CONSENT TO BE UNDONE?

JOHN'S POV

The low hum of the metro car was a dull roar in my ears, but it was nothing compared to the pounding of my own heart. All day. All damn day, I’d been teasing her. A lingering hand on the small of her back as we waited for coffee. A whispered promise in her ear during a boring brunch with friends. My fingers, trailing just a little too high on her thigh under the restaurant table.

And now, pressed against me in the unyielding crush of the evening commute, Emma was a live wire of pent-up need.

Her back was to my front, my body forming a cage around hers against the hard plastic partition of the standing area. The train swayed, jolting her firmly against me. A sharp, quiet gasp escaped her lips, a sound I felt more than heard. I knew that gasp. It was the same one she’d made this morning when I’d kissed my way down her stomach and then, cruelly, stopped.

“John,” she breathed, her voice a strained whisper lost in the general noise of the car. Her head tilted back, her silky black hair tickling my chin. She smelled of vanilla and warm skin and pure, unadulterated frustration.

“Yes, my love?” I murmured, my lips grazing the shell of her ear. I kept my face a mask of bored indifference for the other passengers, but my hands, hidden by our-position and her voluminous coat, told a different story.

My right hand splayed across her stomach, holding her steady. My left drifted lower, fingertips pressing into the soft, satin dress-clad curve of her hip. Another jolt of the train, and I used the momentum to grind my hips against the lush swell of her ass. The thick ridge of my erection, trapped mercilessly in my own jeans, pressed into the seam of her. She shuddered violently.

“Please,” she begged, the word so quiet it was almost a shape on her lips rather than a sound.

“Please what?” I whispered back, my voice rough. I dragged my nose along the column of her neck, inhaling her. God, she was intoxicating. “You’ll have to be specific. We’re in public.”

She squirmed, a tiny, desperate movement that sent another jolt of pure lust straight to my cock. My fingers on her stomach curled, clutching the fabric of her dress, just underneath her massive melons. I could feel the rapid, bird-like flutter of her heartbeat beneath my palm.

“You know what,” she whined, her knuckles white where she gripped the metal pole in front of her. “You’ve been… all day… I can’t think. I can’t breathe.”

“I know.” It was all the confession I could offer. My own control was fraying, a thin wire about to snap. The constant, agonizing friction of our bodies, the secret nature of it all, the memory of her writhing beneath me this morning, begging for completion I’d denied her—it was a fever in my blood.

My left hand left her hip. Slowly, so slowly, I trailed my fingers down the outside of her thigh. I felt her entire body go rigid with anticipation. Around us, people scrolled on phones, read books, stared into the middle distance, utterly oblivious to the torment happening right beside them.

I dipped my hand into her coat, my fingers seeking and finding the warm skin of her inner thigh, just above her fishnet stockings. Her breath hitched. Her legs trembled. I stroked upwards, through the soft fabric of her dress now, finding the edge of her- what I hoped to be her underwear. But, she was bare beneath. Of course she was. She’d hoped. She’d begged for this all afternoon.

My fingertips brushed against her heat. She was drenched. Soaked. The satiny, slick proof of her arousal met my touch and a growl caught in my throat. Mine. This was all for me. This desperate, aching need was something I had created.

“John, oh my god,” she moaned, a little too loud. An elderly woman a few feet away glanced over. Emma buried her face against my arm, her cheeks flaming with a mixture of shame and overwhelming desire.

“Quiet, my brave girl,” I breathed into her ear, my fingers circling her clit with a torturous, feather-light pressure. “Or they’ll all know what a desperate little thing you are for your husband.”

She nodded frantically, muffling a sob against my sleeve. Her hips began to make tiny, involuntary circles, grinding herself against my hand, seeking more pressure, more friction, more.

I couldn’t deny her any longer. I couldn’t deny myself. With a quiet resolution, I ripped her stockings to shred. The sound hidden beneath the swaying of the train, and I used the motion to slide two fingers deep inside her.

She choked on a cry, her inner muscles clamping down on me in a silken, vice-like grip. So tight. So impossibly hot and wet. She was pure velvet fire, and I was burning.

“Hold onto the pole,” I commanded, my voice strained. “And don’t make a sound.”

Her hands clamped onto the metal bar like a lifeline. I began to move my hand, a slow, shallow rhythm made deeper by the movement of the coach. My thumb found her clit again, applying a firm, perfect pressure just as the metro stopped at an intermediate station. Some got in, some got out, but the crowd didn’t thin at all.

