Moment of Truth

A Fanfic Tribute to the Erotic Comics of Briaeros ...

In moments like this, so much crazy horseshit goes through your head—a hundred different things all at once.  What she hates the most, what hurts the most, is how stupid she knows she looks.  Clumsy and idiotic, like she doesn't know the job.  Like she's only some rookie with her head up her ass.  That's the part she can't stand, more than anything else.  Just looking foolish.  Except no, really it's more than looking—she knows in fact that she was.

The captain, if she could see her now, would be absolutely furious with her.  Also, on top of that, genuinely disappointed.  Mamba was supposed to be smart.  She was also, more importantly, supposed to be fucking competent.  How had she let these ridiculous punks get the better of her?  How could she let one of them sneak up behind her?  It never should have happened.  It was embarrassing.  An utter embarrassment.

She wasn't scared, though.  Not even a little.  Mamba was much too mad to get scared.  She was stone cold furious. Mad enough to puke.  And all that murderous rage, just about, was directed inward.  That was where she believed it belonged.  Nobody in the whole wide world could have convinced her otherwise. 

These punks, after all, they were just punks, doing what punks do.  It seemed pointless and even silly to get mad at them.  They were only animals.  Lower than that—they were germs.  Spoiled cliché rich kids dressed up like hardasses, pretending they were fearsome.  They were only gonna do what they were about to do because she gave them the opportunity.  Because she'd screwed up like a rookie.  Mamba had essentially laid herself out for them on a platter.  If the toughest female cop on the force turns out to be enough of a dumbass to let just four adolescent scumbags disarm her and take her captive, despite all her training and experience, and when she'd already had her gun on them, then honest to God, she deserved whatever the goons wanted to do next.  She honest to God believed that.  She'd brought it on herself.

It was like she was asking for this.  Yeah, exactly like the self-serving sick bullshit every perv tells himself.  This is what she secretly needs.

There's no truth in that nonsense.  Never ever.  But actions speak louder than words.  And in her present predicament, it doesn't make a difference if what her actions seem to say isn't actually true.  She'd been stupid and let them take her gun away, and then, because of that, she had to let them take her clothes.  Mamba hadn't put up any struggle as that happened, as they stripped her.  They'd done it slowly, too, savoring the experience, stretching out the torment.  She hadn't bothered protesting or swearing at them or making threats.  None of that would have helped—instead it would only have spiced up the gang's triumph, making her look weaker at the same time.   Making her feel weaker, and more ashamed.  So she'd kept silent and didn't fight because that was more dignified, or at least she hoped it was, pretending like what they were doing didn't matter.  Like it didn't get under her skin.  Like she didn't care in the slightest.  Like she didn't feel embarrassed or diminished at all. 

If only that had been true.  If only she was better at pretending.  Even though she kept her mouth shut and glared at the punks as defiantly as she could, still there were giveaways … things she couldn't control.  Her legs were shaking, and her face got hot, which meant it had turned red.  She couldn't keep her breathing under control; it made distressed-sounding whistles through her nostrils.  Piece by piece, every inch of flesh her captors exposed was shining when it got revealed, because it was so thickly drenched with sweat.  She'd made the whole inside of the train car reek like a locker room.  The men's bodies were probably contributing some to the stench, but most of it was coming from her.  She could just tell.  And that stink, it wasn't all sweat—there was another distinctive tang to it, building up more and more. 

Musk.  The stink of pussy. 

They hadn't pulled off her panties yet.  Everything else, everything, even her goddamn sneakers!  Well, in fairness, her jeans were tight enough they wouldn't have been able to take them off over the shoes—and so the gritty crisscross ridges of the metal floor under her soles, icy-cold too, provided an extra and unwelcome emphasis to her nudity.  Like a sort of punctuation.  Standing barefoot on that filthy uncomfortable metal floor, it made her understand how vulnerable she was.  It made her not just know it but feel it, really feel it.  She scrunched her toes self-consciously against the metal, and because it was metal, it had no give at all.  All that did of course was make her toes ache.  She could grind her toes against the metal as hard as she liked and it wouldn't do anything except hurt herself, because she was naked and because she was powerless.                      

Now it doesn't matter anymore what's true and what's bullshit.  It doesn't matter what's right or what's fair.  Mamba knows she's fucked.  The Night-Lords intend to fuck her and pretty soon, any second now, they're gonna stop just looking her over and grinning at her.  They're gonna move on to the next step.  They're gonna take her panties away.  And when they do, if somehow they haven't already noticed the aroma like she herself did, it's bound to get a great deal stronger.  It's gonna fill the air in here and become impossible to miss.  The Night-Lords are gonna discover that underneath those panties, Mamba's wet.  Steaming, practically.  Mamba's snatch has got hot and swollen and dripping—and not from perspiration.

She didn't want that to happen—she was dreading it would happen—and that's why it did.  Because it's the worst thing imaginable.  The biggest disgrace.  She triggered the reaction, just from worrying too much about it.  It will make the punks think they really turn her on.  It will make them believe she can't help herself, once they've taken charge of her.   Maybe she can't.  Maybe that really is her whole problem.   

