Work Text:
You've been writing articles and reporting on baby-level bullshit for two years. The news station you work for is one of the bigger ones in the state. When you got the job you expected it to open doors of opportunity, but it's only opened a few windows at best. You're the rookie, sure, but that's not the reason. You're the cute girl, they don't take you seriously and think the viewers won't either. They let you report on the flower festival or the man who rescued a family of ducks, but not politics, sports, or even the weather. You're tired of being underestimated and confined to a box of cutesy crap. You're determined to find a story and be the first to report on it, to get your big break, whatever it takes.
It started by spending all your off-hours flitting between bars and nightclubs, playing drunk and friendly and unlocking secrets from whoever you can. You hit the jackpot when you become bathroom-buddies with a group of Sorority sisters, listening to their complaints when one says, "Coach Jackson invited me to come along for the next game" and the rest of her friends gasp and emphatically tell her to reject the offer. A few probing questions get the drunken ladies to share their stories, some firsthand, others secondhand, of Coach Jackson manipulating girls into situations where they have to consent to sex and are thus not be able to (successfully) press charges against him. You have to suppress a smile: What they've gone through is terrible, and you're not happy about that aspect in the slightest, but reporting on a sex scandal is exactly the sort of thing you need to break out of the cutesy typecasting.
One benefit of being a cute young lady is that no one questions your presence on the University Campus, especially while wearing a short black dress, makeup, and a pink mini backpack. They don't need to know that you have a recorder in your bag, capturing everything within 15 feet of it. You jog over to where the baseball team is loading onto their bus, getting ready to travel for their away game. The coach is standing outside finishing a cigarette, and you can see that he's watching how your breasts bounce with each footfall. You exaggerate the sway of your hips when you slow to a walk in front of him, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips as he watches.
"Hi Coach Jackson! We haven't met, but Britney told me that you asked her to come to the game and she's too hungover to go, so I thought maybe I could come instead?" You say sweetly, playing the Sorority sister, just his type- his crooked smile confirms that.
"Well, sweet thing, that sounds just fine by me. But you gotta promise not to bitch at us. If you complain, you're off the bus and can find your own way home, got it?" He says sternly and you can't help how your eyes widen as you piece together his modus operandi: Trap the woman with two dozen strong men and force consent by threat of abandonment on the side of the road. No escape, no rescue, no witnesses on her side to corroborate her tale. But you were prepared. You knew what was coming, but it would be worth it to have proof of the crime, to have a story that elevates your career.
You quickly nod, forcing a sweet smile, "I'll be good, Coach, I promise." That really seems to do it for him as he puts his hand on your lower back and walks you over to the bus, proudly prattling off some of the team's statistics and accomplishments. The bus driver looks at you and nods his head towards the seats, his eyes lingering on your ass as you walk past him. Coach Jackson takes his seat behind the driver and pats the space next to him expectantly, and you sit, but not before having a look at the two dozen strapping young men in the seats behind you. Once seated, Coach Jackson continues telling you about the team.
You're surprised that he's been so conversational, but it turns out that you shouldn't have been, because once the bus was on the highway his demeanor shifted. He set a hand on your thigh, squeezing the exposed flesh, hunger in his eyes.
"You're a beautiful young woman. I've been thinking it the whole time I've been looking at you..."
"Wow. Thanks, Coach..." You say softly, doing your best to steady your breath. He squeezes your thigh tighter, his other hand coming up to stroke his thumb over your lower lip, his eyes locked on the tender bit of flesh.
"I won't be able to survive a three hour drive staring at these lips without knowing what they feel like wrapped around my cock..." He says in a practiced purr and a shudder runs down your spine, but you play it off as a shiver of anticipation.
"The girls mentioned that that might happen..." You said softly and he chuckled.
"Yeah, all you Sorority types just have the prettiest mouths, make the sweetest noises. I just can't help it, you see."
