Girl on the Net

It’s fucking outrageous that I, a massive London Transport fangirl, have never written up one of my favourite wank fantasies about getting gang banged on the tube. During a recent exchange with Patreons I casually mentioned the idea of having my wrists tied to opposite hand rails in one of the carriages while I got tag-teamed by rugby players, and one of them suggested I write it up. Who am I to refuse the request of someone who kindly supports my work with money? HINT HINT – if you join Patreon you can be among the first to hear this story as audio porn. So – with a switch from it being an actual team to a group of supporters (I’ve done ‘fucked by a team‘ before and I like to keep things as fresh as possible even though my kinks are relentlessly samey where gang bangs are concerned), and football rather than rugby (feel free to guess in the comments why this might be) here goes. As with a lot of my other wank fantasies, this one is pretty aggressive and leans heavily on my kink for misogyny. It is a ‘live in’ fantasy – one I want to live inside my head, not one I want to ‘live out’ in real life, and it is definitely not how I would ever want anyone in real life to behave. It contains degradation, humiliation, pain/slapping, barely lubed anal, people standing on tube carriage seats while wearing trainers, and elements of non-consent. If that’s not your cup of tea, go browse the other filth instead. Got it? OK sweet. Let’s go get gang banged on the tube!

Gang banged on the tube

Most of my fantasies require a lot of build-up: the angry guy storming in to the fuckbunker, ready to take his frustration out on her cunt; the fear of punishment before someone is belted and fucked; the free use secretary getting ushered into an interview and asked about her qualifications while the boss leers at her tits. Normally I need to paint in a lot of details about build-up, to help me feel the tone before the fucking starts. It’s the tone and atmosphere that make me wet, far more than the sex itself: not what is happening in each scene, but why.

With this fantasy, though – getting gang banged on the tube – the atmosphere is immediate and powerful. I don’t need to paint in lots of details to build it because I’ve felt it so often in real life: The Fear. When a group of loud, drunk men in their team’s colours pile onto a tube train, chanting and yelling and banging their fists against the ceiling and doors. Just thinking of it now, in the safety of my home, makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my heart beat faster. Just thinking of crowds of football supporters, drunk and shouty on a train, trips my body into the early stages of fight, flight or freeze.

Because this atmosphere is so easy to conjure, I’ve never really spent time picturing, for this fantasy, what it is that makes the group of scary men target me in particular. What is it about me that draws their attention?

Perhaps one of them makes a leery comment about my tits, as I sit and try to wrap my hoodie tighter around me like armour. Maybe one of them spills a swig of lager onto me, then when I flinch away he thinks ‘fuck it’ and pours out the rest of the can.

Perhaps one of the louder, larger men starts to pick a fight with another passenger in the carriage, and at the next stop the remaining stragglers hurry off down the platform to a safer car. But I, in my preferred seat right at the end of the last carriage on the Central Line, am trapped far away from the door. Ten drunk men stand between me and my freedom.

And they know the power they have.

“Oi,” one of them says, gesturing to me with a jerk of his head, “look what I found.”

There’s laughter among the group, and although I keep my eyes resolutely fixed on the floor, I can sense them shift towards me. They’re a mix of ages – some older than I am, some about my age, maybe one or two a little younger. All clearly very firm friends. They banter and joke around, talking about how long it’s been since this or that one got laid, nudging each other towards me, issuing dares to try and prompt one person to kick off the fun.

“Where you going then, love?” He asks, looming over me. Staring down my top. I flick my eyes up a little to see that he’s clutching a can of cheap lager, half-crushed in his fist. He has thick thighs, thick fingers, gammon-coloured skin. He looks solid and strong. He wears his team’s colours – white with hints of dark blue – and jeans. As I look up towards his waist, he uses his free hand to grab briefly at his crotch. Now I can see how thick his cock is too, and how hard he’s becoming.

“Home,” I reply quickly. Look down at the floor once more. Notice just how short my skirt is, and wish I’d worn jeans instead.

He staggers a little as the tube jolts faster through the tunnel, then catches his balance.

