Naughty Nun's Drunken Dance

nun drugged by patrons in sleazy bar, which she entered seeking shelter for heavy snow, dared to ride the bull.

The neon sign buzzed softly, casting a rosy glow over the sleazy bar's neon sign that read "Pat's Place". Sister Maria, drenched from the heavy snow and seeking shelter, pushed open the door. The warmth hit her first, then the stench of stale beer and cheap cigarettes. The patrons, a motley crew of rough men and girls with too much makeup, turned to stare. Sister Maria, her habit sopping wet, stood out like a sore thumb. She ignored their gazes, scanning the room for a dry spot. A grizzled man at the bar, his leather jacket worn and his beard wild, smirked. "Hey, sweetheart, you lost?" She ignored him, moving towards an empty booth. Another man, this one with a greasy comb-over, stepped in her path. "Mind if I join you, Sister?" She shook her head, sidestepping him. She slumped into the booth, her breath visible in the chilly air. One of the bar girls, a blonde with legs for days, leaned over her, grinning. "You look like you could use a drink, honey. On the house." Before Sister Maria could protest, the girl slid a shot glass filled with a clear liquid in front of her. "It'll warm you up," she winked, then walked away. Sister Maria hesitated, then downed the shot. It burned her throat, making her cough. She felt a strange warmth spread through her, her cheeks flushing. She shook her head, standing up. She had to go, needed to find somewhere safe. But her body felt heavy, her steps unsteady. The room spun slightly as she made her way to the door. A hand on her shoulder stopped her. She turned, her vision blurry, to see the grizzled man from earlier. "Where you goin', sweetheart?" His voice was low, a growl in his throat. She tried to speak, but her tongue felt thick. He grinned, leaning in. "How about a ride, huh? We got a bull you can ride, right here." He pointed towards a mechanical bull in the corner, the lights flickering around it. She blinked, trying to clear her head. But the man's hand was on her back, pushing her towards it. She stumbled, her body not her own. She reached the bull, her hands gripping the cold metal. The room spun, the lights blurring into streaks of color, she felt dimly the man’s hands begin to uncover her sodden habit, lifting it to reveal her thighs. She felt the cool air hit her skin, and the grinding rhythm of the bull was loud in her ears. She wasn’t sure if she had chosen this or if it had been chosen for her.

The man's hands were rough and calloused, but they moved with a practiced ease as they pushed her habit up further, exposing more of her skin to the damp, chilly air of the bar. She could hear the low murmur of the patrons, their eyes on her, watching, waiting. Her legs trembled as she struggled to maintain her balance on the mechanical bull. The machine growled softly, the vibrations pulsing through her body. The man's hands gripped her thighs, his thumbs brushing against the lace of her panties. She gasped, her head spinning from the drink, the loudness of the room, the confusion of it all. But the man didn't stop. His hands slid up further, pushing her habit up to her waist. He leaned in, his breath hot on her ear. "That's it, sweetheart. Show them what you've got." Sister Maria's breath hitched as she felt his fingers hook into the waistband of her panties. She should stop him, she knew, but her body felt heavy, her limbs unwilling to obey her commands. She could feel the cool air against her exposed skin, the heat from the man's body pressing against her back. She heard the sharp intake of breaths from the crowd, the low murmurs of approval when his fingers tugged at the fabric, stretching it, ready to pull it down. His fingers suddenly jerked away. She heard a muttered curse, then his voice, low and rough. "You're soaking wet, sister. We gotta get these off you. It's gonna be alright." A few of the patrons cheered, their voices slurred with alcohol and excitement. The man’s hands moved to her waist, and with a swift tug, he pulled her panties down, exposing her completely. She moaned softly, a sound she hardly recognized as her own, as the rough fabric of her habit and the cold metal of the bull ground against her skin, an overwhelming mix of sensations. Her hands tightened the grip on the bull, knuckles white, a strangled moan passing her lips, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She felt dizzy, her vision swimming as the machine lurched beneath her, the man's hands now grasping her hips, steadying her, holding her in place. Her body was a mix of nerves firing in all directions, her mind a haze of confusion and heightened sensation. She tried to focus, but the room spun, the lights flickered, and all she could feel was the grinding, the noise, the heat of the man's body against hers, and the cold, hard metal beneath her.

