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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
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Dismounting the bike and standing was a betrayal. The simple, graceful movement of rising from a seated position became a moment of pure, unadulterated panic. As she pushed herself up from the bike's seat, the internal pressure, the constant battle she had been fighting for the past hour, finally gave way. The 7-inch pink plug began its slow, inexorable slide.
Her breath hitched. A choked cry escaped her lips as she felt it happening. Without a second thought, her right hand, which had been resting on the handlebar, shot down. Her fingers found the base of the plug, and with a desperate, forceful push, she shoved it back inside. The sensation was a violent stretch, a searing pain that was quickly swallowed by a wave of humiliation. She was a puppet, and her own body was the cruel puppeteer, jering her through a humiliating dance.
Her mind, however, was already racing, calculating, planning. The beach. The ticket. The one-hour walk. The numbers swam in her head, a bleak, hopeless arithmetic. One hour. Twelve steps. A push. A curse. A public spectacle. The math didn't add up. It was a recipe for disaster.
Disappointment was a cold, heavy stone in her stomach. Humiliation was a fire in her cheeks. She took a step. The click of her 17 cm platform heels on the pavement was a sharp, defiant sound in the quiet street. Then came the second step. The third. The fourth. A subtle, insistent pressure began to build. By the sixth step, it was a distinct, internal pull. By the eighth, it was a slide. By the twelfth, it was gone.
Her left hand shot down again. The push. The stretch. The fire of shame. This was her new reality. A cycle of twelve steps and a desperate, public act of self-preservation.
She began to walk, her gait a strange, uneven shuffle. The platform heels made her tower, but they also made her clumsy. Each step was a battle, a conscious effort to keep the plug in place, to maintain a facade of control that was crumbling with every passing moment.
People passed her. A young couple, arm in arm, stared. The man's eyes widened, a flicker of shock and morbid fascination. The woman looked away, her face a mask of pity. A group of teenagers pointed and snickered, their laughter sharp and cruel.
"Look at the walk," one of them said, his voice carrying. "Like she's got a stick up her arse. Oh, wait..."
Lara's cheeks burned. She quickened her pace, a futile attempt to escape their words, but the plug betrayed her. The twelfth step. The slide. The push. It was a never-ending cycle of exposure and shame.
She continues on, her uneven gait making her ass wobble obscenely, the plug constantly threatening to fall out. The next person she sees is a businesswoman who does a double take and mutters "Good lord!" under her breath.
A group of teenagers pass her, one of whom throws a empty plastic bottle that clatters past her head. "Nice ass!" he calls after her, laughing.
Lara is stopped at a crosswalk by an elderly couple. The elderly woman gasps and turns to her partner. "My goodness, she's practically naked!" she exclaims.
A jogger running past Lara slows to a stop to take a photo of her with his phone. "I don't know what to make of that," he says into his phone during a call. "I'm trying to say the woman is with her tits almost exposed, with a giant pink plug in her ass but I think you need to see this to believe it."
The journey to the train station was a gauntlet of silent screams and burning shame. Each step was a calculated risk, a desperate gamble against the inevitable. The 17 cm platform heels, once a symbol of power and defiance, now felt like shackles, forcing her into an awkward, high-stepping gait that drew every eye. The constant, insistent vibration of the walk was a torment, a reminder of the plug's precarious hold on her body. The twelve-step countdown was a metronome to her private humiliation.
The ripped t-shirt, stretched taut over her 67-inch bust, offered no modesty, only a constant, brazen display of flesh. The tiny latex skirt was a joke, a frame for the wild, untamed jungle of her pubic hair, a dark, untamed thicket that defied all attempts at concealment.
The reactions were a symphony of shock, pity, and morbid fascination. A businessman in a sharp suit stopped dead, his briefcase slipping from his grasp as his eyes widened at the sight of her areolas, a stark, pale expanse against the dark fabric of her shirt. He recovered quickly, averting his gaze with a look of profound discomfort. A group of tourists, their cameras hanging from their necks, pointed and whispered, their faces a mixture of awe and disbelief. A young mother, pushing a pram, shielded her child's eyes, her own face a mask of horrified fascination.
The train station loomed ahead, a cathedral of travel and anonymity. It was a sanctuary, a place where she could disappear into the crowd, a sea of faces that would soon forget her. But the journey to the platform was another ordeal. The stairs were a nightmare, each step a potential disaster. The plug, with its 'DO NOT PULL' warning, was a constant, insistent pressure against her will. She climbed, her hand gripping the railing for dear life, her other hand pressed firmly against the small of her back, a desperate, futile attempt to keep the plug in place.
