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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

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
The screech of the train's brakes on the rails was a sound of deliverance, a clarion call that cut through the station's din. The doors hissed open, releasing a gust of stale, recycled air and the low murmur of the carriage's occupants. Lara Croft stepped forward, her 17 cm platform heels striking the floor of the carriage with sharp, definitive clicks. She was a giantess in a world of seated commuters, her head and shoulders rising above the sea of heads. The carriage was a microcosm of London life, a packed sardine can of weary office workers, tourists clutching maps, and passengers lost in their phones. Not a single empty seat.
Her hope, a fragile thing, died as she surveyed the scene. She was forced to stand, a solitary monument to inconvenience in the crowded carriage. The journey from the platform to a handhold was a gauntlet. Her path was blocked by a businessman in a sharp suit, his briefcase clutched to his chest. As she passed, the vast, soft expanse of her breast brushed against his arm. He flinched, a small, involuntary jerk, his eyes widening as he looked up at her face, a flicker of recognition and profound discomfort crossing his features. He quickly averted his gaze, his face flushing a deep red.
She grabbed a dangling hand strap, the action causing a fresh wave of pressure from within. The plug. The twelve-step countdown. She felt it begin to slide. Her left hand, which had been gripping the strap, 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.
The seated commuters, a sea of faces turned upwards, were treated to a spectacle. From their vantage point, the angle was cruel. The tiny latex skirt, already a useless suggestion of fabric, rode up even higher as she gripped the strap. The dense, untamed jungle of her pubic hair was a dark, untamed landscape, a wild thicket that spilled over the edges of the skirt and down her inner thighs. The base of the pink plug, a bright, garish pink against the dark hair, was a beacon of her secret shame.
The sharp, brittle voice of an elderly woman cut through the train's low hum. Lara's ample chest, a soft, impossible mass, had brushed against the woman's face, a fleeting, intimate contact that was both shocking and unavoidable. The woman recoiled, her face a mask of disgust, her wrinkled hand flying to her mouth. "Have you no decency? Keep your... your things to yourself!"
Lara's gaze flickered down, a flicker of apology in her ice-blue eyes. "I am terribly sorry," she said, her voice a low, cultured purr that was utterly at odds with the scene. "The carriage is... rather crowded." She didn't stop. Her relentless advance, a slow, deliberate procession dictated by the towering heels and the internal countdown, carried her onward. The apology was a formality, a shield against the tide of judgment.
She moved past a group of seated young adults, their faces a mixture of shock and morbid fascination. As she walked, the constant motion and the angle of her body caused the tiny latex skirt to ride up even higher. For a fleeting moment, the full, rounded curve of her ass was visible, a pale expanse against the dark hair. And nestled deep within the cleft, the base of the enormous pink plug was a stark, garish pink, a secret shame laid bare for all to see. One of the young adults, a man with a shock of dyed-blue hair, let out a low whistle. "Whoa. Did you see that? The plug! It's enormous!"
Then came the bump. It was unavoidable. A Muslim woman in her late thirties, dressed in a modest hijab and a simple, long-sleeved dress, was sitting by the door. As Lara passed, the vast, soft weight of her breast brushed against the woman's shoulder. The woman flinched, not in anger, but in surprise. She looked up, her eyes meeting Lara's. There was no disgust in her gaze, only a quiet, profound sadness. A flicker of understanding, perhaps. The woman offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, a silent acknowledgment of the shared burden of being a woman in a world that demanded so much and offered so little compassion.
Lara met the woman's gaze for a moment longer, a silent connection passing between them. Then, she turned away, her relentless advance carrying her forward. She was a paradox, a woman of immense power and control, reduced to this. She was Lara Croft, and she was a beautiful, powerful, ridiculous mess, hurtling through a crowded train on her way to the final, humiliating act of her day.
The weight of a hundred eyes was a physical thing, a cloak of judgment that pressed down on her shoulders. Every step was a fresh wave of shame. The train was a long, metal serpent, and she was walking its length, a spectacle in a moving cage. The decision to turn back was born of desperation, a gamble that the other end might hold an empty seat, a moment of respite.
As she began her retreat, the journey was a gauntlet of whispers and stares. A man in a rumpled suit, his face a mask of weary resignation, stared openly. "Good God," he muttered, loud enough for his companion to hear. "The things people do for cheap notoriety. It's like a circus."
A young woman, her face a canvas of freckles and bright, curious eyes, leaned towards her friend. "Look at her hair," she whispered, her voice a mix of awe and disgust. "It's like a wild animal. And the skirt... is that even a skirt? It's more like a belt."
Lara heard them. The words were sharp little stones, thrown at her retreating form. She kept her chin high, her expression a carefully constructed mask of indifference, but the fire in her cheeks was a constant, burning reminder of her exposure.
