Taken in the club restroom

[jasmine18]

Teaser:Trent's fingers curled into the delicate lace of her panties, his knuckles whitening against the fabric as he made deliberate eye contact through the mirror
-------------------------------------------------------------

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.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Title: Taken in the club restroom.
Author: Jasmine18

-------------------------------------------------------------

Hope you enjoy another entry found on my pc.
-------------------------------------------------------------


The dress clung to her skin like a second shadow, its fabric whispering against her thighs with every step. She'd bought it for the way it made her collarbones look sharp enough to cut glass.

Her hair wasn't just blonde—it was the kind of platinum that made bartenders assume she'd ordered vodka sodas before she'd even opened her mouth. The kind men would touch without asking, strands slipping through their fingers like they were testing if it felt as expensive as it looked. It swung heavy against her back, catching the club lights in a way that turned each strand into a thin blade of white-gold.

The tan wasn’t the kind you got from lying politely on a beach towel—it was the kind that came from forgetting sunscreen on rooftop bars, from leaning against hot car hoods in parking lots, from smoking cigarettes outside all summer while men watched the way her hips filled out cutoff shorts. It made her look like she’d been dipped in something viscous and golden, the kind of glow that made people assume she was always slightly out of their league.

Her waist dipped in like the middle of an hourglass, those sharp curves designed by nature to make hands itch to span the narrowest part—to test if fingers could nearly touch if they pressed hard enough. The dress wasn't just tight; it was architecture, seams pulling across her ribs and hips like they'd been sewn onto her skin with the explicit purpose of showing how easily the shape of her could make men forget their own names.

She leaned against the bar with practiced ease, one elbow propped on the sticky surface while her other hand toyed with the frayed edge of a cocktail napkin. The bartender was already glancing her way—she'd positioned herself directly under the overhead light, knowing the gold flecks in her fake tan would catch like scattered coins under the glare. A man two stools down pretended to check his phone while his thumb swiped the same blank screen three times, his throat working as he stole glances at the way the dress split open at her thigh when she crossed her legs.

The first drink arrived with a hand that smelled like leather conditioner and spearmint gum—the kind of scent that announced a man before he even spoke. His fingers brushed hers as he slid the cocktail toward her, deliberate enough to be an excuse, casual enough to pretend it wasn’t. "You look like someone who appreciates a proper gin fizz," he said, his voice lower than the bassline thumping through the club. His smile showed teeth that were too straight, the kind of perfection that came from expensive orthodontics and a lifetime of people telling him yes.

"Oh, thanks for that," she said, flashing a smile that didn't reach her eyes, the kind that made her cheeks ache but left her pupils flat and calculating. Her fingers curled around the sweating glass, the condensation slick against her palm—free drinks were the only reason she'd bothered with heels this high, with lipstick this sticky, with pretending not to notice the way his gaze kept snagging on the gap where her dress split at the thigh.

The gin fizz hit the sweet spot—just enough citrus to make her tongue tingle, just enough syrup to coat her throat. She let the ice clink against her teeth as she took another sip, watching the man's pupils dilate when she licked the rim. "Good call," she murmured, knowing full well he'd mistake her politeness for interest. His friend appeared at his shoulder—taller, broader, smelling like cedar and something faintly medicinal—close enough that his belt buckle pressed into her hip when he leaned in to order.

The taller one's fingers brushed the bartender's arm with a familiarity that spoke of regular tabs and unspoken favors. "A drink for me," he said, tapping the counter twice, "and one for her." His voice carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed, the words landing like dropped coins—heavy, metallic, inevitable. The bartender barely glanced at her before reaching for the gin bottle again, already knowing which glass to fill without asking. She watched the ice cubes crack under the pour, a sound like tiny bones breaking.

The taller man's fingers drummed against the bar top as the bartender poured their drinks—three fingers of gin for him, something pink and fizzy for her that smelled like synthetic strawberries. "You'll like this," he said, nudging the new glass toward her with a knuckle. His wedding band left a wet ring on the counter. "Tastes like candy." His grin showed a canine tooth that was slightly crooked, the first imperfection she'd noticed all night, and for some reason that made her stomach clench tighter than his hand suddenly pressing into the small of her back.

"You guys know each other," she said, the words slipping out flatter than she'd intended, more statement than question. Her fingers tightened around the sweating glass as the taller man's palm stayed pressed against her spine, his thumb tracing small, proprietary circles through the thin fabric of her dress. The other man—the one with the orthodontist-perfect smile—gave a low chuckle that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Well, thank you both for the drinks," she said, lifting the gin fizz with deliberate slowness, her fingers curling just a little too tight around the glass. "I'll take the second once I've finished this one." The words tasted like cheap perfume—sweet enough to swallow but with an aftertaste that made her throat tighten. The taller man's thumb stopped its circling, pressing harder against her spine as if marking the spot where he'd eventually push her forward.

The last sip of gin fizz burned the way swallowing a lie did—sharp at the back of her throat, then gone. She set the empty glass down harder than necessary, the sound swallowed by the bassline as she reached for the pink drink. The taller man's fingers twitched like he wanted to stop her, his wedding band flashing under the club lights as if marking territory.

The pink drink tasted like cough syrup and crushed SweetTarts, sticking to her teeth in a way that made her want to scrape her tongue against them. She eyed his wedding band again—the thick gold ridge catching the light like a warning flare—and swallowed the saccharine mouthful before speaking. "Your wife know you're buying drinks for strangers?" Her voice came out sharper than she'd intended, edged with something that wasn't quite anger but close enough to make his thumb dig harder into her back.

His thumb stilled against her spine at the mention of his wife, pressing hard enough to leave a bruise she wouldn’t notice until morning. The taller man exhaled through his nose—a slow, deliberate sound like steam escaping a pressure cooker—before twisting the ring with his free hand in a practiced motion she recognized instantly. It was the same gesture her father used to make when caught in a lie, that automatic adjustment of the wedding band like it might magically realign his morals too.

"Oh uh, we broke up," the taller man lied, twisting the gold band again—she could see the indentation where it had worn into his skin, pale where the metal had pressed for years. His thumb resumed its circling on her back, slower now, possessive. "It's just a habit to wear it." The wedding ring caught the light as he lifted his gin, the ice cubes clinking like teeth. "Now how about another drink?"

The pink drink left a tacky film on her lips, and she licked it away slowly, watching his eyes track the movement. "Another one? Sure," she said, letting her voice go syrupy and loose, the way women did when they wanted men to think the alcohol was working faster than it really was. His thumb pressed harder into her spine—reward or punishment, she couldn't tell—but the bartender was already pouring without being asked, and that was the only part that mattered. The taller man's wedding band flashed again as he reached for his wallet, and she made a show of leaning forward just enough to let the neckline of her dress gape. His pupils dilated. The lie was worth at least three more drinks.

