Ciaran could imagine how Alison started her morning on Friday, her fifth day at Horrocks, Clinton and Quayle.

 

She had woken from a night of poor sleep, filled with humiliation nightmares and erotic dreams and the repetitive thought running in her head that she was a dumb big-titted baby and a perverted little slut.  

 

Had her cunt been already wet when she woke?  He thought it might have been.

 

She had stumbled into her bathroom and showered, and used the toilet - and then, blushing, she had remembered she had to report her urination to Ciaran, and, her face red, she had composed a quick text explaining what she had just done.

 

She had gotten dressed - and been surprised to find that she had less underwear than she thought.  All the panties she could find were the sexy ones.

 

She remembered that Ciaran had told her to wear a G-string, and she found one - perhaps a nice red one - except that it was slightly damp, and had a strange white-ish stain on the crotch.  But she didn’t have other options, and if she went without panties entirely Ciaran would berate her for being a slut, so she put the wet, stained G-string on, and found a bra to match it.

 

When she went to pick out a dress, she was dismayed to find that none of them seemed to fit the way she expected.  They showed more cleavage than she remembered, and their hems were higher than she remembered, and she had to struggle to fit into them.  She would have assumed that she had put on weight, and thoughts such as “fat cow” and “ugly fattie” might have come into her head.

 

Then it was time for breakfast.  What would she have eaten?  Cereal bathed in a milk that was nearly 40% semen?  Toast slathered in butter that was mixed with cum?  “Orange juice” that was really a half-and-half mixture of juice and piss?  It would have tasted strange to her - but so much had been strange for her over the last week that she would have difficulty trusting what her own senses were telling her.  

 

And besides, it tasted just like the sandwiches Ciaran had been feeding her at work.  If something was wrong, it must be her own taste buds.

 

Maybe one of the electrical appliances that Ciaran had sabotaged shorted out as she ate her breakfast - a toaster or kettle, perhaps, or the microwave, or maybe one or two of the overhead lights.  She would have no time to do anything about it now - just one more stress to leave her off-balance and vulnerable.

 

And then it was off to work on the train.

 

Once again, Ciaran had paid a man on the crowded train to molest Alison, and taken a position where he could watch.  As before, Alison was in the middle of the train, hanging on to an overhead loop, and her molester had found a seat behind her.

 

This time the man started by leaning in and rubbing his face against Alison’s buttocks, pushing against the fabric of her skirt.  When Alison pulled away, he waited, and then leaned in again, this time pushing his nose between her buttocks.

 

Alison tried to pull further, but there was only so far she could go without either letting go of the loop or humping her groin against the business-suited man in front of her.  Again and again the man pushed his face between her ass cheeks, until Alison finally just blushingly let it happen.

 

And that was when the man reached between her legs and began to play with her pussy.

 

Being molested on a train once was the molester’s fault, in Alison’s mind.  But having it happen twice was *her* fault.  This didn’t happen to other girls.  Only Alison got her pussy fingered twice in three days, and by different men on each occasion.  She was a dumb big-titted baby.  She was a perverted little slut.  She deserved rape.

 

So she went still and let it happen.  She tried to show no sign that anything was wrong as the man began to finger-rape her twat, sliding his fingers up inside her, despite the fact that her pussy began to juice up immediately.  She tried to ignore it and think about something else.  Anything else.

 

She thought about work.  She thought about watching Ella’s rape video on her computer and masturbating - no!  Not that!  She thought about mopping up her piss with her shirt and bra as Ciaran watched - no!  She thought about flashing her cunt to a roomful of men…

 

She moaned in humiliation, and as she did so, the man molesting her tugged at her G-string, and she felt it slip down her legs and collect around her ankles.  This, too, she allowed to happen.  She looked across at a businessman on a nearby seat, and she realised he was staring directly at her, seeing everything that was happening to her.  He was smiling, and made no move to help her or stop the man who was fingerfucking her, whose fingers were going deeper into her with every thrust…

 

And then something happened that Alison *couldn’t* ignore.  In fact, she jumped and squealed, unable to avoid calling attention to herself.

 

The man molesting her had lifted her skirt up at the back, and ducked his head under it… and licked her asshole.

 

Alison went wild.  She had never had anal sex.  She had never had so much as a finger in her anus.  She was *dirty* back there, or so she thought.  To have her ass licked by a man’s tongue - in *public*, on a *train* - was an unbearable violation.

 

She tried to pull her ass away, but the man had his fingers in her cunt and he used them to pull her back towards him, as he poked his tongue into her anus.  

 

Ciaran was laughing.  He had no interest in eating Alison’s ass himself, but clearly his stooge did, and he loved the effect it was having on Alison.  He thought she could not possibly have felt more embarrassed and violated if the man had just pushed his cock into her pussy.  

 

The man kept licking, and pushing at her anal sphincter with his tongue, and Alison shook and trembled with humiliation.  She couldn’t let go of the hand-loop overhead without falling over.  She couldn’t use move her ass forward without humping another man - even if the fingers in her cunt would let her to do so.  She couldn’t protect herself with her free hand without calling more attention to herself.  

 

There was nothing she could do but let the man tongue her ass in public while he pumped his fingers in and out of her pussy.

