-------------------------------------------------------------
The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
-------------------------------------------------------------
- This story is part of the Used and Abused Tournament
- It competes against The Trial of Khloe Thompson in the QF-1 match
- Theme: Boys will be boys
-------------------------------------------------------------
Mother Knows Best
“Are you staying regular with your pills?” I answered her in the affirmative. By now, I had learned to greystone anytime my mother asked me that question. Even now that I had a professional, big girl job straight out of college, along with my own money and my own apartment, she still treated me like an incorrigible teen who could get pregnant just by being in the vicinity of someone of the male sex. As soon as I started ovulating, she felt it important to drag me to Family Planning and get me on birth control as soon as possible. She always said it was for “my protection.” Personally, I thought it was just to put dad's mind at ease and assuage the fear that his darling little angel may come home one day all knocked up.
“You're not working too hard, are you?” she asked on the other end of the phone.
Looking at the clock—6:37 p.m.—I bit my lip before responding. For the third night in a row, I had found myself in the office after business hours again. It was a small price to ingratiate myself to the partners in the firm. I had put myself on the three-year trajectory. After one more promotion, I planned to enroll in a flex MBA program and then start fast tracking my way toward management. My mom was always worried that I was being exploited, but she just didn't understand modern careers in which young professionals were expected to work beyond the typical nine-to-five.
“No, mom. But I do need to wrap up some of these expense reports. Tomorrow's Friday, so I promise I won't go too hard for the rest of the week.” I ended the call with a still skeptical mother who admonished me to stay on well-lit streets on the way home. Part of the allure of living in the city was its robust public transportation. The idea of not needing a car with its related expenses appealed to me, and I had become quite well accustomed to take the monorail, subway, and buses that connected the various neighborhoods.
A half hour later, I had finished the reports and I was out the door of the office building. After a five minute walk down the street, I reached the subway station. It was just a matter of taking the J Train to 35th Street, getting off and waiting on the platform for about seven minutes, and then grabbing the Green Dot train to Fresno Avenue. After another five minute walk, I'd be back at my complex.
The J Train leg of the trip home was uneventful. The car I was in was full, but I luckily had a seat. Standing on the far end platform for the Green Dot, I noticed three men looking over my direction. As soon as my eyes met theirs, they turned away into a huddle among each other. I felt my pulse rise ever so slightly. A certain womanly intuition kicked in that catalyzed my alert levels. I looked back at the men on the platform, who now seemed to be busy in some sort of other discussion. I noted that they appeared to be somewhere in their 20s.
I soon heard the low vibration further down the tunnel—the unofficial announcement that the Green Dot was approaching. The silver cars zoomed passed, slowing down for the station. The brakes ground, halting the train. I waited the obligatory two seconds for the doors to open and cleared a way for those exiting at the 35th Street station. Walking through the doors, I caught sight of the group of men who had been looking toward me as they entered three cars further down the train. “Good,” I thought. Although I didn't suspect them of engaging in anything particularly troubling, knowing the group would be in a car in another part of the train gave me a sense of relief.
The prerecorded voice came across the PA as I entered the last car: “You are on an east-bound train. The next stop in approximately 10 minutes will be...the 7th Street Bridge.” I took a seat at a side-facing bench. I quickly noticed that the last car was sparsely populated: only a businessman reading the Wall Street Journal and a middle-aged woman with who I assume were her two children. It wasn't unusual for the Green Dot to be relatively empty during this time on Thursday, but riding the subway has taught me to always be conscious of my surroundings. To pass the time, I pulled my phone from my purse and started reading a blog piece on best international vacations on a budget.
After 5 minutes, I heard the swish of the vestibule door open. My eyes peered up. My heart jumped. I saw the three men from the platform stroll into the car. There was a certain kind of nonplussed confidence to them that I found unsettling, as if they were apex predators and the city were a kingdom they saw as their birthright. My eyes returned to the phone screen while I maintained my wits. My normal stop was just after the next. I could get off at the next stop, but I was unfamiliar with that part of the city. If the men got off as well, I'd certainly look like a lost gazelle, easily picked off. I was probably overreacting. The men gave me the creeps, but giving me the creeps certainly doesn't mean that something bad is going to happen. The men took seats near the front of the car.
“Approaching ...7th Street Bridge. Please check that you have all of your belongings and wait for the doors to open before exiting the train.” The voice over the PA with its synthetic diction seemed especially irritating this evening.
