch?" Dr. Vidal asked. "Wh-what were you thinking?"
"Slaves aren't allowed on the furniture," Becky said, as if it was obvious.