The orthodontist-perfect man watched her watching his friend, his eyes darkening as her lashes lowered—that slow, deliberate blink women used when they wanted men to think they were drunker than they were. His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against his glass, the sound drowned by the bass but visible in the twitch of his knuckles. She could feel his gaze tracing the curve of her throat as she tilted her head toward the taller man, the way his breath hitched when she let her knee brush against his friend’s thigh. It was the oldest trick in the book—letting one man watch while you pretended to choose the other—but his parted lips told her it was working.

"So, what's your name?" the orthodontist-perfect man asked, his fingers tapping an absent rhythm against his glass. His gaze flicked down to where her knee pressed against his friend's thigh, then back up to her mouth, lingering on the sticky gloss smudged at the corner of her lips. She could see him mentally cataloging the details—the way her eyelashes caught the light, the deliberate hesitation before she answered—like he was already slotting her into a story he'd tell later.

"Violet," she lied, letting the name slip off her tongue like something stolen. It tasted like the purple gum she'd chewed as a kid—artificial and fleeting. The orthodontist-perfect man's lips curved around the syllable, testing its weight, and she watched his throat work as if swallowing something thicker than gin.

"Vincent," the taller man said, his thumb still carving slow circles into her spine like he was signing his name in cursive against her skin. The lie came easily—she could tell by the way his wedding band tapped against her lower back, the gold warm from his body heat. His teeth flashed again, that one crooked canine catching the light. "And this is Trent." He nodded toward the orthodontist-perfect man, whose smile widened like he'd just been handed a trophy.

"Well, nice to meet you," Violet said, curling her fingers around the fresh drink the bartender slid toward her—something clear this time, with a lime wedge speared through by a plastic sword. The condensation made her grip slip just enough that Vincent's fingers brushed hers again as he steadied the glass, his wedding band clinking against the rim with a sound like a door clicking shut. His thumb lingered against her knuckle for a heartbeat too long, the calloused pad catching on her skin like he was checking for imperfections.

Vincent's thumb traced the rim of his glass before he tapped it sharply against the bar. "After that, how about a shot?" His voice was low enough that the words slid under the music like something illicit. The bartender was already reaching for the tequila before Violet could answer—his fingers closing around the neck of the bottle with the familiarity of someone who knew better than to wait for an answer. The lime wedges appeared next, their flesh glistening under the lights like exposed secrets.

"Well, I'll do that but then I'm off," she said, flicking a strand of platinum hair over her shoulder like a dismissal. The words tasted like cheap lipstick—waxy and temporary—as she knocked back the tequila shot without salt or lime, letting the burn carve a path down her throat that had nothing to do with alcohol. Vincent's fingers tightened around his own glass, his wedding band leaving a damp imprint on the counter as he exchanged a glance with Trent that wasn't meant for her to see—the kind of look men shared over hoods of cars before races.

She downed the drink that was in her hand—something clear and citrus-sharp that burned the same way her mother’s perfume used to sting her eyes when she’d hug her too tight. The glass left a wet ring on the bar that Vincent’s fingers immediately covered, his wedding band eclipsing the mark like a claim. His other hand slid from the small of her back to her hip, pressing hard enough that she could feel the ridge of his knuckles through the thin fabric of her dress. Trent’s phone buzzed against the counter, screen lighting up with a text that simply read “now,” but she pretended not to notice how his thumb hovered over the keyboard like a blade.

The shot glass was slick with condensation when she snatched it, the tequila inside catching the strobe lights in a way that made it look like liquid mercury. She threw it back before Vincent's fingers could tighten their grip on her hip, the alcohol searing her throat raw—not that it mattered. His wedding band dug into her skin through the fabric as she slammed the glass down hard enough to make the bartender glance over, but she was already twisting away from the bar before he could say anything.

"Um, it was great guys, but I have places to be—thanks for the drinks," she said, her voice a practiced melody of disinterest as she slid off the stool, her thighs peeling from the vinyl with a sound like tape being ripped from skin. Vincent's hand lingered on her hip a second too long, his wedding band catching on the fabric as if reluctant to let go. Trent's smile froze mid-sip, his gin fizz halfway to his lips, the ice cubes rattling like dice in a cup.

The men watched her weave through the crowd, her hips swaying like a metronome set to the wrong tempo—too slow for the pulsing bassline, too deliberate to be accidental. She didn’t glance back, but the heat of their gazes prickled between her shoulder blades like twin cigarette burns. The disabled restroom door loomed at the end of a narrow hallway, its oversized handle glinting under the emergency exit sign like a dare.

The disabled restroom had more space—easier to freshen up without elbowing the walls or feeling the damp breath of strangers through stall gaps. She flicked the light switch with her elbow, the fluorescents buzzing to life like hornets disturbed. The sink's porcelain was cool under her palms as she leaned forward, studying her reflection—the smudged lipstick, the glitter dusting her cheekbones like shattered glass. She didn't hear the door click shut behind her, didn't notice the lock mechanism's dull thunk failing to engage.

The perfume bottle clinked against the sink edge as she uncapped it with teeth, the glass cold against her lips. She didn’t spray it—she dabbed it, pressing the nozzle to her pulse points in slow, deliberate touches, the scent blooming like a bruise: jasmine cut with something darker, the kind that made men lean in too close under the pretense of catching the notes. The mirror fogged at the edges from her exhale as she reapplied her lipstick—the same shade as a freshly licked wound, the kind that smeared easily and stained deeper than expected. Her reflection blinked back at her with pupils dilated from the alcohol and something sharper, the black swallowing the blue until her eyes looked like holes punched through wet paper.

The door swung inward with a hydraulic hiss, cutting off the bassline from the club like a guillotine blade. Vincent's silhouette filled the frame first—his wedding band glinting as he flicked the lock with a practiced twist of his wrist, the mechanism clicking shut with finality. Trent crowded in behind him, his orthodontist-perfect smile gone sharklike under the flickering fluorescent light, one hand already working the button of his jeans. The air shifted, thick with jasmine and the musk of spilled gin, as Violet's reflection froze between them in the mirror like a specimen pinned to corkboard.

Violet's mouth formed the words before her brain caught up—"Hey, what are you—" but Vincent's palm slammed over her lips, his wedding band digging into her cheekbone with the cold precision of a surgical tool. The rest of the sentence died against his skin, muffled into something that might have been a whimper or a curse. Trent's breath hit her neck in damp pulses as he crowded behind her, his belt buckle biting into the small of her back through the thin fabric of her dress. "It's occupied now," Vincent murmured into her hair, his voice all velvet menace, fingers tightening in her platinum strands like he was testing their tensile strength.

Vincent's grip tightened in her hair, wrenching her head back at an unnatural angle that made her vision swim with unshed tears. "You shouldn't lead men on like that," he hissed, his wedding band leaving a crescent imprint on her cheekbone. The words dripped with a venomous sincerity, as if he truly believed this was some twisted lesson she'd asked for. Trent's hands were already under her dress, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs hard enough to leave plum-colored bruises tomorrow.

