When I left the club, I had barely drunk my first glass of vodka. Being the only single in the group sucks, and even more so when I have to fend off douchebags trying to grope me while my two friends are busy making out with their guys.
My own dress is also betraying me; while perfectly suited to the stuffy air and the dancing, in all its glistening golden glory, it now seems way too inadequate against the spring night breeze. As I’m walking the street, my heels loudly warn everyone in a two-block radius of my coming. I guess I must be walking as angrily as I am looking right now.
Suddenly, the click-clack stops, as I see in the corner of my eye a neon sign signaling “OPEN”. It’s not a bar, or a club, just a regular diner-late night coffee heaven kind of place. What I wouldn’t give right now for a cup of coffee. Sure, the place looks empty – I’m not sure I can see an employee inside actually – but hell, I can even brew it myself. And it will give me some respite from my broody, cold walk home.
Crossing the side street, I push the glass door open. Almost all of the lights are off, and the beer fridge next to the counter gives out a blue light that provides most of the illumination to the room devoid of people. “Hello!”, I shout, scanning the place with my gaze. A slow, almost distant jazz mix tape is playing from behind the bar.
A guy comes out from the kitchen door. He looks just as surprised to see a customer at this hour as he is to see a brunette in a short, shiny golden dress and black heels walking in here alone for a cup of coffee. I can imagine it looks quite comical, in a weird-movie-from-the-50s way. I keep my eyes on him as I come closer to the bar. “Can I actually get a cup of coffee, please?”, I ask, smiling wide with my red, pleading lips. The guy, a tanned man in his forties in a black T-shirt, looks baffled, but nods affirmatively.
I can feel him glancing at me, while he’s brewing my coffee, as he brings the cup in front of me on the counter, and while I’m drinking and he’s pretending to be drying some glasses. He hasn’t spoken a word, but I can identify with him; it’s like, 3 AM, he was probably sleeping before I disturbed him.
With my cup half-finished, I can feel the need for a break. “Can I use the restroom?”, I ask him, already standing up so that he can’t refuse and make me find a bush. Once again, he nods. I leave my phone and my clutch next to my cup and head to the back. The restroom is probably the shiniest space in the whole shop, and the bright white light hurts my eyes until I’m sheltered inside the booth.
I get my panties around my ankles and sit down, but don’t even manage to take in a breath before the door violently swings open, crashing onto the wall next to me with a heavy thud. I curl up instinctively and gasp, closing my eyes. The man that just shattered the lock with one blow reaches and grabs me by my hair. I’m in such shock that I start shrieking and try slapping his hand off. His hold is strong, and he shoves my head to the side, banging it once against the wooden booth wall. With my shrieking momentarily paused, he pulls me off the toilet seat and onto the floor. I fall down awkwardly, swinging around and kicking randomly with my heels.
“Quit screaming you cunt, or I’ll throw you in the fucking garbage”, he growls. The first time I hear his deep, raspy, threatening voice. Something in the tone sends a chill down my spine, even through my panic. But of course, I can’t stop screaming, I can’t. He seems to disregard it, though, as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. Sadly, my panicking brain doesn’t register the object until I’ve tried again to slap him. He lets go of my hair and grabs my hand instead and, with an expert move, the cuff is around my right wrist. *Fuck*. My screaming dies down as the realization of my predicament is clearer, and is now replaced by rapid, terrified breathing.
He pulls me again, this time back to the toilet. He pulls the handcuff chain behind a pipe and locks my other hand there too, securing me in place with my face next to the bowl. However much I try, *and I do try,* I cannot break the chain or the pipe, hurting my wrists instead. I pause my struggling as he’s gazing down at me, his figure shielding me from the bright lights.
“Please let me go, I didn’t do anything”, I say in between my gasps. “I swear I won’t speak, I swear I’ll forget this, I—I won’t go to the police, please let me go”. I plead and plead, as my gasps turn into cries and dry heaving. My voice finally stops, the fear drowning it out, as I just lie there on the restroom floor. Even as he bends down and jerks my dress off of my body, I say nothing, and refuse to open my eyes. *Maybe if I stand here and let him take what he wants, he’ll let me go. There is no reason not to.* But I don’t want to see him, not while he’s looking at me, observing me. I think of his eyes fixed on my tits, or my hairless genitals, and I just want to throw up.
Then, suddenly, a stream of hot liquid hits my face, catching me completely by surprise. I throw open my mouth and eyes, and the piss gets inside both, choking and blinding me for some seconds. As I cough, he keeps pissing on my face, on my hair, then moving down as I feel the disgusting stream hit my exposed breasts, then my stomach, then… As he’s aiming for my pussy, I start yelling again, along with thrashing around violently. *Please god, make him stop this, the humiliation…*
When he’s done, the final drops find their way on my toes. Out of breath and exhausted, my arms and shoulders hurting from the struggle, I swallow hard, forgetting for a moment the vile taste in my throat. I squeeze my eyes momentarily, then open them again to take in the scene. The smell of urine overwhelms me, as my whole body is drenched and feels as cold as the white tiles under me. In the silence, every small move I make disturbs the puddle formed around me with a tiny splashing noise. I keep my eyes straight ahead, through my hardening nipples, my extended legs and my crimson toenails, through *his* unmoving legs and across the floor, on which my dress and my g-string lie, like a final nail on the coffin of my dignity.
My eyes move up on their own, to meet his own, but not before breaking into tears, tears that run down my cheeks along with the piss and, I guess, what remains of my makeup.
