The Subway

Alex hated public transport.

Too hot. Too loud. Too many strangers pretending they weren’t staring. The trains in this city always smelled like wet metal, burnt rubber, sour coffee, and the ever-faintest hint of tobacco. Disgusting, but smoking kills, and those people were going to die off eventually. The scent clung to fur, slipped into clothing, and sat heavy in the lungs, like a reminder that you were part of the general public, a peasant, stuffed into a train car so tight it made chicken factory farms look humane.

She couldn’t wait to get out.

But her car was in the shop—again—and her budget didn’t have room for another rideshare. So here she was. Waiting.

Ten full stops across the city to meet a "friend" for breakfast. That was the story. Casual. Harmless. But they both knew better. He wasn’t just a friend. He was a CEO. Big-time. Big money. Big presence. And somehow, for reasons she hadn’t dared ask about, he had the hots for someone like her.

They had met at a gallery opening where she was part of the help. While cleaning up empty champagne flutes, she’d made a snarky comment about the price tags. He’d laughed, genuinely. One drink turned into three. Her number into his phone. A week later, she was on her knees in his penthouse, and he never stopped texting after that.

It wasn’t love. Not really. But it was something electric. Something dangerous.

And he had rules.

The first rule? No panties. Not when she knew they might run into each other.

He didn’t always warn her when.

So she dressed for him.

This morning, she’d chosen the lime green drawstring skirt and tank top. The comfy ones. Thin cotton, clingy. And underneath? Nothing.

No panties. No lining. Just bare fur, soaked in expectation. She told herself it was for the breeze. For comfort. But she knew better.

She hadn’t thought it would matter.

Until the tigress stepped onto that platform and the morning breeze kissed her thighs, curling under her skirt like cold fingers.

She shivered. Not purely from cold, but from the way the skirt swayed with every motion. How exposed she really was. How the soft cotton rubbed just right when she shifted. It was a stupid choice. But it made her feel alive in a way she hadn’t in weeks.

She adjusted her bag over one shoulder, lifted her arms to stretch—innocently, casually—and her top rode up just an inch. Her nipples pressed faintly against the thin fabric, already perked from the tension thrumming beneath her skin. The chill on the platform only emphasized her awareness of her own body.

She closed her eyes. Pictured him. His voice in her ear. His hands behind closed doors. The way he’d growl a command and she’d melt.

She remembered the first time they met.

---

A fancy gallery opening with its polite laughter and clinking glasses—she’d been working the event, not attending it. Just a server in black slacks and a stiff white button-up, ferrying flutes of champagne on a silver tray, eyes down, ears up. She wasn’t supposed to talk. She definitely wasn’t supposed to smirk at the art.

But she had, as she was cleaning up. She thought all the guests had left, but one hadn’t.

Him.

He’d paused in front of an abstract piece with a seven-figure price tag, the kind of chaotic spatter that critics called “emotionally kinetic.” She’d muttered under her breath, just loud enough, “Looks like someone lost a fight with a blender.”

He laughed—a startled, guttural sound that cracked through the room’s cultivated hush. Not the brittle bark of businessmen trying to be clever. It was real. And then he looked at her. Not at her uniform. Not at her cleavage. At her mouth, her eyes, the slant of her thoughts.

“You have opinions,” he said.

“And do not have taste,” she shot back.

He plucked a glass from her tray without looking away. “And you have my attention.”

She felt it like a tether snapping taut between them.

It had been a week after that.

No texts. No calls. Just a town car idling outside her building one evening, the driver holding up a tablet with her name on it and handing her a small square card with an address scrawled in ink that shimmered faintly gold.

She hadn’t come for money—there was no contract, no implication. But still, the ride twisted something low in her belly. The leather seats were buttery-soft and the silence inside the car was enough to make someone pull their hair out. She didn’t even think of saying no. She told herself it wasn’t about power. That this would stay uncomplicated. Carnal. Clean.

Then the car pulled up to a hotel she wouldn’t have dared step into, even to use the lobby restroom. The kind of place where marble and blood money stretched in all directions. The rug under her heels was thicker than her mattress. The bellhop didn’t ask her name. Just nodded and pressed the button to the penthouse suite with a look that made her feel uncomfortable.

The elevator doors sighed open onto the suite and spilled her into a world of glass and gold. Everything inside whispered wealth—the room smelled like what Alex imagined unimaginable riches smelled like, endless bottles of champagne on ice older than she was, chrome fixtures polished to a mirrored sheen without even the slightest hint of a finger’s whisper. She felt like a greasy smudge on something priceless.