 

And sure enough, the inevitable soon happened.  Alison orgasmed.  She hated what was happening to her ass, but she loved what was happening to her pussy, and soon her cunt won the battle.

 

As soon as the man felt her cum, he laughed, and rose, pulling his fingers from her cunt.  He grabbed her skirt and ripped it off with one smooth motion, and then wiped his fingers clean on her face, and just like that he was gone, walking swiftly down the train and disembarking at the next stop.

 

The train was so full that Alison couldn’t even bend over to pull up her panties.  She had to stand like that, bare-assed and bare-cunted, for another five minutes until the train reached its next stop - at which point suddenly Ciaran was next to her.

 

“God, Alison, put this on,” he said to her, passing her a skirt.

 

Alison didn’t think to ask why Ciaran was there, or why he had a skirt ready for her.  As she had stood half-nude, dying of embarrassment, her mind had been telling her she was a perverted little slut and that - above all else - she needed a man.  

 

And now a man was here, and he was helping, and it felt so good.

 

The skirt was too small for her - far too small.  It was a schoolgirl’s skirt, if that schoolgirl had also been a stripper, and really it was little more than a belt.  Alison was able to secure it around her waist, but she soon realised it didn’t even come down far enough to cover the bottom of her cunt, and it only concealed a fraction of her ass cheeks.  The end result was to make Alison look even more nude and slutty than she would have been just going naked below the waist.

 

As she put the skirt on, Ciaran reached down and scooped up her panties, tucking them into his pocket.  “I’ll get these,” he said as he pocketed them, but he made no effort to give them back so that Alison could wear them.

 

He ushered her off the train at their stop, and led her over to one side of the station, before turning on her.

 

“God, Alison,” he said, in a cold voice, “what the hell were you doing?  You practically raped that man.”

 

“What?” said Alison.  “No, he…”

 

“I saw it all, Alison,” said Ciaran.  “I saw you humping your ass into that poor man’s face.  He was just sitting there, and you were practically sitting on his face.  Every time he tried to get away you pushed your ass cheeks back up against him.”

 

“No…” protested Alison.

 

But… was what Ciaran saying the truth?  The train had been packed, and she been swaying with the train’s motion, and she had kept feeling his face against her ass.  And she hadn’t turned around or moved away.  Was that because the train was too crowded?  Or had she… liked it?

 

No, she couldn’t have.  But Ciaran had seen it, and he said…

 

“He thought you were sexually propositioning him,” said Ciaran.  “He started playing with your pussy just so you’d stop.  But then you wiggled until your panties fell down, and you pushed your ass back in his face… it’s disgusting.  Everyone was watching.  You’ll be lucky if none of them report you to police.”

 

Ciaran saw tears in Alison’s eyes - delicious, delicious tears.  He loved them because they meant she was having trouble arguing with him.  She couldn’t find a way to refute his gaslighting of her.  Part of her was already beginning to believe that she *was* a rapist, and that everything that had just happened was her own fault.

 

He took her by the hand and began to walk her to the office.  People stared at her while she worked.  Her skirt was wholly inappropriate.  They could see her ass.  They could see her cunt.  Alison was so lost in the guilt of having “raped” a man that she didn’t even realise how much skin she was showing.

 

About halfway to the office, Ciaran pointed into a narrow alleyway packed with rubbish bins.

 

“Piss,” he said.

 

“What?” asked Alison.

 

Ciaran looked at her coldly.  “Alison, I am tired of hearing you say ‘what’ when you heard what I just said perfectly well.  The next time you make me repeat myself, I will slap you, and you will deserve it.  Do you understand, you dumb big-titted baby?”

 

She flinched at the words “dumb big-titted baby”.  Ciaran was reinforcing what her mind already believed.

 

“Yes, sir,” she mumbled.  “I’m sorry, sir.”

 

“I don’t want you pissing like a whore in your office again today,” said Ciaran.  “So go relieve yourself in the alley before we get there.”

 

Alison hurried over and squatted behind the rubbish bins, and pissed on the ground while Ciaran watched.

 

Ciaran marvelled at how far Alison had come in only a week - pissing on command for him in a public place.  It really was a marvel.

 

When they got to the office, Alison hesitated.  She had realised how short her skirt was now, and she *knew* it wasn’t appropriate for a workplace.  She looked at Ciaran, perhaps hoping he would give her back her G-string.

 

“Hurry to your office,” he told her, “and once you’re there you can hide for the day until it’s time to go home.”

 

She did as he suggested - but of course her door was locked, so she had to run back through the office, trying to avoid anyone seeing her indecent skirt, to beg for Ciaran to unlock it for her, which he did, after making her wait for nearly ten minutes.

 

“Type up a report,” he told her, “about how you molested a man on the train.  Be honest.  I want you to focus on what it felt like to be finger-raped in public, and have your ass licked in public, and why you deserved it.  I want it on my desk in two hours.”

 

And then he went back to his office to wait - knowing that soon her Q-Star would begin to flash, and she would space out and hear about how she was incapable, and needed a man, because she was a dumb big-titted slut.  And then she would type her report, and begin to sexually fixate on the memories of her public molestation, and she would rub her pussy…

 

To Ciaran’s mind, Alison’s re-training in what it meant to be a woman was proceeding very nicely - and he couldn’t wait to see where it took her next.

 

(TO BE CONTINUED)