"You should've said you weren't interested," Trent growled against her ear, his breath hot with gin and spearmint gum as his fingers dug into her hips. "Now we gotta get our money's worth." The words slithered into her ear like a serpent coiling, his thumbs pressing into the dimples above her ass with a proprietary grip that made her stomach lurch. Vincent chuckled—a wet, dark sound—as he yanked her head back further, exposing her throat where her pulse fluttered like a caged bird.

The porcelain edge of the sink bit into her hip bones as Vincent shoved her forward, her reflection fracturing in the mirror like a broken windshield. She could see Trent's fingers—the same ones that had tapped so politely on the bar—now twisting the fabric of her dress upward with a butcher's efficiency, his knuckles white against her thigh. Her own breath fogged the glass in panicked bursts, each exhale shorter than the last as Vincent's grip on her hair forced her spine into an arch that made her ribs scream. The jasmine perfume still clung to her wrists, sickly sweet now, mingling with the iron tang of blood where his wedding band split her lip.

Her scream pressed hot and wet against Vincent's palm, muffled into something that sounded more like a choked cough than any real cry for help. His fingers flexed inward, the gold of his wedding band digging into the corner of her mouth hard enough to taste copper—whether from his skin or her split lip, she couldn't tell. The sound died against his calluses, absorbed like rain into parched earth, while Trent's laugh vibrated against her back in dark amusement. "That's cute," he muttered, his breath humid against her neck as he ground his erection into the cleft of her ass through their clothes. "Try louder."

Her thoughts fragmented like glass under a bootheel—sharp, scattered pieces slicing inward. *Shouldn’t have worn the dress*, the first shard cut. *Shouldn’t have taken the drinks*, the second twisted deeper. But beneath those brittle recriminations, a colder truth pulsed: *They were always going to do this*. The realization didn’t arrive like a revelation but like a scent—the cedar-and-medicinal reek of Trent’s cologne, the leather-and-gin stench of Vincent’s breath—something she’d inhaled too late to un-smell.

"Well, we're going to have a good time," Vincent hissed against her ear, his voice thick with gin and entitlement, his wedding band pressing harder into her cheekbone as she tried to scream again. "You? Not so much." His laughter was a low vibration against her temple, humid and sour. "But at least we'll be even." The word *even* slithered out like a promise—one part retribution, two parts sickening glee, as if her terror balanced some invisible scale only they could see. Trent's fingers dug into her hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above her ass with the precision of a butcher finding the gaps between ribs.

"Bend her the fuck over," Trent snarled, his voice cracking like a whip against the thumping bassline bleeding through the walls—the music swallowing his words whole before they could escape the bathroom. His palm slapped against her ass through the dress fabric, the sound sharp and wet, his fingers kneading the curve of her hip with a crude ownership that made her teeth ache. The dress rode up as he wrenched the hem higher, the sequins scratching her thighs like cat tongues, the cool air hitting her exposed skin a second before his grip did.

Vincent’s grip on her hair forced her face toward the mirror, her reflection warped by the condensation of her panicked breaths. The fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across her face as her dress crept up her thighs inch by inch, the sequins catching on the fabric of Trent’s jeans with a sound like tearing Velcro. Her Victoria’s Secret panties—black lace, bought for a date that never happened—glowed neon under the harsh bathroom lights, the delicate bow at the waistband suddenly obscene. Trent’s laughter vibrated against her spine as he hooked his thumbs under the elastic, pausing just long enough to let her see herself in the mirror—eyes wide, mouth smeared with lipstick and blood, the perfect picture of a woman unraveling.

The thought flickered through her mind like a dying bulb—*Why was this happening to me?*—before Trent's fingers curled into the lace of her panties, the delicate fabric stretching taut against her skin like a noose. She watched in the mirror as his knuckles whitened, the bow at her waist now a grotesque parody of something meant to be pretty, something meant for *her* choice, not theirs. The sequins of her dress scratched her thighs as he yanked the fabric higher, the cold air hitting her exposed skin like a slap. *I just wanted a fun night out*, her brain supplied uselessly, the words dissolving into static as Vincent's wedding band dug deeper into her cheekbone, his breath hot and rancid against her ear.

Vincent's laughter curled through the bathroom like smoke—dark, acrid, clinging to the walls as he watched Trent's fingers spider across her skin. The taller man's grip in her hair slackened just enough to let her see the mirror, where Trent's reflection loomed behind her, his hands kneading her hips with the casual cruelty of a baker working dough. His thumbs pressed into the dimples above her ass, each circle deeper than the last, leaving pale crescents that would bruise by morning. "Look at her," Vincent murmured, his wedding band glinting as he tilted her chin toward the mirror. "Bet she's never been touched like this."

"My wife never looked this good," Vincent growled into her ear, his wedding band pressing cold against her throat as he forced her gaze toward the mirror. The words slithered out between clenched teeth, each syllable dripping with a bitterness that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with the woman whose shadow still clung to that gold band. Trent's fingers dug deeper into her hips in agreement, his laughter a wet sound against her neck as he ground himself against her. "Fucking pristine," he added, his voice cracking with something between admiration and venom, like he was furious at her for existing so perfectly in their grasp.

Trent's fingers curled into the delicate lace of her panties, his knuckles whitening against the fabric as he made deliberate eye contact through the mirror—his gaze locked onto her reflection with the predatory focus of a cat watching a wounded bird. The lace stretched taut against her skin before surrendering, sliding down her tanned thighs inch by torturous inch, each millimeter exposing more flesh to the cold bathroom air. She could see his pupils dilate in the mirror as the fabric pooled around her knees, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in a gesture that wasn't hunger but conquest.

Trent's grin widened in the mirror, stretching his orthodontist-perfect teeth into something grotesquely carnivorous as he watched her reflection crumple. His enjoyment wasn't just in the act—it was in the minute details: the way her lower lip trembled when his fingers dug into her hips, the flutter of her pulse visible beneath Vincent's wedding band pressing into her throat, the involuntary clench of her thighs as his nails scraped down her inner leg. She hated how his eyes cataloged every twitch like a collector admiring trophies, how his breath hitched with genuine delight when a tear finally breached her lashes.

Her thoughts splintered into jagged fragments—each one slicing deeper than the last. *Should’ve worn flats instead of heels*, the first shard cut, uselessly practical even now. *Should’ve told the bartender to call a cab when his thumb first pressed into my spine*. Another fragment: *Should’ve screamed when they followed me down the hallway*, but it dissolved into the wet cotton of Vincent’s palm still crushing her lips. The most vicious shard twisted inward: *They knew I wouldn’t*. It wasn’t the dress or the drinks—it was the way she’d let Trent’s fingers linger on her wrist at the bar, the half-second delay before pulling away from Vincent’s wedding band on her hip. They’d read her hesitation like a roadmap.

Vincent's lips pressed against her neck with a wet, deliberate slowness—not the playful nips of a lover, but the methodical exploration of a man inventorying territory. His wedding band dug into her jawline as he angled her head to expose more skin, his tongue dragging along her pulse point in a grotesque parody of tenderness. She could feel his teeth testing the tautness of her tendons, pausing over the frantic flutter beneath her skin like a predator deciding where to sink its fangs. The scent of his cologne—something woody and overpriced—clung to her nostrils, mixing with the sour tang of gin on his breath as he inhaled deeply against her throat, as if trying to memorize her fear like a fine wine.

