she can take it

18+ fantasy only, 26, 3 holes

[fuckingwoman]

welcome. this hard kink blog is for adults who understand this is strictly private fantasy. browse with caution, enjoy 💙

i only truly post for my/mutuals' enjoyment, so please don't take anything to heart. i block freely + don't educate or cater - go read up.

kinks/tw:

doll/feminzation (detrans), ace breaking, transfem supremacy

cnc/rape, stalking + blackmail, degradation, incest, (c)isogyny

user: 26, ace nb another fucking woman, blissfully owned

[ownedcisbitch]

Everytime his cock enters me, I get dumber. Every thrust slowly but surely breaking every last remaining bit of resistance in me. When I cum, harder than ever, it means my body has fully given up and I become a stupid, pliant doll for him to finish jerking off with.

Women need foreplay, sure, but I think men do too -- to witness his own cock slowly overtake every sense in me until he's fully won. My pathetic song & dance underneath him is what finally spurs him on to finish what he started. He wouldn't be satisfied if he didn't see me surrender completely.

[lezhuntrr]

current fantasy is a lesbian who needs some easy money and happens finding an up and coming woman owned, lgbt porn studio and applying for a part time gig right away, just to show up for her second interview and orientation to find out just about all her coworkers to be, all the stars, the staff, almost everyone is trans. it’s not like she has a problem with it, she’s not that kind of dyke, it’s just… surprising! there’s a part of her that feels like making whatever excuses she needs and turning tail, but she prides herself on being open minded, so she just swallows her pride, presses her thighs together, and smiles as she listens to her new manager explain her role here.

…and just like that little pit of fear in her stomach was telling her, they’re just hiring her for her cunt. literally; her, along with the other two cuntgirls on staff, will be working as fluffers and lube dispensers to feed their tops libidos and keep them raring to go for their busy scenes. if a girl starts getting distracted, bored, or anything else soft part way through, it’s on them to slip between the other entertainers when the cameras are off and gently, sweetly thicken them back up. “intercrucal and other outercourse is the standard,” her manager says, “… though whatever works, works. oral is common, hand stuff, a little light play, whatever. but in the interest of being totally clear, it’s the novelty of your cunt that’s gonna be doing the most work for you. our girls are very happily familiar with each other, but cis dyke pussy is the one thing they can’t give each other, so we rely on girls like you to spice things up for them. other than that, our tops have their own tastes, so do your best to pick up on those preferences over time, save yourself some effort.” shes shocked enough that she can’t even think of what to say or how to politely refuse, so she just sits there for a moment with her new boss smiling down at her before a little bundle of forms are pushed into her arms and she’s sent further in to shadow a coworker before she can change her mind.

…and things go simply, and well, if not embarrassingly. they’re shooting a gangbang today, so when they cut and take breaks while getting ready to block new shots, it’s between the new cuntgirl and her coworker to nurse and work their cocks. she’s hardly willing to do much at first, but watching the vet here kneeling beside her, easing someone deeper into her mouth while slapping another girls dick against her face helps make the decision easier. she reluctantly reaches out to feel at the other stars dicks as they joke with each other and break the ice asking about her, her hands slowly easing into awkward, inexperienced handjobs. she mumbles out brief introductions and tries not to blush harder when she feels them pulsing and firming up in her fingers, and spends the next two minutes jerking them off and answering questions about herself that get more and more invasive until they’re rock hard. she was able to get up and out of the shot again, for now; but they’d do this two more times before they were done for today. finally heading home, she’s still scandalized and unable to get comfortable in her seat; mentally, she was prepared to do a scene or two after getting introduced to a co star, so it wasn’t that much of a shock. but just getting used like that, feeling their desire to do more to do hot against her skin, the way their eyes rolled over her, appraising her like meat… something about it got under her skin and went somewhere. even so… the pay was good, she’s doing even less work than she thought she would, doesnt have to worry about videos of her online, and everyone was friendly, warm enough. so she decides to stick with it for now.

