Work Text:
You are one of the millions of people who use the Tube.
In fact you’ve been using it since you moved to London, five years ago. You’ve been using it almost every day. The routine is the same. Scan your card, get on the right line, and away you go to your destination. For the most part, your headphones go on and you wait for your stop.
Today, the carriage is packed. More than usual, and you’re not sure why. Is it a holiday? Are there tourists?
Either way, it’s a tight squeeze getting people in and there’s people left on the platform when the doors slide shut. The train pulls away, you and your fellow passengers swaying a little with the intensity of the takeoff. Making sure your wallet and phone are tucked away and your jacket zipped up, you content yourself with riding it out until you’re at your stop.
The first five minutes pass by relatively smoothly. It’s a bit cramped but you’re fine. Then, at the next stop, a few more people get off, and some more get on. Whoever was next to you has gotten off, and the people who’ve joined are all crushed up with you like silent sardines packed into a moving can.
Now, some bloke is pressed up against you, and the outside of his hand has been crushed against your thigh.
You do freeze when the contact comes, because of course you do.
There’s no reason normally for someone to be getting handsy with you that far down, but you rationalise it because it makes sense. It’s the outside of his hand. He can’t tuck his hands into his pockets because then his elbows are up and he’s stealing space. And that would make him an arsehole and other people might actually call him out on it, because if there’s one thing Londoners hate it’s being shits on the Tube.
You drift a little, still slightly sleepy from your early morning start and the fact that you haven’t managed to get a tea yet (nor can you pack one in a thermos; there’s not enough room to get it out right now). It’s warm in the carriage thanks to the press of extra bodies, a pleasant balm to the cold weather that stings at the wind outside.
You’re not concentrating on anything much, except the space where you can feel your phone and wallet press against your ribs because that’s just instinct now, and has been after living in London for this long. You’ve never personally been at risk of having some shithead on a moped drive by and snatch your phone out of your hand, but one of your mates did almost get mugged last year and you really don’t want to have to worry about that-
The man beside you turns his hand, and his palm spreads across your thigh.
You freeze again.
But this time there’s no rationalising the unwanted contact of his hand on your body, and you know that despite your rising panic.
A broad hand is groping at your leg, squeezing the flesh.
You go cold, your grip on your handle tightening.
You should say something.
You should speak up.
But you don’t.
Not even when the hand slips below the hem of your skirt and finds the waistband of your leggings, teasing along the elastic rim as if daring you to tell him to stop, to yell at him and say leave me alone.
You don’t do any of that. You clench your jaw and thank god you remembered to wear a face mask today because you felt a cold coming on, and if he doesn’t stop, you’re going to end up making an expression that will give it away to everyone else in the train carriage. You don’t know what would be worse. This happening to you, or someone discovering it, being made aware that you’re being touched by this stranger standing to your right.
You don’t speak.
Not even when his hot fingers push into your underwear, part the curls on your mound, and find your clit. You stiffen, silently willing it to stop, please. You press your legs closer together like it’ll stop his hand, but he bullies his way between them and slowly rubs at your clit. It’s been a long time since you last got laid. You’re sensitive. Twitching. God, it feels so good. It feels so disgusting. It’s the worst thing anyone’s ever done to you and all you can do is stand there.
You should shout. Scream. Cry. Turn on him and call attention to it.
But you can’t.
All you can do is stand there, stuck in place, as a strange man strokes you, over and over. The seat of your underwear is quickly getting slick with your arousal. All you can concentrate on is that up, down, up, down, his fingertips driving you slowly towards a precipice.
He has to stop. He has to stop because you’re not brave enough to stop him. You can’t bring yourself to make any noise. You pray he slides his hand out of your underwear of his own volition, the way him working his fingers between your legs was his own wilful decision.
He doesn’t do that. He just keeps rubbing you. Keeps on working at your clit, gathering your wetness on his fingers and rolling tight circles, again and again. Until you cum, a hand pressed over your mouth like you’re coughing. Your orgasm burns you like it’s condemning you for your silence. Like you wanted it. Like that’s why you let him do it, because your cunt needed some attention and he was just willing to give it.
He gets off at the next stop, leaving you burning and ashamed in the carriage.
You’ve been catcalled before. You’ve even had men come up to you and stop you from walking. That was the worst of it.
At least it was before today.
