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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
- 4
- 5
Outside, the world erupts in color and light. The river glitters under the afternoon sun, and the air smells of brine, hot asphalt, and blooming flowers. The vibrant chaos of the South Bank promenade hits her like a physical force. Tourists mill about, pointing at the city's gleaming spine—St. Paul's rising serenely among the glass giants of the financial district. Laughter rings out, lovers stroll hand-in-hand. It is everything her life used to be: normal, beautiful, untouched.
And then there is her. A walking wound in paradise.
At the top of the stone stairs leading down to the narrow strip of sand, she halts. The towering heels are ridiculous here, impractical anchors in shifting sands. With a final, decisive gesture, she bends over and unstraps first one shoe, then the other. She holds the delicate, towering artifacts in one hand like discarded trophies. For a moment, she simply stands barefoot on the warm concrete, feeling solid ground beneath her feet for the first time in what feels like days.
Then, she begins her descent. Ten steps separate her from the sanctuary of the sand. One by one, she climbs down, leaving behind the world of flashing lights and leering men. But the damage is done. The eyes of the promenade are upon her. Pointed stares follow her progress. Whispers travel faster than she does. And when her toes finally sink into the cool, yielding sand, a collective intake of breath seems to ripple through the beachgoers. They see the impossible breasts straining against her ruined shirt. They see the wild tangle of hair escaping her skirt. And most of them, even from this distance, seem to sense the dark secret held captive within her. Her journey is far from over. As she walks, Lara can't shake the feeling of eyes on her. She glances around, searching for the source, and spots a group of young men further down the beach, watching her with blatant interest. One of them gives her a wolf whistle, prompting his friends to laugh and egg him on. "Oi, love! What's that sticking out of your arse?" he calls out, his voice carrying over the beach's background noise. Lara feels her face flush with embarrassment as more people start to take notice, pointing and whispering to each other.
Lara Croft: "What do you mean?" Lara calls back, feigning ignorance as she turns to face the group of men. She can hear their excited murmurs and laughter, but she keeps her tone light and innocent. "That thing sticking out of your ass, love! What is it, some kinda dildo?" another man chimes in, his friends roaring with glee. Lara feels her cheeks flush hotter at the crude question. She glances back over her shoulder and can clearly see the outline of the spray can jutting from beneath her skirt. "Oh, this? It's, um…it's just a little prank," Lara says, stumbling over her words. "You know... Some harmless fun." The men exchange skeptical amused looks, but their grins suggest Lara's explanation has only piqued their interest further. "A prank, eh? Well, we'd love to see more of this 'harmless fun,' luv. Why don't you come over here and give us a bit of a show?" one of them says, patting his friend on the back. "We'll make it worth your while."
Lara’s polite refusal hangs in the salty sea breeze, met with boos and exaggerated groans from the group of men. She doesn’t dignify them with a backward glance, instead quickening her pace across the burning sand toward the lone wooden changing cabana nestled between two dune grasses. The walk is agonizing; every grain shifts beneath her bare feet, a constant reminder of her vulnerability. Inside the small, dim space, privacy is a fragile commodity here, but it's all she has.
For the first time since this ordeal began, she allows herself to breathe without an audience. Leaning against the rough-hewn wood, she closes her eyes. When she opens them again, they are no longer wide with panic, but narrowed with cold focus. This is her stage, and she will control the narrative however she can.
She runs a comb through her matted hair, smoothing the chaotic strands into something resembling order. Using a damp cloth, she wipes away the smeared makeup, revealing the stark exhaustion beneath. Then, with deliberate hands, she reaches into her bag—the last bastion of sanity—and pulls out the tiny scrap of fabric she had carried all this way.
The bikini is absurdly small. The strings are barely wider than shoelaces. As she takes off her current skirt, the reality of her situation crashes home once more: the thick, dark forest of pubic hair, untouched and sprawling, and the obscene black can protruding from her swollen anus. With a sigh of resignation mixed with grim determination, she ties the minuscule bottoms. The thin string sits high on her hips, riding up into the dense thicket of hair. By a cruel twist of fate, the placement creates a perverse anchor. The string presses directly against the base of the spray can, creating enough friction to hold it securely in place. For the first time, there is no threat of it slipping out. A flimsy, pathetic sense of security.
From the front, the effect is staggering. The top is a mere suggestion of coverage, struggling valiantly to contain the monumental weight of her 67-inch bust. The deep cleavage spills forth like a pale canyon, the flesh soft and heavy under the unforgiving sun. Below, the microscopic triangle of the bottoms disappears entirely into the untamed wilderness of her pubic hair, which fans out dramatically along her lower abdomen and inner thighs. There is nothing left to the imagination; it is a portrait of unapologetic, wild femininity.
