A night in the Paris Metro

[Napoleon]

Marie Claire was in a terrible rush. It was 6.30 and she was late for her photoshoot with Pierre. She grabbed her stuff, bolted from her apartment, raced down the stairs and plunged through the busy streets of Paris' fashionable 5th Arrondissement. She hailed a cab and finally made it to the Pierre Latouche agency just off Boulevard Saint-Michel. Waiting for her was Pierre, a wry smile across his face; "Late again Marie I see?" But he laughed, she smiled and plonked herself down on the sofa, grateful for the ample glass of wine Pierre had kindly prepared for the session.

Marie was a rising model with his agency. She was a little older than the other girls, at 25, but that gave her a certain maturity amidst the brutal world of French – especially Parisian – model photography. Pierre, aged 62, loved her; she was his favourite, so much more assertive, complicated, charismatic than the other girls, more beautiful too. Moreover, as a true man of the world he disliked the youth model obsession with thinness. Marie Claire on the other hand was different… different. Not only was she slightly older, she was most certainly built, with, as the French say, quite a 'shelf'! In fact, she was the very epitome of French 'Je ne sais quoi.' Marie was five feet, eight inches, endowed with a stunning, mouth-wateringly beautiful oval face, big dewy blue eyes, long lashes, rich full lips that pouted in a sort of arrogant spoiled 'little rich girl' sort of way, long auburn hair that cascaded down to her shoulders. Her bone structure was like a goddess, her skin creamy, soft, sensitive. Her eyes and overall appearance was demure, at once alluringly sexual but also thrillingly innocent. Her breasts were powerfully large, thrusting forward from her chest – Pierre joked that it was because she loved chocolate so much! Her hips and arse were firm, pert, broad; she was almost built for fertility. Her legs were long but also shapely, dazzlingly so, her calves smooth and silky, her thighs almost athletic in their strength, firmness and beauty. Marie had dressed well for the occasion; the photoshoot theme being 'sexy young professional'; not terribly original perhaps but more interesting to her, and Pierre, than the usual lingerie/Baywatch clichés that the market demanded. She wore a very short, almost mini-length, white pencil skirt that perfectly clutched her thighs, hips and arse, the hem about four inches above her pretty knees. Her blouse was a transparent white, with a big v-neck, hinting at very ample cleavage underneath; the cleavage was further hinted at by the almost visible white bra not quite fully cupping her large heaving breasts. Her pink heels were an almost ridiculous five inches, but then again this was a photoshoot, and by god they accentuated the curvaceousness of her legs, hips and arse to a point that made even Pierre – completely gay himself – get a twitch of excitement. Her legs were further magnified by sheer pantyhose that gave her legs a slightly glistening effect without spoiling their natural colour. Pierre smiled and chuckled when Marie sat down on the couch like a schoolgirl, face all childish and pouting compared to the rest of her – those cockraising clothes, those gorgeous legs with the hem way up her thighs when she sat, the heels almost rising off the ground such were the spikes on them, the blouse and its contents underneath almost begging for release.

After two glasses of wine, and four cigarettes, Marie was ready. Jazz played in the background as chain-smoking Pierre began clicking away. Marie dazzled that evening, the alcohol whetting her sexuality, her confidence. She never minded going far, even as far as possible, as Pierre was gay and also a kind of father figure for this lost young woman from the barren provinces of western France. She gave it her all, determined to this time make the headlines in the top magazines. Clutching her thighs, her arse, she danced and danced, her body throbbing to the music, as Pierre clicked clicked clicked, dancing, moving, swaying, bending down and up, naughtily raising her hem to her little lacy white panties, showing the full height of her hose to her waist, then down again and so on and on and on, sweating, rubbing her chest, showing her rear, arching her legs, cocking her heels towards the camera, sulking, pouting. Occasionally she would confidently swing over and take another draught of wine, puffing on cigarettes to Pierre's excitement, "Yes, smoke, come on." As she dragged on a cigarette, she raced her hand up her little skirt, licking the cigarette, with her hand apparently giving herself pleasure. Then, as the shoot reached its climax and the music really really throbbed, Marie achieved full passion, almost charging directly towards the camera and then – expertly opening her blouse in an instant revealing massive tits in a lacy white silky bra for the final shot!