You arrive at your desk and when your coworker comes to gree you, she frowns.
“You ok?” she asks.
“Yeah,” you shrug, “why?”
“You look a bit shaken,” she explains. “Something wrong?”
I got molested on the Tube, you want to tell her. But what are you going to do if she asks if you reported it? If she asks why you didn’t? Or didn’t stand up for yourself, or, or…
“Just weirdos on the train,” you lie.
She makes a face. “I hate taking the Underground sometimes.”
“Yeah.” You set your laptop down. “But fuck driving.”
“Oh god, fuck driving,” she agrees. “Can you imagine. And paying for the parking? Fuck no.”
You manage to lose yourself in the idle chatter before your workday starts. By the time it’s over, you’re tired and ready to go home. So you pack up, and you leave the office, and you stop outside the train station.
The stairs down into the London Underground suddenly feel like a yawning cavern, ready to eat you up and spit you out. You swallow.
All you need to do is look at whoever touches you and then make a report, you vow to yourself. You have to try. Just so you can say you did if anyone comes to judge you.
With that, you storm off down the stairs and head for your platform.
You make it home unscathed, your heart in your mouth the entire time.
You can still feel the hot press of the man’s hand on your leg, the roughness of his fingertips on your clit. The memory sends a hot flush through you. Disgust follows it. You toss your bag down and dart for the shower, hoping that you can scrub away the sensations. Maybe if you make the water hot enough, you can burn off the places he touched you.
You don’t drink often, but you come out of the shower and pour a glass of wine with your dinner. You keep the bottle in your room, so it’s not like your roommates will ask why you’re drinking when you hardly touch the stuff most nights.
You fall asleep with hot cheeks and an unpleasant burn in your stomach, your skin itching.
You decide to go five minutes earlier the next morning.
It's still cramped, but you get on at your line and when you reach the stop he joined at last time, nobody is pressed up against you. You relax, thankful that as horrible as it was, it seems to have been a one off.
You have one of the best days at work you’ve had in a long time. Your mood is high. Your coworker has loads of interesting stories to tell you. Your meetings go well. You might even look forward to your next assessment with your manager.
You have another glass of red wine to celebrate when you get home, and you make yourself a really good dinner and go to bed full, sated, comfortable.
It was just a fluke. Just a horrible fluke, but you survived.
The morning after that, you keep that habit, go five minutes early as yesterday. Why not? It’s only five minutes. If you shower at night, that gives you more time anyway. And frankly, you’re not sacrificing much either.
You’re not doing this for some sort of bullshit grind life.
You’re doing it to keep yourself from being fucking assaulted.
So you stand in the carriage and chill.
Your favourite song comes on in your playlist just as you pull into the next stop. You ignore the next wave of people that join, content in the knowledge that you’re safe. Maybe you’ll get yourself a nicer coffee on the way home as a way to cheer yourself up. Order something instead of cooking the same old easy food. Anything, just to add a bit of change to your boring routine. You’re barely beginning your train journey and there’s plenty of time to think about whatever it is that makes you happy.
And then, at the stop after that, you're drifting when a hand presses against your thigh.
Your body goes cold.
You shiver, your stomach pitting nastily. You tell yourself it’s another fluke. Not the same guy, for one thing. There’s probably a lot of creeps on the Tube you’ve managed to avoid coming into contact with. It means nothing. There’s no reason to think that maybe someone is stalking you.
You want to turn your head and look at who is touching you, on the off chance it’s somehow the same man from two days ago. To assure yourself that you’ve just had bad luck, and run into two different men.
But it's like your neck won't move. Your body is telling you to just wait it out. Your grip on the handle above you is painful.
Look. Look at him, look!
As his touch moves to cup your cunt, you manage to force yourself to glance over.
You can't see his face because he isn't looking at you, but he's tall. Broad shoulders, brown leather jacket, grey hoodie. It’s not a surprise no one’s seen what’s going on because he’s practically on top of you, his size almost blocking you completely from view.
He squeezes and you wince, dropping your head obediently.
His hand slips into your leggings, under the elastic of your underwear, and the broad span of his hand covers you, warm pressure on your bare, sensitive skin. You grit your teeth under the face mask as your clit twitches. It already knows what's about to happen to you, and, in a realisation that twists your stomach in horror, you're already wet.