"God, your perfume smells so good," Vincent murmured against her throat, his lips brushing the pulse point where jasmine still clung to her skin. His inhale was obscenely deep, nostrils flaring as he dragged the scent into his lungs like he wanted to suffocate himself with it. The words slithered out between his teeth—half compliment, half accusation—as if her choice of fragrance was somehow complicit in this. His tongue flicked out to taste the spot he'd just praised, the wet heat of it making her stomach lurch. "Like fucking flowers and sin," he added, biting down on the last word hard enough to leave a bruise.

The moment Trent’s fingers breached her, Violet’s knees buckled—not from pleasure, but from the sudden, searing violation of it, the way his knuckles twisted inside her like he was testing the give of a lock. Her forehead smacked against the mirror, the impact spiderwebbing her vision as Vincent’s laughter vibrated against her back, his wedding band now biting into her hipbone where he held her steady. "Tighter than I thought," Trent muttered, almost to himself, as his fingers curled deeper, his other hand fumbling with his belt buckle, the metal clinking like loose change. The scent of her own fear—acrid and sharp—mixed with the jasmine still clinging to her wrists, creating a nauseating perfume that made her throat burn.

Her body betrayed nothing—no slickness, no warmth, just the arid resistance of flesh that refused to yield. Trent's fingers moved with mechanical precision, each thrust a dry scrape that made her teeth ache as if she'd bitten into aluminum foil. She could hear the obscene sound of it—skin on unwilling skin—a hollow, sticky noise that drowned out the club's bassline throbbing through the walls. His breath hitched in frustration against her neck, hot and damp with gin, his free hand gripping her hip hard enough to lift her slightly onto her toes, forcing her tighter against his invading fingers. "Christ, relax," he muttered, more to himself than her, as if her terror were a personal inconvenience.

Trent's reflection locked onto hers in the mirror, his pupils swallowing the hazel irises whole as his belt buckle clinked open—the sound absurdly loud in the cramped bathroom, like a jailer dropping keys he never intended to use. His fingers worked the leather with practiced ease, never breaking eye contact, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in a parody of anticipation. The fluorescent light caught the silver of his belt tip as it slid free, glinting like a surgical instrument before pooling at his feet in a lazy spiral. His smile didn't reach his eyes—those stayed cold and assessing, watching her face for the exact moment her composure shattered like the lipstick-smeared glass beneath her palms.

Trent's fingers curled around the lace hem of her panties where they pooled at her knees, his grip deliberate as if measuring the fragility of the fabric against his strength. The lace resisted for a fraction of a second—a final, futile protest—before surrendering to his tug, sliding down her thighs with a whisper that sounded obscenely loud in the cramped bathroom. She felt his breath hitch against her neck, warm and damp, as he lifted her left ankle with the casual ownership of a man handling purchased goods, the bow at her waist now dangling like a broken promise. The panties peeled away from her skin with a static cling, the delicate fabric stretching before snapping free, leaving her exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nudity and everything to do with violation.

Trent's fingers uncurled from the ruined lace, the delicate fabric dangling between them like a shredded flag of surrender. He passed them to Vincent with a smirk, the taller man's wedding band catching the light as he took them with exaggerated reverence. "Too good to destroy," Vincent murmured, rubbing the damp silk between his thumb and forefinger before pressing it to her lips. "Pop 'em in, sweetheart—might muffle those pretty little noises you keep wasting." The lace tasted of salt and panic as it filled her mouth, the bow at the waistband pressing awkwardly against her teeth.

Vincent's fist tightened in her hair, yanking her head back with a jerk that sent a lightning bolt of pain down her neck. His other hand fished in his jacket pocket and emerged with a roll of silver duct tape—the industrial kind, the kind that left no room for error. The metallic rasp of the tape unspooling sliced through the bathroom’s humid air like a blade. "Trent, hold her still," Vincent ordered, his voice calm, almost bored, as if this were just another item on a to-do list. Trent’s hands clamped around her wrists with a grip that felt like it could snap bone, pinning them behind her back with a force that made her shoulder joints scream.

Vincent's fingers worked with the efficiency of a surgeon as he tore a strip of tape with his teeth, the metallic tang of adhesive mixing with the coppery taste of Violet's split lip still smeared on his wedding band. The silver tape glinted under the bathroom lights as he pressed it over her lips with methodical precision, sealing the lace panties deeper into her mouth until the bow at her waistband pressed stiffly against her teeth. Trent's grip on her wrists tightened to the point of creaking bone, his breath coming in short, excited bursts against her neck as Vincent smoothed the edges of the tape down with his thumb—once, twice—ensuring no sound could escape but muffled, animal noises.

Vincent’s grip shifted with practiced ease, his wedding band scraping against her skin as he wrenched her wrists from Trent’s grasp. The sudden transfer of control sent a fresh jolt of pain up her arms, her shoulders screaming as he forced them higher behind her back, bending her forward until her cheek pressed against the cold porcelain sink. The angle was deliberate—arch her spine just enough to expose, to immobilize, to render her body a mere prop for their use. Trent’s chuckle vibrated against her back as he stepped aside, his fingers trailing down her flank in a mockery of tenderness before settling on her hips, kneading the flesh there like dough.

Trent's fingers sank into the plush flesh of Violet's ass with the greedy relish of a starving man gripping a ripe peach, his thumbs pressing deep into the dimples above her cheeks as he spread her wider. "Thanks for letting me go first, Vince," he muttered, his breath hot and uneven against the sweat-damp skin of her lower back. The words slithered out between clenched teeth, half gratitude and half gloating, as his fingers kneaded her softness with a crude ownership that left pale finger-shaped blooms blooming under her skin. Vincent's wedding band dug into her arms as he held her firm.

Her reflection in the mirror fractured into jagged pieces—Trent's hands working his belt buckle with the unhurried precision of a man unwrapping a gift he'd already paid for. His zipper hissed open like a snake shedding skin, the sound impossibly loud in the cramped bathroom, his pants pooling around his ankles in a crumpled puddle of designer denim. She watched his cock spring free—half-hard already, flushed an angry red against the pallor of his thighs—and felt her own body recoil in a visceral rejection that made her muscles lock. Vincent's grip tightened in her hair, forcing her to keep watching as Trent stroked himself to full hardness, his calloused fingers moving with a crude familiarity that made her stomach heave.

Her scream pressed hot and wet against the lace shoved deep in her mouth, muffled into a pathetic whimper that only made Trent laugh harder—the sound vibrating against her spine as his fingers dug bruises into her hips. The panties tasted like salt and her own fear, the delicate fabric choking her voice into something small and broken, the bow at the waistband pressing awkwardly against her teeth like a cruel punchline. *How could tonight end like this?* The thought flickered uselessly, drowned out by the wet sound of Trent spitting into his palm before guiding himself toward her with a grunt, his grip unforgiving as he forced her hips back to meet his thrust.