“You had a good night?” he asks. He wants me to answer properly, but I just nod. At that, another guy steps closer to join him. Two of them now, peering down at me, and the automated announcement tells us the next station’s near. I could get off, perhaps. I could at least try. Stand up, say ‘excuse me’ and slip past them. They might step out of the way, you never know. They might just grab me by the waist and crush their tumescent dicks up against my arse as I brush past. Maybe reach a hand out and grope roughly at one of my breasts. Maybe. At least I’d be gone, though. I could try my luck on the next train.

“You want a bit of company?” the second guy says. And his voice is different – younger, softer, but no less intimidating. “You never know,” he adds, “you might enjoy yourself.”

At that, he reaches out and hooks a finger inside the front of my too-tight black top. Yanking it out so he can get a proper look down it, to where my necklace points neatly (and deliberately) to my tits.

The train shudders and slows. The doors open. Two of the men at the back of the group start up another football chant, successfully deterring any new passengers from stepping aboard. I count down the seconds in my head as the men above me start to pinch and grab at me. My nipples stiffen in response. My heartbeat thuds through my veins, pulsing most strongly in the depths of my crotch where my legs are crossed. I look up at the sneering men, see their friends step closer to join them – one is already unzipping his flies.

I do not get off the train.

As the Central Line picks up speed and begins to screech, they take me. That tentative leering, the playful nudging to challenge their friends to go first – all that is gone, and now it’s a free-for-all. The first two men grab me and haul me to my feet – my legs shake and I struggle to stand, but no matter because the other men are piling forward now too. I’m surrounded and supported by a sea of greedy hands. Two of them pull open my hoodie and tear it off, others lift my skirt and start to yank my knickers to the side and down. They fail to get them off because there’s no coordination here, no plan. Just every man for himself.

One slaps me, hard, and I can feel the searing pain start to bloom on my buttock. I try to turn to see who it was but by now a different guy has his fingers in my mouth – yanking my face towards him so he can spit into it. There’s something so rough and dry about all of their hands and fingers, where they poke at and pinch me.

But the dryness lasts for less time than it takes them to tear off my knickers: I’m soaking wet for this. And I’m terrified of this.

I struggle the way you’re meant to struggle when this happens – twisting this way and that and trying to hit out with ineffectual slaps and the occasional brave fist aimed at a lurid grin. I fail every time. They grab my hands and crush my fingers in their own. Two of them take an arm each and yank them outwards, holding me outstretched in the centre of the carriage, all the better to let the other ones crush my tits in meaty fists, rain slaps onto my chest now my top’s been tugged down to expose them. I am still hurting for this, still hot for this, but I try to kick out and they laugh at my ineffectual resistance.

“Who wants to fuck her?” yells a guy from the back of the group, and the first guy responds almost instantly: “Finders fucking keepers, you prick.”

He stands behind me, and I can feel the warm flesh of his rock-solid dick jamming into the crack of my arse and I struggle some more. I’m pretty certain my reluctance makes him harder.

“Someone keep her fucking still then!” he roars, and the guy holding my left arm grabs his scarf (blue and white, around me it is now just a sea of flesh and leering and navy blue and white) and uses it to bind my wrist to the bright red handrail. Too tight, but it’s there. It’s secure. I’m going absolutely nowhere. A cheer goes up when the rest of them realise the plan, and as the train pulls in to the next station, a different guy unbuckles his belt, and with a clink-swish pulls it out through the loops, uses it to tie my right hand to the opposite rail. I’m bound so tightly it’s cutting off my circulation, but none of them are looking at the pale skin of my hands. Instead they’re busy unzipping, unbuckling, groping, tearing, and elbowing each other out of the way to make sure they get to touch me while they beat angrily at their own dicks.

The first guy gets more though: he called dibs. And absurdly in the back of my mind I think that’s probably fair. He approached me. He caught me. He deserves it. My mouth is stuffed with four different men’s fingers so I can’t cry out as he forces his cock inside me, but through drool and gagging I try to cry out anyway. I want them to hear me yell. Bracing my legs wide, one foot against the base of the seating on either side of the carriage, I arch my back and grunt as the head of his cock slams deep inside me – one quick stroke, knocking all the breath out of my lungs. Filling my body instead with his thick, pulsing, insistent cock. A cheer goes up among the other men, and they slam their fists against the windows and ceiling and doors, in time to the rhythm with which I’m getting fucked. One of them starts up a chant again: the same one they were singing earlier, but this time the beat is marked by the violent thrusting of their ringleader as he takes the first turn on my cunt.