Your attacker rolls his fingers rough but slow, mitigating the risk of getting caught by his movements with the understanding that he's relying on you not to lose your composure. He's relying on you not to say anything, and you don't.
You can’t.
Not because you want this but because the idea of speaking the words he's touching me, someone help, makes your face burn in shame. You didn’t say anything the first time. Is there a point trying it this time?
You're wet enough that his finger breaches you with ease when it pushes inside of you. Your legs stiffen. He’s probing you, testing you. You wonder how nobody has spotted this yet. Or if they have, why they haven’t said anything.
But the truth is, maybe they have, and maybe they’re thinking, responding just like you are.
Head down, say nothing, hope he doesn’t get violent. He’s a big man. He could have a knife. Just look the other way.
Another finger works inside you, a thumb pressing at your clit. It circles steadily as he crooks at your walls. You have to snatch a little harder at the handle because your knees try to bow at the sudden rush of pleasure.
You have no idea why he’s doing this. You know you did nothing to deserve this or to provoke him, all you did was stand there. You want to cry, but you’re too busy trying to keep your eyes from fluttering shut as his fingers speed up.
He shifts a little closer to you, leaning over. The scent of him turns your head, something delicious that builds on the pleasure that swirls in your gut. You can’t believe this. You need every part of him to be ugly, but he’s already making your head spin.
“Nice try, love,” a low voice murmurs in your ear. The sound is rich, deep and strong and ugh, your cunt clenches on his fingers. “Ye’d better no’ try avoidin’ me again, though. You an’ me, we’re gonnae get tae know each other well.”
Maybe it’s his way of punishing you for trying to escape his attention, but he doesn’t make you cum; he teases you the entire journey.
When you arrive at work, face still hot, you worry someone will notice. You’re afraid that it’s obvious to everyone you walk past that you’re pressing wet thighs together and your mind is finding it hard to focus from the need still pulsing around your body.
“Everything all right?” your coworker calls. “You look frazzled.”
You open your mouth and think there’s a man on the Tube and he’s stalking me, and when we’re surrounded by hundreds of people he shoves his hand in my knickers and fingers me.
“Rough night,” you say instead. “Had a drink for the first time in ages.”
“Ooh, yeah, that first one after a bit hits really hard,” she agrees. “What was your poison?”
“Red wine,” you reply.
She nods like it’s sage wisdom. “Cracking choice.”
You’re usually early to work (not that you actually log in at that time) but you tend to spend it grabbing food from the canteen and easing yourself into the workday. You don’t do that today. You’re lucky that your toilets have their own individual rooms rather than rattling stalls, and you grab a free one, lock the door, and yank your leggings down.
I cannot believe I am about to do this.
The thoughts echo in your mind as you shove your hand between your thighs, rubbing your clit in a vicious circle, building on what a mess was left when the man on the train got off at his stop. You find yourself wondering what drew him to you. Maybe it was the skirt. Maybe it’s because of the significant height difference. Or your hair, or your eyes, or something.
You need some gentle lie to flatter your brain into there being an element of logic to it, of twisted, dark “I must have her” romance. Even though you know there’s never really a why. Men like him just do things, and women like you just suffer.
Your fingers aren’t as good as his but you match the pace you need. Your other hand clamps over your mouth to mute the noises that want to escape you. It’s sick, but your body needs this. You are going to make yourself cum not one hour after a man on the train molested you.
And you do. You cum. You bite down on your sleeve and your legs shake and your toes curl. Your cunt clenches on empty. You think about how good it would feel with his fingers inside of you instead of nothing.
You straighten up, wait a few minutes for your cheeks to cool down, and then you wash your hands and leave the toilets, hoping and praying you can continue with your day like the whole world is normal.
This becomes your routine.
In the morning, you wake up, get ready, and get on your train. A few stops down, the man joins you, and his hand pushes into your underwear and his fingers work you over. Sometimes he makes you cum. Sometimes he doesn’t. If he doesn’t, you head into work, find a toilet, and you get yourself off while trying your best not to feel disgusted with yourself for allowing this to happen, for not fighting him.
After you come home from work, you have a burning hot shower, scrub your skin raw, and then after you eat dinner, you go to bed. You might scroll on your phone, but otherwise you go straight to sleep.
On the weekends, when you used to go out, you stay in instead. You watch TV, or you doomscroll between meals. You barely notice the passing of time until you’re tired. Then you go to bed again, and on Monday it starts from the beginning.