The muffled scream tore from her throat, the lace panties soaking up the sound like a sponge as Trent pressed forward with deliberate slowness—each inch a fresh violation that burned worse than the last. Her knees trembled against the porcelain sink, her nails scrabbling for purchase on the smooth surface as he dragged the moment out, savoring her choked whimpers like a connoisseur sampling fine wine. His breath came in ragged bursts against her neck, hot and damp with gin, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to lift her onto her toes, forcing her body to accommodate him inch by excruciating inch.

Trent’s hands kneaded the plush flesh of her ass with a greedy, rhythmic pressure—fingers sinking in deep, then releasing just enough to leave pale crescents blooming across her skin. He exhaled sharply through his nose as he finally bottomed out, his hips flush against her trembling thighs, his cock twitching inside her with a grotesque pulse of pleasure. For a suspended moment, he didn’t move—just savored the tight, dry clench of her body around him, the way her muscles spasmed in involuntary resistance. His thumbs traced slow circles over the dimples above her ass, pressing hard enough to bruise, as if marking the exact spots where his grip would leave her black and blue by morning.

"Oh God, she's perfect, Vince," Trent grunted, his hips flush against her trembling thighs as he rested inside her, his breath hot and ragged against the nape of her neck. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips like a man clinging to the edge of a cliff, his grip possessive and bruising. "This one’s a real doozy," he added with a wet chuckle, his voice thick with something between admiration and contempt—as if her body’s involuntary resistance was a personal affront he found perversely thrilling.

The muffled plea behind the lace and duct tape came out as nothing more than a wet, desperate whimper—more animal than human—her throat vibrating with the effort of begging through layers of fabric and adhesive. Trent laughed against the nape of her neck, his breath hot and sour with gin, his fingers tightening around her hips in response as if her terror were an invitation to press deeper. "Hear that, Vince? Sounds like she's *enjoying* herself," he taunted, dragging the tip of his tongue along the shell of her ear before biting down hard enough to make her jerk. Vincent's grip in her hair yanked her head back further, forcing her to watch in the mirror as Trent's smirk widened, his reflection looming over her shoulder like a predator pleased with its catch.

She tried to squeeze her eyes shut, but Vincent's fingers dug into her scalp, forcing her eyelids open with brutal insistence. The reflection in the mirror became a grotesque diorama—Trent's face contorted with pleasure, his lips parted around ragged breaths, his gaze locked onto hers with a possessive glee that made bile rise in her throat. Every twitch of his brow, every flicker of satisfaction across his features was a fresh violation, his enjoyment carved into her memory with the precision of a scalpel. Even as her vision blurred with tears, the image remained crystalline: the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips when her body clenched involuntarily around him, the way his nostrils flared as he inhaled the scent of her fear.

Trent's hips snapped forward with sudden urgency, the rhythm turning erratic as the gin in his bloodstream burned away what little restraint remained. His breaths came in ragged bursts against the sweat-slick skin of her neck, each thrust shorter and shallower than the last—a drunk man's desperate race toward oblivion. The slap of skin echoed off the bathroom tiles, a metronome keeping time with the bassline bleeding through the walls, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave ten perfect bruises blooming beneath his grip.

Trent's rhythm stuttered—a rough, uneven pounding that had more to do with gin-soaked impatience than skill—and she felt the moment his body locked up, his groan vibrating against her spine like a dying engine. He didn't pull out. Instead, he ground himself deep, his fingers digging into her flesh with a final, punishing squeeze as he emptied inside her, the warmth of it making her stomach lurch. Vincent watched in the mirror with a detached curiosity, his wedding band tapping against the sink's edge like he was bored at a business meeting. "My turn," he murmured, stepping forward as Trent staggered back, his belt buckle clinking against the tile floor.

Trent didn't bother pulling up his pants—just let them pool around his ankles like discarded skin as he reached for her wrists, his fingers still damp with sweat and gin. "Hold still, princess," he slurred, his breath hot against her ear as he pinned her arms against the sink's edge, the porcelain biting into her skin. Vincent's wedding band scraped her hipbone as he stepped closer, his shadow swallowing her reflection whole in the flickering bathroom light.

Vincent's fingers traced idle paths up the backs of her thighs, his touch deceptively light—almost tender—as if mapping the landscape of her humiliation. His palms lingered where the skin was softest, kneading the plush flesh with a slow, possessive rhythm, his thumbs pressing into the crease where her legs met her ass with a familiarity that made her stomach twist. The contrast between his gentle caress and the sharp sting of his nails digging in moments later sent a jolt through her, his laughter vibrating against her spine as he relished her flinch.

Vincent's fingers brushed the back of her neck, his wedding band cold against her sweat-damp skin as he located the zipper of her dress with clinical precision. The metal teeth parted with a slow, deliberate hiss—each notch surrendering another inch of her spine to the bathroom's stale air, the sound somehow more intimate than Trent's ragged panting still warm against her shoulder blades. His breath hitched when the zipper reached the small of her back, his pause telegraphing the moment he registered the absence of a bra clasp—just the smooth expanse of skin now exposed beneath his gaze, the dress gaping open like a wound.

Vincent's fingers stilled at the small of her back where the dress gaped open, his breath hitching in mock surprise as his fingertips brushed bare skin. "Oh," he murmured, voice dripping with performative realization, "no bra?" His thumb pressed into the divot of her spine, circling slowly as if savoring the discovery. "You really did want it, didn't you?" The words slithered out between his teeth—half question, half accusation—as his other hand slid around to cup her breast with crude ownership, his wedding band cold against her nipple.

The scream tore through her ribs like shattered glass, muffled into a wet, animalistic whimper by the lace and duct tape sealing her lips. *No I didn't want this*—the words ricocheted inside her skull, sharp enough to draw blood, as Vincent's fingers twisted her nipple with the same casual cruelty of a man popping bubble wrap. His wedding band dug into the soft underside of her breast, the cold metal branding her skin as he chuckled against her shoulder. "You're lying to yourself, sweetheart," he murmured, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt on her neck. "Why else would you be *soaked*?"

The whimper that escaped her sealed lips was raw, primal—a sound that vibrated through her ribs like a dying animal caught in a trap. Her body arched involuntarily away from Vincent's touch, her muscles locking in a rigid rejection that should've been unmistakable, even to him. But his fingers only tightened around her breast, his wedding band biting deeper into her flesh as he misinterpreted her shuddering resistance for something else entirely. "See?" he murmured against her ear, his breath hot with gin and triumph. "Your body's begging for it."

Vincent's fingers twisted harder, his grip turning her nipple into a tight, throbbing knot of pain as he laughed against her shoulder—a low, private sound that made her stomach drop. She tried to jerk away again, her muffled protests vibrating uselessly against the duct tape, but he only pressed closer, his chest flush against her back like he was savoring the way her muscles quivered in revolt. "Stop lying," he murmured, his lips brushing her earlobe as his free hand slid down her stomach, fingers splaying possessively over her hipbone. "You wouldn't have dressed like this if you didn't want it." The words slithered out, slick with entitlement, as if her outfit were a signed contract she'd forgotten reading.