Then came the student from the platform, the one with the piercings. He was leaning against a pole, watching her approach with a slow, appreciative grin. "Heading back for another go, Lara?" he said, his voice a low, rumbling purr that cut through the noise. "Looking for a seat, or just a better view?"
Lara met his gaze, her eyes flickering with a mix of annoyance and defiance. "A moment of peace is a luxury I can ill afford," she replied, her voice a low, cultured purr that was utterly at odds with her situation. "But one must make do with what one has." The 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.
But even as she spoke, she felt it. The slide. The subtle, insistent pressure that had been building. The constant battle was in full swing. She felt the plug begin to migrate, a slow, inexorable pull. Her hand, which had been resting on a handrail, 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.
The journey back was a descent into a private hell. The train, a metal serpent of swaying bodies and rattling rails, became an accomplice in her humiliation. The constant, rhythmic sway of the carriage was a torment, a subtle, insistent pressure that worked in tandem with the wobbling steps dictated by her 17 cm platform heels. The plug, which had been a manageable threat, was now a traitor. It began its slow, inexorable slide with every sway, every lurch of the train.
Now, it was a two-step rhythm. Step one: the subtle, internal pull. Step two: the distinct, insistent slide. And then, the desperate, public act. Her left hand, which had been gripping a handrail, would shoot down. Her fingers would find the base of the plug, and with a forceful, inward shove, she would push it back inside. The sensation was a violent stretch, a searing pain that was quickly swallowed by a wave of humiliation. But beneath the shame, a new sensation was blooming, a heat that had nothing to do with the crowded carriage. It was a low, insistent arousal, a perverse counterpoint to the public degradation.
She squeezed through the standing crowd, a human obstacle course. Her breasts, vast and soft, were battering rams, brushing against chests, shoulders, and backs. A man in a business suit stumbled, his briefcase swinging wildly as her breast connected with his arm. He shot her a look of pure, unadulterated rage. "Watch it!"
But it was the seated passengers who bore the brunt of her passage. From their vantage point, the angle was cruel. The tiny latex skirt was a joke, a suggestion of fabric that offered no protection. As she squeezed past, the skirt rode up, revealing the full, pale curve of her ass and the thick, pink plug buried obscenely deep within it. The base of the plug, a bright, garish pink against the dark, untamed thicket of her pubic hair, was a beacon of her secret shame.
A group of British young adults, their faces illuminated by the glow of their phones, broke into loud, raucous laughter. "Check it out!" one of them bellowed, his voice echoing through the carriage. "The plug! It's gigantic! And she's jamming it back in! This has to be the wildest sight of the month!"
An elderly woman, her face a mask of shock and disgust, stared, her mouth agape. She clutched her handbag to her chest, her knuckles white. "My goodness," she whispered, her voice trembling. "The shame of it! The sheer, unadulterated shame!"
And then, the recognition spread. A man in his forties, his face a canvas of stubble and fatigue, looked up from his newspaper. His eyes widened, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features. "No," he breathed, the word a soft, incredulous sigh. "Is that Lara Croft?"
The recognition spread like a virus, a silent epidemic of disbelief that rippled through the carriage. It wasn't a single voice, a shout of her name. It was a collective gasp, a series of sharp intakes of breath that drew the attention of everyone in the car. The man's whisper was the spark, but the fire was fed by the impossible sight of her face, so familiar, yet so distorted by her current state.
A woman in a business suit, her laptop balanced on her knees, looked up from her screen. Her eyes widened, her mouth forming a small 'O' of shock. "Lara Croft?" she breathed, her voice a low, incredulous murmur. "But... how? Why?"
A young man, his earbuds in, pulled one out, his eyes fixed on her. "Holy moly," he said, his voice a low, awed whisper. "It's her. It's really her. But... what the hell happened to her?"
The comments were a tapestry of confusion and morbid fascination. A woman in a floral dress leaned forward, her eyes fixed on the plug. "See that?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "It's so... pink. And the hair! It's like a jungle. How does she even sit?"
A man in a rumpled jacket, his face a mask of weary resignation, stared openly. "I don't get it," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. "She's a world-famous archaeologist. What is she doing looking like... like that?"
The constant pressure forced the plug to slide. Her hand shot down, her fingers finding the base of the plug. The shove was desperate, a violent motion that drew more gasps, more laughter, more flashes of light.
A young man, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone, simply stared, his mouth slightly agape. He raised his phone, not to take a picture, but to record the scene, his thumb hovering over the record button. "Unbelievable," he breathed, his voice a low, awed whisper. "This is beyond anything I've witnessed."
The man with the camera let out a low, appreciative whistle. "Damn, Lara. You don't miss a trick, do you?" he said, his voice a low, rumbling purr that cut through the noise.
The sway of the train, a subtle, insistent pressure, combined with the lurch of her own body as she navigated a particularly dense patch of standing commuters, was the final, fatal blow. The internal pressure, the constant battle she had been fighting for what felt like an eternity, finally broke. With a soft, almost obscene pop, the 7-inch pink butt plug slid free.