This proceeds for three weeks.
On the fourth week, you realise you’ve forgotten to do any chores. And because of this, you’re completely out of clean underwear. You are without knickers. You just shut the drawer and get dressed. You’re not on your period. You put a wash on and text your roommates that you’re ok for them to dump the clean stuff in your laundry basket when the wash is done, then you finish up the rest of your morning routine and head out.
At your usual stop, you get on, and you wait. You keep your mind blank of anything that might be a thought, because you’re too tired to think.
At his usual stop, he joins you, presses close to you and rests his hand on your thigh. You’re soaking. It’s obscene. You don’t say anything.
The man’s touch migrates to your waistband. It slips beneath.
And stops dead.
The usual elastic of your underwear is obviously gone. You stand there and wait, not thinking about it too much. He’s probably just surprised. Maybe he even thinks you want it, maybe that you did this on purpose to make it easier for him-
His hand snatches out of your leggings so fast you lose your balance momentarily. Your eyes widen and your head snaps up to look at him. He’s wearing a face mask, just like you, but your gaze locks with his. Electric blue swallows you, light burning you.
He pulls his eyes away and leaves, gets off at the next stop and you start thinking again.
Revulsion claws its way through you, not for yourself but at him. That pent-up emotion, the thing you’d done your best to kill. Did he think you wanted it? Did he stop because of that? Was this only fun for him when you were unwilling?!
You don’t even remember how work went.
You just remember getting home and putting your shit away. You enter your room and see the pile of freshly washed clothes on your bed and you busy yourself putting it up to dry. You lay back on your bed once it’s been cleared and you stare at the ceiling.
You are angry.
This guy has been touching you for weeks, and only stops once he thinks you like it? If he were in front of you, you’d be going for his balls with a knife.
You finally wrench yourself out of bed and go eat dinner. You wash it down with a big glass of red wine. Then you get back in your room, doomscroll a bit, and head to bed.
You wake up next morning with a slight headache, yank a pair of dried knickers off the line and pull them on. The routine resumes as usual. You head for the door. You pull it open.
There’s a man in your fucking doorway, gazing at you with the brightest blue eyes you’ve ever seen in your life.
“Mornin’, love,” he drawls, nodding at you.
It’s the jacket. It’s those eyes. It’s that voice. He has a mohawk too, a roughly-shaved head.
Suddenly you’re frozen stiff, you’re standing there like you were on the train. You can’t do anything but stare, take in the sight of him, look at the face of the man who’s been shoving his hand inside of you for weeks on end. You wanted him to look revolting. You wanted the shell on the outside to match the sickness within.
He isn’t anything like it.
He’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever met.
He slips past you without another word, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Nice wee place,” he says. “Y’ here alone?”
Your lips part. You swallow.
“No,” you whisper. Your mind grinds to a halt.
You want to ask how he found you. You don’t want to know. Imagining the processes he took to work out where you live makes your stomach flop.
He shrugs. “So, which room’s yours?”
“I beg your pardon?” you manage, scraping the words together from the mangled mess of your thoughts. “M-my room?”
“Aye.”
God, that voice is sinful. Rich and velvety and dark. You try and shake its effects off of you.
“Why are you here?” you protest, your voice plaintive.
Those electric eyes lock with yours, connect. “Got yer message.”
You frown. “My- message? What- what message?”
His gaze drifts to the hem of your skirt. His brow raises when he looks at you again and your face burns at the realisation.
“That- wasn’t a message, it was- I forgot to do my laundry-”
“Dinnae protest, love,” he coos, grabbing your waist with both hands. “Shh. Ah’m here now. Ye’ve been pure gaggin’ fer it. Can tell by how wet yer cunt was when ah’d finger y’.”
Gagging for it?
Rage fills you.
His head darts forward like a viper striking. His lips find yours and swallow your anger whole, bleeding it off your tongue before it can hit the open air. Your eyes go wide.
“Le’s go tae yer room,” he purrs into your mouth. “Fuck, cannae wait tae taste y’.”
The heat in your cheeks roars into open flame. And so does fear, curling down your spine. This man is unhinged. He thinks your laundry mishap was a secret code begging him to come fuck you, and now he’s in your home and he’s deluded into believing you want to fuck him.
