Plump, Juicy, Dripping Down Your Chin

being the only stealth trans guy in a group of cis guys, you're hanging with one of them one day when he asks if you want to "relieve some stress". He's being pretty vague but smug about it. Odd, but you don't really question it and let him show you to where it's happening.

Your stomach drops as you enter the room. You're greeted to the sight of what could only be gang rape; your friends, who you thought were good guys, are surrounding this poor girl. She has bruises scattered over her skin, marks around her wrists where she's restrained much too tight. Eyes full of tears with a dead look to them and she's sobbing between the pained noises she's making every time the dick in her sore cunt bottoms out. Her voice sounds scratchy already. They must've been at this for a while.

The guy in her cunt looks up when the two of you enter, inviting you over and saying that he's just about done. It'll be a while until it's your turn but you're free to jerk off on her until a hole's free.

You're immediately terrified of being outed, especially in this way. You're wearing a packer but you don't think that'll pass as a dick, especially if the other guys are gonna be looking. You try to back off, say you're not feeling it, but the one that brought you in brushes your excuses off and locks the door behind you.

You're stuck so you try to not look suspicious while you watch the rape. It's impossible not to feel bad for the girl, she's got her mouth stuffed now and she's audibly choking on the cock hitting the back of her throat. You can see a small bump as it fucks into her.

You palm your packer through your pants, inevitably grinding it into your T-clit. It's... hard? You tell yourself it's just from the stimulation. You try to go to a place far from where you're stuck, get lost in a fantasy while you grind against your sensitive parts but it's impossible to completely tune out the lewd noises filling the room.

You're knocked back to reality by one of your friends calling your name. The one who said it is only just settling his dick inside their rape toy. He doesn't ask if you want in, just tells you to stuff her mouth. It feels like all their eyes are on you, so you shuffle around the group until the poor girl's face is being shoved against your crotch from the pounding she's receiving.

You use your hands as visual barriers as you fish out your packer, gently grabbing the girl's head and guiding her mouth to its limp tip. She obediently takes it and you brace for a reaction but all that happens is a brief shared look between you two. Whatever she thinks of your situation, it's the least of her worries.

You try your best to lessen her struggle while putting on a good enough performance the guys don't catch on to anything out of place. You fake an orgasm and one of the guys holds her face flush against your crotch, telling her to swallow. She does and he lets go, allowing you to stumble back and shove your soaked packer back in your pants. You collapse on the couch behind you and avoid looking at the gross performance of male lust.

You intend to zone out but again you're interrupted. It looks like they've cum in her a couple times each, covered her in the rest of it. She looks miserable, exhausted, but they're telling her to ride you. She's climbing on top of you when you manage to start stuttering that you're done but of course they won't listen. You try to push her off but someone grabs your hands and redirects them to her cum-soaked breasts. You feel hands fumbling with the zipper of your pants, your protests drowned out.

The unbearable noise stops when one guy shouts, "What the fuck?"

You look down and see your packer hanging out, your pants pulled halfway down your thighs. Someone grabs it, picks it up. Rare tears fill your eyes as questions start to bubble up, ending with a hand on your crotch. You wince and try to close your legs but they're quick to stop that, holding you open as someone declares that you have a pussy.

They're quick to forget their rape toy, shoving her off you and yanking your pants and underwear off despite your protests and struggle. You begin to sob as you're exposed. There's hurt in their voices, like you're the one who wronged them, like you've betrayed them by hiding this.

You shout at them to stop, knock it off, this isn't funny, but they think it's hilarious. It's hilarious when they pin your knees above your shoulders and when one of them kneels below you to latch on to your engorged clit. They cheer when they get a moan out of you, one you didn't even know was coming.

You start using your hands to resist so they restrain those, too, holding them behind your head. They continue this sick game of forcing moans out of you, the one sucking on your clit using his tongue to explore the rest of your embarrassingly soaked pussy. His long licks between your folds are agonising. He sticks his tongue as deep in your hole as he can get then returns to your clit, replacing his tongue in your hole with two fingers.

Someone starts wrapping your wrists in duct tape and you absently note how painful that'll be to rip off later. That frees up some hands which go to jerking off above you, two hard dicks taking up your view.

One of them shoves his balls in your face, rubbing and grinding them against your features. It's the tipping point that turns your tears into a full-on breakdown. Here are the men you thought were your friends, violating your body and getting off to your suffering. And your body's reactions are making it worse. You're confused, horny, hurt, sore, and the words they spit at you cut deep. A few of them aren't even calling you human anymore, others calling you "she", "girl", "whore". They spit slurs at you as much as they spit on your body.