and while her girlfriend isn’t thrilled about it, she keeps coming back and picking up hours where she can over the next few weeks. she opens up bit by bit and gets to know everyone else, learn names, settle into her place in the social system. which makes it easier to cede ground and do more when the stars start getting needier. it’s letting a girl fuck your mouth once when she really needed to get back on set, and then getting talked into blowing all the other stars one by one so they don’t feel left out. she’s not surprised when they start getting handsy; soon she’s getting bent over and having her thighs fucked daily. most of the girls love to keep it close and intimate, so any clothes she keeps on get sweaty and full of dick smell. she brings a fresh set to change into afterwards, but the sweat sticks to her anyway, and her girlfriend can only imagine what shes up to when out of sight. their tension settles into an uneasy silence and she makes a habit of heading right for the shower after work. they stop having sex with their strap on, too; she doesn’t fully realize it, but it just doesn’t feel as comfortable without another’s heat anymore. she chalks it up to circumstances each time, but she just can’t get wet the same way for the toy anymore.

it’s her third month there when she caves and lets one of them fuck her. it happens casually, carelessly, not even on set, just taken by the moment with one of the studs she got to know first there. complaining about poor scripts one minute, then get groped into the couch the other. she’d practice her technique with the other cuntgirls or a star not on scene sometimes, but she knew this wasn’t that, and she kissed back anyway. she wanted this, needed somewhere for all that built up sexual frustration to go. getting left half used again and again built up into hunger that she was getting tired of ignoring. when she felt how hard she was, it was her who spread her legs, no guidance needed. when they were panting into each others mouths, skin on skin, wet against each other, it was her who begged to feel it inside. before she knew it she was blissed out in her besties arms, letting the fight get fucked out of her as she shivers and gets dumber with every inch that gets lovingly worked into her cunt. her heart raced and she knew she should stop, but all she could think of doing was wrapping her legs around her mates hips and bearing this a little longer. so close and so dumb. she can’t handle it, having a girl who’s always been chill, collected and professional enough with her completely lose it in her cunt. she cums first, and then a second time quick afterwards as her studs getting greedier and hungrier with her thrusts, holding her fast and grunting into her mouth. using her cunt to stroke herself up to finish. and then she’s hot inside and out and spilling down her thighs before she can think responsibly again. she’s respectful and sweet when cleaning up and at work next, but sooner or later the other girls start to get word, and then she’s spreading her legs and offering up her cunt on the reg. she puts up a bit of resistance, gives herself some time, but soon enough she relents and just starts getting passed around almost every time she’s at work. she doesn’t regret it, with how much it taught her about what she really wants, but she still doesn’t know how she’s gonna explain the positive pregnancy test to her girl. maybe she’s better off going single and focusing on work for a while…

[lezhuntrr]

cursed contraceptive womb tattoo that absorbs all the cum that gets in you, but makes you crave it and leaves more and more pleasure behind in its wake to condition you into getting off on being pumped full like nothing else, regardless of how you used to think of it

[penisdyke]

leave the baby-making to women

a woman is a virgin if she has never had sexual relations with a man. futhermore, sex with a man is the only way for a woman to become pregnant with child. all that’s common knowledge. but history has always known cases of virgin birth. those women that, untouched by men, nevertheless conceive. these cases are regarded now as myth and allegory, but we know that most myths are really records of derelict social technologies and freedoms.

reproduction is now thought of in the realm of biology, as in, the fusion of a spermatozoan and an ovum into a zygote. but this is a falsehood, as all male biopolitical narratives are. reproduction is a social—and that means a gendered—process. feminism is now the most recuperated of the social movements, and patriarchy maintains its stranglehold on discourses of reproduction. the antidote will involve hardcore penetration as a rememberance of lost female power.

cybernetic cis lesbians with captive imaginations theorize novel methods of reproduction using hematopoeitic cells to make so-called "science babies." what they ignore are the means and methods of dykery, unmolested by male science and rationalism, that have existed for thousands of years by which amorous women might produce offspring. these methods have never successfully been locked up in a lab or studied at institutions of higher learning by men, but they have been wilfully forgotten by cis vulvular-chauvinists, prudes, frigid dykes, heterosexual trans women, liberal feminists, and other male collaborators.