He stood by the window waiting for her. Jacket off. Shirt open at the throat. No words of charm, no drink offered.

“On your knees,” he said.

Her bag slid off her shoulder and thumped softly onto the rug. Her pulse thundered. She knelt.

Up close, the scent of him was sharper than at the gallery—oxygen and dark spice over something rawer, something warm and distinctly male. It made her mouth water before she’d even opened it.

He reached down, brushed the corner of her mouth with his thumb, then pressed it between her lips. Stopping her before she could say anything. Her tongue flicked the pad on his finger almost involuntarily. His eyes darkened yet a bright smile spread across his lips.

“Show me,” he murmured.

Alex unzipped him with trembling hands, the rasp of the zipper as loud as thunder in the sticks. He was wearing a black and gold Gucci jockstrap, which caught the tigress by surprise. She was careful not to nick it with her claws as she slipped her fingers under the elastic and pulled them down. His dick, flaccid at first, swelled into her palm, hot, heavy, and soon became impossibly hard. She wrapped her fingers around it—felt him pulse once, twice. Her breath caught. Her mouth opened.

She started low, not at the tip. She flattened her tongue against the base of him, tasting salt, sweat, and expensive cologne caught in the heat of his dick skin. She dragged her tongue up slowly, tracing the ridges with a kind of elegance, as though mapping a dangerous coastline from memory.

When she reached the head she paused—forehead pressed to his hip, breath fogging over his shaft. The scent there was heavier: rich-man musk. Sharp. Bitter. Forbidden. It hit the back of her throat and curled behind her eyes like strong dark wine.

Her lips parted. She licked once, tiny flick over the crown where the skin was tight and slick. She rolled the foreskin forward with her fingers, then pressed her mouth to it, kissing through the heat. The soft hood pulled over the glans like a curtain, holding in his flavor.

She slipped her tongue beneath it.

He jolted—just slightly. Still keeping his composure.

Alex worked her tongue in slow, wet circles under the skin, dragging it along the hidden ridge, collecting the thick, salty-sweet pre that pooled there. It was intimate and filthy and she loved it. Her lips sealed over the rim to keep the skin from rolling back while her tongue worked its foreskin-digging magic.

The CEO’s dick twitched against her mouth. His scaled hand tightened in her brown hair but didn’t push. Didn’t guide. Just held her there.

She moaned around him. The vibration made his hips tilt forward. She pulled back just enough to peel the foreskin back again, then licked around the exposed crown like she was outlining a halo with her tongue.

Then she went deeper.

Her lips stretched around his manhood and she slid him into her mouth inch by inch, letting her tongue cradle the underside, swirling, pressing. His scent filled her lungs. His taste coated her tongue: salt, smoke, wealth. She swallowed, feeling her throat close around him in a ripple as she did.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl.”

The praise burned hot. Alex sucked harder, deeper, drool dripping from her chin, her claws digging into her thighs. Each slow pull out left a shiny trail of spit on him. Each glide back in made his cock swell further, pulse harder, fill her mouth until her eyes watered. He was big. Alex didn’t have a tape measure on hand, but he had to be at least eight inches, if not more, and at least as girthy as those slim soda cans.

The blue dragon looked down at her then—unblinking and slightly predatory. Alex knelt on the cold tile with the city sprawling behind the tall man like a witness to their sin, her mouth full of him, her loud slurps echoed throughout the hotel room.

He didn’t thrust. He didn’t have to. She worshipped, tasting every inch, tongue digging under the skin to find the hidden salt of him, the rich-man funk that lived in the warm places no one else got to touch.

When he finally came, he stayed silent—just a low grunt through his teeth as he pulsed against her tongue. She swallowed without thinking. Her lips were swollen. Her chin glistened.

‘Glk. Glk. Glk.’ Her throat squeezed with each swallow. And once all of his cum had been swallowed up, she slowly pulled her lips off of his dick.

‘Slllllp. Pop!’

The dragon CEO thumbed the leftover cum from her mouth, looked at it like a painter might look at the color left on a brush, and smiled faintly.

Alex left not long after. No words. No promises. Just the ache between her thighs and a look from him that said: this isn’t over.

The next morning, she was still trying to convince herself it had been just a fun one time thing—she’d never see him again—when the knock came.

A courier in black. No logo. No words.

He handed her a matte black envelope. Her name was written in silver ink, cursive letters shaped like the teeth of a key.

She opened it standing barefoot in her tiny kitchen.