It landed on the grimy, linoleum floor of the carriage with a dull, rubbery thud, a bright, garish pink against the grey, scuffed surface. For a split second, it lay there, a monument to her humiliation, the bold 'DO NOT PULL' warning facing the ceiling.
Lara's world dissolved. A choked cry escaped her lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated panic. She dropped to her knees, her platform heels clattering on the floor, the sound echoing through the carriage. Her movements were frantic, desperate. She scrambled on the ground, her fingers fumbling, her eyes wide with terror as she searched for the fallen object.
The reaction was instantaneous. A symphony of shock, laughter, and disbelief.
From the man with the camera, a low, incredulous whistle. "Holy hell. It actually came out. I thought she was joking!"
A group of young adults burst out laughing, a loud, raucous sound that cut through the tension. "Look at her go! Like a dog after a bone! And the hair! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it's like a forest down there! You could lose a badger in that!"
A woman in a floral dress, her face a mask of horrified fascination, pointed a trembling finger. "Is that... is that a butt plug? And it says 'DO NOT PULL'? That's... that's just... words fail me. And the hair! It's everywhere! It's like she's got a live animal attached to her!"
The train's deceleration was a cruel joke, a final twist of the knife in her humiliation. The plug, slick with her own moisture, slid across the grimy floor, coming to rest just under a row of occupied seats. The sight of it, a bright pink beacon of her shame, was a physical blow. A choked sob escaped her lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated despair. She dropped to her knees, the platform heels clattering on the linoleum, a pathetic, rhythmic sound in the sudden silence that had fallen over the carriage.
The scramble was a study in desperation. She abandoned all pretense of grace, becoming a creature of pure, frantic need. She scrambled on all fours, her movements a parody of a huntress tracking her prey. Her breasts, vast and soft, were battering rams, brushing against the legs of the standing commuters, a soft, impossible weight that drew gasps and recoils. The ripped t-shirt, already a casualty of her earlier wardrobe malfunction, offered no protection, the areolas a stark, pale expanse against the dark fabric.
As she lowered herself, the tiny latex skirt rode up, a useless suggestion of fabric that offered no modesty. The dense, untamed jungle of her pubic hair was a dark, untamed landscape, a wild thicket that spilled over the edges and down her inner thighs. And then, as she stretched forward, reaching for the plug under the seats, the ultimate exposure occurred. The position, the angle, the sheer, desperate need—it all conspired. Her most intimate secret was laid bare. The dark, tight ring of her anus was visible, a stark, pinkish-brown circle against the dark hair, a portal to a world of shame that she had fought so hard to keep hidden.
The reaction was a tidal wave of human emotion.
A businessman in a sharp suit, his face a mask of weary resignation, stared down at her, his expression one of profound pity. "Good God, woman," he muttered, his voice a low, trembling whisper. "Have you no dignity left at all?"
A young woman, her face a canvas of freckles and bright, curious eyes, leaned forward, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and fascination. "See that?" she breathed, her voice a low, awed whisper. "I've never... I've never seen anything like it. It's like... like a nature documentary. But in a train carriage."
A young man, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone, simply stared, his mouth slightly agape. He raised his phone, his thumb hovering over the record button.
Lara finally slides out from under the seats, her butt plug in hand, her skirt riding high revealing her crotch, the wetness of her vagina visible below the skirt, her pubic hair thick and abundant. She scrambles to her feet, her breasts heaving and rising and her massive bust pressed against the commuter next to her who cries out in shock. "I'm so sorry," Lara says, quickly wiping the sweat from her forehead and trying to pull down her skirt as she gets to her feet. She turns, looking down the train. The car just stopped and all seats seem to be occupied in the crowded train. She still had to work further as she had 4 more carts to pass through.
"Is it just me or was that the most unbelievable thing you've ever seen?" a passenger asks another.
"I have never seen anything like that!" the other replies.
Lara takes a deep breath, her face red with embarrassment. She turns to the passengers. "I am so sorry," she says. "I didn't mean to."
"You're not Lara Croft are you?" a seated passenger asks.
The nervous chuckle dies in her throat, a pathetic sound swallowed by the sudden silence that falls over the platform. All eyes are on her now, waiting for her reaction to the direct question. She opens her mouth to deny it, to offer some flimsy explanation, but no words came out. Instead, a nervous, almost hysterical laugh escaped her lips, a sound that was more sob than mirth. "Oh, no," she finally managed, her voice trembling with an intensity that betrayed her calm exterior. "Just... just a look-alike. The resemblance is rather uncanny, isn't it?" The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, and she knew it was as transparent as the ripped t-shirt straining across her chest.