“I don’t-”
“S’all right, s’just us now,” he’s hauling you up off the floor and you feel completely weightless, “tell me where yer room is, love.”
He isn’t listening to you. He doesn’t seem to hear anything but what he wants to hear and you know immediately that if, god fucking forbid, one of your roommates was to come home now, they’d be in serious danger. You don’t know why he’s doing this but you do know that he wants what he wants and you need to get him out of here.
“I need to,” you manage, “I need to tell work I’m not feeling well.” You point to the door that leads into your room. “Wait in there for me?”
You’re placed down like a glass sculpture, and then he palms your crotch through your leggings. This strange man kisses you again, groans into your mouth, and steps back, nodding.
“See y’ in there,” he purrs.
He doesn’t seem worried that you’re going to call the police. You should do. You should be dialling 999 and begging someone to come save you from the man who’s been assaulting you daily on the train. You don’t do that.
You don’t want to know what he would do if he overheard.
Your hands are shaking when they dial the absence hotline, but you manage to bullshit your way through some excuse. You hang up. Taking a deep breath, you step inside your bedroom, and shut the door.
He’s throwing you onto your bed before you can get a word out. Your back hits the mattress and your eyes go wide, taking in the sight of the man locking your door behind him. Then he’s on top of you, tongue down your throat, hips slotting between your thighs. His erection is throbbing against your lap.
“Fuckin’ finally,” he groans. “Ye’ve no idea how goddamn bad it’s been tryin’ tae hold back, d’ye have any idea how much ah’ve wanted this?”
“No,” you choke out, “no, I- I don’t.”
“Bet ye don’t,” he’s already yanking your leggings down your thighs, “was tryin’ tae give y’ a taste when ah’d no’ let y’ cum.”
The words spill from you before you can stop them. “I- finished what you started when you did that.”
The groan that escapes him rumbles down his entire body and his eyes almost roll up. “Christ, ye’ve been gettin’ off tae the thought too, yeah? Knew this was what y’ wanted. Fuck. Dinnae worry, love. Gonnae stop pissin’ aroond now.”
“Wait,” your leggings and knickers are around your ankles now, “what- what’s your name?”
He grabs your ankles, hoisting them up, and palms your cunt again, fingers testing your folds. You come back soaked.
“Johnny.”
Then two fingers are inside you and you realise oh, he was going easy on you.
Part of you knew that, you knew that even someone as audacious and fucked up as this man named Johnny would understand that fingerfucking you this hard on the Tube would absolutely raise a stink from the other passengers.
The other half is overwhelmed by a thick wall of pleasure that crashes through you. Your back arches off the bed, and your cry of shocked ecstasy fills the room. You can hear the sound his hand makes as it fucks you, he’s not even touching your clit and it’s so good. You feel revulsion pooling in your gut along with the pleasure. It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting.
He’s got his tongue down your throat again and he’s panting like a dog and all you can concentrate on is the way his fingers feel inside of you. A third one fills you. You lean up on your elbows, even though it gets you closer to Johnny’s mouth and his hungry kiss.
The worst part is when the kiss breaks off and he starts talking.
“Fuck me, love, ah can feel tha’,” he pants. “She’s all tight.”
His thumb finally descends on your clit and you yelp, slamming your thighs shut. It doesn’t dissuade him in the slightest, it never has done, and all you can do is whimper in desperation as pressure grows alongside the revulsion.
“Fuckin’ beggin’ for it,” he whines, “dinnae worry, ah’ve got ye, gonnae give this perfect fuckin’ cunt what it needs, yeah?”
Your face burns at the word he uses but it’s not for long. With a few swirls of the rough pad of his thumb you’re abruptly tipping over the edge with a shriek. Your muscles squeeze his fingers and he lets out this dirty, rough little laugh.
“Christ,” he purrs. “Knew y’ wanted it bad.”
You flop back onto your bed as his hand slows down, and you rub your eyes. You’re used to cumming on Johnny’s fingers at this point, but at least now you have somewhere to sit and recover. You’re still a bit dazed when you feel hands on your torso, your shirt yanked up to reveal your bra. Johnny pulls down the cups and lets your tits pop free, palming them.
“Y’ were hidin’ these,” he growls, “y’never wore anythin’ cut low so ah’d never had the chance tae grab a handful.”
Despite knowing how much the man on top of you got off on messing with you in public, it’s still a shock to know he’s wanted to do things riskier than what you’ve done already.