Inside: a stack of cash. Ten thousand dollars. Crisp. Banded. Clean. The money smelled like leather and citrus and metal—like him.

Her hands shook. Her thighs pressed together.

It wasn’t payment.

Not a bribe.

She felt something that made her want to throw up, but she didn’t. And then she realized, with a twist in her gut—that it was not guilt, not shame, but hunger—she wanted more.

It was the beginning of everything dangerous between them.

A leash she’d knotted around her own throat. And pulled.

---

And now he could be anywhere. Watching. Waiting. Testing.

Then the train screeched into the station.

The doors opened with a metallic hiss. Alex stepped in, swallowed by a press of strangers. Smells hit her first—old perfume, industrial soap, something sharp and spicy that made her throat tighten. Bodies packed in like puzzle pieces, too close, too warm. The stale air of underground breath clung to the walls.

She found a spot near the center pole. No handholds. No seat. Just space barely wide enough to stand without brushing someone else. Her arm stretched out to grab onto the red pole. Her tail curled tightly at her side. Her posture pushed her chest up, her skirt down. Her thighs kissed and parted with every jolt.

And under it all, that feeling.

She wasn’t just riding the train.

She was waiting for him.

Stop one.

The doors sealed behind her.

Her breath was shallow. Her pulse a slow throb between her legs. There was a dampness already, and she didn’t need to touch herself to know it had soaked into her fur.

Stop two.

The train jolted. Her hip bumped someone’s briefcase. A coyote in a cheap hoodie nudged past, eyes grazing over her chest just a second too long. She felt it. Felt him notice. Felt his curiosity, his restraint.

Stop three.

The tigress shifted her weight, thighs brushing together. The friction sent a delicious shiver up her spine. She tilted her hips forward, subtly. A slight sway. Her skirt shifted higher. The hem barely covered her. If she arched too far or reached too high, she’d flash someone.

And part of her wanted to.

Stop four.

The air was somehow thicker. Her scent mingled with the train’s heat—faint musk, barely perceptible in the crowd, but she knew it was there. Warm, wet, alive. Her body was humming with it, aware of every inch of her bare skin beneath riding the subway.

A rhino to her left adjusted his bag and sniffed once. She didn’t look at him. But she felt the air move differently around her. She was a secret no one could prove—but everyone could feel.

Stop five.

He stepped on.

Tall. Blue. Scaled. In a sharp, pinstriped charcoal suit that made him look like a CEO who moonlighted as a predator. Because he was. And he was here.

Her heart kicked.

His eyes were molten gold, hooded and calm. His shoulders filled the space like they had a right to. And he saw her.

One glance, and Alex could have sworn she creamed a bit.

He moved toward her slowly. The crowd parted just enough. When he stepped behind her, she felt it like a tide rising. Heat. Mass. Presence.

His chest nearly brushed her back. She was caged between the pole and him.

She didn’t turn. She didn’t have to. The scales on his wrist caught the light as he reached up to grab the overhead bar next to her head.

She bit her lip—caught a fang—let it slip free.

The train jolted.

She rocked back into him.

A slow, subtle grind of cotton and fur. His thigh brushed the back of hers. There was no mistaking the contact. No mistaking the fact that there was nothing underneath her skirt.

His breath hitched. Just slightly. A change in rhythm.

She felt him.

Stop six.

She didn’t correct her posture.

The crowd shifted again. Her back now fully against his front. Firm muscle. Impeccable restraint. His breath was hot near her ear. Not panting. Controlled. Watching.

His voice brushed her ear like smoke. Low. Refined. Dangerous.

"You’re playing a dangerous game."

She tilted her head just enough to let him see the edge of her smile. The flick of a fang.

"I have no idea what you are talking about.”

His gaze slid down her back. She felt it like a touch. Her skirt was clinging now—moisture and movement pulling the fabric between her thighs. It had molded itself to her, practically sheer now, outlining every curve.

Stop seven.

His knuckles ghosted her hip. This time the touch lingered—a soft drag of scale against fur that left a shiver in its wake. The skirt was past pretending now; dampness had glued it to her skin so that every slight movement mapped her curves for him. The lights above flickered; the train groaned; and under that public noise she heard a new rhythm — his slow, measured breathing at her ear.

She stared at the advertisement above the opposite door but saw nothing. Her focus had tunneled to the sensation of his presence behind her. His chest like a wall, his breath like a dry wind, the smell of his cologne and her own musk tangling together. It felt like standing inside a storm.