As she stood, the plug warm and slick in her hand, she felt the weight of a hundred eyes upon her. Every second of delay was another moment of exposure. With a calculated movement that was meant to appear casual, she subtly shifted her weight, bending at the knees just enough to press the plug back into place. The sensation was a violent stretch, a searing pain that made her gasp, but she swallowed the sound, her face a mask of concentration. Her fingers, hidden behind the tiny latex skirt, worked with desperate efficiency, pushing the thick toy deep into her loose, hairy asshole until it settled with a soft, internal click. The 'DO NOT PULL' warning was now pressed against her most intimate skin, a constant, insistent pressure.
She took a step forward, the platform heels clicking on the floor like a death knell. The journey was far from over; four more carriages stretched ahead, each one a potential theater of her shame. A businessman in a crisp pinstripe suit, who had been watching her with detached interest, leaned towards his companion. "That's the most blatant case of denial I've ever seen," he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. "The way she was shoving that thing back in... it's like she was trying to install a new engine."
An elderly gentleman with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses adjusted his spectacles, his gaze fixed on her backside. "One must admire the dedication, if nothing else," he said with a dry chuckle. "Though I daresay the presentation could use some refinement. A bit more subtlety, perhaps?"
A young woman with a bright pink bob and a nose ring pointed a thumb in Lara's direction. "She's got that 'I've made a huge mistake' energy," she declared to her friend, her voice carrying easily over the hum of the train. "Like, she went all in on some bet and now she's stuck living with the consequences."
The train car transformed into a gauntlet of flesh and humiliation as Lara navigated its length. At 6'1" and perched on 17cm heels, she towered over the seated commuters, her 67-inch breasts level with many faces. The packed carriage forced her into a slow, grinding advance; every step became a collision. Her bust, a mountain of flesh encased in a ripped t-shirt, brushed against shoulders, backs, and arms. Men recoiled, women gasped, passengers pointed. The constant friction sent shivers through her, unrelated to the cold plug now lodged deep within her ass.
From below, the view was grotesque. Passengers seated opposite or beside her path had an unobstructed, eye-level vista up her skirt. The dollar-sized latex band offered no defense, riding high on her hips to reveal the wild, dark tangle of her pubic hair – a dense, untrimmed forest that spilled down her inner thighs and curled around the base of the plug itself. The plug's pink silicone base, stark against the dark hair, was a beacon of her secret shame, clearly visible whenever she passed. A middle-aged man in a suit stared, mouth agape, not at her face, but fixed on the obscene display between her legs, his cheeks flushed with a mixture of shock and morbid fascination.
The relentless movement, the sway of the train, the sheer volume of her body in motion – it was all too much for the plug. With almost every step, Lara felt it begin its slow, treacherous migration. A subtle, insistent pull would signal the start of its escape. Her left hand, gripping a dangling hand strap or a cold metal railing, would shoot down with practiced desperation. Her fingers would disappear beneath the inadequate skirt, pressing hard against her own flesh, forcing the thick toy back inside. It was a silent, frantic pantomime of self-preservation, a desperate shove accompanied by a sharp intake of breath and a clenching of her jaw. The seated passengers saw it all – the subtle shift in her posture, the hand vanishing beneath the skirt, the brief, violent press. They saw the plug disappear, only to reappear moments later, a bright pink secret she fought to keep buried. One whispered to another, "Look at her eyes... she's not even looking at anyone. She's just... focused. On pushing that thing back in. It's like a job."
"Easy there, love," a man's voice slurred from the corner, his breath reeking of stale beer. "You don't want to break any more chairs with that arse of yours, do you?" His friends erupted into a chorus of coarse laughter.
"Hey, lady!" another voice, younger, sharper, cut through the noise. A young adult with a shock of dyed-green hair pointed directly at her crotch. "What you hiding down there? Something shiny?" He wasn't asking. He was taunting, and the implication hung in the air like a foul stench.
A group of women, sitting together and sharing a can of cider, watched her pass with sneers on their faces. One of them drawled, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "All that hair... looks like she's got a new pet. A big, hairy one."
Then came the comment that struck a nerve. A man in a tracksuit, his arms crossed over his chest, watched her shove the plug back in with a smirk. "Damn," he said, his voice a low, appreciative rumble. "That ass must be loose. Takes some serious abuse to make that thing fall out every two steps. You practice, or is it just natural talent?"
The screech of the train's brakes as it pulled into the next station was a cruel punctuation mark to her ordeal. The doors hissed open, releasing a tidal wave of new commuters, a fresh wave of bodies pressed into the already suffocatingly crowded carriage. The density tripled in an instant, a human vice squeezing Lara between strangers. The air grew thick with the smell of perfume, stale sweat, and the sharp tang of anxiety.
The movement began the moment the train lurched forward. A flash of a phone camera, held discreetly at waist level. A voice, low and excited, whispering into a phone. "Dude, you are not gonna believe this. It's her. It's Lara Croft. And she's... she's like, a train wreck. A hot train wreck, but a wreck nonetheless." The words were a virus, and the carriage was the petri dish. Soon, more phones were out, not just recording, but actively documenting her humiliation. She was a spectacle, a living, breathing meme in the making.
