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Jisung had one job tonight.
Look pretty. Feel pretty. Get to the club without dying of secondhand embarrassment from his own reflection.
The skirt was new. Black, plissê, short enough that every time the train swayed he had to fight the urge to yank it down. He’d spent twenty minutes in front of the mirror earlier adjusting it, turning sideways, checking if the curve of his ass looked soft enough, if his thighs looked smooth enough. He wanted to feel like a boy who could be looked at. A boy who was allowed to want that. The little black top he wore clung to his chest and left a strip of stomach bare every time he lifted his arms to hold the overhead rail. Underneath the skirt there was nothing but a thin pair of black panties that already felt damp against his skin, because of course they did. His body never cooperated when he tried to be delicate.
He was going to a club. Alone. For the first time in months. He had told himself it would be fine. He would dance a little, drink something sweet, maybe let someone buy him a drink if they were nice about it. He had even put on the soft pink lip tint Felix had left at his place last week. It made his mouth look smaller. Prettier. He liked that.
The train was packed. Friday night, of course it was. Bodies pressed together in the humid carriage, the air thick with perfume and sweat and the metallic smell of the rails. Jisung kept his eyes fixed on the dirty window and tried to take up as little space as possible. His free hand rested nervously on the hem of his skirt, just in case.
He didn’t notice the man behind him at first.
Not until the train lurched and a solid chest pressed fully against his back. Not until a large hand settled on the railing right next to his, fingers brushing his wrist like it was an accident. Jisung shifted forward an inch. The body followed.
Warm breath touched the side of his neck a moment later.
“Cute skirt.”
The voice was low, almost lazy. Close enough that Jisung felt the words more than heard them. He went rigid. His fingers tightened on the rail until the metal bit into his palm.
He didn’t answer. He stared harder at the reflection in the window — his own flushed face, the stranger’s darker shape behind him, the way the man’s shoulder blocked out half the carriage.
The hand left the railing.
It settled on Jisung’s waist instead. Broad. Warm. Fingers spreading slowly over the thin fabric of his top, thumb stroking once across the bare strip of stomach like it was testing how soft he was.
Jisung’s breath caught. He tried to step sideways, but there was nowhere to go. Only more bodies, more heat, and the solid wall of the man who clearly had no intention of moving.
“Nervous?” the voice asked, almost amused. “You keep pulling at that skirt like you’re scared it’s going to ride up.”
Jisung’s ears burned. He shook his head once, tiny and sharp.
The hand slid lower.
It dipped under the hem of the skirt without hesitation, palm dragging over the bare skin of his outer thigh. Jisung’s entire body locked. A soft, involuntary sound escaped his throat before he could stop it. The fingers kept moving, slow and deliberate, tracing the edge of his panties, then slipping beneath the thin fabric like it had every right to be there.
Jisung’s knees nearly gave out.
The man found him immediately. Two fingers slid between the soft folds of his pussy like they already knew the shape of him, parting the slick lips with easy pressure. Jisung’s hips jerked forward on pure instinct. His free hand flew up to cover his mouth.
“Oh,” the stranger murmured against his ear, voice dropping even lower. “That’s why you’re wearing the skirt.”
Jisung’s eyes stung. He shook his head harder, but the fingers only pressed deeper, rubbing slow circles over his clit with the pad of a thumb. The wet sound was quiet, almost swallowed by the noise of the train, but Jisung heard it like it was the only sound in the world. His panties were already soaked. He could feel the fabric clinging to him, could feel the man’s fingers spreading the mess around like he was inspecting it.
“Look at you,” the voice continued, soft and mean. “Pretty little boy in a short skirt, going out all alone with a wet cunt. Did you get dressed up hoping someone would notice?”
Jisung made a broken noise against his own palm. His thighs trembled. He tried to close them, but the man’s knee nudged between them from behind, keeping him open.
“Don’t.” The word was quiet, almost gentle. “Keep them spread for me. That’s it. Good boy.”