I felt the train slow as the dark tunnel walls gave way to the light of the 7th Street Bridge station. The train stopped, the doors opened. My heart felt a sense of relief as I saw one of the men stand up and begin walking down the aisle. “This must be their stop!” I thought.
...but he didn't go out a door. Instead, he just walked past me and sat down at a bench at the other end of the car. Tension once again rose in my body, which gave way to pure fear as I watched the businessman and the mother and children exit the car. Nobody got in the car. I was alone with the three men. I felt the jerk of the train signaling its departure.
“You are on an east-bound train. The next stop in approximately 13 minutes will be...Fresno Avenue.”
From the corner of my eye I saw one of the men rise from his seat and begin walking down the aisle. I stayed focus on my phone screen, trying not to show fear much like how I read one should do when confronted with a dangerous animal. I sensed him stop right before reaching me.
“Whatcha' reading?” he asked, sitting down next to me on the bench. I felt sweat begin to form along my arms. My heart beat faster. I purposely didn't make eye contact, but I could tell he was stout. Overall he looked low class, but certainly took care of himself, either working out in a gym on a regular basis or had employment that required strenuous physical activity.
“I asked you: whatcha reading?”
“Just a blog,” hoping that my curt response would communicate my desire to be left alone. I worried, however, that it was not my desires that were of interest at that moment. The sound of steps reverberated through the train car. Looking up ever so slight, I saw the other two men had risen from their seats and were blocking the aisle at either direction.
The man's hand reached out and snatched the phone from my hands. “You don't seem real talkative and too many people are tied to their phones, anyways.”
I felt myself shiver in fear, my eyes now forced to look at the men in the car. The other two began closing in.
“What's you say we have a little bit of fun here before the next stop?”
Fight or flight overtook. I leapt up and ran. If I could make it to the vestibule door and get into the next car, I would surely be safe. There had to be passengers in there. I heard a chuckle from the man on the bench but he didn't pursue—something to which I didn't give much thought at the moment. The man blocking the aisle was just as large as the one on the bench. “Adrenaline, don't fail me now,” I prayed to myself.
But it felt like hitting a fleshy wall. The man grabbed me, blocking my exit. I tried to spin around. I even threw a (pathetic) punch or two, which were as ineffectual and trying to fist fight in a dream.
“Oh, you're not going anywhere right now, lil' missy,” the second man mocked. With a shove, I found myself pushed into the third assailant, a less buff but equally strong Black man. I tried to escape his grip but that only made propelling me into the arms of the first man—now standing—all the easier. He then shoved me back to the arms of the second man. Back and forth they pushed me, as if playing a sinister game of keep-away.
Finally, I landed in the arms of the first man, his hands gripping either side of my light chambray blouse. He had a sneering smile that burned into the core of my being. The second man pressed up against me. “Oh gawd...he's hard!” I thought to myself. I could feel the second one's manhood—his need—pushed up against the tight khaki skirt enclosing my derriere. A gasp escaped my lips as his hands reached around and began stroking my hips, then down to my upper thighs.
I recounted how the situation had devolved to this point. If only had been in a more busy train car. And now...now I was going to be...raped...fucked like a dumb helpless girl who didn't have enough sense to watch out for herself in the big city. How much time had passed since the last stop? Two minutes? That was 11 minutes these men could have their way with me before the next station.
The first man leered down at my chest. I have had men check me out before in bars and on the street, but never had I been stared at with such uncouth attention. Whereas I secretly liked when a man's eyes would drift down to my chest or to my ass, this instance made me queasy.
“You have a nice pair,” he growled. I felt my face become flushed from the crude objectification. Just then, I felt his grip tighten on my blouse, followed by the strain of its front panel. The man grunted, pulling apart my shirt, its little plastic buttons spewing on the floor. Then with a quick yank, my top was pulled down off my shoulders and arms. I'd never been undressed in such a way by any lover in the past—so rudely and without care. I cowered, reduced down to my white bra, adorned with nothing but a subtle picot ornamentation around the cups. Totally de-bloused, I now felt the intimate ware's tightness more so than I ever did during the workday, reminding me that I was a woman and had the inherently weakness of a woman. Averting my eyes, I saw the bulge growing in the pants of my first captor. Without looking, I surely knew the third man was equally as aroused. There was no way I would be able to stave off three hard-dicked men.
“Use the knife,” the first man said to the captor behind me.
“The knife?” I thought, feeling a hand from behind grab a fist full of my skirt. The blade struggled for a mere moment before cutting a hole in the back. Another grip moment sliced down through the bottom hem.