A man in a sharp business suit, who had been trying to look important on his phone, now held it aloft, recording her progress. "Look at this," he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper aimed at his phone's camera. "This is the new Lara Croft. Less tomb raiding, more public indecency. The people want to know what happened to her." The flash of his phone's bulb went off, a stark, white light that illuminated her face for a split second, a mask of pure, unadulterated shame.
The comments became more brazen, more direct. A woman with a stroller, her face a mask of weary resignation, looked up from her phone and shouted, "Have you no shame? There are other people on this train!" Her voice was shrill, accusatory, cutting through the noise like a knife.
The pressure was immense, a physical weight that seemed to crush her. The plug was slipping again. With the lurch of the train, the slide was inevitable. Her hand shot down, her fingers finding the base of the plug. The shove was desperate, a violent motion that drew more gasps, more laughter, more flashes of light. She was a spectacle, a walking punchline, and the whole world was watching. She was Lara Croft, and she was a beautiful, powerful, ridiculous mess, and she was trapped in a metal box, hurtling towards her final, humiliating act.
The train’s lurch forward was a fresh hell. With every sway and jolt, Lara felt the insidious pull of the plug, a slow, treacherous migration that defied her clenched muscles. The 17cm heels made each step a precarious teeter, her breasts – those impossible 67-inch orbs – swaying like grotesque pendulums, brushing against the arms and backs of commuters packed around her. The sheer volume of her body became a weapon and a liability, forcing a slow, grinding path through the human congestion.
The cacophony of judgment intensified. Phones were no longer discreet; they were held high, recording her every stumble, every desperate shove. A flash bulb went off near her face, blinding her for a second. "Smile for the camera, Lara!" a jeering voice called out.
"Check out the melons on that one," another man shouted, his voice grating. "Bet they're full of silicone! Probably paid for it with her tomb-raiding loot."
The comments about her body were a constant, venomous drone. "For God's sake, shave, you look like a Yeti!" a woman hissed from her seat, her nose wrinkled in disgust.
But it was the comment about the plug itself that made Lara's blood run cold. A young man with a skateboard slung over his shoulder leaned in close, his voice a conspiratorial stage whisper that somehow carried over the noise. "Yo, check it out," he said to his friend, nodding meaningfully at her hand as it pressed beneath the skirt. "She's shoving that thing back in. And it says 'DO NOT PULL' on the base! What the hell is that, some kind of warning label?"
The words hung in the air, a cruel, public confirmation of her deepest shame. She could feel the plug begin its slide again, insistent and inexorable. This time, the shove was more frantic, more desperate. Her fingers pressed hard, a violent inward motion that was both painful and necessary. She was a walking paradox, a monument to her own contradictions, and she was being filmed, ridiculed, and dissected by a carriage full of strangers. The journey to the beach was a gauntlet of shame, and she was losing the fight.
The apology was a dam breaking, a moment of such profound vulnerability that it seemed to silence the carriage for a beat. Lara stopped dead, her head turning as she looked from one face to another – the judgmental, the pitying, the mocking. The sheer, impossible pressure of the situation, the hours of torment, the relentless slide of the plug, it all coalesced into this single, humiliating moment. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice cracking, a raw, exposed sound that was utterly alien to the world-famous adventurer. "This keeps falling out… I don't know what to do?" Her gesture was vague, a helpless wave of her hand that seemed to encompass her entire ridiculous state.
A nervous, hysterical laugh bubbled up from her chest, escaping her lips before she could stop it. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated despair. "Guess my asshole is too loose," she said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. She couldn't believe she was saying it. Lara Croft, the woman who deciphered ancient scripts and outsmarted immortal gods, was standing in a crowded London Underground carriage, publicly lamenting the structural integrity of her own anus.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, a wave of heat flooding her face. When she opened them, she was looking down at a young man who had been filming her on his phone. His jaw was slack. "Perhaps," she continued, the words tumbling out in a rush, a desperate attempt to reclaim some control, to turn the humiliation into a dark joke, "I need something bigger?" The question hung in the air, a pathetic plea. She scanned the carriage with a wild, desperate gaze. But of course, there was nothing. No kindly stranger with a spare, larger sex toy. Just a sea of faces, frozen in a mixture of shock, pity, and a new kind of horrified fascination. The train lurched, and the plug slipped again. This time, she didn't even try to hide it. Her hand shot down, and with a choked sob, she shoved it back inside.
The plug’s final, ignominious departure was a surrender. With a soft, wet thud that somehow pierced the train’s hum, it lay abandoned on the platform near her feet, a bright pink symbol of her defeat. A wave of disgust rippled through the carriage.
"Disgraceful!" a woman in a sharp pantsuit spat, her voice cutting through the tension. "Get off! You’re contaminating the whole carriage!"
"Show some respect!" an elderly man bellowed, shaking his fist. "That’s filth!"