The praise hit harder than it should have. Jisung’s stomach twisted with something ugly and hot. He hated how his body reacted — the way his pussy clenched around the invading fingers, the way more slick leaked out and made everything wetter. He was going to a club. He had wanted to feel pretty. He hadn’t wanted this. He hadn’t—
The fingers pushed inside.
Two of them, slow and deep, stretching him open right there in the middle of the crowded carriage. Jisung’s head dropped forward. His forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window. A high, shaky whimper slipped past his fingers before he could bite it back.
“Quiet,” the man ordered, almost kindly. “You make another sound like that and someone is going to look. You want the whole train to know you’re getting fingered under your pretty little skirt?”
Jisung shook his head frantically, tears already gathering at the corners of his eyes. The fingers curled inside him, pressing against that soft spot that made his vision blur. His hips moved without permission, tiny aborted thrusts against the hand that owned him.
“Answer me.”
“…n-no,” Jisung whispered, voice cracking.
“No what?”
“No… I don’t want them to know.”
The man laughed softly, the sound vibrating against the back of Jisung’s neck. “Then stay quiet while I play with this slutty little cunt. You’re already dripping down my wrist. Disgusting.”
The words should have made him sick. Instead they made his pussy clench harder. Jisung’s face burned so hot he felt dizzy. He kept his hand clamped over his mouth and stared at nothing while the stranger fucked him open with two thick fingers, slow and thorough, like he had all the time in the world. Every time the train swayed, the motion pushed those fingers deeper. Every time Jisung tried to close his legs, the man’s thigh forced them wider.
“You wore this skirt because you wanted to feel pretty,” the voice continued, almost thoughtful. “Wanted people to look at your legs. Wanted someone to notice how soft you are. Isn’t that right?”
Jisung didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His mind was a mess of static and heat and the terrible knowledge that he was getting wetter by the second.
The man scissored his fingers inside him, stretching him wider, and Jisung’s knees buckled. Only the press of the body behind him kept him upright.
“I asked you a question, pretty boy.”
“…yes,” Jisung breathed, barely audible.
“Yes what?”
“Yes… I wanted to feel pretty.”
“And now look at you.” The thumb rubbed cruel circles over his swollen clit while the fingers kept working inside him. “Standing here with a stranger’s hand under your skirt, pussy dripping all over the floor of a public train. Some pretty boy you turned out to be.”
Jisung’s eyes flooded. A tear slipped down his cheek and he hated himself for it. He hated the way his body kept pushing back onto those fingers. He hated the soft, broken sounds he couldn’t completely swallow. He hated that part of him — the same part that had chosen the short skirt and the soft lip tint — was throbbing with filthy, humiliating pleasure.
The man added a third finger.
Jisung’s whole body jerked. A wet, filthy sound filled the tiny space between them as his pussy stretched around the intrusion. His free hand scrambled for the railing again, knuckles white. He was so full it almost hurt, and the stretch only made him wetter.
“There we go,” the stranger murmured, sounding pleased. “Taking it so well for someone who claims he didn’t want this. Your cunt is sucking me in like it’s starving. You must have been thinking about getting used all day, hm? Getting all dressed up just so someone could ruin you on the way to the club.”
Jisung shook his head weakly, but the denial was useless. His hips were moving now, tiny desperate rolls against the hand that owned him. The wet sounds grew louder. He could feel slick running down the inside of his thighs, could feel it soaking into the fabric of the skirt every time it brushed his skin.
Then the fingers pulled out.
Jisung made a wrecked little sound at the sudden emptiness. Before he could even process it, the man was shoving his soaked panties to the side and pushing something much thicker between his thighs.
The head of a heavy cock slid into the slick mess between Jisung’s legs, dragging through the folds of his pussy without entering, just using the wet heat of him like a sleeve. Jisung’s eyes flew open. His whole body went rigid again.