Some attention is brought back to the girl when one of them suggests they see which of you they can make come first. They make room for her on the couch next to you and you glance at her through the mess of genitals shoved in your face. She looks dazed but more there than before. You suppose a break, however brief and cruel, brought her back a bit.

You're both slapped to attention, ordered to look at the man talking to you. It's the one that brought you here. He says he's going to be nice and let one of you go, which earns a collective "aw" of disappointment from the guys. He's going to let the girl who cums first go. And so he knows you're not faking, he sticks his dick in the girl and tells someone else to stick their dick in you. You feebly beg for mercy, beg them to not fuck you, but you're of course ignored. One of them steps up and positions himself between your spread legs. You look down and see he's not that big, a small relief. It still hurts when he pushes inside you, stretching your insides wider than they were ready for.

The "game" begins and they decide to cut between the tape on your hands so they can wrap them around their dicks and strip the rest of your clothes, tearing your shirt off. They stop at your binder, some confusion and some degrading about how of course you're wearing a sports bra, it's so obvious you were hiding tits while pretending to be a boy.

They're absolutely delighted when they yank your binder off and uncover your jiggling tits. Hands immediately go to them, fondling the soft flesh and pinching your nipples. They harden immediately from the stimulation and are tugged at painfully. One guy shoves his way in and latches his mouth on to your breast, sucking and licking your sensitive nipple. The sensation goes straight to your clit and when you feel someone's fingers begin to rub over it, your eyes roll back and you let out a long moan. Your forced pleasure is met with laughs and degradation.

You try to see how the girl is faring but she's completely obscured, the only hint of her presence being her pained cries. You hardly think she'd be able to orgasm at this point, she looked absolutely ruined. The idea of this "game" already being yours is both sickening and relieving. The disgust born from the rape digs deep and every part of you feels unclean, even more so the parts of you the men have already begun to shower in cum.

The man fucking you changes the angle of his thrusting and hits deep, making you cry out in ecstasy. Both your sore tits are receiving careful attention now, stimulating your nipples as they bounce with every thrust. Whoever is pleasuring your clit is doing an amazing job and you feel your orgasm approaching.

It's almost too difficult to reach, the disgust with yourself acting as a barrier and the overstimulation hazing your mind. You shut your eyes tight and try to just listen, imagine the sounds you're hearing aren't just animalistic breeding. That's when it hits you, of course none of them are using condoms.

Your eyes shoot open and you find your cracked voice to beg the man fucking you to pull out. The idea of breeding you just makes him moan and pick up speed, leaning over you to pin you to the couch. He forces his mouth against yours, wrestling his tongue between your lips in the most messy, unsatisfying kiss you've ever received.

His thrusting gets irregular and he ruts against you a few more times before he moans into your mouth, his cock twitching as he cums. You sob as you feel a faint heat deep inside you but don't even have time to process your potential impregnation as you cum. Your back arches, pressing against your rapist as your pussy clenches his softening cock. He grabs your boobs and makes out with you through your orgasm.

Hi this is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life??

(CW: Torture, interrogation, burning, implied sexual assault)

They want to know who has the radio. Normally I can’t hear the questions—at this distance I can normally only catch indistinct snatches of the interrogator’s voice between the screams. But Johnson has been giving him trouble, and after four days of trying to pry an answer from his head, the interrogator is starting to lose his temper. He’s shouting his questions now, not stating them.

Of course, I would have known it was about the radio even if I couldn’t hear him. Last week we were all woken up by the racket from the interrogation block and the next morning Harris came to roll call with his arms all slashed up. He told us exactly what he’d been asked, and who he’d named when it all got to be too much. It was a lie, of course, but sure enough Diaz was hauled off for questioning an hour later.

After that we made a plan. Not everyone in the camp knows about the radio, of course, but since there are nine of us who do, we figure we can keep the guards guessing for a little while. The longer we can keep them guessing, the better chance we have of getting rescued.

And so every time one of us is brought in for a “conversation”, we hold out as long as we can, and then give them a name—the wrong name—and then it’s the next person’s turn.

Eventually we’ll run out of people. But that’s still a week or so off. And Johnson—well, Johnson has held out for days longer than anyone expected him to.

He screams again, the sound of his agony ripping through the muggy night air, momentarily drowning out the sounds of insects and guards’ footsteps and the barest whispers of conversation among the inmates. Everyone falls silent when they hear his cry—I’m not sure whether out of respect for his sacrifice or terror of meeting his fate.