Ignoring the escalating shouts, Lara’s gaze darted frantically around the swaying metal box. Desperation clawed at her. She needed something. Anything. Her eyes landed on the cleaning cart parked near the door – a grimy metal box on wheels. On top sat a massive, industrial-sized spray can labeled "COCKROACH KILLER EXTREME." The black plastic nozzle was unnaturally large, the warning "CAUTION: CHEMICAL BURN" printed in bold red on the side. The screw-on cap was conspicuously absent.
The final piece of logic, born of humiliation, snapped into place. The nozzle end is for insertion. It's the... business end. The other end is just a label. Without a second thought, she lunged for the can, her long fingers closing around its cold, weighty surface. It smelled of acrid chemicals.
She squatted, a maneuver of pure agony. The platform heels threw off her center of gravity, her massive breasts swayed precariously, and the muscles in her thighs screamed in protest. She had to grab a handrail for support, her knuckles white. As she lowered herself, the dollar-sized latex skirt rode up completely, exposing not just the wild, dark thicket of her pubic hair, but the raw, open, hairy ring of her anus, now gaping and slick. A collective gasp went through the carriage, a wave of revulsion so potent it seemed to part the crowd. People instinctively shuffled back, creating a small, horrified circle around her, their faces a mask of pure, unadulterated disgust. She was no longer Lara Croft. She was a monster, a thing of nightmares, squatting in the middle of the train with a can of bug spray in her hand.
A single, sharp cheer cut through the air, followed by a ripple of morbidly fascinated murmurs. The phones were held higher, the flashes more frequent, turning her moment of pure depravity into a public performance. The disgusted faces of the crowd swam in her peripheral vision, a sea of judgment and revulsion, but they were no longer her primary concern. There was only the cold, smooth plastic of the can in her hand, and the gaping, hungry void of her own body.
Gritting her teeth, the muscles in her jaw clenched so tightly they ached, she braced herself against the handrail. The world narrowed to the point of contact. Then, with a swift, brutal motion, she pushed. The business end of the spray can, nozzle first, pressed against the tight, raw ring of her anus. The initial resistance was immense, a burning stretch that felt like it would tear her apart. She cried out, a sharp, involuntary gasp of pain and shock. Then, with a wet, viscous pop, the muscle gave way. The nozzle slid inside, a cold, smooth invasion that sent a jolt of pure, desperate pleasure through her. It felt wrong. It felt filthy. It felt exactly what she deserved.
The crowd went wild. A cacophony of gasps, cheers, and disgusted groans erupted around her. The squelch was obscene, a sound of pure violation that seemed to echo in the confined space of the carriage. She was stretched wider than she had ever been, the cold plastic filling her in a way that was both agonizing and exhilarating. Her fingers, slick with sweat and her own moisture, gripped the can tighter as she began to push it deeper, moaning and whimpering, a low, guttural sound that was barely human.
Just then, a voice, calm and sterile, crackled over the loudspeaker. "Attention passengers, if you see something suspicious, please report it immediately to train staff."
The words hit her like a bucket of ice water. Suspicious. A crime. In that moment, the reality of her situation crashed down upon her. She wasn't just a woman shamed; she was a criminal. A pervert committing an act of obscene public indecency. The fear was a cold snake in her gut, but it was quickly swallowed by a wave of defiant, twisted arousal. The danger was a part of the thrill now. The humiliation was complete. There was no going back. No reclaiming her dignity.
The wild look in her eyes intensified, becoming feral. The voice on the loudspeaker wasn't a warning; it was a dare. The challenge wasn't just to fill the gaping emptiness in her anus, but to do it defiantly, to own the crime, to revel in the depravity in front of an audience. With a choked sob that was part pain, part surrender, and part twisted ecstasy, she abandoned every last shred of reason and dignity. Gripping the cold, greasy can with both hands, she pushed harder, forcing the wider cylindrical body past her abused opening. The stretch was searing agony, a tearing burn that stole her breath. But beneath the pain, a wave of sickening satisfaction washed over her. She filled herself completely, the hard plastic pressing deep inside, a grotesque parody of fulfillment. She whimpered, a high-pitched, broken sound that was drowned out by the roar of the crowd, lost in the flashing lights of their phones, utterly consumed by the most humiliating, terrifying pleasure imaginable.
Lara pushed herself upright, her legs trembling violently as she attempted to rise, using the dangling overhead strap for support. The simple act of standing became a monumental struggle. Her huge, unsupported breasts swayed precariously, threatening to pull her backward. As she pulled herself upright, the movement caused the canister lodged deep within her to shift. A sharp, internal jab reminded her of its presence, a constant, intrusive reminder of her choice.
And there it was. Beneath the inadequate latex skirt, the base of the spray can protruded obscenely. Several inches of the smooth, black cylinder peeked from between the untamed thicket of her pubic hair, a stark, alien appendage marking her as something other than human. It was a trophy of her humiliation, visible to anyone looking down or behind her.