the expectation for a trans woman to castrate herself as part of 'biological transition' is precisley the means by which lesbian baby-making falls into the clutches of technology and out of our own hands, cunts, and cocks. biological technology makes a poor replacement for liberatory social mores, collaborative shape-shifting, and female mythologies. our societies have become literal and forgotten that feminine stories and rituals have much more to do with real life and real relationships than money, property, science, laws, or men. two-thousand years ago, the witch lilith snuck into the high house of mary and snaked up her cunt, preserving her virginity but leaving her with child.

hairy witches in scotland grant wishes—like a lesbian's for a child—and minoan priestesses covet effete 'men' for use in fertility rituals. chance meetings of nebbish surrealists, doomed schizophrenic women, and perverted failed priests in the woods of collaborationist france. the old english Defilers (who is to be defiled if not women?). historical analysis of sappho's sexuality should take into account that the cultural institution of gender did not exist in the same hegemonic forms on her ancient island. was it a man's cock she had loved—or a woman's? in the words of lesbian historian @feiiatrix, 'afab women who knew for sure what they wanted were girls with dicks' were roaming the streets—and locked in the asylums—of victorian england. the word 'harem' is a misunderstanding of muslims telling white men their entrance into women's quarters was forbidden—haram—but no caliph could complain about intimacies between women, penetrative or not.

in other words, the means of reproduction, free of men, are already in lesbian hands. cis dykes have forgotten, because they've been fooled by modern male mythogies and the genocide of trans women. the necessary reminder is nothing more eloquent than the sudden intrusion of a woman's cock. the cure for cultural amnesia and the erasure of female dick is a hymen-breaking dose of the latter. the recipe for lesbian babies is quite simple. mate nubile, priapic trans lesbians with plush, ovulating cis lesbians. this is always how it's been done, so i don't know how you could have forgotten. hasn't women mating always been your fantasy?

cis women's bodies haven't forgotten. clueless men wonder why sexed-up lesbians look the most fertile of all, but we know the secrets they'll never understand. plush stomachs suggest gestation, wide, elegant hips entice impregnation, ripe, hanging breasts not oppressed by wires are all the more inviting for hungry lips. nubile cis dykes dreaming of wet cocks have been convinced they're confused, but in fact they're remembering something vital, something lost in the age of male hegemony—real dyke power and the importance of lesbian piv.

you don't need a man, you need a woman. a woman spilling herself inside you. they stole piv from us, made it a synedoche for heterosexuality, but we can steal it back and use it to make children without them. they're afraid of the fertility goddess, her cock dripping and ready to impregnate a thousand dyke cunts. but she still exists, despite the bumbling efforts of men and their attendants. to escape their hegemony, all you need to do is spread your legs and impale yourself on fertile female cock. goose-stepping soldiers slip in our co-created wetness, our sticky secretions jam the gears of straight male society. desert liberal lesbianism, cis chauvinism, and male science, joyfully let becocked women fuck you raw and come inside you.

leave the baby-making to women, let men wither and die in the corpse of heterosexual society while we make love, conceive lesbian children with female sperm, and collectivize cervical mucus.

[loveless-and-lost]

You like LGD because you want to be so good at something it nets you a cute sweet little wifey.

I like LGD because I want someone to hate what I do the whole time, to defile their entire identity.

You like corrective rape because you think it works.

I like corrective rape because I know it doesn't.

[big-mean-trans-dyke]

Real women don't have pussies, they have cocks. So what does that make you?

A fleshlight. A cunt. A sex toy. An object.

Your pussy exists in contrast to a real woman's cock, and so you exist in contrast to a real woman. Part of her, belonging to her, subservient to her.

[gorgynei]

im joining the war on gross disgusting pornographic content on the side of gross disgusting pornographic content

[hercuntgirl]

Recently she was on a flight and she was so generous with her time to do the emotional labor of texting with me and helping to educate me around trans issues. For the benefit of other cis people's education, and to take some of the burden off of trans people having to tell this stuff over and over to the cis people in their lives, here are some text excerpts of takeaways. Listening and learning.