The train lurched. Her claws squeaked against the pole. His hand slipped lower by a fraction, as though the motion had moved it for him. Each sway brushed his fingers closer to the softest part of her thigh.

“You remember the rule,” he murmured, low enough that she felt the vibration in her spine. “No panties.”

She bit her lip. She’d obeyed. She’d been waiting for this.

“I’m not wearing any.”

Stop eight.

He didn’t rush. He let his palm drift from her hip to the inside of her thigh, slow, as if testing how far she’d let him go. When his hand slid under the hem from behind, the backs of his knuckles grazed her ass before curling upward. Her fur was soaked, sticky against his fingertips. He pressed flat to mound and drew a slow circle with his index, middle, and ring fingers.

The sound was soft but graphic: a damp squish noise hidden under the train’s rumble. She choked on a gasp. The smell of herself rose like steam in the air — warm, sweet, a little feral — and she felt him inhale it behind her.

“Aaah,” she gasped.

The dragon’s other hand crept up, fingers brushing her lips. Two of them slid between, smearing himself on her tongue. “Quiet,” he whispered. “Wouldn’t want to get caught.” A threat, like a growl threaded through velvet.

She sucked at his fingers instinctively, muffling a moan. Her hips betrayed her, pressing forward into his palm, grinding against his long fingers.

Stop nine.

The lights flickered again. Someone brushed past, oblivious. He pulled his fingers from his mouth and pressed the palm of his now free hand against her belly, steadying her, while the other hand worked its slow pattern. Not fast. Not deep. Just rolling hos digits over her clit in patient, maddening circles, dragging it up, then down, then up again until her knees trembled. Good thing he had her steady.

She tried to look normal in the window’s reflection but saw her mouth open in preparation for a moan, her tail curled out of the way, the blue shape of him looming behind her. That sight made even wetter. Her breath came ragged against his skin.

“Aaaaah… Fffuck…”

He bent lower, lips at her ear. “I said keep quiet…” He ordered.

Stop ten.

“Look at you,” the dragon murmured. “A mess already.”

Alex was shaking now, gripping the pole so hard her claws scraped away the paint. He increased the pressure, rolling his knuckles, dragging his fingers against her folds. The wetness spread; each stroke made a soft, sticky sound she was sure someone would hear. He tilted his hand just enough to nudge the edge of her entrance through the cloth and she almost cried out. He then pushed his fingers into her pussy, grinning wide as he did so.

“Good girl,” he said, his voice a low command. “Now cum for me.”

Her body fluttered under his palm. Her knees knocked. Her tail stiffened. The train’s roar and the flicker of lights built a cocoon around them. Pressure gathered like a storm. And she came just like that—biting her lip, thighs shaking, body curling inward. The world stayed silent except for the train’s whine and the flicker of failing lights.

But inside her, everything detonated. Heat burst behind her eyes, a sharp white bloom that started in her core and rippled outward in spasms. She clenched hard around his fingers, her body grasping at him, desperate to keep him inside. Her thighs quivered. Her knees almost buckled. And then came the juice—hot, sudden, and impossible to stop.

She was squirting.

It soaked her thighs. Slid down the insides of her legs in shivering trails. Landed, drop by drop, on the floor of the train. Not loud. Not visible to anyone who wasn’t staring. But she knew. And he knew.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, coated and shining. He wiped the excess between her thighs, then painted her wetness across the fur on the small of her back like an artist signing his work.

He held her until the tremors passed, then smoothed her skirt down as if nothing had happened.

Stop eleven.

Then he whispered, “Get off in two stops, Conrad Hotel, the bellhop will bring you to me.”

The dragon melted into the sea of suits and briefcases, leaving her trembling, the smell of her climax clinging to her like perfume. When the train rolled forward again, she let out a shaky sigh as her pussy juice continued to run down her thighs.

Stop twelve.

When the train hissed to a stop, she stepped off on shaky legs.

She didn’t look back. But she knew. She could feel it.

A faint trail of her pussy juice shimmered on the black floor behind her. Her body had left its mark, like she’d been rewritten from the inside out.

She felt dirty, gross, and she half expected to be arrested on the spot as she emerged from the subway onto the street, right in front of the Conrad Hotel.

But tigress bit her lip and walked toward the revolving doors of that hotel she couldn’t even afford to breathe next to.

She felt her pussy clench around nothing. Once, twice, and she bit down on her lip harder.

---

Art by Spuydjeks

What did you think of the story? Let me know in the comments below! It really helps a lot to have your feedback! Thank you!