The Dominant Male

into the upper slope of her right breast. With the concentration of a jeweller, the man drew it along her right breast, pausing to twist more out. In angular letters, straight but messy lines, he scrawled an ‘S’ and an ‘L’, before turning to her left breast for the ‘U’ and the ‘T’. The black guy’s middle finger had snaked into her gasping mouth and she sucked on it in her shame.
    Then the black guy slid his hands under her armpits and lifted her, pulling her arms slightly further back, making her cleavage gape. They spun her – she would whimper, no doubt – to face the toilet and pushed her over the bowl, her knees on the pee-soaked floor and her monikered tits squashed against the closed lid.
    The broad black guy had slipped off his suit jacket and now, with a ping, took off the braces he was wearing. He pulled them around the back of her flailing head and crossed them, knotting them loosely at her throat before fastening the crossed ends around the outflow pipe where it joined the toilet pan, so that she would not choke but her head was forced down, practically kissing the outside of the porcelain through the cascading hair that covered her upside-down face. (Frigging herself fetidly with the highlighter pen and twisting the paperclips on her poor, sore nipples, Becky had decided that the toilet in her fantasy would be as acrid as the one on which she really sat, with only herself as her torturer.)
    Now the two thugs appraised her. ‘Shit,’ the white guy said, ‘toilets’re always blocked around here.’ Unable to raise herself at all, her ass prone to their view beneath her bound arms jutting above it, she heard him pull down his zip and felt the sole of his large foot press down on her back. His urine spattered with force on the nape of her neck, cascading through her hair and falling in droplets on the floor beneath her. Her flesh almost stung with humiliation. A little of the stream trickled its way to her poor tits, squashed on the toilet lid.
    As the torrent lessened, she sensed the broader man behind her, impatient now, done with games. As his companion removed his foot, he took hold of the hem of her skirt and wrenched it up until it bunched at her waist, then wrenched her knickers away from her stockinged legs until they dug painfully into her abdomen before ripping apart. She heard him spit copiously into his hand and felt him rub the saliva around her anal whorl. Crudely, the black guy inserted an exploratory finger into her moistened pucker. ‘I’m going first …’
    Becky plunged the highlighter pen into herself more recklessly than ever as she imagined how her two hoods would bugger her without mercy, thrashing and grunting as they took turns, bickering for her hole like it was a commodity that existed for their pleasure alone, treating her as nothing more than a receptacle, no more than the reeking toilet to which she had seen herself held fast.
    As she imagined herself straining against her bonds in abject fear, her orgasm began, spasming outward and sending shivers through her, until there was nothing in her mind but the shame she pictured scrawled onto her tits and the stench of urine in her nostrils, not the sound of the pen slicking in and out of her quim, nor her sharp panting, nor the tell-tale rustle of her clothing. She conjured her sense of restriction and panic still harder, imagining her bonds digging into her flesh as she rode her peak, gripping the pen harder than ever, twisting and slapping a paperclipped nipple into the bargain.
    Deliciously, the tension flooded out of her and she kept her eyes closed for a few moments, laying her head back on the cistern as she came to rest. The pain of the clips on her nipples was getting too much, out of context all of a sudden, but she’d bear it for a few moments more, she thought. She brought her head forward and, opening her eyes lazily, took in the skirt at her feet and her wantonly ripped tights, wishing now that she’d really had the stockings she’d given herself in her fantasy. The modified pen sat in her hand, and both were slicked with a white, viscous sheen. She was almost surprised to see that her breasts, save her nipples, were unharmed, their unblemished skin framed by her pulled-down bra.
    But as she raised both hands to unhook the paperclips from her poor punished areolae, teats engorged with blood choked off by the metal, her life seemed to stand still. She saw the bottom of the door in the corner