Pierre and Marie were both pleased with the pictures. "This will burn, burn magazines, my dear" he comfortingly asserted. Marie was exhausted, she plonked right down on the couch, smoked some more and practically wolfed down two more large glasses of wine. After half an hour she was quite tipsy and prepared to leave. Pierre offered to drive her home, but she kindly refused, saying she was so hot right now from the sweat that she needed the cool air of an October Paris evening. Pierre bid her goodnight, giving her a little peck on the cheek like a proud father.

It was indeed cold outside, the streets unusually quiet for this hour of the evening, nobody around apart from a handful of drunk revellers. Marie clutched her little jacket but it could not protect her from the cold air which was rather cooler than she had wished. How stupid she thought to herself. She was wearing a half open blouse and a very short skirt in this kind of weather, and, being half drunk, walking on those ridiculous heels was also decidedly difficult. Finally, she stumbled to the nearby metro and walked down its steps, slowly, for she was quite conscious of her tipsy nature, and her vulnerability in these spiky heels. The metro was filthy, smelling of congealed grease, piss, and the detritus of abandoned alcohol bottles. Marie shuddered, contrasting her sexy outfit and sweet-smelling creamy skin with her environment – she did not normally take the metro at night, appreciating its dangers. Then, of course, it had to happen. She suddenly tripped, her leg got caught on the gate as well, causing a run in her pantyhose on her right thigh. She was bent down and stayed there for a few moments, half drunk, fingering the damaged part of her hose, rubbing it, rubbing it, almost hoping it would go away, also fingering her slightly damaged heel as well, thinking to herself, "Oh god, what a stupid thing to do, now my pantyhose is damaged, if anybody sees me it's so embarrassing, this run on my thigh." Fluorescent light bathed her as she did this and then she heard some giggles. Looking up she saw before her five Arab boys, obviously ranging in age from very young teenagers to young men in their twenties, though one looked much older. They were ugly, one of them looked deformed – the youngest kid – they were smoking, one had a bottle, and even at this distance Marie could smell a vile combination of sweat, drink, nicotine, and urine. The contrast was striking between Marie's luscious, perfect creamy skin and white, crisp, tight revealing clothes, and the stench, ripped jeans and dirtied tracksuits of the Arabs – striking, and also frightening. Instantly, she sprang up, looking uncomfortable and vulnerable – but a different kind of vulnerable to the one before. Those boys had obviously been watching her, bent down, her hem high up her thighs, her legs apart – maybe they even saw a glimpse of her underwear? – and they had seen her rub her hose and thigh and heel. The boys kept staring at her, Marie was frozen with fear, she dared not walk away from them for fear they would see it as avoiding them – that might provoke them more. As a young Frenchwoman she knew you don't mess with Arab boys or give them the remotest feeling that you are insulting them. She knew what Arab boys and men did daily on the streets of French cities to young white women like herself, especially pretty ones, and she felt scared now, really really scared. The boys could see it, and they came closer, adding to her torment, laughing, smiling, giving her a thorough good look up and down. She could see that their eyes were already…. raping her. The boys were Aziz and Viz, the two youngest kids, Hammon and Abdoul, the young men, while Tariq, at 36, was the leader. Indeed, Marie was right. These lads were a tough 'outfit' on the Paris streets, raised in vile slums on the outskirts, brainwashed with religious and cultural hatred for French white infidels, stimulated by a combination of utter hatred of, and repressed sexual lust for, beautiful white Christian 'whores' who dressed naughtily and so were 'obviously' asking for it. They had started gangraping as very young men; they had last done a tournante ("pass around") three weeks ago, but the two young lads were practically virgins in this. They needed a good initiation, and who better than this delicious whore now in front of them.