The neon lights of the rustic bar cast a lurid glow over the crowded room. The walls were adorned with faded posters of country music stars and dusty taxidermy heads, the air thick with the scent of stale beer, sweat, and cheap perfume. The jukebox in the corner blared a twangy tune, the volume competing with the raucous laughter and chatter of the patrons. The floor was sticky underfoot, and the air was heavy with a palpable tension, a mix of lust and anticipation. The mechanical bull sat center stage, a monstrous contraption of steel and hydraulics, its surface slick with the efforts of previous riders. The machine groaned and shuddered, the vibrations reverberating through the floorboards, sending a primal shiver through Sister Maria's body. The crowd around her buzzed with a feverish energy, their eyes gleaming with drunken mischief and raw desire. The lights flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls, amplifying the chaotic atmosphere. Behind the bar, a bartender polished a glass, his eyes occasionally drifting to the spectacle unfolding on the bull. The shelves behind him were stocked with an array of liquor bottles, their labels glowing under the harsh lights. The clinking of glasses and the clatter of pool balls added to the cacophony, creating a symphony of debauchery that throbbed through the air. The man's hands, rough and calloused, gripped her thighs tighter, his thumbs brushing against the lace of her panties. She could feel the cool air against her exposed skin, the heat from the man's body pressing against her back. The crowd was a blur of faces, their features distorted by the dim lighting and the haze of smoke that hung heavy in the air. The room spun, the flickering lights casting a kaleidoscope of images that swirled around her, each one more intense than the last. Her hands tightened the grip on the bull, knuckles white, a strangled moan passing her lips, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She bit her lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood as the machine lurched beneath her, the man's hands now grasping her hips, steadying her, holding her in place. The sensations were overwhelming, the cold metal of the bull grinding against her skin, the rough fabric of her habit chafing at her thighs, the heat of the man's body searing into her back. The room was a maelstrom of sound and sensation, the noise of the crowd blending with the mechanical growl of the bull, the scent of alcohol and lust filling her nostrils. Her vision swam, the lights flickering like a strobe, each flash illuminating the leering faces of the patrons, their eyes locked onto her, drinking in her every movement, her every gasp. Her heart pounded in her chest, the rhythm matching the throb of the machine beneath her. The air was electric, charged with a primal energy that pulsed through her veins, pushing her to the brink of madness. The man's breath was hot on her ear, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down her spine. "That's it, sweetheart. Feel it. Let it take you."

Her eyes fluttered shut as she tried to block out the world, focusing only on the sensations coursing through her. The man’s hands, now slick with a mix of sweat and lubricant, slid down to her ass, gripping her tightly, his fingers digging into her flesh. He leaned in, his voice a low growl in her ear. "You feel that, sweetheart? Feel the bull grinding against you? It's like a fucking cock, isn't it? Hard and unyielding. Just like you need it." His words sent a fresh wave of heat through her, her body responding with a surge of wetness. She could feel it, the slickness between her thighs, the way it coated her skin, making her feel even more exposed. The man's hands moved again, one sliding up her back, the other down between her legs. His fingers brushed against her clit, a sharp, electric jolt that made her gasp. He chuckled, a dark, dirty sound. "Yeah, you like that, don't you? You're a fucking slut, Sister. A dirty, filthy slut who loves this shit." His fingers circled her clit, the pressure building, the sensations overwhelming. She could feel the orgasm building, a coiled spring ready to snap. The man's hand on her back moved, his fingers finding her asshole, pressing against it, teasing it. She moaned, a long, low sound of pure need. The patrons watched, their breaths coming in quick, eager pants, their eyes glazed with lust and alcohol. The blonde bar girl bit her lip, her hips grinding against the bar, her fingers moving in time with the man's on Sister Maria's clit. The grizzled man at the bar had his hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it slowly, his eyes never leaving the scene before him. The bartender watched too, his rag forgotten, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The room was a symphony of lust, a twisted, carnal ballet played out in the grimy, forgotten bar. And at the center of it all was Sister Maria, her body a playground of sensations, her mind a hazy, confused mess. She was a puppet, dancing to the tune of the grizzled man's whims, her strings controlled by the potent drink and the intoxicating atmosphere of the bar.