The verbal assault began anew, louder and more vicious now that she was fully committed to her depraved act. The carriage had become a courtroom, and Lara was the defendant, accused of crimes they couldn't even name.
"Look at the state of you!" a woman shrieked from across the aisle, her face contorted in disgust. "That thing hanging out of you! You're not just indecent, you're filthy! Get off our train!"
"You call yourself a woman?" another voice joined in, dripping with contempt. "You've got a cockroach sprayer shoved up your arse like an animal! Have you no self-respect whatsoever?"
A young man leaned forward, his phone aimed directly at the shameful protrusion under her skirt. He spoke with gleeful cruelty. "Hey, Croft! What's the matter? Couldn't find anything big enough at home? Had to come on the public transit to get your rocks off? This is better than any tomb raid."
One comment struck a nerve, a direct attack on her very identity. "Is this what happens when you stop being a hero?" someone sneered. "When you run out of tombs to raid, you start riding the rails and spraying bugs up your ass? Pathetic."
Lara flinched, the words stinging far worse than the physical invasion. She tried to form a response, but her mouth was dry, her mind a fog of pain and adrenaline. To one particularly loud heckler, she managed a weak, breathless whisper, her voice cracking. "It... it keeps falling out," she pleaded, gesturing vaguely downward as if explaining the absurdity of the situation. "I needed... I needed something bigger." The excuse sounded hollow even to her own ears, a pathetic justification for the madness unfolding before them. Another wave of derisive laughter washed over her, sealing her fate as the laughing stock of the entire Underground system.
The young man insists she cannot stop now. He leans closer, his tone almost mocking. "Your fans are waiting to see what happens next. Come on, take out that spray can." With a heavy, leaden feeling in her limbs, Lara slowly lowers herself into a squatting position, trying to keep her balance on her towering heels. The spray can shifts inside her, making her wince and gasp as she pulls it from her stretched anus.
She can feel the weight of the spray can, still partially full, in her hands as she lowers it to her chest. The young man circles her, holding his phone aloft to capture every humiliating angle. "That's it, Lara," he purrs, his voice oozing with fake encouragement. "Let everyone see that loose ass of yours. Let them see how much you love degrading yourself."
The words hang in the air, a command delivered not to a person, but to an exhibit. The streamer sneers, his grin widening as he sees the flicker of despair in her eyes. He leans closer, his breath hot on her ear, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant entirely for his audience. "Come on, your fans are salivating. They want the finale. Take it out. Show 'em what you've been hiding."
His demand lands like a physical blow. It’s one thing to have committed the act in private desperation, another to be commanded to perform its conclusion for entertainment. This isn’t about her need anymore; it’s about his ratings. Every instinct screams at her to refuse, to curl up and disappear. But the alternative—his relentless probing, his insistent camera, the way he crowds her personal space—is somehow worse. A refusal would make him the aggressor, and she knows he won't let go easily.
With a groan that sounds ripped from her very soul, Lara begins to lower herself down. The 17cm heels become treacherous stilts, wobbling precariously as she bends her knees. Each inch downward sends fresh waves of agony radiating from her abused core. Inside her, the industrial-sized can shifts, scraping against sensitive tissue. A sharp cry tears from her throat—a sound of pure pain—as she forces herself into a deep, unstable squat. Her massive breasts swing heavily beneath her, threatening to throw her backward.
Her fingers, slick with sweat and moisture, find purchase on the cold plastic base of the nozzle. She grips it tightly, knuckles white. Then, with a final, shuddering breath, she bears down. There is no gentle release. Only a slow, agonizing withdrawal. The muscles scream in protest, burning as the widest part of the can passes through her ravaged opening. A low, guttural moan escapes her lips, a sound of utter defeat.
The livestreamer doesn't give her a moment's peace. He pivots, circling her like a shark who has found the bleeding prey. His phone never leaves her face, then her chest where the can rests, then deliberately pans down to expose her fully—the gaping, hairy ring of her anus, raw and red, exposed to the world. He zooms in, capturing every detail of her degradation.
"That's it, Lara," he coos, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Give the people what they came to see. Look at that… look at how wide you're stretched." He zooms the camera even closer, focusing on the inflamed flesh around her entrance. "They all want to know just how loose you really are. How much you love being used, being degraded. Don't disappoint them now."
A wave of nausea rolls over her. The flashes from other phones join his steady beam, creating a strobing nightmare of light and judgment. The crowd's murmurs rise again, a chorus of revulsion and fascination. She is no longer a woman; she is a spectacle, a punchline, living proof of something broken beyond repair. And she stands there, clutching the instrument of her ruin, unable to move or speak, trapped in the blinding glare of her own undoing.
