Ciaran watched Alison molest the girl on the train.
The train was packed. Alison, in her best business-professional blouse, was located in a row of seats facing the centre aisle. The girl – a university student, who couldn’t have been more than 19 – was standing, packed between sweaty commuters, one hand reaching overhead to grasp the hand-loops, the other clutching a heavy canvas book-bag.
In the press of people, the girl barely had room to move. She was facing away from Alison. Her ass was practically in Alison’s face.
Alison’s face was flushed – blushing. She was breathing heavily. Her hand rose, landed on the girl’s buttock, and squeezed.
The girl jumped. She tried to turn to see what was happening, but didn’t have enough space to do so. She bucked her hips forward, trying to get away from Alison’s hand.
Ciaran could see all this from six seats down, near the end of the carriage, looking back towards Alison. The men sitting either side of Alison could see it, too. Both seemed like older office workers. Neither did anything to stop her.
Alison squeezed again, and the girl’s hand swung backwards, attempting to knock Alison’s hand away – but she couldn’t, without putting down the book bag, which she seemed reluctant to do.
Alison lowered her hand. There was no disguising the look on her face now – lust, shame, need. She knew what she was doing was wrong. She knew people could see her. She still couldn’t stop herself.
She slid her hand up – *under* the girl’s skirt.
Now the girl really jumped. She began to gyrate, trying to turn, to get her ass away from Alison, to confront her attacker (who she probably assumed was a man). But the men around her pressed in against her, having nowhere to move themselves, grumpy at her causing a scene and invading their personal space. Their reaction was probably innocent – although possibly they saw what was happening to her, and were acting to enable it. Ciaran couldn’t really be sure.
The girl dropped her bag now, and swatted at Alison’s hand. The train was moving fast enough that she couldn’t let go of the loop above without falling, She swung wildly at Alison’s hand, still not able to turn around.
Alison just dodged it. She pulled her hand back, or moved it to the side, and then resumed violating the girl as soon as the girl’s hand was out of the way. Pinned as she was, the girl couldn’t defend her entire rear with only one hand – and the more she violently tried to swat at Alison, the more attention she was drawing to herself. Attention she didn’t want, because – as with many girls – the idea of people *knowing* she was being molested was more humiliating than the molestation itself.
The next time the girl’s hand stopped waving, Alison picked up the rear of the girl’s skirt and tucked it into the skirt’s own waistband – exposing the girl’s entire rear to Alison’s side of the train.
The girl went wild, pulling it down – and Alison did it again, and again, until the girl stopped resisting.
Ciaran wished he could see the girl’s face – the beautiful blush, the look of humiliation and violation and defeat that he knew must be there. The girl had a nice body – a shapely round ass, blonde hair, full tits. A look at that face in the grips of degradation would complete the image.
Now the men either side of Alison were definitely paying attention. Still, neither of them made any move to stop her.
Then Alison got serious. In one smooth move, she slipped two fingers underneath the crotch of the girl’s cute white panties, and directly into her pussy.
The girl made a noise – half scream, half choke – and then immediately went silent, desperate not to let people know what was happening to her. Her hand went to stop Alison again – but Alison responded by pinching the girl’s pussy lips. If the girl tried to pull her hand away, she’d be pulling on her own cuntflesh – and, worse, wrestling in an extremely obvious way with a hand that had two fingers in her fuckhole.
Instead, the girl just went very, very still, and let Alison finger-rape her.
Alison pulled her fingers out of the girl’s pussy after a couple of pumps, and even from here Ciaran could see the slime dripping from them. The girl was wet – very wet. Alison brought her fingers to her lips and sucked them clean.
And the expression on her face was even better. Because yes, it was still lustful, flushed, needy – but it was also disgusted. Alison hated the taste of the girl’s pussy juices, was revolted by tasting a woman’s cunt on her tongue, was outraged by her own behaviour. She hated it – and yet he could see that the taste was making her own pussy very, very wet.
She pushed her fingers back into the girl’s pussy, and began to fingerfuck her vigorously.
Ciaran’s cock was rock hard. It was distracting. Unlike Alison, he wasn’t about to be a pervert on a public train, so it would have to wait.
The best part for Ciaran about all this – the absolute best part – was that Alison didn’t know why she was doing this.
She wasn’t a lesbian. She wasn’t a pervert. She was a feminist, a professional, a defender of women’s rights, an educated and sensible woman. She didn’t know why the words “harass her, molest her, rape her” had started running through her mind the second the girl put her cute teenaged ass in her face. She didn’t know why she had this all-consuming need to sexually violate the poor girl in front of an audience, to taste her cunt juices and enjoy her misery.
But Ciaran knew.
Alison was doing it because Ciaran had made her. Because Alison had fallen into a hypnotic trap that Ciaran had laid for her. And day by day, Ciaran was slowly rewriting her personality to make her everything that she hated most in the world.
The girl orgasmed from her rape just before Ciaran and Alison reached their stop – twitching, moaning, her knees going weak.
In response, Alison pulled out her fingers, licked them clean – and then pulled the girl’s panties down in one smooth motion, leaving them bunched around her ankles, before grabbing the girl’s skirt and ripping it free.
The girl was naked from the waist down in front of the entire train carriage.
There should have been outrage – but the carriage was mostly men, and they appreciated the show that Alison had put on. There was some laughter.
And before the girl could respond, Alison stood and left the carriage, exiting just as the train stopped, still holding the girl’s skirt.
She knew, as she left – and Ciaran could see it on her face – that she could be investigated for this. Prosecuted. Go to jail. Her face was on the security cameras – but so was the girl’s orgasm. So was the girl’s nudity. There would probably be no complaint.
But the knowledge was there in her mind. Alison knew she deserved to go to jail as a rapist. And that thought would stay with her forever. It would be there in her mind as she made her way to the toilets at work, and frantically masturbated to orgasm as she thought about the humiliation she had inflicted on the poor girl on the train, and as she cried and wept wondering why she was doing this, why she had become such a disgusting rapist slut.
It was the thought that Ciaran would cum to, in his own masturbation. And the knowledge that for Alison, this was only the beginning.
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