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Lara Croft's Adventurous London Beach Day	By : DrFaker Category: +S through Z > Tomb Raider (all) > Tomb Raider (all) Views: 252 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: There will be dog content

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A motorbike—of course. The thought echoed bitterly in Lara's mind, a machine symbolizing freedom and speed now poised to become her undoing. She lowered herself onto the leather seat, the motion unleashing a torrent of unwelcome sensations. The 17 cm heels teetered precariously over the asphalt, her massive breasts pressing heavily against the handlebars like an unyielding burden. But the seat was the real adversary, channeling her weight, the bike's angle, and the curve of her hips into a single, focused assault on the plug buried deep inside.
Pressure built relentlessly, her muscles clenching in vain. Twelve steps on foot was bad enough—what is this, a mechanized countdown to catastrophe? The minuscule latex skirt provided no buffer, just a slick interface amplifying every shift. One wrong lean, one deep compression, and the pink intruder would betray her publicly, its 'DO NOT PULL' base mocking the sky amid stares from the traffic. Dismounting now meant admitting defeat, waddling the rest of the way in defeat. No—the bike was her escape, her defiance. She couldn't surrender to this absurd predicament.
The heavy iron gates of her estate creaked open, family crest gleaming dully. Perched atop the bike, adrenaline surged alongside dread. The engine roared awake, its vibration a low thrum up her spine, nudging the plug with insidious persistence. She gripped the handlebars tightly, knuckles paling.
First surge forward: leaving home's safety, the hum jolted her core, forcing a reflexive clench. A sharp turn onto the main road intensified the seat's push; her left hand darted back, pressing firmly against the small of her spine to anchor the device. Hold. At the intersection's red light, idling amplified the stillness—then a subtle slide. Her hand abandoned the bar, fingers shoving inward through the latex. Stay. Acceleration onto the M4 whipped wind across her face, but the real storm raged internally. The journey to Thames Beach, meant for relaxation, had twisted into a private gauntlet. A tomb raider who conquered ancient perils, now warring against silicone and stilettos. The heels tapped a frantic rhythm on the footpegs.
The highway's roar became a symphony of torment. Relentless vibrations resonated through her bones—maddening, yet perversely thrilling. Her ripped t-shirt, already defeated by the 67-inch bust, crept upward with each jolt: first midriff skin, then underbreast curves, finally dark areolas bared to the sunlight and rushing air.
Worse still, the latex band inched higher with every bump, fully unveiling the two-year-neglected thicket below—a chaotic, wiry expanse defying containment. The plug's base emerged too, garish pink amid the dark curls, a blatant signal of her vulnerability.
Vehicles overtook with honks and stares. A Mercedes lingered, its suited occupants gawking—the woman pointing in shock, the man transfixed. A minivan's family pressed faces to glass. Lara's cheeks flamed, unrelated to the sun. Abandoning decorum, her hand plunged between her legs, fingers ramming the base home. The universe seemed to mock her with that inscribed warning.
Transitioning from the M4's grit to London's refined outskirts brought scents of brick, damp stone, and floral hints from terraced homes. The engine's growl felt barbaric here, but damage was irreversible: t-shirt bunched in disarray, areolas on brazen display; skirt a waistband ornament, lower chaos exposed.
A pothole jolt shattered the fragile balance. The plug migrated inexorably; with a wind-swallowed cry, her hand blurred downward, shoving it back amid traffic. Delivery van drivers gaped—one leaning out in amusement, a sedan woman pointing in disbelief. The scene burned into her: famed adventurer, hand thrust intimately, battling her own anatomy on public streets.
The red light trapped her in a cage of onlookers. The van man whistled. "Blimey, trouble keeping things in place?" His shaved-head mate grinned. "Looks like she needs a hand—or two." A sports car woman shook her head pityingly. "No shame. Just sad." Lara stared ahead, urging the light to change, hand twitching futilely against impossible coverage.
Green granted fleeting mercy. She throttled forward, but crawling traffic at the next junction demanded brakes. Deceleration delivered the coup de grâce: a soft pop, and the plug ejected onto the tarmac with a rubbery thud, 'DO NOT PULL' skyward.
Panic choked her. Engine killed, bike screeched roadside. Heels clattering, she knelt frantically, scrambling for the object amid a chorus of reactions.
The van man slack-jawed: "It actually popped out!" His partner howled. "Like chasing a toy! And that bush—you could hide a squirrel in there!" A teen filmed: "Viral gold! Beach-ball tits, monster plug!" A minivan woman gasped: "A butt plug? And the hair—it's just much!"
Oblivious, Lara seized it, rising to shove it back with brutal force, pain be damned. Remounting, vibrations renewed, she gripped white-knuckled, a fortress of mortification fleeing laughter's echo.
But the engine sputtered, fuel exhausted—the universe's parting cruelty. She coasted to the curb in York Gardens, a meager green patch amid urban sprawl. Silence enveloped her: t-shirt askew, areolas flashing; skirt useless, pubic wilderness rampant; plug clenched by sheer will. Breasts weighed on handlebars, heels rooted her to defeat. Curses spilled—"Bloody hell"—as she surveyed the park. No refuge, just another arena for exposure. Stranded, out of fuel and dignity, the beach quest a sham. Lara Croft, legendary raider, now London's roadside joke, captive to her own folly.
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Lara Croft's Adventurous London Beach Day