The neon lights flickered, casting an almost ethereal glow over the scene. Cameras, discreetly placed around the room, captured every heated moment, the lenses reflecting the strobe-like flashes of the bar lights. The grizzly man’s voice echoed through a cheap microphone, his words dripping with lust and mischief as he narrated the live broadcast: "A live performance, folks. This is what you've been waiting for. Pure, unadulterated sin. The holy sister, lost in a world of pleasure and debauchery." He paused. His fingers traced the contours of her body, lingering on her curves, exploring the sensitive spots that made her gasp. Maria felt her skin flush, the heat from his fingers searing into her. The man’s other hand kept his rhythm steady, his fingers dancing over her clit, teasing, and tormenting. She could hear the low murmur of the crowd, their words a mix of encouragement and filthy whispers. "See how she responds, how her body moves with the bull? Like she was made for this. For sin. For lust." The man’s fingers pressed harder, his thumb circling her clit in quick, tight motions. Maria’s breath hitched, her body bucking against the mechanical bull. The cameras zoomed in, capturing the rivulets of sweat trickling down her face, the flush of her cheeks, and the wild, unbridled lust in her eyes. One of the bar girls, a brunette with a piercing glare, leaned in closer to the camera, her voice a sultry purr. "Look at her. She’s a fucking vision. The way she moves, the way she takes it—it’s like she was born for this. Born to be fucked." The man leaned back in, his lips brushing against her ear. "They’re watching, sweetheart. They’re watching you, and they love it. They love seeing a holy woman reduced to this. Reduced to a whore." His words sent a shiver down her spine, her body responding with a fresh surge of wetness. The man’s fingers slid inside her, his thumb continuing its relentless assault on her clit. She moaned, a long, low sound of pure need, her body grinding against the bull, against his hand. The crowd roared, their voices a primal, animalistic sound that filled the room. The air was thick with the scent of lust and alcohol, the energy electric. The bartender, his eyes glued to the scene, stroked himself faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The grizzled man at the bar grunted, his hand moving in time with the man’s fingers inside her, his own pleasure building with hers. The cameras panned out, capturing the entire room, the patrons lost in their own worlds of lust and desire. The broadcast was live, the footage streaming to private TVs and the dark corners of the internet, where perverts and fetishists alike tuned in to watch the holy sister’s descent into debauchery. And Sister Maria, lost in the sensational maelstrom of pleasure and pain, felt the orgasm building, a coiled spring ready to snap. She was a puppet, dancing to the tune of the grizzled man's whims, her strings controlled by the potent drink, the intoxicating atmosphere of the bar, and the unblinking eyes of the cameras.

The man's fingers inside her curled, finding that spot that made her vision blur. He knew exactly what he was doing, his movements calculated to push her closer to the edge. The bull beneath her bucked harder, mimicking the thrusts of a relentless lover, grinding against her clit with each violent lurch. She could feel the friction building, the pressure becoming almost unbearable. "Fuck, you're soaked," he growled, his fingers slick with her arousal. "You love this, don't you? Love being on display, being fucked by this bull while they all watch." His words were a dark poison, seeping into her mind, twisting her thoughts. She could feel the orgasm coiling tighter, her body tensing, ready to snap. The cameras zoomed in on her face, capturing every twitch, every gasp, every grimace of pleasure-pain. The brunette bar girl, her eyes gleaming with malice and lust, whispered into the microphone, "Look at her face. She's going to come. She's going to come all over that bull, all on live TV. The holy sister, reduced to a fucking animal." The room erupted in cheers, the patrons screaming and shouting, their voices a cacophony of lust and encouragement. The bartender, his face flushed, his breath ragged, stroked himself faster, his eyes never leaving the scene before him. The grizzled man at the bar grunted, his hand moving in a blur, his own release imminent. The man behind her leaned in, his teeth nipping at her earlobe. "Come for them, sweetheart. Come for the cameras. Show them what a whore you really are." His words were the final spark, the last push she needed. Her body convulsed, her muscles clenching, her breath hitching as the orgasm ripped through her. The room seemed to explode in a symphony of lust, the patrons screaming, the cameras flashing, the bull bucking wildly beneath her. The brunette's voice echoed through the room, a sultry, triumphant purr. "There it is, folks. The holy sister's release. Pure, unadulterated sin."