Somewhere out of the corner of my eye I spot another guy pushing forward – barging his friends out of the way so he can get his dick up nice and close to me, twitching as he starts to spit cum which he aims for the top of my thigh. It’s thick, heavy. I can feel it thudding against my skin, then dripping down to soak the tattered remains of my knickers.

“Fucking have that, slut,” he whispers as he lets go the last few drops. And I do. I have it, I take it. As I take the brutal pounding from his friend, gripping my hips and digging in so tight he’ll leave bruises for tomorrow.

As if on cue, the guy who’s balls deep inside me comes next. The sight of the first guy dumping his load so dismissively sets him off, and he grunts and lets himself release – hard and hot inside me. “Bitch,” he pants as he squirts a couple of times into the pit of my cunt. “You. Fucking. Bitch.”

The other men call me ‘bitch’ as well. And ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ and the rest. For some reason, it’s not enough to claim me. It’s not enough that they’ve torn off half my clothes and belted me to the handrail of the carriage. Not enough that they’ve caught me and fucked me and degraded me and humiliated me. These men also need to blame me.

So as others take their turns – one standing on the seat so he can ejaculate on to my tits as they jiggle and sway while another of his friends takes me from behind – they tell me how this is all my fault and I shouldn’t dress like such a fucking slut. They tell me I should have got off the train. They mock me, as the doors open at each station and other passengers look away and pretend they didn’t see, that I should have just left if I didn’t want exactly what I’m getting. They chant and sing and high five each other, and growl into my ear that I want it, they know I want it, they could tell I wanted it from the second they saw me.

And one after the other they take turns.

Some are more gentle than others – sliding inside me with a kind of trembling reverence, as if it’s been a while since they got laid and they want to savour it. Others are brutal – spitting into their palms to only barely lube the head before pushing into my ass with a guttural unngh. When I squeal, I get slapped, but I don’t squeal that often – there is always someone with a fist over my mouth or fingers stuffed into it, pressing my tongue down, making me drool and gag. I can feel the saliva drying on my chest as more drips wetly down my chin. And I can feel each load of cum drying on my skin too where they’ve smeared it in. I count them so I know when this might all be over.

Number eight comes inside me – I can feel each shot pumping through the shaft of his taut-hard cock. As he pulls out, a portion of it drips on the floor of the tube carriage. I’m not just full of their spunk, there is so much I’m overflowing. One of them comments again about what a fucking slut this makes me, and I try not to grin. Instead, I struggle weakly against my bonds. The ninth guy sprays his load over the rippling flesh of my arse while the final guy fucks me good and deep. He’s huge, this last one, and it hurts. But even though it hurts I meet his strokes – finally stopping my struggle and fucking back against him, hungry for every inch.

“That’s it,” he tells me. “You fucking love it, don’t you?”

If he’s surprised, he doesn’t let on. Just grabs the handrails with his own fists and uses them as leverage to slam himself in even harder. And as I fuck back to meet him, squeezing my cunt as tight as I can around his girth, I finally allow myself to come too – the waves of my own orgasm milking the spunk that was already rising in him. One spurt, then two, three, and more. Until I can almost imagine I am full to the brim inside. Just stuffed with the cum of six of these men, and smeared from neck to knees with all the rest. Filled and covered. Used up. Spent.

When they untie the scarf and the belt, my legs shake so much they give way and I collapse onto the floor of the Central Line carriage. Scrambling between ten pairs of trainers for my torn knickers and discarded hoodie and bag, my hands tremble as I gather my things. And somewhere above me, though it sounds so distant and unreal, I hear the automated announcement.

This is the end of the line.

The audio for this is up on Patreon now.

 

And if you enjoyed ‘Gang banged on the tube’ because of how horrible the men were, you might also like Free Use Secretary: Impressing the clients.

If you enjoyed it because the character was secretly enjoying being a massive slut, try Fucked by a Bachelor Party.

And if you enjoyed it because of the train thing, try this erotica about Crossrail. Then marry me.