“Here's what's going to happen,” the first man said. The moment he spoke, the second man tore the back of my skirt from bottom to top. The dry shripping sound filled the subway car, giving auditory confirmation of my humiliation. Another quick twist of the knife severed the top hem, and my skirt was unceremoniously pulled from my trembling hips, leaving me in my white bikini briefs. I cowered, a poised young professional just minutes before and now a stripped plaything for these crude men.
“We're going to fuck your mediocre body until the next stop.” The threat of rape was traumatizing enough, but to insult my looks added additional insult, as if they were doing a favor by forcing themselves upon me. It completely deconstructed the idea that every young woman wants to be made a princess when being taken to bed.
A hand reached between my legs and grabbed my womanly arch. The man squeezed and rubbed. “Oh gawd,” I simpered. I was actually starting to get wet from the stimulation.
“I think she likes it,” the second man boasted.
The first man put a hand on my shoulder and grabbed my bra by the gore, pulling until the hook and eyelets bursts, and tore the garment off, leaving my nipples to harden in the cool subway air. The knife blade slid under the leghole of my panties and sliced the cotton apart. He pulled my ruined undies from under my legs I desperately tried to hold tightly together. It had come to this: I was now naked, ready to take my punishment for being a stupid young woman with a “mediocre”—but apparently still fuckable—body.
Before I could further contemplate my pathetic state, I found myself dragged to the floor of the subway. I shuttered just thinking what had happened on that floor—homeless people pissing, blood from junkies shooting up. I heard the unmistakable sound of pants unzipping. I could smell the man's musk—a mix of sweat and masculine pheromones. In a consensual situation, it would have been a nice effervesce to pre-coital bliss.
The weight of his body on top pulled my mind away for a brief moment from the fact the tip of his manhood was at the lips of my most sacred of feminine places. A groan escaped my lips as he slowly penetrated me, sliding inside as an unwelcome intruder. “You're so big,” I cried out. My protest only emboldened him. Every man loves to hear that his dick is large. I realized my mistake the moment the words escaped my lips. While it wasn't a compliment, the man was in such control as to will it as so. Even the meaning of my words was at his mercy.
I knew I should scream and buck, just try to escape. But I knew at least one of these men were armed. I fell back on the archetypes I had seen while watching movies in which the damsel was passive. Giving up a part of my virtue, my agency, at this moment would perhaps preserve my overall well being.
“Boys, this one is tight as hell” the man said through gritted teeth. In some sick way, I took pride in that. It spoke to my modesty as a young woman, but it always was a defense. I wouldn't give these men the ease of a loose pussy. They'd had to force their cocks into me.
He began pumping away, thrusting his nasty cock inside me. The second man held my arms fast to the dingy floor. “Damn, this white bitch can sure take a cock,” the third man said, watching my debasement from behind the leader.
“Oh, our bitches can take it pretty hard when they want,” the second man affirmed, “And this one certainly deserves a hard fuckin' for coming on the train all hoity-toity with her high-class tits.”
“How much time we had,” my attacker groaned.
“'bout seven minutes,” the third man replied.
“Better finish up then to give you two a swing.” The man humped me harder, faster, making me his pinned little slut: a feeling that destroyed my very self-concept. I screamed, my face flushed from the humiliation, a humiliation forced upon me for my mistake to be a young woman on the subway.
The man groaned out. I could feel his cock shiver inside me and blow what could have been endless CC's of bitter man serum into my dainty little pussy. In that moment, the cold hard truth hit me. I now understood why my mother was so adamant I be on birth control, even during time periods I wasn't sexually active. She knew this could happen to me. And it was her best way—her only way—to protect me. She must have assumed that my rape was an inevitability. The best outcome from such a dire future was to keep me from getting pregnant from the act.
“Let's give this honey some chocolate,” the third man said, playfully pulling the first man off my used—my defiled—body. My dear reader, I'm distraught to say that I learned first hand that the stereotype of Black men having larger than average genitals is quite true! While the previous man took my pussy and made it his own, this one completely destroyed it. He had to pull me forward by the shoulders to get himself entirely inside. Once he did, the man took little time to begin pounding my dainty little hole. No longer could I use floral metaphors to refer to my most intimate area. No, I would only be able to think of it as a gaping maw of someone else's pleasure. While a woman's virtue should be priceless, mind was quickly deflating to cut-rate prices.