The scene shifted, the cameras panning out as the room began to refocus. The holier-than-thou sister had been a hit, but the grizzled man knew the audience craved variety. Tonight, a new piece of fresh meat would make her debut. The room fell silent as the door creaked open. A young novice nun, her habit stark against the neon lights, stepped inside. Her eyes were wide, frightened, but there was a defiance in her jaw, a stubborn set to her lips. She was blackmailed into this, but she wasn't going down without a fight. The grizzled man's voice boomed through the microphone, "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we have a treat for you. A fresh, innocent flower plucked from the garden of the Lord. A novice nun, Blackmailed into giving us a new show, of the kinkiest type. And trust me, folks, she's got a fire in her belly that's just waiting to be ignited." The novice nun flinched at his words, her fists clenching at her sides. The man circled her like a predator, his eyes roving over her body, lingering on the curves hidden beneath her habit. "Let's see what we've got here, shall we?" He reached out, his fingers brushing against the fabric of her habit. She jerked away, her eyes flashing with anger. The room murmured, the patrons leaning in, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. The brunette bar girl, her voice a low purr, commented, "Look at her. She's a fightin' one, isn't she? I love it when they struggle." The man smirked, his eyes never leaving the novice nun. "Oh, she'll struggle, alright. But in the end, she'll submit. They always do." He lunged, his hands grabbing her wrists, pinning her against the wall. She struggled, her body writhing against his, but he was too strong. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "You can fight all you want, sweetheart. But you're mine now. And I'm going to make you scream." Her breath hitched, her body tensing as she felt his hard length press against her. The cameras zoomed in, capturing every moment of her struggle, every flicker of fear and defiance in her eyes. The room was silent, the patrons holding their breath, waiting for the next move. The grizzled man's voice, a low growl, broke the silence. "Let the show begin."

The novice nun's breath came in short gasps, her chest heaving as she tried to break free. But his grip was like a vice, unyielding and harsh. He chuckled darkly, his breath hot on her ear, and she shivered in revulsion. "Such a shame to hide this body under all this fabric," he murmured, his free hand tracing the line of her habit. She froze, her eyes wide as his fingers brushed against her throat, her collarbone, the curve of her breast. The room watched, breathless, as he explored her body, his touch searing through the thick material. The man grinned, his eyes never leaving the novice nun's face. He grabbed the fabric of her habit, his fingers curling around the rough material. She shook her head, a whimper escaping her lips, but he just smirked, pulling the fabric down, exposing her shoulder, her collarbone, the swell of her breast. The room erupted in cheers, the patrons screaming and shouting, their voices a cacophony of lust and encouragement. The novice nun's face flushed with humiliation, her eyes filled with tears, but she refused to look away, refused to show weakness. The grizzled man, his voice a low growl, commanded, "Strip for us, sweetheart. Show us what we've been missing. The invitation can be public - or private... but it's still coming off." He released her wrists, taking a step back, his eyes never leaving her body. She stood there, frozen, her heart pounding in her chest. The cameras zoomed in, capturing every flicker of fear, every tremor of her lips. The room was silent, the patrons holding their breath, waiting for her next move. She was a virgin to this, blackmailed into it, but she knew what was expected of her. The brunette bar girl, her voice a sultry purr, coaxed, "Come on, sweetheart. Don't be shy. We've all been waiting for this. This is a holy gang bang, and you're the main attraction. Squirm. Dance. Show us you're here with us — down in the gutter, with the rest of us." The novice nun took a deep, shuddering breath, her hands trembling as she reached for the ties of her habit. She was trapped, cornered, and she knew it. But she also knew that fighting would only make it worse. So, she took a deep breath, her fingers fumbling with the knots, and began to undo them. Her first striptease. Let the show begin.