They'll be so proud of themselves.  And yet at the exact same time, regardless of the contradiction—completely oblivious to it—they will sneer down their noses at her like she's garbage.  Like arousal makes her disgusting, even though they can't wait to bang her brains out.  They will want her to come for them over and over when they pound her—they'd feel like failures if they couldn't get her off.  But if they can get her off, they'll mock her for it, probably despise her for it.  They'll call her a nasty slut, a dirty bitch, a whore.  As if she's the one degrading them.  It's so unfair.  Such completely twisted horseshit.

Her pussy only heated up this bad because she knows it shouldn't.  Regardless, it adds to her disgrace—by a million percent, at least.  It's the ultimate disgrace, maybe.  The ultimate surrender.   These stupid pretentious Night-Lords should never have a chance of turning her on, but they have.  They have!  But only because this is Mamba's way of punishing herself.  She's decided deep down she deserves this.  Getting herself captured and stripped was unforgivably weak and stupid, so now she deserved to get railed by these awful bastards.  This would be her penance, an act of atonement, making the punks' sickest dreams come true.   

She wants it almost as much as they do, by this stage.  Mamba wants to see herself—needs to feel herself—get ruined.  It will seem like a cleansing.  A kind of ritual mud bath, you might say.  Yes, she needs this.  She's ready.  She's eager for it.

“Go on, then,” she tells them, through clenched teeth, “What are you waiting for, you pathetic pricks?”

“Pathetic, huh?” one responds, “We'll see about it.”

Yes, she thinks, we sure as hell will. 

They start opening their pants.  Start taking their cocks out to brandish them at her.  They waggle them arrogantly. 

It would be ludicrous, except … except it's not.  Because they're all well-equipped, these guys.  They've got good reason to act arrogant, with cocks like those.  Mamba knows cocks—she knows them better than she wishes she did.  She likes them better than she wishes, as well, quite frankly.   Just as things in themselves.  The majority of women profess indifference or disgust to the sight of cocks.  They don't find them attractive or exciting in themselves.  Mamba is something of an exception, though she would be loathe to admit it out loud. 

The proudest, fiercest-looking ones, they especially impress her.  Because they always seem to challenge her.  When she's confronted with one like that—or several like that—her instinctive response is a wish to challenge them back.  Try to best them—overcome them.  Or see if they're actually potent enough and durable enough to defeat her, instead. 

It's not something she ever thinks about, consciously.  If you told her she always reacted like that, she'd scoff and tell you to fuck off.  Even if you showed her proof on video, you'd never convince her.  Probably she'd only punch your face in.                    

With all the Night-Lords pointing themselves at her from all directions, their cheesy gang name doesn't seem as cheesy anymore.  It seems, in that moment, entirely apt.  They're great big boys, big and brash and mean, all four wicked sons of bitches.  Mamba feels her stomach turn over, and a tingling clench in her crotch, and then realizes without meaning to that she's slid her feet further apart, opening herself up down there a little, and her hips are squirming around, all on their own.   One of the guys holding her arms reaches across with his free hand and flicks her left nipple with a fingertip.  It's more stunning than a slap across the face or a kick in the stomach.  That tiny flick rocks through her entire body like an electric surge.  She has to bite her bottom lip very very hard to keep from moaning.

The intensity of that reaction clears her head a bit.  It also frightens her.  Really frightens her, that first quick taste of what these men are going to do to her.  What it's going to feel like when they do.  She'd thought she was prepared—she wasn't.  That flick didn't hurt her nipple—but what she felt instead was far worse than if it had hurt.  Far scarier.  Suddenly she's not as into the idea of ritual cleansing any longer.  She doesn't want the mud bath no more.  Just a second before she was quite keen to willingly and enthusiastically accept punishment in the form of filthy sexual disgrace, deserved or otherwise.  Now, though …  No.  It's just going to be too much.  Much too much.  If one quick flick of a fingertip can shock her world that violently, which it had, she can't face going further. 

She'll like it way too much, maybe.  She knows she will.  That's what horrifies her; that's what changes her mind.  She'd wanted some further shaming and humbling, or thought she did—but not that much.  The humiliation from that first casual flick—from the pleasure of that flick—was quite shameful enough for one day, thanks anyhow.  She won't need anymore.

Well, shit.  What then? 

Mamba threw an elbow back against the torso of one guy (the nipple-flicker) and her opposite fist at the face of another.  The men had been clinging to her arms, but not nearly hard enough to stop her or even slow the strikes—they hadn't believed there was any need.  Two seconds before, there really hadn't been.  Light casual grips had kept her as secure and docile as chains would have.  But it was like a switch had been thrown, a circuit breaker.  She had some fight left in her after all.  Fuck yeah!

It was a nice feeling.  It was satisfying. 

And it would be real impressive if right then she managed to take apart all four of the punks in nothing but her panties.  Not so vulnerable and pathetic as the harsh metal floor had been telling her she was, through her tootsies.  Not if she didn't choose to play along.  This was quite a nice profound leap back at the last possible instant from the teetering brink of sexual subjugation. 

Would she, though?   Was she gonna win this?  The two goons she'd hit had both staggered backwards but didn't drop; now the other guys were rushing in …  Moment of truth.  Either she'd lay them out or …

God oh fucking God if I let them get me again I will never forgive myself never never NEVER!! 

                    To Be Continued??