She reached the platform, the relative anonymity of the crowd a small comfort. She leaned against a pillar, catching her breath, the fire in her cheeks a constant reminder of her exposure. She was Lara Croft, but to the world, she was just a ridiculous, exposed woman, a source of amusement and pity. The journey to the Thames Beach was far from over. The train was just another stage in her public humiliation, another step in her never-ending dance of shame.
Lara Croft stood on the platform of the Underground station, a stark, impossible anomaly in the sea of mundane humanity. The 17 cm platform heels elevated her head and shoulders above the crowd, a queen among her subjects, though her throne was one of pure, unadulterated discomfort. Her ripped t-shirt, stretched to its absolute limit over her 67-inch bust, was a beacon of flesh, a defiant display that drew the eye and held it captive. The tiny latex skirt was a joke, a flimsy black band that did nothing to contain the wild, untamed thicket of her pubic hair, a dark, untamed landscape that spilled over the edges and down her inner thighs.
The platform was a cross-section of London life. A suited businessman, his face a mask of weary resignation, glanced up from his newspaper and did a double-take, his eyes widening as they took in the impossible sight of her areolas. A group of Japanese tourists, their cameras already in hand, whispered excitedly, their flashes capturing the scene for posterity. A young student, his face a canvas of piercings and tattoos, simply stared, a slow, appreciative grin spreading across his face. A beggar, huddled in a corner, looked away, his expression one of weary pity.
Lara moved with a deliberate, almost regal grace, despite the internal torment. She approached the ticket machine, the rhythmic clack-clack of her heels on the tiled floor a drumbeat of defiance. She inserted her card, the movement causing a fresh wave of pressure from within. She felt it. The slide. The twelfth step. Her hand, which had been resting on the machine, shot down. Her fingers pressed hard against the small of her back, a desperate, inward push. The 'DO NOT PULL' warning on the base of the plug felt like a personal taunt, a cruel joke played on her by the universe itself.
She found a bench and sat down, the action a study in controlled panic. The pressure of the seat against her was a direct assault on the plug's precarious hold. She shifted, a slight, almost imperceptible movement, and felt it begin to give way. Her left hand shot down, her fingers finding the base of the plug. She pressed, hard, a forceful, inward shove that was both painful and necessary. She sat there, a queen on a bench of shame, her face a mask of concentration, her hand pressed intimately against her own body, a desperate act of self-preservation in the middle of a crowded platform. She was Lara Croft, and she was a beautiful, powerful, ridiculous mess, a monument to her own contradictions, waiting for a train that would take her to the final act of her public humiliation.
The reactions were a tapestry of human emotion, woven from threads of shock, fascination, and outright disbelief. A middle-aged woman in a tweed coat, her hair pinned in a severe bun, stared, her mouth agape. She nudged her husband, a man with a balding head and a worried expression. "Good heavens, dear," she hissed, her voice trembling. "Is that... is that a real person? Or some kind of performance art?"
Her husband, however, was less reserved. He squinted, his eyes narrowing as he took in the impossible combination of her face—so familiar, yet so distorted by her current state—and her body. "Wait a minute," he said, his voice a low, incredulous rumble. "That face... the eyes... the braid. It can't be. It's impossible. But... it looks like... Lara Croft."
The word, spoken aloud in the crowded station, was like a spark in dry tinder. It traveled through the crowd, a ripple of recognition and disbelief. A young man, his phone already in his hand, lowered it and stared. "No way," he breathed. "It is her. But... why? What the hell is she doing?"
A group of construction workers on their break, their fluorescent vests a splash of color in the grimy station, broke into loud, raucous laughter. "Look at the tits on that!" one of them bellowed, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. "And the hair! Christ, it's like she's got a garden growing down there! And the plug! Did you see that? She had to push it back in!"
A student, his face a canvas of piercings and tattoos, stepped forward, emboldened by the crowd's reaction. He swaggered up to her, a wide, toothy grin on his face. "Alright, Lara," he said, his voice a mix of bravado and awe. "Fancy seeing you here. Though I have to say, this isn't the look I remember from the magazines. Bit more... rustic. A lot more, actually."
Another man, a tourist with a camera around his neck, addressed her directly, his voice loud and clear. "Excuse me, Ms. Croft? Is that really you? I'm a huge fan. But... this is a bit unexpected. Are you... are you alright?"