You nod and adjust in your seat, leaning down into his lap, undoing his pants and then kissing his cock through the fabric of his boxers, making him groan.
"Your friends all needed a little more encouragement to get started, it's nice to see that at least one of you understands your place."
You're glad he can't see how you roll your eyes as you continue to kiss and tease at his clothed cock. You're going to enjoy nailing this bastard, but first you have to play his game. He pulls out his cock and slaps the tip against your cheek before using his other hand to push you down onto it, forcing his way into your mouth without regard. You whine against his groin and he grinds his hips up, threatening to gag you. A pair of hands on your hips pull you up onto the seat with your knees under you, making you present yourself. Coach Jackson's hand keeps you from being able to look back and see who's touching you, but you feel large knuckles sliding up and down the gusset of your panties, teasing your labia until you feel yourself grow wet. The bus driver groans and speaks to the man touching you.
"Angle her hips towards the camera, I want to see how needy the little slut is when I watch this later."
"Sure thing, Frank," The younger man says, his voice deep and whiskey-smooth. He pulls your hips up, holding your pelvis up for the bus's security camera, showing off how damp your panties have become, how your thighs tremble, and how easy it is for him to manhandle you. He sets you back into place and pulls down your panties in one firm tug, exposing you. A few cheers let you know that others are watching. A long, upwardly curved cock enters your cunt and you whine around the cock in your mouth, the push of his thrusting taking the work out of moving your mouth along the coach's shaft.
You focus on breathing through your nose, just trying to get through this moment, but a hand disappears from your hip only to reappear by shoving a finger in your ass. You whine loudly and attempt to pull away from the intrusion, but a tight grip on your hair stops you.
"Ah-Ah-Ah, young lady. You promised not to complain," Coach Jackson chastises, reminding you of your agreement. You do your best to suppress your noise of discomfort as the finger in your ass begins to move, wiggling and thrusting and pulling at your rim to loosen you. When you don't complain again Jackson lets go of your hair, returning to the leisurely face-fucking he was enjoying as the man behind you let go of you entirely to put another finger in your ass, pulling it open. You mewl from discomfort and a twinge of forbidden pleasure. A few more hard thrusts into your pussy and then the athlete pulled out and shoved his slicked cock into your ass, his fingers holding you open for easy penetration. You scream on Jackson's cock then quickly begin to service him once more, wanting to reassure him that you were NOT complaining, just reacting, and your seeming enthusiasm really pleases him.
"Oh fuck Jones, looks like she likes it in the ass..." He says with an appreciative groan.
"Coach..." Jones groans, rutting faster into your ass, "Permission to come?"
"Yeah son, fill this slut's ass..." Coach Jackson rumbles in response, his own precome spilling on the back of your tongue. Jones slams his hips in hard and pumps his seed into your guts then steps away, only to be replaced by another, his cock shorter but shockingly thick. You're rocked between two cocks yet again, though Jackson doesn't last much longer, cumming down your throat and a slew of degrading words about this being the only thing a woman's mouth is good for. You're upset by the words, but remind yourself that that's why you're recording audio, to catch him saying shit like that. Whitman, the man fucking you now, grabs you by your breasts and pulls you up against his chest now that Jackson is done with you, rutting up into you hard while pinching your nipples until they ache. You can't help the tears that fall as an orgasm is wrenched from you.
A calloused thumb wipes your tears away and takes you from Whitman after he pulls out. From that point you're passed from player to player, from the front of the bus all the way to the back, leaving you sitting by the emergency exit with your dress gone, your holes gaping and leaking cum, and your cheeks stained with makeup and cum. You tiredly turn your head to the side to look out the window and see that there's a car and a pair of motorcyclists following behind the bus, their eyes constantly flitting between the road and your depravity. You flush with embarrassment but also lust. You shakily stand up and bend over, pulling apart your cheeks to show off your ruined holes to your unintended audience, and hear honks and engine revving in response. If you do ever make it big as an anchor, at least you'll have a few dedicated viewers already.