The grizzled man's fingers worked in tandem, one teasing her tight asshole, the other circling her clit with expert precision. Sister Maria's body bucked against the mechanical bull, her breath hitching as waves of pleasure coursed through her. The machine's relentless grinding against her pussy was a crude, brutal mimicry of sex, amplifying the sensation of his touch. "You're so fucking wet," he growled, his voice laced with lust. "Your pussy's dripping like a fucking faucet. You love this, don't you? You love being a whore for this room full of strangers." His words were filthy, degrading, but they only served to heighten her arousal. She could feel the orgasm building, a tidal wave of sensation threatening to consume her. The man's fingers pressed deeper, his thumb slipping inside her ass, stretching her, preparing her. His other hand moved lower, two fingers sliding into her pussy, fucking her in time with the bull's movements. The patrons watched, enraptured, their own desires mirroring the scene before them. The blonde bar girl's hand was between her legs, her fingers moving frantically as she rubbed her clit, her eyes glazed with lust. The grizzled man at the bar stroked himself faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his eyes never leaving Sister Maria's writhing form. The room was a symphony of carnal sounds, the low growl of the bull, the wet slapping of flesh against flesh, the ragged breaths of the patrons, the slick sounds of fingers fucking pussy and ass. The air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, a heady, intoxicating aroma that filled every lung, fueling every desire. Sister Maria's body tensed, her muscles clenching as the orgasm hit her like a freight train. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, her body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed over her. The man's fingers fucked her brutally, drawing out her orgasm, milking every last drop of pleasure from her body. She could feel the juices of her orgasm dripping down her thighs, coating the man's hand, mixing with the lubricant and sweat. As her orgasm subsided, she sagged against the bull, her body limp, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The man's fingers slipped out of her, leaving her feeling empty, used. He leaned in, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. "Good girl. Now, it's time for the real fun to begin." He whispered this into her ear and pinched her again. She gasped, knowing this night had just begun.

--- **Subject:** Regarding Sister Maria's Transgressions *Your Eminence,* Attached you will find video footage and documentation of Sister Maria’s participation in public indecency, obscene acts, and willful desecration of her vows. The material is explicit, undeniable, and already circulating. We are prepared to suppress this scandal—for a price. The Church’s reputation remains intact only if the following conditions are met: 1. **Immediate transfer of Sister Maria** to our custody for "spiritual correction." 2. A discreet donation of €250,000 to the account specified below. Failure to comply will result in the release of this footage to every major news outlet, parish bulletin, and seminary within 48 hours. The choice is simple: protect the Church’s sanctity, or watch it burn. *Awaiting your urgent response,* *A Concerned Servant of Truth* --- **P.S.** She begs for penance, but the only absolution left is on her knees. --- *(The screen flickers to a paused frame: Sister Maria, bare and trembling, caught mid-moan under the hands of strangers, her habit torn at her feet.)*

The grizzled man dragged Sister Maria off the bull by her hair, her sweat-slicked body stumbling as he shoved her toward the bar. The video feed still blinked in the corner—red light glaring, recording every second of her degradation. "Open wide, sister," the bartender taunted, unbuckling his belt. He gripped her jaw, forcing her mouth onto his cock, his hips already thrusting before she could even gag. Behind her, the patron who’d fingered her now spat into his palm and pressed his thick cockhead against her asshole, his other hand pinning her hips down. The Vatican’s email alert chimed again—unread. The only scripture here was flesh and surrender. The bartender groaned as her throat constricted. "Fuck, she *prays* with this mouth?" His fingers knotted in her hair, dragging her deeper, the tip hitting the back of her throat. The cock in her ass pressed in further, stretching her obscenely. On the screen, a reply popped up: *Terms accepted.* The man at her ass chuckled darkly. "Guess you’re ours now." He slammed the rest of the way in.