From the back, the view is even more grotesque. The string of the bottoms vanishes completely into the jungle of hair, leaving her buttocks almost entirely exposed save for the thin strip of fabric tracing the line where they meet her thighs. And there, nestled deep within the cleft, peeking out from the tangled curls, is the unmistakable shape of the black plastic nozzle. It looks less like an accident and more like a bizarre, permanent fixture, a dark secret hidden in plain sight. She is both goddess and monster, a monument to excess and shame, captured perfectly by the setting sun reflecting off the glass towers of London behind her.
Stepping out of the cramped confines of the changing cabana felt like stepping onto another planet. The air, warm and smelling faintly of salt and fried food, wrapped around her newly exposed skin. The contrast was dizzying—just moments before, she had been a woman unraveling, trapped in a nightmare of her own making. Now, clad in the scandalously small bikini, she presented as something else entirely: a force of nature.
She took a deep breath, the air filling her lungs, and forced her lips into what she hoped was a confident smile. It wasn't easy. Her cheeks still burned with the memory of the station, the livestreamer's touch, the crude shouts from the men on the beach. But she pushed those feelings down, burying them under a layer of sheer, defiant audacity. This is my choice, she told herself, the mantra feeling hollow at first but gaining strength with each repetition. I am choosing this.
Her gait changed. Instead of the hesitant, wobbly shuffle of before, she strode. Each step was purposeful, her shoulders rolling with an impossible grace given the sheer mass of her chest. She walked parallel to the waterline, letting the cool Thames lapping at her ankles feel grounding. She scanned the bustling beach, searching not for people, but for pockets of solitude. Every few yards, someone would stop and stare. Some pointed openly. Others whispered to their companions, their expressions a cocktail of shock, awe, and disgust.
A man stopped dead, his mouth agape as he stared at the impossible expanse of her cleavage. He quickly looked away when Lara caught his eye, a flicker of defiance flashing in hers.
"Look at the size of that," a young man muttered to his friend, earning a sharp elbow in the ribs from his embarrassed partner.
Each interaction was a pinprick, a fresh wave of humiliation threatening to pull her under. But she held her head higher, plastered that bright, empty smile on her face, refusing to let them see how deeply it affected her. She needed space. Not just physical space, but mental space to process everything that had happened.
After what felt like miles of navigating gauntlets of stares and stifled laughter, she saw it: a sliver of relative calm. Near the end of the narrow beach, where the sand met weathered wooden pilings of an old pier foundation, the crowd thinned. The structure provided a modicum of shade and privacy from the main promenade above. This would have to do.
With a final surge of willpower, she picked up her pace slightly, heading toward the shelter offered by the decaying wood. She found a patch of dry sand right beside one of the massive, barnacle-encrusted pillars. Dropping her bag and the heels she’d carried all this way, she sank down onto the warm grains, finally allowing herself a moment of respite. Here, tucked between the river and the forgotten pier, she could simply exist. Even if only for a little while.
Laying down on the blanket, with her hands behind her head and her eyes closed, the sun feels almost kind. The Thames laps a few metres away, gulls wheel overhead, and the city’s glass towers glitter benignly across the water. For five whole minutes she is able to pretend this is an ordinary summer afternoon.
She draws a long, deliberate breath, letting her rib-cage lift those absurd breasts toward the sky. The air smells of river mud and coconut tanning oil from farther up the sand. She listens to the low thud of dance music someone has brought on a portable speaker. Nothing about the sound-track hints at pursuit or hand-cuffs. It is almost funny: she has spent the day committing flagrant public indecency in a city bristling with cameras, yet no constable has appeared.
Maybe, she thinks, the city has seen weirder. Maybe the passengers on the train simply uploaded their clips for laughs, not for justice. Maybe the streamer’s followers assumed it was staged. Or maybe—this idea makes her cheeks burn—nobody cared enough to dial 999; she is already punch-line enough without involving the law.
A tiny, giddy laugh escapes her. She spreads her fingers wide in the warm sand and lets the grains trickle through. Her buttocks settle; the bikini string presses the can’s base exactly where it needs to stay. The position is perversely comfortable: the blunt intrusion has become part of her posture, a secret ballast keeping her grounded. She feels the sun on her closed eyelids, listens to her own pulse in her ears, and for the first time all day the drum-beat of panic eases into something almost like peace.