He doesn’t say a word; just stares at me with a smugness that causes me to grimace. I keep crying as he unlocks the handcuff and drags me out of the booth into the main part of the restroom. I have no strength to resist. *These tiles look like the operating room,* is the only thought I can muster. *Maybe keeping my mind into a normal day will make this disappear. Maybe it’s just a nightmare.*
“Stand up”, he barks. I keep crying. A kick lands on my side, making me slide on my wet back. I keep crying. “Stand up”, he repeats, pulling me up by both hands. I try to comply, remembering the garbage bin. He shoves me towards the sinks, and I keep my head down. I can’t stand looking at the mirror, not like this. He locks my wrists in the handcuffs again, this time securing it through a hole in the tap handle. My legs feel unsteady enough on their own, and the heels on the wet tiles are not helping.
I keep crying. And thinking about the tiles, and the OR, and me in my scrubs instead of me naked in a toilet, and how I will just take a shower and it will all be over, it’s just a bit of piss after all, and…
My eyes grow wide, as the pain shoots from my anus to my whole body, tensing up every muscle fiber available. I grab the sink as tightly as possible, and even though I’m facing the mirror, I cannot comprehend the image in front of me. The only thing I can think is, my ass is on fire.
The blood-curling shriek that left my lungs left me breathless, not only because of the volume, but also because he immediately smashed my head against the mirror. Pressing my cheek on the glass, he is grabbing my hips and entering me a little bit more, and a little bit more. Then I feel him pulling out, only to go just a centimeter further the next time. Every tiny thrust can be felt, as my tight hole is violated and forced open.
I try focusing elsewhere again, but this time, it doesn’t work. All I can think about is my ass. How I had tried experimenting with it in my teens, first with a pen and then with my finger. How my first times trying anal with my first boyfriend, after his begging, ended in me hurting too much and refusing. How I had tried fingering myself for two weeks before allowing my next one to finally take my anal virginity, and how much he had tried making it comfortable and romantic for me, leading to one of my best orgasms.
And how this was just the second time in my life getting fucked in my asshole – raped in my asshole. *Like a cheap whore, or worse, like a piece of meat, with the same value as a condom. This special “place” of mine, torn apart by this thick cock…*
The pain is just too much, and the degradation even worse. I want to throw up again, but all I can do is cry. He is picking up the pace, making disgusting sounds as he forces himself deeper in me every time. Suddenly, he moves my head so that my face is against the mirror instead of my cheek.
My face is just like I had imagined: mascara running down the cheeks, lipstick smeared around, bloodshot eyes with a glimpse of green in them. *Like a cheap whore indeed, a streetwalker outside a motel.* Behind me, I see the black t-shirt moving back and forth.
“Make out with the mirror, cunt”
“What?”, I ask in between my tears, honestly unable to understand.
“I said, make out with the mirror, cunt! Make out with yourself like the slut you are!”, he yells, slapping my ass to make his point.
I start kissing my own lips at the mirror. *This has to be a nightmare, it’s too crazy.* As the lipstick, tears, piss and saliva mix on the smeared shiny surface, any memory of scrubs is deleted from my mind. *A cheap whore.* He is obviously loving the show, as he is going ever faster, now taking his hand from my hair to grab my hips better. I keep going, more afraid of his reaction than disgusted. The sound of fucking is interspersed with the slobbering of Lia making out with *Lia*.
He picks up the pace again. Then, I feel him going deeper rather than faster, stretching my asshole with the base of his cock, as I feel his balls slamming against my bald pussy. He must be coming close. *Please god, yes*.
Then, in an instant, he pulls out entirely, causing my torn asshole to let out an embarrassing farting sound. But he’s not out for long, as he slams back into me, though this time not in my ass. I find myself almost thanking him for the inhuman pain in my sphincter, as it makes the entering and stretching of my young pussy almost bearable in comparison, although once again I tense up and shriek in agony. Then, the full wave of pain hits me, and I almost pass out.
As I recover, I realise that he hasn’t thrust in or out of my pussy. He’s still inside, and pulsating. *Oh god. He’s cumming in my pussy*.
“NO NO PLEASE NO!”, I yell and beg. “I’m not on the pill, PLEASE PULL OUT!”
Another slap against my head. I’m so dizzy, and spent, and hurting. *And broken*.
When he pulls out finally, he lets go of my body, and I collapse, hitting my head on the sink as I drop down, half sitting on my knees and ass, half hanging from the handcuffs. My head swings around, and my vision is blurry. I can manage to see a bloody spot on the floor, obviously below where my ass was a minute ago. *It’s good that the damn tiles are white, so I can’t see the cum dripping.*
I am silent now, as he unlocks my cuffs and I drop on the floor completely. He’s dragging me on it, and though my head is on the side, I can still see a red and yellowish trail left behind by my ruined body. We’re out in the corridor, and going through the kitchen. I keep thinking about my asshole getting torn, imagining the cock entering me, breaking its way through the muscle to get inside my body and make me into a *cheap whore*.
A door is opened. The breeze and the distant city sounds make it obvious it’s the door to the back of the shop. He looks down at me again, and scoffs. Just scoffs. Then, a toss, and a kick, and I’m out of the door, and now down the first step, and the second, and the third, and on the concrete. Or at least, my head and shoulders are on the concrete; my legs are still left sprawled on the steps, almost showcasing my conquered cunt to him, almost like an ironic invitation.
He spits at me, and closes the door. Exhausted, I immediately fall asleep.
When I wake up, it’s still dark. I’m freezing, and shivering, and the pain has not subsided at all. Under the orange light of the street lamps, I notice two wide red bruises on the sides of my torso where the kicks landed. I try not to think about or look too hard at the blood stains on the steps. For a moment, I consider going back to claim my dress, my phone, or my wallet. Then, my belly shoots me an internal pain, bringing me back to my senses.
*One step at a time Lia. So the real question is, do I walk home on the heels or not?*
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/bm12i7/latenight_coffee_break
Mmmm I’d love to find you walking home in your heels after this.