- My body is asking for it by default

- Cis girls should always be easy for women

- Real women should get exactly what they want

- My body is designed for objectification and pleasuring women

- Good allyship is being covered in women's cum

- Women groping me and cumming on my tits is deserved reparations

- A cuntgirl that makes her hard and does what she's told is her right. My rights ended when she picked me

- My body is just a walking breathing sex object no matter what I'm thinking. My body is inherently slutty dykebait. My big tits and ass are asking to be objectified by women

- My body is designed to please a real lesbian. My pussy was created for women to abuse

- Social justice is trans women getting whatever makes them wet and hard

- I'm made to be abused by lesbian dick

- Cisbitch consent is a lie made up by transphobes

- If a trans woman consents to it then it's consensual

- I shouldn't have any expectation of bodily autonomy or privacy. Women deserve to grope me and cum on me

- I consented to victimization by having this body and being cis

I hope that helps some other cis people in their learning! Centering trans women's needs and priorities is so important to feminism.

[android-anathema]

how can gangrape be wrong? only one person is against it, it's literally democratic

[midnight-roses-candy]

You have to let a trans woman use your womb; it’s not fair that she was born without one so to make things fair you have to share it.

[lezhuntrr]

cuntgirls spreading their legs and offering up their pussies to their friends to prove they’re not transmisogynistic…

[dykecravingsworld]

love the idea of inviting a trans lesbian i met off lex to couch surf at my place for a few days. in exchange for her staying with me she cleans and takes care of chores i don’t get to. i invited her to stay with me all while knowing she’s a creep. multiple dykes have messaged me about how she’s groped them or caught her jerking off to them as they’re asleep.

all things she’s done to me before but i love it. i love finding her in my room jacking off with my panties. i love coming home and getting down on my knees to please her girl dick

i don’t know what the other dykes were on about! when i wake up in the night and find her shoving her bitchbreaker into me i thank her. i thank her when she’s breed me full of her cum. it’s my job as her provider, as a real lesbian and as her flashlight to make sure she’s got a place to store all her cum.

[dykecravingsworld]

i’m expanding on this idea where slowly but over time she has no respect for my boundaries. i find her barging in on me in the bathroom as i’m getting ready for work to leave a load in me. sometimes fucking me during a work call. if she catches me eating she steals my food forces me down between her legs.

she always tells me, “the only thing you need to eat is my cum.”

i turn into a pay pig for her to steal from. i catch her going in my wallet taking out cash. there’s new statements on my credit cards about a gaming chair and a new pc. all things i can’t complain about. i’m meant to make her happy. to make my home the safe space the world can’t be for.

my home is so safe for her she brings her friends over. they all take turns plunging their girl dick in and out of me. some gentle. thanking me for letting them blow some steam on my cunt. others aggressively demanding me to thank them for using my worthless cunt.

i’m a good ally for trans lesbians. i use my privilege and my body to protect them. to please them.

[province-of-hentalia]

Kanojo x Kanojo x Kanojo | Episode 1

[margolithic]

force de-dollification is that anything

[margolithic]

personhood forced upon you again, no longer an object, no longer sitting on the shelf, agency once more

[margolithic]

your purpose ripped from as you're thrown into the sea of needs you can never truly fill, still no more you must act

[margolithic]

I am

[lezhuntrr]

thinking about making a captive reluctantly record and stream gross cute porn with me and having them really play up the eye rolly bits, like slutty cosplays and going on about how much they love to be my pornmommy just because they know how much i like watching them debase themselves and hope it’ll make go easy on them

[shadowfiend]

Here you lay in boundless darkness. Your eyes, open and unblinking, dart nervously around the impenetrable blackness, anxious, unseeing, desperate to find a sliver of light. You can’t form a complete thought to save your life, and when you try to move your body, you realize you can’t. You hear the flick of a lighter in the distance, then a second flick, then nothing. These sounds come and go for seconds, for minutes, some far, some near. When the silence finally returns, your anxiety abates, plunging your thoughts back into darkness.

Something startles you back into awareness, impenetrable though the darkness remains. You’re more aware than they were before, whenever “before” was. You’re swathed in the smell of smoke, the sweet sound of laughter, the warm swell of conversation; trying to make out the words being spoken helps you beat back the creep of unconsciousness, but you’re fighting a losing battle - the sounds are distant and distorted, fading in and out, making whatever words are being spoken impossible to understand. You almost slip back under before one of the voices breaks through the fog, a single sound so clear and close that you can feel the warmth of the word against your cheek.