When she finally opens her eyes again, the sky is an enamel blue, and a single cloud is drifting directly above her. It looks, she realises, faintly like a bullet. She smiles at the coincidence and decides not to move for a while.
Lara Croft: The sun climbs, then drifts westward. A low, river-scented breeze rustles the tatty edges of Lara’s beach blanket. Face-down, cheek pillowed on her forearm, she is finally still—breathing slow, eyelids motionless, the frantic pulse in her throat gone quiet. Because her bikini top is mostly string, the expanse of her back is bare except for a faint sheen of sunscreen. From the neck up she looks anonymous: sunglasses askew, hair half-hiding her profile.
Conversation #1 – Two university-age women, towels slung over shoulders A: “Check the arse on that. You could park a bike in that gap.” B: “Jesus, is that… a can? Like, an actual aerosol?” A: “Looks like one of those roach bombs. Bet it’s a dare.” B: “Or a kink. Don’t stare, she’ll feel it.” A: “Too late. Already snapped it for the group chat.”
Conversation #2 – Middle-aged jogger, pausing to stretch against the pier post Jogger (muttering to his fitness watch): “Calories burnt… whatever. Christ, what’s sticking out of—? Nah, don’t get involved.” He steps closer, peers, then recoils: “That’s not a medical thing, that’s… nope.” He jogs off, muttering louder: “Whole city’s gone nuts.”
Conversation #3 – Couple in their thirties sharing iced coffee Woman: “Don’t look, Terry.” Man: “I’m not—okay, I am. It’s literally poking out. Should we tell someone?” Woman: “Tell them what? ‘Excuse me, madam, your butt-plug’s industrial-sized?’ Leave her be. Probably festival performance art.” Man (snickering): “Modern Tate’s getting bold.”
Conversation #4 – Foreign tourists, late twenties, speaking low in German Tourist A: “Meinst du, das ist diese Lara Croft? Die vom Internet heute?” Tourist B: “Kann nicht sein. Sieht ja gar nicht aus wie—Moment, die Haare, der Körperbau… vielleicht?” Tourist A: “Nicht fotografieren, wir wollen keinen Ärger.” They back away, glancing over shoulders, phones safely pocketed.
Conversation #5 – Local street photographer with a long lens To himself, while crouching: “Perfect late-summer weirdness. Caption it ‘Thames Tail-Wag.’ Sell it to Vice maybe.” He fires off six rapid clicks, autofocus whirring. The shutter snaps wake a nearby gull, but not Lara.
Conversation #6 – Vendor walking along selling cold drinks Vendor (into Bluetooth earpiece): “Mate, I’ve seen it all now. Bird asleep on the sand with a—yeah, a full can up her arse. No, not a drinks can, like… bug spray? Holding steady, too. Want me to loop back for a pic? …Yeah, thought so.”
Physical actions, no dialogue
- A roller-blader cruises past, does a double-take, loses balance and loses equilibrium but stays upright; keeps going red-faced.
- Two office workers on lunch break sneakily film vertical clips, zooming on the nozzle, then scurry toward the embankment stairs laughing.
- A dog-walker’s spaniel trots over, sniffs the protruding plastic, tail wagging; owner yanks leash whispering “Sorry!”, drags dog away.
- An older artist sets up easel fifty metres off, sketches the pier; every so often he glances at the surreal silhouette—the woman, the can—shakes head, adds another line.
Inside her dream, Lara hears none of it. She is chasing something through an underground tomb, torch flickering, but the corridor keeps widening until the walls are river water and the ceiling is sky. She runs, barefoot, sand shifting underfoot instead of stone. The relic she seeks is always just ahead, gleaming like spray-painted metal in the dark.
Lara Croft: Lara stirs, cheek gritty with sand, and the late-afternoon sun now warm across her shoulder-blades. The first thing she feels is the dull internal ache—like a fist has been parked inside her for hours and is finally asking for rent.
She rolls carefully onto her side, knees drawing up so the tiny bikini bottom stretches tight across her hips. A quick glance right, left: the immediate patch of sand is empty; a family farther down is packing up, backs turned.
Good enough.
With one hand she hitches the string aside; with the other she grips the black plastic base of the can. A soft, wet shluck and the nozzle slides free—followed by a rush of cool river air that makes her gasp. The sensation is mortifying: it feels as though the wind is blowing straight through a tunnel that was never meant to see daylight.