After four days of listening to him and months on end of listening to others, I can tell what’s happening based on the screaming alone. Beating is a long string of short, sharp yells, with occasional pauses when the air is knocked out of the victim. Whipping is much the same, except that you can occasionally hear the hiss and crack of the lash on impact.

Electricity is different. Those cries are choked and gurgled, like the scream is getting caught in the throat, like the lungs are seizing up and the heart is skipping beats before the noise can fully escape. If anything it sounds like they’re being waterboarded—or at least, what you’d imagine waterboarding would sound like, because in practice someone who is being forcibly drowned doesn’t make much sound at all.

A lot of techniques are quieter—from what I can tell, strappado ends in a long stream of gasps and whimpers, barely audible to the rest of the camp except for those lucky few of us who have cells on the end of the block. And then there are the violations that nobody talks about, nobody asks about, and certainly nobody wants the rest of the camp to hear. Those ones usually leave the victims silent, twitching shells.

The loudest one—at least that I’ve heard—is burning. That one starts with a yelp that quickly morphs into a full-fledged roar, a bellow of agony as the heat works its way through the skin and into the muscle beneath. It’s sharp and searing and overpowering and it doesn’t stop when the lighter is removed, blistering and throbbing and continuing to radiate white-hot pain as the interrogator rewards you by moving on the next unmarked patch of skin.

That’s what they’re doing to Johnson tonight. I know this because I’ve already listened to them try the beating and the drowning and the electricity and all the rest. They did that for three days and he still hasn’t given them a name. So tonight they’re trying to burn it out of him.

There’s something off, though. Yes, he’s shrieking in agony, the sounds of pain reverberating through the camp as his skin blisters and his hair goes up in smoke. That’s to be expected. But the thing that catches me off guard is the new edge to his voice—the note of desperation I can hear in his cries. His screams are starting to get agitated. Panicked.

I don’t know if it’s because they’re doing something different, something new they’ve never tried before. Or maybe it’s just because he’s realizing how close he’s getting to the limit. Either way, I know in my gut that that new tremor in his voice can only mean one thing—Johnson is just about to break. A chill runs down my spine.

He wails, again, a pure unadulterated howl of anguish as the flame licks at his flesh. I close my eyes, shutting out the tiny bunk and the buzzling flies and the terrified whispers from the next cell over. All that matters is Johnson’s voice, his agony and fear and gradually wavering resolve.

As the sound fades I can hear the interrogator screaming too, shouting something about the radio, talk about the radio, tell him who has the radio or else he swears this is going to go on until sunrise if it has to. He adds something else, in a lower voice, and whatever the second threat is, it’s enough to make Johnson crack.

“Please! Please! Don’t, just don’t, please—”

The interrogator says something, quieter, in a voice is as cold as ice. I don’t have to hear it. I know exactly what it was. He’s offering a way out.

There’s a moment of pure silence, a pause as Johnson thinks, suddenly cut short by a sharp groan as the interrogator does something to help him make up his mind. The groan is immediately followed by a rush of words, the information spilling freely from his lips, the sound of a man giving up everything he knows.

I realize my hands are clenched, and I’m praying—I don’t know for what. I can’t hear what he’s saying. I don’t know if he’s giving up the truth about the radio—that’s the risk, that the interrogator will break him so thoroughly that he forgets the game—or if he’s giving the next name on the decoy list. I hear the interrogator’s cold voice, clarifying, asking follow-up questions. I take a deep breath.

And then a moment later I hear footsteps—the sound of guards coming, rapidly approaching the row of cells. It’s still early in the night. There’s time to get another interrogation started. I listen to them coming, trying to tamp down my apprehension. The radio is under a loose brick in Phillips’ cell, three doors down. I hold my breath as the pair of feet reach that cell… and then keep going.

Johnson kept his head. He made the lie work. He gave them the wrong name.

I let out my breath, long and slow, as the guards keep walking, coming for the next false victim, the sixth out of nine. Who knows how long this one will last. Probably not as long as Johnson did.

Take your pants off and get comfortable with your legs spread. Notice how nice it feels to have nothing in the way of your cock. Start slowly rubbing your inner thighs and gently sliding your fingers up to the top of them where your bush starts.

Focus on your cock as you're teased, feel it twitching and hardening. Then move to rubbing your cock through the folds. Hold the folds open and feel the air on your sensitive cock. Feel the way you squirm.

Then, get some lube if you have it nearby (saliva works ok too) and start stroking your cock and massaging the base. If you keep your touches very light, you can feel your cock twitching for more. You could also hold your fingers still against it and thrust into them, feeling your cock harden.

“I know you will, you don’t have much choice”