Vincent's fingers curled around the hem of her dress where it clung to her waist, his grip deliberate as if weighing the fragility of the fabric against his patience. The material resisted for a fraction of a second—a silent, futile protest—before yielding to his slow, downward tug. The dress slid over her hips with a whisper of friction, catching briefly on the sweat-slick skin of her thighs before pooling at her knees like discarded tissue paper. The cool bathroom air hit her exposed skin in patches, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the way his gaze followed the dress's descent with the clinical focus of a biologist peeling back layers of a specimen.

The dress pooled around her ankles in a crumpled circle of sequins and shame, the fabric whispering against the tile like a retreating tide. Her tanned body stood exposed under the flickering fluorescents, every curve and contour illuminated with brutal clarity—the kind of body Vincent had spent countless nights fantasizing about in the privacy of his marital bedroom, the kind of body Trent had leered at in magazines smuggled into construction site porta-potties. She looked like every glossy centerfold they'd ever jacked off to, except this time the glossy pages were trembling flesh, the fantasy made horrifyingly real beneath their grasping hands.

Vincent's fingers trailed down the cleft of her ass with a slow, exploratory pressure—his wedding band catching the light as it brushed against skin that had never been touched like this. "Look at that," he murmured, his breath hot against the nape of her neck as he spread her wider, his thumb pressing into the tight ring of muscle with deliberate cruelty. "Trent used the pussy, but this other hole looks tight and unused." His laughter vibrated against her spine, low and satisfied, as if he'd discovered some hidden vulnerability to exploit. The pad of his thumb circled slowly, applying just enough pressure to make her muscles clench in reflexive terror, her muffled whimpers dissolving into wet, choked silence behind the tape.

The scream that ripped through her throat was raw and guttural, muffled instantly by the duct tape and lace shoved deep into her mouth—but her body convulsed violently, legs kicking back in blind panic as Vincent's thumb pressed harder against her untouched rim. The involuntary spasm made Trent chuckle against her shoulder, his breath hot and sour with gin as he held her hips steady. "First time, huh?" he slurred, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs to keep her from twisting away. Her muscles locked in rigid terror, her reflection in the mirror a grotesque parody of wide-eyed horror as Vincent's thumb circled again, this time with slick pressure from the spit he'd dragged across his palm.

Vincent spat into his palm with a wet, deliberate sound—once, twice—working the saliva between his fingers until his hand gleamed slick under the flickering bathroom lights. "Look, I need the spit all on here," he murmured, more to himself than to her, as he rubbed his thumb in slow, obscene circles against her clenched muscles. "Makes it better for me." His breath hitched when her body resisted, the tight ring of muscle fluttering in panic beneath his touch, but he only pressed harder, his wedding band digging into the soft flesh of her inner thigh as he spread her wider. The spit cooled quickly in the stale air, turning clammy against her skin as he worked it in with short, insistent strokes, each one a fresh violation that made her stomach lurch.

Vincent leaned forward, pressing himself against her—the thick ridge of his erection straining against his tailored slacks, hot even through the fabric as it dug into the small of her back. His lips grazed her ear, breath sticky with gin and mint gum. "Feel that?" he murmured, rolling his hips in a slow, obscene grind that made the sink's edge bite deeper into her thighs. "That's gonna be inside you in about thirty seconds, and you're gonna fucking love it." His fingers traced the swell of her breast with mock reverence, thumb flicking over her nipple in a cruel parody of tenderness before pinching hard enough to make her jerk against Trent's restraining grip.

Vincent took a deliberate step back, the soles of his Oxfords squeaking against the tile as he positioned himself just far enough to give her an unobstructed view in the mirror. His fingers worked the polished buckle of his belt with the same methodical precision he'd used on the duct tape—each metallic click of the tongue releasing another fraction of tension, the leather slithering free from his waistband like a black snake uncoiling. The belt hit the floor with a slap that echoed off the bathroom walls, the sound absurdly loud in the confined space, and she watched his reflection blink at the noise as if momentarily surprised by his own violence.

Vincent's fingers hooked into the waistband of his tailored slacks, the fabric parting with a whisper as he popped the button free—his wedding band catching the fluorescent light as it scraped against the zipper's metal teeth. The zipper hissed down, revealing the strained outline of his erection pressing against the thin cotton of his boxer briefs, the fabric damp with precome where it tented obscenely. He exhaled sharply through his nose as he peeled the underwear down just enough to free himself, his cock springing free with a thick, angry pulse that made her flinch in the mirror's reflection. The sight of it—the flushed head already glistening, the veins standing proud along the shaft—sent a fresh wave of bile burning up her throat.

Violet's stomach clenched violently at the sight of Vincent's cock twitching obscenely in his hand—the thick, ruddy flesh glistening under the fluorescents like some grotesque trophy he'd polished for display. Her throat convulsed around the lace gag, saliva pooling thick and sour behind the tape as bile surged upward, only to choke back down again when Trent's fingers dug harder into her arms in warning. The thought of Vincent forcing himself into her ass—dry, unprepared, *meant*—sent another wave of nausea crashing through her, her abdominal muscles spasming uselessly against the inevitability of it.

Vincent stroked his cock with slow, deliberate movements—his thumb dragging along the underside of the shaft, smearing precome in slick, glistening trails—as he closed the distance between them. His reflection in the mirror watched her watch him, the corners of his mouth twitching upward at the way her pupils dilated with each step forward, the way her breath hitched behind the duct tape when his fingers tightened around his erection. "See how hard you make me?" he murmured, his voice thick with performative awe, as if her terror were some perverse aphrodisiac. The tip of his cock glistened under the flickering fluorescents, a single bead of moisture trembling at the slit before he dragged it upward with his thumb, painting himself in his own arousal.

Vincent bent forward, pressing his lips against her sweat-drenched ear as he aligned himself with brutal precision—the swollen head of his cock nudging against her clenched entrance with a mocking, exploratory pressure. "Listen close," he breathed, his voice sticky with gin and something darker, his teeth grazing her earlobe as he rocked forward just enough to make her muscles spasm in reflexive terror. "Hear that? That's the sound of you taking it." His hips jerked in a shallow thrust, the blunt pressure forcing her body to yield fractionally, the stretch burning white-hot as her nails scraped uselessly against the sink's porcelain.

The pressure built in excruciating increments—each millimeter of invasion a fresh, searing violation that made her spine arch in reflexive protest. Vincent's cock stretched her asshole with a slow, relentless burn, the friction so intense it blurred the line between pain and something worse, something that made her guts churn with primal terror. She could feel the way her body resisted, muscles clamping down in desperate rejection, only for him to push past the clench with a grunt of effort, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to lift her onto her toes. The stretch bordered on impossible, her rim fluttering around the intrusion like a mouth gagging on something too large to swallow, her muffled screams dissolving into wet, choked silence behind the tape.