The nervous chuckle dies in her throat, a pathetic sound swallowed by the sudden silence that falls over the platform. She looks directly at the young man holding the phone, her eyes wide with a terrifying mix of desperation and surrender. The words hang in the air, a final, public confession. "Guess my asshole is too loose," she says, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. She is a monument to her own contradictions, a celebrity reduced to this. She takes a final, shuddering breath, and the crowd waits, silent, for the next act.
The final, horrifying truth is revealed. Her anus, once tight and hidden, is now a dark, gaping maw, still dilated from the brutal invasion. Around the ragged edges, a thick forest of coarse, untamed hair grows wild, framing the obscene sight. In the cleft itself, the same dark curls cling, glistening faintly with perspiration and lubricant. It is a portrait of absolute debasement.
Lara pushes herself upright, her legs trembling violently as she attempts to rise, using the dangling overhead strap for support. The simple act of standing became a monumental struggle. Her huge, unsupported breasts swayed precariously, threatening to pull her backward. She smooths down her ruined shirt, adjusts the torn fabric over her impossible breasts, and finally—she smiles.
It isn't a warm or friendly smile. It's sharp, predatory, and utterly devoid of warmth. It's the smile of a predator who has decided to stop running and start hunting. She turns her head, locking eyes with the young man holding the phone. The flashbulbs pop around her, capturing every detail: the smeared makeup, the tear tracks drying on her cheeks, and the defiant, dangerous curve of her lips. She has embraced the role they've cast her in. And now, she intends to steal the show.
Standing erect, Lara towers over the livestreamer, a wobbling colossus on her 17cm stilts. The black nozzle of the cockroach killer spray protrudes from beneath her skirt like a grotesque, obscene talisman, a dark promise of the depravity within. The young man tilts his phone upward, his gaze traveling from the absurd swell of her chest up to her face, which is a mask of exhausted ruin. His expression is one of pure, unadulterated awe, mixed with a visceral revulsion that seems to excite him far more than any celebrity encounter could.
"Fucking hell," he whispers, the words barely audible over the hum of the station, yet captured perfectly by his phone's microphone. "You really are... the filthiest slut England has ever seen." The statement hangs in the air, an accolade offered by a pervert to a goddess of degradation.
Lara offers a single, jerky nod. Her hollow smile doesn't reach her dead eyes. She stares past him, out at the sea of faces—the gawkers, the disgusted, the voyeurs feeding the spectacle. They are all part of her audience now. The spell must be broken. The performance must end. "I have to go," she stammers, her voice thin and reedy. She takes a shaky step toward the exit ramp leading to the street, toward the beach that was supposed to be her sanctuary.
"No! Wait!" the livestreamer cries out, grabbing her arm. His grip is surprisingly strong. "Just five minutes! Five more minutes! We need photos together! Selfies! For my followers!"
He fumbles with his phone, switching from video to photo mode. He gestures wildly. "Come on, smile for the camera! Put your arm around me!" He steps into her space, invading her bubble completely. Before she can react, his free hand shoots up, not to wave, but to cup the underside of her left breast through the ripped t-shirt. His thumb presses inward, seeking the sensitive flesh beneath.
Lara flinches, a full-body recoil that sends her staggering back onto her heels. A nervous giggle escapes her lips, high-pitched and hysterical. It sounds insane even to her own ears. She forces another weak smile, her body trembling as he maneuvers them both into position. He angles the phone so their faces fill the screen, hers a mask of forced compliance, his a picture of greedy triumph. Then, his fingers find her nipple. Through the stretched fabric, he pinches and pulls, eliciting a soft gasp from her that is captured forever in the digital frame.
Satisfied, he lowers the phone for a second shot, this time focusing downward. With a cruel smirk, he reaches out and gives the base of the protruding spray can a firm tap. Thwack. The impact makes the entire object shudder violently inside her. The resulting internal jab draws a choked cry from Lara's throat—a sound of pure violation. On his live feed, the chat explodes.
He grins, turning back to her. "See? You're a natural," he says, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. "Now give us one last look before you go."
The slap echoes off the tunnel walls, sharp and shocking against the background noise of the station. It’s not playful; it’s meant to sting, a punctuation mark to his command. Lara yelps, stumbling forward a half-step as pain blossoms on her already tender cheek. The humiliation lands harder than the blow itself. This isn’t just attention anymore; it’s ownership. He feels entitled to touch her, to correct her defiance.
Her head snaps up, and whatever fragile composure she had been clinging to finally shatters. Gone is the hollow smile, gone is the brittle attempt at friendliness. In its place is something cold and hard. She meets his gaze directly, no longer seeing the fan or the streamer, only the obstacle standing between her and escape.
A low growl rumbles in her chest, a sound utterly alien to the persona they know. Without a word, without looking at him again, she turns. Each wobbly step down the platform staircase is an act of rebellion. She ignores his shouts, his pleas for "just one more minute!" She walks straight for the exit, the crowd parting instinctively before her like the Red Sea before Moses.
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Lara Croft's Adventurous London Beach Day