Maybe you were underestimating the depths of this man’s depravity. You suppose you shouldn’t be so surprised that he’s just confessed to wanting to play with your tits in public.
And he does; he squeezes gently, rolls the nipples until you’re squirming. You’re already too sensitive, riding out the overstimulation from your orgasm, and Johnny kneels up on your bed. He can’t get his mouth on your tits with your legs in the way and you hear a tearing sound as your leggings are shredded.
“Hey!” you protest.
The other thing that happens, as he bullies his way between your thighs and suckles on your breasts until you quiver, is that his cock shoves hard inside your cunt.
“Fuuuuuck,” Johnny groans, pressing his forehead against your chest. “Fuck, tha’s good.”
You’re too stunned to speak. Breathless, even, the air forced out of your lungs by the thickness of the cock currently sitting inside you. Johnny’s panting is fanning over your skin, and his hips are twitching against your own. For a moment, you think he might have thrust inside you and cum already.
Then he withdraws to the tip, and by the time he fucks back in, you’re fully aware that not only is he hard, he’s rubbing right up against that spot.
“Ah’ll eat y’ later,” he moans, “promise. Jus’ been dyin’ tae get hands on y’, been waitin’ too long for it.”
What happens next is not really fucking so much as this total stranger- who you only know by his fingers molesting you on the train and now his name in your mouth- ruts against you like some kind of dog. He grabs hold of your thighs and almost bends you in half, the muted slap of his jeans on your bare arse filling the room. All you can do is lie back and grab for the covers above your head, gripping tight to them like you’re going to fall off the bed without that anchor.
In another world, one where you haven’t spent almost a month keeping quiet while a man shoves his hand inside you and fingers you to orgasm, you’d be ashamed of the noises escaping your mouth. But that isn’t the case here. And Johnny’s not quiet either.
“S’so fuckin’ good,” he growls in your ear, head pressed against your own, “ye’ve no’ been fuckin’ other men, tha’s a good girl, waited for me, din’ye? Yeah. Knew there’s nothin’ fuckin’ y’ better than me.”
You’d like to retort something cutting about how you had no idea he was going to come find you, but your tongue doesn’t work. Neither does most of you, actually. Your brain has shut off, which is good, because if you have to think about this for even a minute, you may scream. In terror, or in pleasure, or maybe both. Your legs are functional for all that they need to be in order to tense up. And your hands are locked in a death grip on your sheets. You’re just laid there, shuddering, whining, throwing your head back at the building cinch of pleasure in your gut.
“Gonnae look so fuckin’ pretty all messed up wi’ cum,” he rumbles, tongue licking wetly along your throat and over your pulse. “Fuck, cannae wait tae lick y’ clean.”
Your brain restarts just long enough for you to think “he isn’t wearing a condom” and then you’re coming, your heels pressing into his thighs reflexively to beg him not to stop. Orgasm crushes your higher cognitive functions, ruins your hopes of protesting. You can’t do anything but ride it out, hips bucking into Johnny’s lap like you’ve never wanted anything more than him.
Your orgasm doesn’t trigger his but it does torment him, to the point his teeth scrape along your throat and bury themselves just under your jaw. The pain sparks at your clit and spurs on the unrelenting waves. You sag back into the bed, muscles abruptly jellied. And then you shiver, because of course he hasn’t stopped.
Johnny rocks to one side and shoulders your calf, his hand coming up to your mouth. He jams his thumb along your tongue and makes you lick it, and you’re just starting to use your brain again when that thumb finds your clit and circles it, hard and fast. Brain off, back up, toes curling, eyes rolling, you heave and buck against him.
“Fuuuuck, pretty girl, tha’s so beautiful, yeah, c’mon, gonnae get this sweet wee cunt all tight again. Comin’ round me like yer beggin’ fer me tae fill it up nice and full for y’.”
It’s not fair, how good this all is. How good he sounds, how good he fucks you. How thick his cock is and how he knows the best angles to thrust into you. You wish he wasn’t.
You wish he was ugly and awful and mean and left you crying in pain because the horrifying truth of this situation is that you’ve never been fucked so good in your life and you don’t even care that he isn’t wearing a condom, not right now. You don’t care that he’s stalked you and assaulted you daily for weeks on end and that you’re only in this room because you’re genuinely terrified he would hurt someone if they came into the hallway when he was there.