Marie was claustrophobic in the metro tunnel as the five repulse Arab specimens of humanity came towards her, one of them whistling, she began to walk back, slowly, slowly, her eyes fixed on them, their eyes fixed on every portion of her body. Then, two of them sprang; Abdoul and Hammon grabbed her, gagging her mouth so she couldn't scream, while Hammon produced a switchblade and held it to her throat. "Shut up you French cunt, or we'll cut you!" They began dragging Marie to a more private place in the metro; the nearest would-be passengers were a good few dozen yards away. Then she was pressed up against the wall, Hammon with his knife to her throat, Abdoul holding her arms with a painful crush. Marie began sobbing, afflicted with the pain, afraid of being mutilated, terrified of what was going to happen to her, and petrified if her worst fears came true. Tariq, the leader and the 'veteran' of countless stabbings, robberies and rapes since the age of eleven, went first, 'examining' the victim, almost as if to see how good a gangrape she would really make in their long and illustrious careers as terrorisers and defilers white Christian 'sluts.' He reached down and grabbed Marie's legs, yanking them apart, Marie tried to scream, but her arms were held tighter, the knife pressed right up to her neck – she knew she could protest no more. Now Tariq began rubbing his old, weathered, calloused, unwashed hands over her gorgeous pantyhosed legs, the calves down to her heels, he kissed the heels, felt the spikes, almost studying her heels and legs, then kissed her calves, then swept her hem up to her pantyhosed waistline, spreading her legs MORE to give the young kids Viz and Aziz a good view – Marie was like cattle on display at an Arab market. Tariq farted with excitement to everybody's humour as he now rolled down Marie's pantyhose and panties, stuffing his experienced tongue into her vagina, digging deep, clutching her thighs and working his hands around her arse, driving his tongue in deeper, deeper to Marie's utter torment, as his nails began biting her juicy arse and ripped some of her hose again. Her body began to heave, trying to avoid the penetration of his tongue, trying to escape the attentions of his powerful hands. They all started laughing, quietly whistling, as her legs and privates were fondled and felt and degraded, her glistening gorgeous legs on total view; their minds were feverish with a sense of both extreme luck and endless possibility for savage fun. Abdoul and Hammon roughly fondled her chest, her blouse, her hair and her trapped face as Tariq violated her vagina with his filthy tongue. Marie's heart was racing now, tears came to her eyes, the mortification, the overwhelming fear, the sense of utter degradation and complete helplessness.

Finally, Tariq drove it in so deep Maria succeeded in yelping a little before being more brutally restrained than before. Tariq evacuated and grunted something in Arabic. Now, Hammon and Abdoul began dropping Marie to the ground, Tariq barked more orders as he began to strip. The four lads spread Marie out, she struggled and even kicked but was slapped and slapped, spat on and called in French "Dirty Christian cunt, filthy white whore, Allah will punish you", the two youngest lads even punched her stomach. Now she was spread, one taking each limb, spreading her real wide now; Tariq knew this was the best way to achieve maximum penetration and maximum pain for the victim. He barked in Arabic again, and now all four of them began taking Marie apart, ripping her lovely blouse open, exposing her bra and her imprisoned breasts soon to be released for brutal entertainment, her skirt was yanked up, panties visible, a massive black bush that shocked and thrilled them – white Christian French sluts always had big bushes, good Arab girls were expected to shave. "Let's fuck the cat!" exclaimed a perverted, demented 14-year-old Viz to everybody's amusement. Now, violent, possessed by a combination of disgusting lust, extreme hatred, and exhilarating absolute power over a helpless white Christian slut, they rubbed her hosed legs, felt and squeezed her pussy, sucked her bush, drove fingers inside, felt her bra, squeezed it, hurt her, laughed and spat in her face, opened her mouth, stuck fingers down her throat while other fingers raped her vagina, and others tore at her hose, ripping it now. Marie tried to avoid the multiple hands and fingers racing all over – and inside – her body, but it was hopeless, they slobbered on her, spat on her, the young boys punched her again, raising her legs up and punching her arse and vagina. They 4 lads began stripping their bottom halves, cocks came out, Abdoul forced his into Marie's hand saying "Feel it, rub it good, bitch" which Marie, almost vomiting with disgust, reluctantly did, while Hammon managed to keep the knife near her throat, his other hand pulling down the straps on her lovely bra.

