El Expreso Nocturno

I knew I was playing with fire the moment I slid into the empty compartment. The train had barely left the station, and my new boss, Elena, was already loosening her scarf. Two weeks into the job, and I’d learned her tells: the way she tapped her pen before tearing apart a proposal, the sharp click of her heels that made the whole office scatter. But this was different. This was midnight, and the overhead light was dim, and she was looking at me like I was a spreadsheet she wanted to audit.

“You’re nervous, Mark,” she said, not asking.

“Just the presentation tomorrow,” I lied.

She smiled, slow, and reached up to pull her hair free from its clip. “Don’t lie to me. It’s a bad habit.”

The train swayed, and her knee brushed mine. Neither of us moved. Her blouse was unbuttoned one too many, and I could see the lace edge of her bra, dark blue, almost black. She saw me looking.

“Like what you see?”

“Yes,” I said, because lying twice in one night seemed stupid.

“Good.” She stood, and the train lurched, and she put a hand on my shoulder to steady herself. Her perfume was sharp, something with bergamot. “Lock the door.”

I did. When I turned, she was already pulling her blouse off, tossing it onto the seat. Her skin was pale in the dim light, and her tits were full, heavy, the nipples already hard.

“You’re going to fuck me, Mark,” she said, unbuttoning her skirt. “And you’re going to do it like you mean it. Understood?”

«Sí, señora.»

She stepped out of her panties, and I watched them fall. She was already wet — I could see the glisten between her thighs, the neat trim of dark hair. She sat on the edge of the bunk, spread her legs, and crooked a finger at me.

“Come here.”

I dropped to my knees without thinking. Her hand found the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, and she pulled me to her. I didn’t resist. Her scent was musky, sweet, and I buried my face in it, licking up her slit. She gasped, sharp, and her thighs tightened around my head.

“That’s it. Use your tongue.”

I lapped at her clit, slow at first, then faster, circling, and she rocked her hips against my mouth. Her hand fisted in my hair, pulling hard enough to sting.

“Fuck,” she breathed. “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”

I didn’t. I slid two fingers inside her, and she was hot, tight, gripping me. She came with a strangled cry, her whole body shuddering, pressing my face harder into her pussy until I nearly couldn’t breathe.

Then she pushed me back. “Your pants. Off. Now.”

I fumbled with my belt, and she laughed — a low, dirty sound. “Clumsy. I like it.”

She watched me free my cock, and her eyes darkened. “Jesus. That’s…” She didn’t finish. She just reached out, wrapped her fingers around the base, and stroked me once, slow.

“You’re going to put this inside me,” she said. “And you’re going to make me forget my own name.”

She turned, bent over the little fold-down table, and looked back at me over her shoulder. Her ass was round, pale, perfect in the half-light.

“Hazlo.”

I didn’t need telling twice. I stepped behind her, guided my cock to her wet entrance, and pushed. She took me in one long, slick stroke, and we both moaned. She was so tight, so hot, and I gripped her hips, started to move.

—Más fuerte —dijo—. No seas suave.

I wasn’t. I fucked her hard, the table rattling against the window, her tits swinging beneath her. She reached back, grabbed my thigh, and pushed against me, meeting every thrust.

“Yes — right there — don’t you dare slow down —”

The train hit a curve, and she stumbled forward, and I caught her around the waist, pulled her back onto my cock. She cried out, a broken sound.

“You like that?” I said, voice rough.

“I like it when you fuck me like the slut I am,” she gasped. “Now finish it. Fill me up.”

I slammed into her, faster, harder, and she came again, clenching around me, and that was it — I buried myself deep and came, pulsing inside her, my forehead against her back. She was trembling, and so was I.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The train rattled on through the dark. She straightened slowly, turned, and looked at me. Her lips were swollen, her hair a mess.

“Well,” she said, voice rough. “That’s a hell of a first week.”

I laughed, breathless. She reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and for a second, she almost looked shy.

“Get some sleep, Mark,” she said softly. “Tomorrow, you’re going to present to the board. And I’m going to sit in the front row, thinking about how you made me scream on a night train.”

She lay down on the bunk, and I lay beside her, and we listened to each other’s breathing until the rhythm matched the wheels on the rails.