Poor Little Shyla #02

Marco pressed forward on the midday train, her thighs already slick. She gripped the overhead bar while his cock slid between them. Slow at first. Just the head, nudging, grinding the thin strip of fabric into her clit with each swaying stop. "No hand," she whispered, already wet. They shifted in silence, hips meeting and parting with the motion. The strap of her panties clung. Then it slipped. She felt him part her, pushing inside in one continuous push that stole her breath. Faces stayed blank. Bodies told everything. He sank deep, balls flush against her before withdrawing halfway, waiting. The door opened. Feet shuffled past. Someone brushed her shoulder and still they kept the rhythm. Fuck, harder. Not quick now. Each thrust purposeful. Base to tip. The heat of her cunt pulled on every inch of him. A sun lit platform slid by. Her nipples caught the windows reflection, stiff beneath cotton. Their scent rising mixed with sweat and leather and plastic seats. By the sixth station she came without a sound, thighs trembling, her core seizing around him. He didn't follow. Left her soaked and open, dripping down her legs. Maybe he wanted her to feel it for the rest of the day. They parted two stops later. Neither looked back.