Then Tariq suddenly came on her torso, grabbing her bra and ripping it off violently, his rough hands squeezing her lovely big breasts haaaard as he quickly stabbed her vagina with his massive erect cock. Marie screamed loud now, Abdoul slapped her face hard, she almost passed out but came through instantly with the pain of Tariq's cock ravaging her innards, her chest heaved with the pain of his penetration, she could scarcely breathe now with so many men fondling, hurting and fucking her all at once. Tariq pumped and pumped and pumped, his arse vibrating in the cool metro air, licking her breasts and nipples, barking orders to hold her harder and hurt her as he did the main work. Then, finally, after about five minutes of fuckin he unleashed inside her. He breathed deeply, pulled out and farted. Getting up, he signalled to the two boys. Viz now mounted her as the lads cheered him on – his first rape! He grabbed her tits and fucked with all his might, but compared to Tariq this was almost relief for a now helpless and resigned Marie. She was sobbing, but tried to hold back the tears. Viz released, and now Aziz came, but he came quite literally – the excitement of seeing this stunning, sexy bitch being degraded and raped before his eyes had been too much and now that it was his turn to invade the body of the Enemy he simply ejaculated prematurely. The others laughed; in a fury he spat on Marie and punched her tits. All this was merely introduction. Now the two boys took the place of Hammon and Abdoul – more experienced meat – holding Marie down, as Hammon mounted her quickly and drove in hard and deep. Abdoul did a quick check – the metro was practically empty apart from a few drunks who wouldn't interfere. Now the lads felt totally free. Exclaiming 'Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar', Hammon raped her violently now, banging her head off the cold smelly ground as he fucked and fucked and fucked; Marie's hosed legs began gyrating up and down in involuntary response to his penetrations, her heels scratching the floor squeak squeak squeak – this and the site of her hosed shapely legs bobbing up and down gave another ejaculation to Tariq who was smoking to relieve the excitement of this, probably his most satisfying gangrape. The rape was real violent now, Abdoul rubbed his erect cock all over her face, degrading her, forcing her to lick his cock, masturbating it, Marie's tits being savaged by mouths and hands, her hair being pulled by the vicious young boys, the stench of their breath and bodies was sick. Marie began sobbing and crying, finally hollering out loud. This time, however, with no one to interfere, they LET her howl, they wanted to hear her pitiful misery, it excited them all the more, as they jeered, chanted, grunted in Arabic, saying both sexual and religious drivel as they degraded her and fucked her more and more. After Hammon unleashed, Abdoul mounted her now, in the process hiking her legs up high and wide behind him. Hammon got behind him and held her legs while the boys held her arms back very tight – she was now spread-eagled, with huge weight pulling in both ways, for the ultimate in sexual pain and degradation. Abdoul pumped and pumped to the ritualistic cheers of his 'brothers' while Hammon ravaged her legs with his powerful hands, ripping her hose further, even tearing off hose so he could taste her sweet bare legs with his tongue, his lips and his teeth, while being careful to keep her five-inch pink heels on, twitching in the air.