--- The mining outpost's makeshift stage was a slab of warped metal under flickering floodlights, the air thick with sweat and the reek of cheap liquor. Sister Maria stumbled forward, her sandaled feet slipping on spilled beer, the jeers of the men already rising like a tide. There were no pews here—just a sea of calloused hands and hungry eyes, every one of them waiting to *use* her. "Let's see what the Vatican's hiding under that habit," someone roared. The first man dragged her up by the wrists, his fingers digging into her skin as he spun her toward the crowd. No music, just the raw noise of their demands—*take it off, show us, prove it*. Maria’s hands trembled as she reached for the last scraps of fabric clinging to her, the torn habit sliding down her thighs. The moment it hit the floor, the men surged forward, fingers grabbing, pinching, claiming. A miner with dirt-streaked knuckles hauled her onto the edge of the stage, forcing her legs apart. "Bless us, Sister," he growled, his cock already out, thick and impatient. He didn’t wait—just lined up and shoved inside her in one brutal thrust. Maria's back arched, her choked gasp lost under the howls of approval. Another man yanked her head back by her hair, his other hand working his length against her lips. "Suck, or we start the bidding for your ass next." The floodlights burned. The crowd chanted. And Maria obeyed.

The miner pounding into her didn’t slow—each snap of his hips drove her back against the next man’s cock, forcing it deeper into her mouth. Her throat convulsed around him, spit slicking his shaft as he grunted, "Tighter, bitch." The taste of salt and cheap tobacco filled her mouth, his balls slapping her chin with every thrust. Behind her, another hand groped her ass, calloused fingers spreading her cheeks. A thick glob of spit landed on her hole before a blunt pressure forced its way in alongside the cock already stretching her cunt. Maria’s scream was muffled, her body jolting as the double penetration split her open. "Fuck, look at her take it," someone yelled over the noise. The crowd pressed closer, hands grabbing at her tits, her thighs, her hips—any part they could claim. A third man shoved his way forward, dragging his cock along her cheek before slapping it against her forehead. "Gonna paint this holy whore’s face next." The miner in her cunt came with a snarl, his cum flooding her as he pulled out. Before she could even gasp, another took his place, slamming into her wetness without hesitation. The stage rattled beneath them, the metal groaning under the weight of greed and flesh. Maria’s vision blurred. The floodlights burned hotter. And the crowd demanded more.

The man in her mouth groaned as he finished, hot ropes of cum coating her tongue before spilling down her chin. Another miner took his place immediately, shoving his shaft past her lips and bucking hard—no pause, no mercy. Behind her, the second cock retreated from her ass, only to be replaced by a thicker one, stretching her hole wider as it bottomed out. Maria’s body was slick with sweat and spit, her thighs trembling as hands roamed freely, pinching her nipples raw, slapping her ass red. "Look at her leak," a voice sneered, fingers dipping into the mess of cum dripping from her pussy. They smeared it across her stomach, her tits—marking her as theirs. A third man pushed forward, rubbing his cock between her tits before thrusting between them, his tip nudging her chin. "Gonna fuck these next." Maria gasped as the cock in her ass pulled out, leaving her gaping, only for another to press against her—this one thicker, hotter. He didn’t ask, just buried himself to the hilt, making her arch as the crowd roared approval. The floodlights buzzed. The stage creaked. And the men just kept coming.

The miner between her tits came with a rough grunt, his release streaking white across her collarbone before the next man shoved his cock into the mess, using it as lube. Maria’s breathing was ragged—every hole filled, every inch of skin claimed. The cock in her pussy pistoned deeper, the slap of flesh echoing as the man behind her fucked her ass with slow, brutal strokes. Someone grabbed her hair, wrenching her head back so hard her spine bowed. "Open wider, slut." A new cock pushed past her lips, the musky scent of sweat and precum flooding her nose. She gagged, but they didn’t care—just fucked her throat in time with the thrusts stretching her from both ends. A hand gripped her hip, another smeared spit down her back before fingers wormed into her ass alongside the cock already there. She cried out, her cunt clenching around the shaft pounding into her as the stretch burned. "God*damn*," someone muttered, watching her body strain. The crowd didn’t let up—just fed her more.

the whole night she's been ganged, till she passes out, as she wakes up she finds her self in a sleeping coach on a unfamiliar train. she's been drugged, groped, stripped again and fucked by every male passenger in the carriage