She cannot see what the camera on a dozen phones earlier captured, but her body tells her plenty. The rim feels puffy, almost numb, and when she tentatively clenches nothing really closes; the muscle gives a vague flutter, then settles open again. A second breeze confirms it—there’s a breeze where there should be none.
Embarrassed, she fishes a corner of her blanket, wipes the can clean, and buries it deep in her tote bag under the spare heels. Out of sight, out of mind—except the ache refuses to be ignored.
She straightens the bikini string so it once again bisects the dark, untamed strip of hair that climbs her cleft. The cloth is laughably narrow; half her bush spills out front, and in back the fabric barely bridges the valley, leaving the swollen, hair-fringed ring partly visible if anyone walks behind.
Still, hope is stubborn: Maybe it’s not as bad as it feels.
Lara rolls onto her back, arms tucked beneath her head, knees loosely apart so the sand cups her hips. She forces a long, slow breath, willing the throbbing to subside: the puffiness numbs, the burn cools: the channel's gentle current kisses the breach; she can feel it swirling through that open ring, a strange, almost medicinal massage: the cold is shrinking tissue bit by bit.
Lara Croft: Lara pushes herself upright, the sand cascading off her stomach and thighs. A thin sheen of sweat has collected between her breasts; the breeze now feels less refreshing and more like an intimate invader.
"River first, head later," she mutters. Wading in will soothe the sting—and maybe, just maybe, shrink things back to something resembling normal.
She pads to the water's edge. The Thames here is brown-green and slow, but today it's warm enough that people are splashing knee-deep. A few heads turn as she approaches—hard not to notice a six-foot, bikini-clad woman whose chest arrives slightly before she does—but no one has clocked her face yet.
She steps in gently, hissing when the cool water meets the raw skin around her anus. Inch by inch she advances until the surface laps at mid-thigh; then she bends, scoops water, and splashes it over her hips and lower back. The contrast makes her gasp, but the relief is immediate: the puffiness numbs, the burn cools: the channel's gentle current kisses the breach; she can feel it swirling through that open ring, a strange, almost medicinal massage: the cold is shrinking tissue bit by bit.
A pair of twenty-something guys further out stop tossing a rugby ball to watch.
"Bloody hell, it's the Tube girl," one whispers—loud enough to carry.
His mate snorts. "The one with the—" He mimes a canister.
Lara pretends not to hear. She lowers herself until she sits on the sandy river-bed, water rising to her waist. The channel's gentle current kisses the breach; she can feel it swirling through that open ring, a strange, almost medicinal massage: the cold is shrinking tissue bit by bit.
Lara exhales through her teeth. Five minutes, she promises herself. Five minutes of river compression, then she'll stand, walk out, and face whatever fresh embarrassment waits on shore.
Lara rises slowly from the river, water streaming off her heavy breasts and down the planes of her stomach. Each step back to shore is deliberate: she keeps her thighs together to stop the bikini string from shifting, but the sodden triangle now clings like tissue paper. It is obvious to anyone glancing up from their towels that she is carrying far more than the average bikini allows.
The beach is still crowded. Most bathers had only seen her reclining figure earlier; now, standing, dripping, she is impossible to ignore. Sunlight hits the bikini top first—two feeble triangles doing sentry duty over breasts the size of small beach balls. The fabric is stretched so thin the aureoles show through in dark, coin-sized shadows.
Gasps and murmurs start at the waterline and ripple inward.
From the promenade a man calls, “Oi, sweetheart, those things real?” Another answers for her, laughing, “Nah—silicone city!”
Lara keeps her gaze straight ahead and walks. Because the triangle is wet and plastered flat, the untrimmed thatch beneath is suddenly public knowledge: a dense, black mat that climbs almost to her navel and spreads around the strings like moss over wire. A few whistles turn to outright guffaws.
Then she turns to retrieve her towel, bending just enough for the rear view to flash. The string, swallowed between her cheeks, does nothing to hide the puffy, dark-lipped circle of her anus—still open, still framed by the same coarse hair that climbs her cleft. Sunlight winks off the moist skin inside the ring; the breeze slips through it again, and a spectator actually utters, “Jesus, you could park a 2-p coin in there.”
Camera phones rise like periscopes. A woman nearby covers her mouth, half-horrified, half-delighted. “That’s… that’s the train woman,” she hisses to her partner. “The one with the—” She doesn’t finish; the visual is enough.
Lara straightens, towel in hand, and starts walking toward her blanket. Each footfall sends a small shock-wave through her chest and a pulse through that still-gaping hole, but her chin is up, her eyes fixed on the horizon. The jeers fade behind her, replaced by the click-click-click of shutters preserving every glistening, obscene angle for the internet’s eternity.