“Keep your thighs together,” the man ordered quietly, already starting to thrust. “Nice and tight. That’s it. Use those pretty legs for something useful.”
Jisung whimpered behind his hand as the thick length dragged back and forth between his closed thighs, the underside of the cock rubbing directly over his swollen clit and the dripping entrance of his cunt with every slow, deliberate stroke. The man was using him like a toy — like a pair of soft thighs and a wet pussy existed only to get him off. The friction was filthy and perfect and humiliating. Every thrust smeared more of Jisung’s own slick along the shaft, making the slide wetter, louder, more obscene.
“Look at that,” the stranger murmured against his ear, voice rough now. “Pretty boy in a skirt, letting a complete stranger fuck his thighs on a crowded train. You’re soaking my cock. Did you even notice how wet you got for this?”
Jisung shook his head frantically, tears spilling faster. His thighs trembled with the effort of keeping them pressed together while the man used the space between them. The cock was so hot, so thick, dragging over his clit again and again until Jisung’s knees started to buckle from the overstimulation.
The man’s free hand came around and gripped Jisung’s hip hard, forcing him to stay in place while he rutted faster. The wet sounds of cock sliding through slick folds filled the tiny bubble of space between their bodies. Jisung could feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse of the stranger’s cock as it used him.
“I’m going to come all over these soft little thighs,” the man said, almost conversational, even as his thrusts grew sharper. “And you’re going to stand here and take it. Don’t you dare open your legs until I’m done.”
Jisung nodded weakly, broken. He kept his thighs clenched as tight as he could while the stranger fucked the space between them with short, mean strokes, the head of his cock catching on Jisung’s clit every few thrusts and making stars burst behind his eyes. The man’s breathing grew heavier against his neck. The hand on his hip tightened hard enough to bruise.
“Fuck— look at you. Dressed up all pretty just to get your thighs used like a cheap hole.” The voice was strained now. “Stay still. Take it.”
The thrusts turned erratic. The man buried his face against the side of Jisung’s neck and came with a low, controlled groan, spilling hot and thick between Jisung’s clenched thighs. Pulse after pulse of come painted the soft skin, dripping down over Jisung’s swollen pussy and soaking into the ruined panties. Some of it even slid higher, catching on the folds and mixing with Jisung’s own slick until everything between his legs was a filthy, sticky mess.
Jisung stood there trembling, thighs still obediently pressed together, feeling every thick spurt coat him. His own orgasm hit a second later, quiet and devastating — a sharp, helpless clench of his empty cunt as he came untouched from the friction and the sheer degradation of it. His knees nearly gave out completely. Only the man’s arm around his waist kept him upright while he shook through it in silence, tears streaming down his face, come and slick running down the inside of his thighs in slow, humiliating rivulets.
The man stayed pressed against him for a few more seconds, cock still twitching weakly between Jisung’s legs as the last drops spilled out. Then he slowly pulled back, dragging the mess with him.
He fixed Jisung’s skirt with almost casual care, smoothing it down over the filth he’d left behind.
“There,” he murmured. “You’re going to keep that skirt on when you get off this train, you’re going to walk into that club with my come still drying on your thighs and your pretty little cunt all swollen and used. And every time someone looks at you, you’re going to remember how easy you were for a complete stranger.”
He wiped his cock clean on the soft skin of Jisung’s inner thigh one last time, tucked himself away, and stepped back into the crowd just enough to give Jisung space, but not enough that Jisung couldn’t still feel the heat of him.
“Maybe I’ll see you again, pretty boy,” the voice said, almost fond. “Try not to get fingered by anyone else before then. I’d hate to think that tight little cunt is being shared.”
Then the doors opened, and the crowd shifted, and the stranger melted away into the sea of bodies like he had never been there at all.
Jisung stayed frozen in place for three more stops, skirt clinging to his sticky thighs, panties ruined, come slowly cooling between his legs, face wet with tears, and the ghost of that thick cock still sliding through the mess he’d made.
He never made it to the club.