The novice nun's vision swam as she came to, the rhythmic clatter of train wheels beneath her the first sign she wasn’t where she’d been left. The carriage swayed, dim lights flickering overhead, casting shadows over the rows of leering faces. She tried to sit up, but the drugs still slithered through her veins, making her limbs heavy. Hands—rough, greedy—were already on her before she could gather her thoughts. A man in a rumpled suit yanked her dress open, his breath hot and sour against her neck. Another dragged her legs apart, fingers pressing into her inner thighs. She groaned, head lolling, too weak to resist as they pounced, her body a feast laid out on the leather seat. The train jolted, and she slid forward—right into the lap of a third man. He gripped her hips, bare now, her clothes torn away. She felt his erection pulse against her ass. No preamble, no mercy. He shoved inside her with a grunt, her cry muffled by the hand of another man forcing his cock between her lips. They took turns, relentless. A stranger’s palm smeared her juices across her stomach as another entered her from behind. Overstimulated, trembling, she barely registered the next invasion—a thick finger thrusting into her ass while someone else fucked her raw, their grunts and the slap of skin drowning out the train’s rumble. The drugs kept her pliant, her moans slurred. By the time the last man finished, spilling across her thighs, her vision was blacking out again. The carriage blurred into a haze of sweat and seed as unconsciousness dragged her under.

Maria’s eyelids fluttered—just long enough to see the shredded remains of her habit fluttering out the train window like discarded trash. Then darkness swallowed her again. The next time she stirred, it was to the sharp sting of a slap. A bearded man—reeking of tobacco and stale beer—leered down at her. "Wake up, Sister. We ain’t done." His calloused fingers dug into her bare thigh, hiking her leg over the armrest of the seat. She barely had time to groan before another man crowded behind her, his cock already glistening with her slick. He didn’t ask. Just hooked an arm around her waist and buried himself inside her pussy in one brutal thrust. The stretch burned, her abused muscles clenching involuntarily as he set a ruthless pace. To her left, someone pinched her nipple hard, twisting until she gasped. "Fuck, she’s still tight," the man behind her grunted, his hips snapping forward, pelvis slamming against her ass. A third passenger—a conductor’s cap crooked on his head—grabbed her wrist and forced her fingers around his cock. "Stroke it," he demanded, shoving into her grip. She could feel his pulse throbbing against her palm, hot and insistent. The train shuddered around them, but the rhythm never broke. Just flesh pounding into flesh, sweat dripping down her spine, the air thick with the scent of sex and iron—the metallic tang of her own arousal mixed with the musk of men who took what they wanted. She came again, half-conscious, her body arching as another load painted her stomach. Someone laughed. The windows rattled. Her vision dimmed.

The bartender barely glanced up when Maria stumbled through the door of the End of the Line, her bare feet scuffing against the sawdust-covered floor. The shredded remnants of her habit barely clung to her body—just enough to make the regulars pause, their drinks halfway to their lips, before the salacious grins spread. She didn’t speak. Just dragged herself onto a stool, the wood rough against her bare thighs still sticky with dried cum. The bartender slid a glass of bourbon toward her, his eyes raking over the bite marks on her collarbone. "Bad night, Sister?" Maria downed the liquor in one burning gulp, then slammed the glass down hard enough to make the bottles rattle. "End it," she rasped, her voice raw from screaming. The bar went quiet. A man in a grease-stained shirt stood, unbuckling his belt with a smirk. "You sure that’s what you want?" She didn’t flinch when he grabbed her hair, didn’t resist as he bent her over the bar. The splintered wood bit into her skin as the first cock pushed inside her—hard, unrelenting. Another man shoved between her lips before she could catch her breath. They used her right there, in front of everyone. No pretense, no kindness. Just the wet slap of flesh, the creak of the bar under their weight, the choked sounds she couldn’t stop making. When they finished, spilling over her back, her thighs, her tongue—Maria let her head drop. The bartender wiped his hands on a rag and poured himself a drink. "Good enough?" he asked. She closed her eyes. The End.