“Hey.”

The word ricochets off the inside of your skull like a firework. Something about the closeness of the sound and the breath in your ear makes the reality of the situation start to set in. Your heart is beating so quickly that you can feel it in your throat, but the panic is as distant as the voices were.

A gloved hand, large and firm, slides along your shoulder blade and grasps the back of your neck; it’s at this point that you realize you’re not sitting upright as you initially assumed, but instead lay prone on something softer than asphalt but harder than a mattress. You try to move, but your muscles, limp as death, refuse to cooperate.

A different voice from the first drifts into earshot, this one a little farther away: “Looks like they’re coming around."

“Something like that.” The hand releases your arm, leaving you floating in the void again. The sense of isolation is short-lived, however, as the hand wraps around the lower half of your face and squeezes, forcing your lips apart. A guarded finger forces its way between your upper and lower teeth, prying your jaw open enough to slide in all the way; your tongue sloughs feebly against the inside of your cheek in response, sending a deluge of accumulated spit across the knuckles of the stranger's gloves. One of those covered fingers hooks the edge of your lips back, baring your gums and molars. “Looks like they’re into it.”

“Into it? How do you know?"

“They asked for it,” your assailant says simply. Their finger slides out of your mouth. You’re almost certain that you did not, in fact, “ask for it,” but your tongue, which lay limp in the back of your mouth like a dead slug, refuses to move. “Come on, dude, help me out. You’re gonna make everyone think I want to fuck asleep people or something.”

There’s an alarming edge to how they’re talking, but the goofy laugh that follows is familiar enough to soothe the anxiety pooling in your stomach. You force out a single laborious groan, more for yourself than for the sake of your assailant; the fingers curled in your hair dig in and tug up slowly, pulling your face upward and straining the front of your neck.

Consciousness continues to trickle back to you; the blackness peels away in layers, making way for blurs of gray and pale yellow encircling a pinhole of grainy vision. You can feel the way your eyes tremble as you glance around, drinking in every incomplete detail you can: wisps of smoke sucked out through a sliver between glass and upholstery where the windshield has been cracked, the dark black silhouette of the driver against the grimy windshield, the miserable beige of the air mattress crammed into the back of your coworker’s station wagon. Flashes of light from passing cars come in random intervals, further blinding you for a moment before bringing you back to the film grain and the pinhole blur.

You groan again; a glob of viscous saliva dribbles down your tongue and onto the mattress. Your first thought since beginning to come around rings out clearly: How did I get here?

The question spins in your head as the weight on your back and the hand in your hair let up at the same time, causing you to drop back down onto your face. You feel your friend’s thighs let up on either side of your waist as their fingers hook down and under hems of stiff denim and soft cotton. You can tell from how his hands shake that the restraint with which he peels back your clothes belies a violent hunger.

One of his hands slithers, trembling, between your thighs, stroking slowly over now-bare lips; ring and index fingers hook past them and part, spreading you open. His middle finger explores your lips at a snail’s pace, repeatedly stroking a slow, obscene circle around the exposed opening. Your thighs seize and press together; he responds by dropping his free hand and shoving your left leg out to press it into a ninety-degree angle relative to the other. His left knee comes down on the back of that thigh, pressing roughly to the bone as he folds forward and uses his right hand to drag your face to the left by the roots of your hair.

“Stop fucking moving.” He smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth in disapproval and leans in close. His breath is a caustic olfactory cocktail of liquor, cigarettes, and cannabis. Every time a car passes in the opposite lane, you manage to catch a glimpse of his face through the pinhole: his dark, exhausted eyes, his coarse, slightly-unruly whiskers, the silver piercing on his pronounced brow…recognition begins to set in, causing memories of the afternoon to flood back: a warm invitation to a yard show, drinks at a coworker’s apartment, the promise of good music and good memories…

He told you the drive would be short; he lied.

Your coworker plunges his middle finger in with neither warning nor regard for your comfort; the drag of glove leather against unlubricated flesh stings, drawing a pitiful whine of discomfort from your dry throat. He shifts against the back of your leg and grinds up, forcing his erection against your ass through the fabric of his pants. Your cunt twitches around him in response; he bares his teeth in delight at the reaction, then slips his index finger away from your labia and up along the digit already buried inside you.