Her head lolled back onto my shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut, her beautiful lips parted in a silent scream of pleasure just as the metro started moving again.

I watched her. I watched the faces around us. Nobody knew. Nobody could see the intimate violation, the glorious, filthy connection. We were just another tired couple heading home. But my wife was barely a thread away from coming apart in my arms.

Her breathing became ragged, broken by suppressed whimpers as I increased my speed and started scissoring her insides. I felt the tension coiling deep within her, a spring wound too tight, and stopped my movements all together.

“Please.” She begged once again, digging her nails in my chest and looking at me with eyes begging for release.

I smirked and breathed in her ears. “Please what amor?” and started my assault again, but this time much slower as the metro stopped at another station once again. “You know you have to say it, don’t you jaan?”

“Oooh-” She whimpered. falling onto me for support as I brushed my thumb on her clit.

“Please make me cum, hubby.” Her pleading was my undoing. I crooked my fingers inside her, finding that spot that made her see stars, and pressed hard with my thumb.

“Come for me, jaan,” I whispered, my own release threatening to break free just from the feel of her. “Now.”

It was all the permission she needed. Her body shattered. A violent, silent convulsion racked her frame. Her inner walls fluttered and clenched around my fingers in a relentless, rapturous rhythm. She buried her face in my chest to stifle the long, shuddering moan that was ripped from her soul. I held her through it, my own body trembling with the effort of staying quiet, my forehead pressed against her hair, whispering praise into her ear as she rode out the waves of her climax.

Her juice falling along her inner thighs as I collected whatever I could on my hands. My fingers continuing to help her ride through her what could be considered a mind shattering orgasm.

As the last tremors subsided, she went boneless against me, spent and trembling. I slowly, reluctantly, withdrew my hand, bringing it back to rest on her stomach, beneath her dress, now damp with her own release. She turned her head, her brown eyes glassy and satiated, and looked up at me with a mixture of awe and adoration.

A slow, wicked smile spread across my face. I brought my glistening fingers to my lips and tasted her. Her eyes widened and her mouth shaped into an ‘O’ as i felt her tremble again. The smell of sex wafting stronger in the air as she got her second climax.

The train screeched to a halt at our station. The doors hissed open. People began to move. I leaned down, my voice a low promise against her ear as I guided her wobbly legs towards the exit leaving a heated kiss against her earlobe. “To be continued soon amor.”

My hand stays firm on the small of her back, a steadying pressure as her thighs threaten to buckle with every step. The metro’s aftermath still leaving tremors in her, a live current I can feel through the fabric of her coat. Good. I want her weak. I want her mindless. I want her so desperate she forgets we’re walking through a crowded city street.

“Just a little further, my love,” I murmur, my voice a low rumble meant only for her. I guide her towards a warmly lit storefront, an upscale Italian place I know is always packed this time of night. The perfect cover. The perfect stage.

She looks up at the sign, confusion briefly cutting through her dazed, satiated expression. “John? I thought we were going home.”

“We are. But first, dinner.” I smile, a slow, predatory thing. “You need to keep your strength up.”

Her eyes sparkle as she nods her head, agreeing. My innocent jaan. I prop her slightly in front of me as we enter, using her curvy frame to hide the persistent, demanding outline of my erection straining against my jeans. The host’s eyes flick over us, a well-dressed couple, and I give him a practiced, charming smile.

“A private booth, if you have one? My wife has a bit of high temperature,” I lie smoothly, my thumb making tiny, hidden circles on Emma’s spine.

The host nods, leading us through a labyrinth of closely packed tables, the air thick with laughter and the clatter of cutlery. He stops at a semi-private nook. One solid wall, two tall wooden partitions offering a semblance of seclusion, and the entrance covered only by a heavy, dark velvet curtain. Perfect.

We slide into the deep, plush booth, the black leather sighing under our weight. We sit side by side, our bodies pressed together from hip to knee beneath the solid oak table. The table itself is a fortress, its heavy red cloth skirting reaching almost to the floor. A perfect wall to hide our little secret world.

I keep my left hand on her stocking-clad thigh, a possessive, heavy weight. She starts trembling again. God, I love that. I order for us both when I find her unable to think about food, my voice calm and even, the picture of a doting husband.