You just don’t want him to stop.
“Johnny,” you whimper, “Johnny, please!”
He shakes on top of you. “Keep cryin’ like tha’ an ah’ll be done too fuckin’ soon, love.”
It’s not something you can stop. You can’t bite your tongue and keep the noises down; you’ve been doing that for too long. You’ve been holding it in and now you don’t have any reason to, and his thumb is perfect where it’s nestled over your clit and working it. You hate him for how good this all feels. You think you’d shove him off the platform and onto the tracks and crush him under the oncoming train if you thought you’d have a hope of budging that thickly-packed bulk of his further than an inch.
You think that and you come again, crying out his name.
Johnny lasts long enough to suck a bruise along your neck, and then he shoves deep inside your cunt and cums, twitching hard. His breath fans over your pulse just before his lips find yours, his kiss sloppy and desperate. He groans, a full-body rumble that vibrates his skin against your own. His muscles are just as twitchy as his cock.
With that, he collapses atop you, hand spanning your waist. His panting disgusts you, now that you’re coherent. The pressure of his cock doesn’t leave you, though. And your body pulses around it, mollifying your revulsion.
The quiet of the room seeps into you. You begin to feel the stick of sweat on your skin and the way the fabric of your clothes sucks against it. You wince, kicking off one shoe idly. It clatters to the floor.
Johnny starts, kneeling up on his elbows. He looks at you and a drunk smile crosses his face.
“Good, yeah?” he purrs. “Knew ye’d feel so fuckin’ good. Got so wet f’me so easily.”
You open your mouth to give him a piece of your mind and Johnny launches his tongue past your lips to snog you.
“Sorry tae squish y’,” he mumbles into your lips, like that’s the sin he’s committed here. “Gimme a sec.” He slips out of you.
You whine unwittingly, protesting his sudden absence, and he beams.
“As if ah’m fuckin’ done wi’ yer perfect lil’ cunt, love,” he coos. “Naw, ah’m jus’ gettin’ a taste so yer all relaxed fer the next time ah’m ready.”
He kneels between your open legs and without further ado he buries his face in your cunt.
The rasp of his scruff is the thing that hits you hardest, it turns out.
His tongue is lapping at your clit and his lips are suckling on it. And then it’s fucking you, cleaning his own cum out in a way you’ve never seen another man do. Most of the men you’ve had sex with do want to cum in you but then treat the mess they’ve left behind like simply touching it is toxic to their concept of manhood.
Johnny can’t get enough of your combined mess. His fingers end up back inside you, fucking you, wetting his hand with you and him. When his tongue presses back inside, his fingers take its place on your clit, pressing and rolling at it as you writhe on the bed. You can’t grip his hair because it’s too short and so you end up gripping the neckline of his t-shirt. A cold flash in your mind begs you to try and strangle him on it, but the next lap of his tongue completely wipes that notion from your mind. You’re too wrung out to try and hold hate and arousal in you at once.
What makes it all worse is how much he’s moaning when he eats you out, like it’s him getting physical pleasure from this. That’s new. It’s probably because there’s something wrong with him.
And there’s something wrong with you too. Surely a normal person would have protested his attention. Surely a normal person would have screamed the moment they felt a hand groping at their thigh. You should have nipped this in the bud, but now you’re lying here, a total stranger sucking on your clit. You can’t turn back now.
You cum.
Johnny growls, vibrates along the skin, works you through your orgasm as you wriggle and keen overhead. Your thighs squeeze around his face and it just seems to spur him on. You’re completely boneless as you flop back on the bed, panting, whimpering.
“I-I can’t take it, please!”
It feels bizarre, acknowledging that you don’t want this- anymore, or at all, though, you’re not sure which now. Johnny just chuckles into your cunt.
“Ah’m no’ gonnae stop til ah’m finished,” he pants. “Jus’, jus’ be a good girl, yeah? Wait f’ me, ah’ve waited long enough.”
You shake your head. “Johnny, please!”
“S’no gonnae work on me, love,” he growls. “Y’ had yer chance tae have yer fun, ah’ve been hard all day fer weeks after. S’ my turn now.”
He’s not wrong. You had your chance. You didn’t take it. You didn’t stand up to him. Now he’s here, and he’s not going anywhere.
You’re just going to have to take what’s given to you.