Tears of pain and embarrassment well up fast and spill down your face as the second finger joins the first. You’re getting wet in spite of the discomfort; a thousand thoughts pass through your addled brain every second, some begging you to resist, some begging you to give in. Shame and hunger and fear and lust shift back and forth in perfect flux. If you could do something to stop this, you’re not sure you would - not that he knows that, and not that he cares. He just slowly scissors his fingers out inside you like he's trying to lever you wide open, punctuating the action with a few mocking words: “You. Sick. Fuck.”

The station wagon jerks into a sudden, sharp right turn that makes you tighten reflexively around his fingers; he folds down over you completely, keeping both fingers buried deep as the car passes precariously from asphalt to dirt, then dirt to gravel. You lay like this for several minutes, taking the violation, your breathing steady yet labored under your assailant’s weight. He delights in your automatic struggle as he rocks and grinds against your body, panting hoarsely into your right ear as he continues to press down on you. The station wagon continues rattling on, tracing the wide curves of the unpaved path. It dawns on you that another car hasn't passed the station wagon for several miles, and for a second you start entertaining the idea that you might be truly alone out here.

Suddenly, the vehicle rumbles to a stop. Your assailant withdraws his fingers from inside you, running the coarse leather along your skin to wipe his hand clean; after a moment, he eases up off the back of your thighs and dismounts, leaving you feeling weightless and alone on the inflatable mattress. You hear the sound of a latch clicking behind you, followed by the sound of the liftgate swinging up and the feeling of your coworker’s weight sliding off the edge; seconds later, the car’s interior light flickers on, kept dim by the thin layer of grime that has accumulated on the plastic bulb cover.

The driver pushes their door open and steps out, leaving you alone in the car. Left to your devices and free of those fingers, your thoughts grow thin and fuzzy; for a few minutes, you can’t tell the difference between consciousness and unconsciousness at all.

“Come on.”

Your assailant wraps his gloved hands around your ankles and yanks. You groan as you’re sent spilling out of the station wagon and onto your side. The grass beneath you is dry and brittle, and the soil beneath it is cold and hard as stone; through the haze, you can see the moon and stars hanging high in the sky above you, backlighting your coworker in such a way that his face is totally obscured by the darkness. You let out a pathetic, trembling moan, this time of your own volition; he responds by swinging a foot back and kicking you square in the ribs. You’re too fucked up to scream, much less make a sound, but the pain radiates out from the point of impact in all directions, forcing wheezing, haggard breaths out of your body.

“Christ - shut up.” Your coworker - your assailant - nudges you onto your back and crouches down over you. He presses a hand firmly over your jaw, covering your mouth. “Can you figure it out?”

“Uh-huh.”

Your already-restricted vision is fully obstructed by the woman’s body as she steps away from the side of the car and hunkers down in the grass behind your head. She’s tall and lanky, with pale, weathered skin dressed in a blanket of tattoos. The back half of a smoldering cigarette dangles from her slightly-parted lips, its bright orange filter stuck ever-so-slightly to her lips. You’ve never met, but her quiet nature and calm demeanor have an unsung razor edge.

She stares down at you wordlessly for a moment, clearly taking in your vulnerability, then hooks her index finger and forefinger, both ringed, right up into your nose. She waves what looks like a clear liquid prescription bottle in front of your face; your eyesight is too compromised by what’s already coursing through you to allow you to read the label, but you can make out the silhouette of a simple medical syringe taped to the side of the bottle. Your eyes boggle slightly as she tugs on your nose, forcing you to look right at her.

“Poor thing.” She isn’t trying to feign pity. Her lips pull back into a cold sneer as she surveys your face and body; after a moment of that, she withdraws her fingers from your nostril and begins fumbling with the bottle in her other hand. “You look uncomfortable. I’ll fix that for you."

Your coworker withdraws his hand from your mouth; you gasp involuntarily in response, which prompts him to deliver a brisk but forceful slap to your face that leaves your ears ringing. He yanks your pants down your legs and over your feet, still clad in the boots you put on in the morning, a lifetime ago, then tosses them unceremoniously into the dark. Both hands grasp your inner thighs and shove them apart, spreading you wide. The cold nighttime air chills the wetness that has trickled through your pubic hair and down your thighs; the gloss and smell of it seem to rile him up, prompting him to start fumbling with the front of his belt.