All her favorites- Pizza Fiore di Bosco, Truffle Mushroom Risotto, Montepulciano d’Abruzzo for the wine, and Cioccolato Nero al Rosmarino for the dessert. All along she laid her head on my chest to hide her face from the clueless young man with a distracted air as he jots it down. My fingers now holding her inner thigh a hair’s breath away from her now exposed clit in a bruising grip.

As he speaks, repeating our order, my fingers begin to move. A slow, deliberate stroking of her inner thigh, creeping higher with each pass. Emma’s breath hitches. She tries to stifle it with a cough, her knuckles white where she grips the my sweater. The waiter doesn’t notice a thing. Again.

He has no idea. No idea that my thumb is now pressing firm circles against the seam of her ripped stockings, right over the damp heat I know is waiting for me. No idea that my wife is biting the inside of her cheek so hard she might draw blood to keep from moaning.

The moment the curtain swishes closed behind the waiter, the air shifts. The civilized pretense evaporates.

“Up,” I command, my voice a guttural whisper. My hands are on her ass, hauling her onto my lap before she can even process the order. She straddles me, her wide eyes locked on mine, her full lips parted in shock. The thick, hard length of mine pressing insistently against her core, even through our clothes- my jeans.

I don’t waste a second. My hands dive under her dress, groping her ass hard as I rub her we, slick core over my hard, straining cock. around her waist. All I can hear is our ragged breathing. The frantic beat of the restaurant fades into a dull roar.

Her wetness leaving a damp patch on my jeans, just above my cock. A guttural groan leaves my mouth when she increases her speed, almost making me cum in my pants when I spank her ass- hard.

“Ahhh-” She almost screams as I place my lips frantically against hers, stopping the incoming sound. She continues to tremble as I lift her up with one arm across her waist. I fumble with my belt, the buckle clinking softly, then the rasp of my zipper. I free myself, and the cool air is a shock, but it’s nothing compared to the impending heat of her.

I guide myself to her entrance. She is soaked. Slick and ready and trembling. All for me.

“John, wait, someone could—” her protest is cut off as I grasp her ass into another bruising grip and pull her down onto me in one brutal, perfect thrust.

She gasps, a sharp, strangled sound, her head snapping back. I bury myself to the hilt inside her, the sensation so intense, so tight and hot and right, that I see stars. God. Yes.

“Bite my neck or shoulder if it becomes too much to bear,” I growl into her ear, my own teeth gritted against the overwhelming pleasure. “Non osare fare un suono, amore mio.” I warn her in a language a know is her undoing.

She soon proves me right as her body trembles again from another orgasm. her juices pouring down like rain on my thighs.

I don’t give her time to adjust or calm down from her high. I set a punishing, frantic rhythm, lifting her and pulling her back down onto my cock, using the leverage of the booth to drive up into her. Each thrust is rough, desperate, a culmination of the entire day’s torment. The table jolts slightly with our movement, the glasses of water quivering.

Her inner muscles clamp around me, a silken, vicious grip that threatens to end me before I’ve even begun. Her face is buried in the crook of my neck, her hot, panting breaths scalding my skin as she rides me through her orgasm. I can feel the sharp edge of her teeth as she bites down the base of my neck where it joins my shoulder, suppressing the cries I’m fucking out of her.

The pain drives me more wild with lust as I pump into her harder. One of my hands tangles in her silky black hair, pulling her head back so I can watch her. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her mascara smudging slightly from the tears of overwhelming sensation gathering at the corners. Her other hand claws at my shoulder, her nails digging into the fabric of my shirt as she holds me like I’m her only saving grace in the middle of an ocean.

The other hand… my other hand slips between our sweat-slicked bodies. My thumb finds her clit, swollen and sensitive from her earlier climax. I press down, hard, and rub in tight, frantic circles.

Her body seizes again as I hit a spot I know is her weakness with my cock. A full-body shudder wracks her frame. Her eyes fly open, wide with panic and ecstasy. A high, thin whimper escapes her clamped lips. She’s close. So close.

The curtain behind us rustles. Footsteps approach. The waiter.

“Don’t stop,” she pleads, her voice a broken, airy thing against my ear. “Please, John, don’t stop.”

My rhythm becomes even more frantic, a brutal, driving pace. My thumb works her furiously. I watch her, my own release coiling, a spring tightened to its breaking point. Her eyes are locked on the curtain, her body torn between the terror of discovery and the tidal wave of pleasure I’m building inside her.

The footsteps pause just outside our booth. I can see the shadow of someone’s feet under the curtain.

“Emma,” I breathe, my voice strained to its limit. “Come for me. Now.”