Vincent groaned into her ear—a low, guttural sound that vibrated against her sweat-slick skin—as he reached under her body to give her breasts a quick, possessive squeeze. His fingers kneaded the soft flesh with a rhythm that was almost tender, his wedding band pressing cold against her nipple before he pinched hard enough to make her jerk against Trent's restraining grip. "Fuck, you're tight," he hissed, his breath hot and sour with gin as he buried himself deeper, his hips stuttering with the effort of forcing her body to accommodate him. The contrast between the crude violence of his thrusts and the almost reverent way his thumbs traced circles around her areolas was its own kind of violation, a perverse parody of intimacy that made her stomach heave.

Vincent's breath hitched against her ear—hot, uneven, reeking of gin and something metallic—as he ground himself deeper with a groan that vibrated through her ribs. "Never popped a girl's ass cherry before," he slurred, his voice thick with a grotesque wonder, his fingers tightening around her hips as if savoring the novelty. The stretch burned white-hot, her muscles fluttering in panicked resistance around his intrusion, but he only chuckled wetly against her neck, his tongue dragging over her pulse point. "God, you're fucking *perfect* for it—clenching around me like you were made to take it."

Vincent's breath came in ragged, gin-soaked bursts against the nape of her neck—each exhale hotter than the last, clinging to her skin like a fever she couldn't shake. His fingers roamed her body with the absent, entitled familiarity of a man handling a rental car, squeezing her breasts just hard enough to leave phantom fingerprints, kneading her hips like dough he intended to consume. The wedding band on his left hand dug into her flesh with every possessive grope, a cold metal brand marking what was never his to claim. She could feel his smirk against her shoulder blades, the way his teeth grazed her spine whenever her muscles tensed—not a kiss, not a bite, just the wet drag of ownership.

Vincent's lips dragged wetly along the shell of her ear, his tongue flicking against the sensitive cartilage with a grotesque parody of tenderness—like a lover might tease before whispering something intimate, except his breath smelled of gin and spearmint gum and the words he murmured were about how her asshole was pulsing around his cock. She flinched when his teeth grazed her earlobe, her stomach twisting as the sensation sent an unwanted shiver down her spine, her body betraying her with involuntary reactions she couldn’t control. The harder she tried to recoil, the tighter his grip became, fingers digging into her hips to keep her still while his mouth worked her ear like it was another orifice to violate.

*Why was he doing this to me?* The thought ricocheted through Violet's skull like a bullet trapped in bone—each impact more fractured than the last. She'd worn the wrong dress, laughed at the wrong joke, trusted the wrong bartender to watch her drink. A hundred tiny choices, each one innocent in isolation, now twisted into proof that she'd *asked* for this, that her body had been a provocation wrapped in sequins. Vincent's wedding band dug into her hip as he adjusted his grip, the metal colder than the tile beneath her knees. She didn't deserve this. But deserving had nothing to do with it.

Vincent's groan vibrated against her sweat-slicked back, a sound that was half pleasure, half strain, as his cock stretched her ass with a slow, deliberate brutality. The tip pressed deeper with each shallow thrust, the swollen head forcing her body to yield in increments that burned like hot wire drawn through her insides. She felt him pause when he was almost fully seated, his hips stuttering against hers as her muscles clenched in reflexive rejection around the intrusion—her body's last, futile attempt at resistance before he bottomed out with a final, grinding push.

Vincent went still inside her—fully seated, his pelvis pressed flush against the backs of her thighs—and exhaled a ragged sigh against her damp neck. The pause was obscene, deliberate, his cock throbbing where it stretched her to the point of tearing, letting her feel every twitch of his arousal as her body tried desperately to accommodate him. His breath hitched when her muscles fluttered in panicked resistance, his fingers tightening on her hips in silent reprimand before he rolled his hips in a shallow, grinding circle that forced a muffled scream from behind the duct tape. "There we go," he murmured, lips brushing her earlobe with grotesque gentleness. "Just needed to... settle in."

Vincent chuckled against the nape of her neck—a wet, whiskey-slick sound that made her skin crawl—as he pulled his hips back just enough to let her feel every throbbing inch of him before slamming forward again. "Now comes the fun part, babe," he murmured, his breath hot with mint and malice, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to lift her onto her toes with each thrust. The rhythm was brutal, mechanical, his cock pistoning into her ass with the same detached efficiency of a man drilling into drywall—except drywall didn't whimper or shudder or clench around him like a living thing being torn apart from the inside.

The pain was unbearable—a white-hot seam ripping through her pelvis with each thrust, as if Vincent were hammering a rusted railroad spike into her spine. How could he enjoy this? The question throbbed louder than her pulse, drowning out even the wet slap of skin against skin. His groans dripped with obscene pleasure, his fingers kneading her hips like she was nothing more than a fleshlight warmed to his exact specifications. His wedding band scraped her skin raw with every possessive squeeze, the metal colder than the tile beneath her knees, yet his breath was scorching against her neck, reeking of gin and the stale popcorn he’d eaten between assaults.

Every thrust punched the air from Violet's lungs, Vincent's ragged panting filling her ear—hot, wet, each exhale sharper than the last, like a blade dragged across her eardrum. His rhythm was erratic now, the slap of skin turning slicker as sweat dripped from his temple onto her shoulder, the salt stinging where his teeth had scraped earlier. She could feel the exact moment his control frayed, his hips stuttering against her ass with the clumsy urgency of a man chasing something just out of reach, his fingers bruising her hips as if he could physically press her deeper into the pain.

Vincent's rhythm fractured within seconds—his thrusts turning jagged and shallow, his breath hitching in wet, uneven bursts against her neck. The realization hit him like a gut punch: she was *too* tight, *too* warm, her body clamping around him with a vice-like resistance that bordered on unbearable. His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to lift her off the floor with each erratic jerk forward, his cock throbbing inside her with a frenzied pulse that betrayed how close he already was. "Fuck—fuck—" he snarled, his voice cracking mid-syllable, the words dissolving into a guttural groan as his hips stuttered against her ass. She could feel him unraveling, the slick drag of his cock turning frantic, his control slipping with every involuntary clench of her muscles.

Vincent's hips jerked forward with a final, brutal thrust—his pelvis slamming flush against her ass as he buried himself to the hilt, the sudden pressure forcing a muffled scream from behind the duct tape. His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to leave crescent-shaped bruises, his breath coming in ragged, gin-soaked bursts against her neck as he groaned into her ear—a guttural, animalistic sound that vibrated through her skull like a drill. "Take it, you fucking slut," he slurred, his voice thick with the kind of possessive fury only entitlement could fuel, his cock pulsing inside her as if trying to brand her insides with his shape. The stretch bordered on unbearable, her muscles fluttering in panicked resistance around the intrusion, but he only ground deeper, reveling in the way her body fought to reject him.