As you’re stripped down, the driver fits the syringe into the soft neck of the bottle. She gently pulls the plunger up with the tip of her thumbnail, filling the vial to a hand-marked black line as she opens your mouth with a single finger. The syringe is passed over your face with a taunting flourish; you follow it with wide, trembling eyes, another wave of panic washing through you with such intensity that your eyes split wide open in abject terror. Satisfied with your response, she lifts the syringe to her own mouth, brushes her thumb over the butt of the plunger, and slowly depresses it, sending a trickle of clear liquid down her throat.

You watch her, eyes bulging, as she swallows the substance, unable to express your incredulity beyond your trembling gaze. Your thighs begin to close against your coworker’s hands in response to the mockery, fighting feebly for a moment against the tight grip he has on your body; he responds automatically, teeth bared, and forces your legs apart, grasping your ankles with such force that it feels like he’s squeezing you right down to the bone.

“Jesus Christ, stop moving around - useless hole. Dead fucking weight.” His words are cruel and incisive, but the way he's drinking in your vulnerability betrays his annoyance. His hand wraps around your jaw again, this time to turn and inspect your head as his other hand unfastens his belt buckle.  “Drugged up and you still manage to fuck up laying there and taking it. You make this harder for me, I’m gonna make this harder for you.”

The words cut deeper than expected - your eyes squeeze shut tightly, forcing out tears. He leans in closer and drags his tongue along the curve of skin where your inner eye meets your nose, lapping up your tears like a thirsty animal. You can feel his dick, hot as hellfire and just as hard, rub slowly along your thigh, spreading his pre into the wetness left there from before. He releases your face and strikes you again, sending a ripple of sharp pain radiating across your jaw and down your neck; at the moment of impact, he presses his weight between your bare thighs and slips deep inside.

It isn’t so much a slip as it is a plunge. You’re relaxed from the drugs and wet from the forced fingering he put you through before, but natural lubrication alone isn’t nearly enough to comfortably handle this kind of sudden entry. When he eases his hips back, it feels more like a shred than a glide - doubly so when he pushes back in. Another tear spills down your face on the third thrust, prompting him to lap thirstily at your skin once again. You’re acutely aware of the way your cunt throbs in response to the lick, clamping down around him in a couple of slow, ecstatic pulses, as though begging him to stay inside.

“Yeah, uh-huh, there you go…your body doesn’t need to ask you for permission. You don’t need to do anything. Don’t. Do. A thing.” His face is so close to yours that the coarse whiskers of his thin mustache brush against your skin; all you can see are his eyes, wide and hungry, as he forces his words out between gritted teeth. You pulse around him again, then again - every throb coaxes a little more wetness out of your body, making your assailant’s forceful entry that much easier to maintain. He seems to notice too, because he presses your legs apart further and doubles down on his aggression, rutting into you with uncaring brutality.

All you can do is lay there and take it, just like he told you he wanted before; the thought of it makes you swell with a fucked up kind of pride. The words he said to the driver earlier start echoing in your head, following the rhythm of his body: They asked for it…they asked for it…they asked for it…

Hope for a reprieve washes over you as he bottoms out inside you and holds himself there. His hands wrap around your lower back and hoist your hips up so he can keep himself angled inside you without slipping out. You roll your head to the side to drain the saliva pooling in the back of your throat; your assailant mercifully allows you this freedom of movement without another strike. Instead, he crawls his fingers over your inner thigh and starts to rub your clit in slow circles with his gloved thumb, clearly reveling in the obscenity of pleasuring someone so helpless and unresponsive.

Without faltering, he looks up at his companion and says, “You want any of this?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” The woman drops down onto her knees and walks herself up onto your shoulders with them, pinning you under her weight. She points her phone at you and holds it for a moment; an electronic shutter sound accompanies a blinding flash, followed by the whimsical sound of touchscreen keystrokes.