The assailant reached out and began fondling my breasts, rolling my nipples between his strong fingers. Again, this would have been thrilling in any other circumstances, but having my body submitted to the will of others without my agency made the situation a nightmare.
“Now don't you make any jokes about me being a two-pump chump, bitch, or we'll make this a lot worse, 'cause I'm about to blow up all inside your white pussy!” The idea of the man's balls tightening right before he released inside made me sick; yet I couldn't help but think of that in the very moment. I felt a giant wad explode inside of me, painting my inner vaginal walls as his. I was a marked woman now, completely fucked and used by a man of—as my mom would say—ill-repute.
“'Kay, you got about two minutes to get in and get done,” the first man said to the one who had been holding my arms the entire time.
“You're lucky we don't have much time left,” the man up to bat hissed in my ear, “or I'd go through the longer process of penetrating your coiffed little ass. So I'll at least do you the pleasure of fucking you like a proper lady. Consider it your lucky day.”
I felt myself pushed head first up against the bench, my naked ass pointed straight in the air. One of my blue pumps slipped off, and I cringed as my bare foot touched the floor. The man's cock pushed through my inner thighs, finding its way to my unprotected womanhood. “Why don't I give you a little bit of pleasure for your trouble,” the raspy voice whispered in my ear. A hand reached down and pulled my lips aside, quickly finding my clitoris. My body shook and I yelled out like a bitch in heat. “That's right, let everyone know what a slut you are!” he quietly mocked.
A cock slid into my pussy, which had become well-worn by now, easily accepting the final man's fleshy snake. The act of being taken from behind further intensified my humiliating predicament. I resigned that at least I wasn't being anally raped as the man had threatened. Already, I understood the passive victimhood that was to be my fate, that mother recognized would be my fate oh so many years ago.
My body shook against the bench with every thrust. He was going to get off by sheer force rather than speed. To gain leverage, his hands wrapped around my chest and squeezed my breasts, surely leaving red impressions that marked my tits as used goods.
“Approaching ...Fresno Street. Please check that you have all of your belongings and wait for the doors to open before exiting the train.”
The prerecorded voice over the PA felt like a god-send. This horrible situation would soon be over. The final man began to hump harder and faster, determined to cum before the group's escapade ended. And mark my words, reader, he surely did. Semen exploded from his massive dick, leaking out of my folds.
No sooner did the subway doors open did I find myself tossed onto the platform with my destroyed clothes like some woman from one of those chikan bus videos from Japan. I looked around for help. Despite all of the shame of my state, I needed someone to help me. But there was nobody there. I cursed the decision to leave the office long after rush hour.
I was able to partially cover myself with the destroyed blouse, and my bra wasn't completely useless as covering, even if it was unable to provide mammary support any longer. But my panties and skirt were only good for the garbage can. My attackers were “kind” enough to toss my purse out too. Obviously it wasn't money that they were after. And thus I held my blouse closed with a hand and began the walk back to my apartment. Nary did I see a police officer along the way. I mostly encountered the homeless, the destitute. None of them could offer any help. I didn't even bother asking. I probably looked like a drug-induced hallucination to them. Two businessmen passed by but they only stared at me, hoping to get a peak of my unprotected pussy through the flouncing of my blouse.
The worst part was walking past a pimp. “Hey baby, if you ever want to make some money with the way you dress, I could have you turning tricks out here in no time.” His offer being genuine made the catcall even worse!
My thoughts went to the practical parts of what just happened to me. Those thugs still have my phone. Did I have anything on there with my address? Will they go through my list of contacts and target my friends, families, and colleagues?
Darkness enveloping the street, I finally made it to my apartment. Free hand trembling, I pulled the keys from my purse and stepped in. I couldn't stand the black of the room and found a lamp switch as quickly as possible. I needed to call someone who cared, someone who would understand. I hurriedly dug through a drawer in the kitchen to find an old cell phone. I didn't have a contract for it anymore, but I could call via my WiFi.
“Oh hello, honey. Did you make it home safe?”
“Mom...” I felt paralyzed. Saying the words would be a struggle.
“Yes, honey...”
“Mom...I was. I was assaulted.” I couldn't actually utter the word “rape,” but the meaning behind the euphemism I used was quite clear.
There was silence on the other end.
“Mom...Mom, are you still there?”
I could hear a sigh through the phone's speaker before my mother finally answered: “Well, boys will be boys.”
It's very good except for some narration whiplashes when the description becomes technical-cum 
-euphemistic.