While Abdoul raped her vagina, a revived and increasingly lustful Tariq now motioned to the two boys and began squatting on her breasts, forcing his cock into Marie's mouth. She protested NNNoooooo, but was slapped by the boys and punched by Tariq; "French whore, Christian scum" he shouted in awfully bad French. She was forced to swallow his disgusting, grimy, piss and cum-smelling cock which reached down her throat like a snake, he grabbed her hair, 'riding' her like a horse, as Abdoul raped her vagina slowly, deliberately, taking his time. After a few seconds, her cheeks and throat swelled with the cock, her chest was crushed, she couldn’t breathe, then Tariq released aand a gush of cum swept down her gullet, causing Marie to nearly black out under all this pressure, but Tariq released in time and she gasped for breath. Then Hammon released in her vagina. As they got off her for a minute, Marie closed up her ravaged body and wept pitifully to herself, before howling louder and louder. Her very screams reinforced their determination to continue abusing her. She hollered frighteningly when they began grabbing her again, turning her over, face down, legs and arms quickly spread out. She screamed, panted, grunted, tried to fight, but they laughed because she was obviously so helpless with all four limbs spread out. Hammon swept her cum-ravaged pencil skirt up her sweet ass which was pert, big and juicy, he smelled it like an animal, got off on that and then forced her cheeks apart, quickly getting it in, hands reaching underneath to torment her ravaged, drenched pussy, then creeping up to squeeze her tits, playing with her erect hard nipples, fucking her arse, fucking, pumping, his arse bounding up and down too, as the boys rubbed their cocks with her hair. Tariq took a belt and briefly flogged her torso, in time to Hammon's pumpings and the cries of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 from the lads. Then Abdoul mounted her arse, spreading her legs wider, ripping the hose off her thighs altogether as he fucked and fucked her. Aziz, the hateful bastard, raised her sobbing face up, smeared her lipstick all over her cheeks and stuffed his cock all over her dace, into her eyes, almost blinding her, forcing her to lick his cock while her arse was rocked with cock after cock. They all took her in the arse while others biding their time tormented her face, spitting into it, laughing direct in her face, licking her cheeks, insulting her race and culture as their friends brutalised her body, filling it with good rich Arab cum, perhaps giving the Christian slut a good Arab boy or girl when this was all over.

When they all had her ass and Marie was left a whimpering wreck on the cold floor, Tariq grabbed her again, slapped her repeatedly across the face, tugged at her breasts which were now almost blue from abuse, felt up her cunt again, spat on her with pure venom and hatred in his face, then gestured to the two older lads to help him; the boys merely watched, totally exhausted in their inexperience by this already. Tariq inserted into her arse, Marie's protests were pathetic by this stage and she was easily silenced, while the other two lads, by now naked with horrific tattoos on their chests, stretched her body again and began raping her cunt and mouth, a three-way fuck. The young boys watched in disbelief as Marie was treble-fucked with expert, brute force for about five minutes; after climax, Hammon jumped off her and savagely pulled off her skirt altogether, and her tattered blouse and ripped every inch of pantyhose he could find. She left toally naked, apart from those four-inch heels, and he now began pissing on her, pissing. Then, Abdoul did so too, Tariq merely watched, as the two lads used her as a toilet. Marie was so exhausted by now she didn’t even bother to try to resist this final indignity. In fact, she was so thirstly, perhaps unconsciously, she opened her mouth and took in some of her gangrapists' detritus.

The lads prepared to leave, giving her a few final verbal insults, and walked away. For half an hour Marie lay motionless, softly weeping to herself, too traumatised and physically hurt to even begin the rationalising – was it my fault?' could I have avoided this?'; why was I so stupid as to not take Pierre's offer of a lift? Why, oh why, did I dress like this in short tight skirt, blouse, heels and hose? Her hose was totally ripped in multiple places, but still clung to her sore, ravaged and abused legs; her hair was a mess, caked with cum, sweat and piss; her skirt was an utter ruin, her blouse in shreds, even her heels smelled of cum. Looking around at the scattered debris of coke and alcohol bottles, plastic bags, vomit and normal metro detritus, Marie reflected that she too, yes, her too, was now but a piece of rubbish, disposable, used, finished and dumped GARBAGE. She wept, more, more…
After a while, she slowly got up and began putting on her ruined clothes. The only thing left in reasonably good condition was her heels. She ached with pain, in her legs now bare, in her ass, her arms, even her face and head, while her vagina was both extremely painful and disgustingly enlarged. Gradually, painfully, she began wandering off, out of the metro, but then, almost absurdly poetic… a heel broke….

[Nemo01]

good story but sincerely your description of the parisian metro is false they are more clean and a tournante is a gangrape where the victim know one or more of her rapists in this story they are unknow so it's a viol collectif

[silkshortsguy]

This story is hot! Well written. This bitch sounded like a real hot fuck. I bet those guys couldn't believe their luck to get such a sexy, classy bitch and just fuck the life out of her. Whenever I read this, I just want to make myself cum!

[Larzaius]

Its still a violation of the rules if one of the rapist is a minor correct?