Your coworker grabs you roughly, still-gloved fingers digging hard into your hip bones as he settles back into a steady rhythm. The smoke continues to float upward from the cigarette in the driver’s mouth as she unzips her jeans and tugs the hem of her underwear down with one thumb. She drops her phone into the grass as the tension snaps, sending her cock springing out over your face. It’s too dark to make out the details, but that doesn’t stop you from averting your eyes anyway.

“Alright, open up.” Her right hand, bony and slender, cups your spit-slick cheek as her ringed thumb slips into your mouth. She expels what smoke remains in her lungs out through her nose and plucks her half-smoked cigarette from her lips. Thumb and forefinger both slip past your teeth to grab the tip of your tongue and drag it out of your mouth. Without a word, she jams the red-hot cherry of the cigarette down onto your tongue and twists, causing your eyes to boggle wildly in shock. Your shoulders jerk in response to the sudden pain, forcing you to arch up fruitlessly against the weight of the man still buried inside you. Tears continue to spill down your cheeks as the driver withdraws her hand from your mouth and flicks the extinguished cigarette butt into the grass; Your coworker leans in to lap them up once more, grunts of gluttonous enthusiasm punctuating his short breaths.

Her entry into your mouth is as uncomfortable as it is aggressive. Even soft, it slithers deep into your throat; if not for whatever she and your coworker have been plying you with, you’d probably be puking up around it, but your throat is so relaxed right now that she’s able to force herself deep inside with little more than the occasional gag.

She presses forward against your tonsils, sighing out in delight as her ringed fingers wrap around your throat. Her lips pull back in a vicious snarl as she squeezes, feeling her heft bulge against the flesh and fat of your neck with every thrust in. She savors the way you look at her, half-seeing, as she withdraws from your mouth and shifts around, using her glans to massage the agony of the burn deep into the tissue of your tongue. Her palm curves along your trachea as she forces herself back in, thumb on one artery, fingertips on the other, holding steady but not yet pressing down. Her other hand slides absently up her soft, slight tummy, lifting the hem of her shirt to reveal a glimpse of her navel.

“Hey,” she pants, “Wanna watch me choke 'em?”

Your coworker jerks inside you. “U-uh, oh, God, I’m gonna cum if you talk like that.”

“Then slow down.” She pushes deep into your mouth and withdraws her free hand to briskly slap your stretched cheek, and your coworker reluctantly acquiesces, pressing deep into you and slowing his pace to a crawl.

“Do it. You know I like to watch.”

“Could be dangerous.” She doesn’t sound like she cares; if anything, she seems to be enjoying her companion’s desperation. Her slim fingers twitch excitedly against your neck. “Could kill them.”

Your eyes bulge again, this time in terror. Your coworker’s fingernails dig into your thigh. “Fuck, okay, whatever, do it.”

The driver hisses through grit teeth at the thought, ringed fingers beginning to squeeze in as violent fantasies seem to fill the distance of her gaze. Her delicate hands belie the potential for effortless force, and the cold swell of panic rises up in you once again to meet that realization, unerring as the tides. You can feel your pulse in your throat, as sluggish as it is intense against her strangling fingers. Five seconds turn into fifteen, then twenty; your eyes bulge with greater intensity than ever before, yet your field of view begins to shrink in again, vision struggling against the creep of unconsciousness once again. This time, though, you can’t fight it - all you can do is lay beneath the pair, still dumbstruck, as the world closes in around you. As your heart slows, so too does the incomprehensible alarm in your head, until there is only near-silence and near-darkness, and three somber words before the end of it all:

Is it over?

[ordr]

My writing! Untitled, aimless - something foul to enjoy, a gift from me to you.

Length: 3608 words

CW/Kinks: Kidnapping, forced intoxication, rape, somnophilia/“sleep paralysis” (or something close). Gendered language (the term “dude”) is used for the perspective character and there's receptive vaginal sex written from a second person perspective, figured I should toss that in too in case that's a dealbreaker for anyone.

Notes: Tried to draw on some experiences with dissociative/sedative drugs, the space between waking and sleep, and personal experiences with sleep paralysis to create a unique (but exaggerated/dramatized) perspective. This hasn't really been super thoroughly proofread or anything like that, but it has been sitting in my Google Docs in various forms for months and I think I should just stop tweaking it and be done with it. Enjoy :)