The questions hung in the air, a mix of genuine curiosity and morbid fascination. Lara Croft, a woman who had faced down gods and monsters, was now being questioned by strangers on a train platform. She was a figure of extremes, and the crowd was her audience, captivated by the show. She met their stares with a look of icy defiance, her chin held high, though the fire in her cheeks betrayed her shame. She was Lara Croft, and she was a beautiful, powerful, ridiculous mess, and she had nowhere left to run.
Lara Croft’s gaze was a flicker of ice in the fire of her humiliation. She turned her head, the movement slow and deliberate, her chin held high in a parody of the aristocratic bearing she had once cultivated. The student with the piercings grinned wider, expecting a sharp retort or a dismissive wave. Instead, she offered him a small, tight smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Rusticism has its merits," she said, her voice a low, cultured purr that cut through the station's noise. "A certain... authenticity, don't you think? It's a refreshing change from the polished veneer of the world." Her words were a shield, a carefully constructed barrier against the chaos of her situation. She was reclaiming control, one polite, enigmatic sentence at a time.
Her attention then shifted to the tourist with the camera. He looked earnest, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and concern. She met his gaze directly, her expression softening almost imperceptibly. "I'm perfectly alright, thank you for asking," she replied, her voice losing some of its edge, becoming warmer, more genuine. "One simply has to adapt to the circumstances, however... unorthodox they may appear." She gestured vaguely with one hand, a graceful arc that drew attention to her impossible proportions, a gesture that was both defiant and self-deprecating.
The act of sitting on the bench, she realized, was a small victory. The solid, unyielding pressure of the seat against her backside was a constant, reassuring pressure. It held the plug in place, a silent, steadfast ally in her battle against gravity and her own anatomy. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the internal countdown was paused. The twelve-step cycle of terror was broken. She could sit. She could breathe. She could be Lara Croft, not just a walking disaster.
She leaned back against the hard metal of the bench, the coolness a small comfort. She was a paradox, a woman of immense power and control, reduced to this. Yet, in this moment of quiet, she found a sliver of her old self. The adventurer. The survivor. She had faced worse than this. She had faced gods. This was just... a very, very bad day. And she would endure it. She would endure it with the same quiet, defiant grace that had seen her through the Himalayas and into the tombs of forgotten kings. She was Lara Croft, and she would not be broken by a pink butt plug and a pair of ridiculous heels.
The tourist's face lit up with a boyish excitement that was almost endearing. "Really? That's brilliant! Thank you, Ms. Croft, you're a lifesaver." He fumbled with his phone, his fingers suddenly clumsy with anticipation. "Do you mind...? Just a few? For my personal collection, of course."
Lara offered a small, gracious nod, a flicker of her old, pre-tumult self. "Of course. A moment of your time is a small price to pay for a fan's happiness." She stood, the movement a careful, controlled maneuver. The pressure of the seat was gone, and the familiar, insistent slide began anew. She felt it, a subtle, internal pull that warned her of the impending disaster. She planted her feet firmly on the platform, the 17 cm heels giving her a moment of stability. She stood tall, a queen in her court of chaos, and turned to face the tourist.
He held the phone up, his arm outstretched. "Smile for the camera, Ms. Croft!"
Lara obliged, a picture of serene composure. She smiled, a genuine, if slightly strained, expression that transformed her face. She placed one hand on her hip, the other resting lightly on her breast, a pose of casual elegance that was utterly at odds with her current state. The ripped t-shirt stretched taut, the areolas a stark, pale expanse against the dark fabric. The tiny latex skirt was a joke, a frame for the wild, untamed thicket of her pubic hair. The student with the piercings watched the entire exchange, a slow, appreciative grin spreading across his face.
"Alright, Lara," he said, his voice a low, appreciative rumble. "You've got the moves. I'll give you that. Even in... this condition." He gestured vaguely at her body, a gesture that encompassed everything. "You still look like you could take down a temple. Or a train station, for that matter."
The tourist snapped a few pictures, his finger a blur on the screen. "You're amazing, Ms. Croft. Truly amazing." He lowered the phone, his face flushed with happiness. "Thank you again."
Lara inclined her head, a small, regal gesture. "You are most welcome. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe my train is arriving." She turned her back on them, the movement a dismissal. The student's words, however, lingered in the air. A temple. He was right. She was a temple of contradictions, a monument to her own resilience. And she was about to board a train that would take her to the final, humiliating act of her day.
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Lara Croft's Adventurous London Beach Day