Vincent's thrusts slowed to a drunken, shallow grind as his weight collapsed onto her trembling back—his chest pressing damp and heavy between her shoulder blades, his wedding band digging into her hipbone like a cattle brand. The heat of him was oppressive, his sweat mingling with hers in slick, salty trails that dripped down the cleft of her spine, his breath coming in ragged bursts against the nape of her neck. She could feel the erratic thud of his heartbeat through his ribcage, a frantic counterpoint to the sluggish pulse of his cock still twitching inside her, his body refusing to relinquish its claim even as his energy waned.

Vincent went abruptly still inside her, his cock giving a feeble twitch before it began softening—the heat draining from it in slow pulses like a deflating balloon, his breath ragged against her neck. "Fuck," he groaned, more to himself than to her, his lips dragging wetly along her earlobe as his grip on her hips loosened just enough for her to feel the tremor in his fingers. The sudden stillness was almost worse than the thrusting; her body still clenched around him in involuntary panic, muscles fluttering against the unwanted intrusion now going slack inside her, the sensation making her stomach twist with fresh nausea.

Vincent's cock slid free with a wet, reluctant sound—the softened flesh dragging against her abused rim with a friction that made her flinch violently, her muscles clenching around nothing in reflexive horror. He exhaled sharply through his nose at the sensation, his hips jerking in a half-hearted thrust as if tempted to push back in, but the tremble in his thighs betrayed his exhaustion. A thick strand of come trailed between them for a second before snapping, the viscous fluid dripping down the back of her thigh like wax from a melted candle, warm where it pooled in the hollow behind her knee.

Vincent chuckled wetly against her shoulder, his fingers trailing through the mess dripping down the back of her thigh before smearing it across her hipbone like a crude signature. "Christ, you could make a fortune selling that ass," he mused, his voice still thick with exertion but laced with a newfound admiration that made her skin crawl. His thumb pressed into the tender flesh just above her cheek, kneading the muscle as if testing its durability, his wedding band catching the light as he turned her slightly toward the mirror. "Look at you—still clenching like you’re trying to milk me dry. Bet you’d have guys lined up around the block."

Trent's grip slackened abruptly—not out of mercy, but sheer disinterest, his fingers peeling away from her sweat-slicked arms like someone discarding a used napkin. The sudden release sent Violet crumpling forward, her knees hitting the tile with a sickening crack as her body folded in on itself, her forehead pressing into the damp floor where someone's spilled drink had dried into a sticky film. The sob that tore through her was muffled by the lace and duct tape still packed deep in her mouth, the sound turning into a wet, gurgling choke as saliva and bile pooled behind the gag. She didn't even have the strength to lift her face from the tile, her limbs twitching in useless, spastic jerks like a puppet whose strings had been slashed mid-performance.

Vincent tore off a length of toilet paper with the same detached efficiency of a man wiping down gym equipment, his fingers folding the cheap, single-ply sheets into a neat square before swiping it lazily over his softening cock. The paper came away streaked with come and traces of her blood—pinkish where it clung to the wrinkles—and he examined it for half a second with clinical curiosity before balling it up and flicking it toward the overflowing trash can. It missed, landing on the tile with a damp sound that made Trent snort. "Classy," Trent muttered, but he was already reaching for the roll himself, ripping off a handful with less finesse, his biceps flexing as he wiped himself down with rough, perfunctory strokes.

The tiles pressed cold against Violet's cheek, their grout lines gritty with dried piss and spilled vodka, the same floor where she'd watched Trent's spit-shined loafers pivot impatiently during the assault. Her tears carved hot trails through the club's sweat-streaked makeup, dripping off her chin to merge with the viscous puddle of Vincent's come still oozing down her inner thigh—two fluids that shouldn't have existed in the same universe now mingling like old acquaintances. *Why me?* The question curled like smoke in her skull, dissolving before it could form a coherent shape. She knew why. The sequined dress. The third tequila shot. The way she'd let Vincent "help" her navigate the crowded dancefloor, his palm branding her lower back like a cattle prod steering livestock to slaughter.

Vincent's belt buckle clinked like a jailer's keys as he yanked it tight, the leather hissing through denim loops with a finality that made Violet's stomach lurch. His wedding band flashed gold against the fly of his jeans—the same hand that had pinned her wrists now smoothing the fabric over his spent cock with the absent precision of a man tucking in a shirt. Trent smirked at his own reflection while adjusting his waistband, his fingers lingering at the button like he was savoring the last traces of her warmth against his skin. Neither looked at her crumpled form except to step over her legs, their polished shoes avoiding the sticky puddle of their mingled fluids with the fastidiousness of businessmen sidestepping a spilled latte.

Vincent's chuckle slithered out first, low and whiskey-rough as he shouldered Trent playfully—the casual camaraderie of two men leaving a baseball game rather than a rape. "Fuck, that was *educational*," he mused, palming the back of Trent's neck like they'd just shared some profound male bonding experience. His wedding band caught the flickering light when he gestured toward Violet's crumpled form, her sequined dress now a torn shroud around her hips. "Next time, wear something easier to rip off, yeah?" The suggestion dripped with the same tone he'd use to critique a bad cocktail—mildly disappointed, already moving on.

The door swung shut behind them with a hollow thud, the latch clicking like a bullet chambering—final, irreversible. Their laughter lingered like cigarette smoke in the cramped stall, Trent's voice carrying through the thin metal as he quipped about her being "broken in proper now," the words dissolving into shared chuckles as their footsteps receded down the hallway. Violet's fingernails scraped against the tile, her body still folded like discarded origami around the pain radiating from her core, the echo of Vincent's belt buckle jangling fading into the bassline throbbing through the club's walls.

Her fingers clawed at the duct tape with a desperation that made her nails bend backward—painless compared to the fire still radiating from her core. The adhesive tore at the edges of her lips, peeling away skin and mascara in ragged strips, the metallic tang of blood flooding her mouth as the sob she'd been choking on finally broke free. It came out raw, guttural, more animal than human, her lungs seizing as the sound ricocheted off the stained bathroom tiles. The tape hit the floor with a wet slap, its sticky underside clinging to a clump of her hair like it didn’t want to let go either.

Violet's breath hitched in jagged, wet bursts—each inhale sharp as glass shards dragging through her ribs, each exhale dissolving into a shuddering whimper that barely escaped her raw throat. The tears came in hot, silent waves now, her body too exhausted for the heaving sobs of earlier, her forehead pressed against the grimy floor tiles where the lingering scent of industrial cleaner mixed with sweat and sex and something metallic she didn't want to name. A single sequin from her dress glittered in a puddle of pink-tinged liquid near her elbow, its reflection warped by the viscous surface—a mocking remnant of the girl who'd walked into this club three hours ago, whole.
-------------------------------------------------------------

[Shocker]

Wow. I absolutely loved this, you have a unique way of painting a very detailed and specific picture, without sounding repetitive or like an exposition dump. This is something I cannot do, so consider myself properly in awe.

Also I so love the use of panties as a gag, every story using that will automatically get an additional reputation point upwards from what I normally would assign. This brings me in trouble with your story as rep maxes out at three and you already fully earned those.

Absolute fantastic work.

[joey]

Just wow!! Riveting. You definitely have a gift for words. Exceptional.