Lara straightens, water cascading off her monumental chest in rivulets that catch the sun like liquid glass. Every eye on the narrow beach tracks the motion: the impossible heave of those 67-inch spheres, the sodden triangles of the bikini top flattened until they look like postage stamps on twin planets.
Phones lift in unison. A man nearer the promenade rail cups his hands: “Oi, Lara—forget the Tomb, found the melons instead!” His mates roar.
She keeps walking. The soaked bottom has turned translucent; the triangle vanishes inside the wild delta of black curls that starts just below her navel and spills around the strings like jungle over a clothes-line. A woman actually applauds, half mocking, half awed: “That’s a whole ecosystem down there!”
Then Lara pivots to shake water from her hair. The movement presents the rear view for a heartbeat—long enough. The string is just a strand of dental floss between cheeks, and it frames, rather than hides, the dark, puffy ring of her anus. The river’s chill has reduced the gape only slightly: the centre still yawns, shiny and hair-fringed, an open O that twitches once when the breeze hits it. Someone lets out an involuntary “Christ—she’s still open!” Another voice answers, “Like a subway tunnel, mate.”
Lara bends for her towel—breasts swinging, water dripping from nipples—then straightens and heads up-sand. Each step leaves a damp footprint and a ripple of laughter, whistles, camera flashes. The skyline of London glitters behind her like a jury of glass, recording every glistening, obscene frame for tomorrow’s headlines.
Lara decides to take her mind off the breeze that keeps sneaking where it shouldn’t. She gropes for her phone, wipes sand off the screen, and opens her socials. The first thing she notices is the red bubble on every icon: 247 missed Twitter mentions, 93 IG notifications, 1.4 million new TikTok views on a single tag. Her stomach flips. Top of feed is a grainy still from the Underground: she is mid-stride, hand jammed under her skirt, plug halfway to the floor. Caption: “LARA CROFT: FROM TOMB RAIDER TO TRAIN RIDER.” 62 k likes. Next clip auto-plays: the live-streamer in the station, zooming in while she squats over the canister. The video is cropped so her face fills the frame at the exact moment the can pops inside; the loop repeats every three seconds, set to a comical boing sound effect. The tag #CockroachCroft is trending worldwide. A parody account has already replaced her twin pistols with two aerosol cans in the bio. She scrolls further and hits pay-site links: “Exclusive uncensored beach content – paywall unlocked.” Someone has stitched together the moment she lifted her skirt at the station with today’s pier footage; side-by-side you see the can go in, come out, and disappear again under the bikini string. The caption reads: “Open/Closed/Open—like a tomb door!” 1.2 million views in two hours. Comments fly past: - Queen of the Damned… and the Damned Wide. - Archaeology tip: if the tunnel is too big, you’re in the wrong ruin. - Someone start a GoFundMe for her poor sphincter. A push-notification pops up: Daily Mail Online – “Peer’s Daughter in Public Bug-Spray Shame”. They’ve already super-imposed a red circle over her rear in the beach shots. She tastes metal—panic rising—when a shadow falls across the screen. Footsteps crunch behind the pier foundation; two twenty-something guys, towels slung over shoulders, have spotted the lone, scantily-clad woman and angled over for a better look. From the other direction a jogger slows, pretending to tie a shoelace while glancing between her phone and the unmistakable rear view: bikini string swallowed by dark hair, the puffy rim of her anus peeking each time the wind lifts the fabric. One of the guys whistles low. “Oi, treasure-hunter, lose something back there?” His mate lifts his phone horizontally, already recording. Behind them, a middle-aged woman walking her dog stops dead, mouth forming a perfect O of scandal. Lara locks the screen, heart hammering, cheeks hotter than the sun above. The virtual world and the real one have merged into a single, relentless spotlight—one she can’t swipe away. Lara thumbs open her phone, desperate for a five-second escape from the ache in her backside. INSTAGRAM — 93 notifications. Top post: a looped TikTok—Underground carriage, hand shoving the plug, zoomed until her pupils fill the frame. Text overlay: “When the loot chest won’t stay closed.” 1.4 M likes. TWITTER — #CockroachCroft is #1 worldwide. Pinned tweet is the live-streamer’s screen-grab: her face contorted the exact second the can slid inside. Quote-tweets fly: - “She went from artefact collector to human bug-zapper.” - “Gap so big you could exhibit it at the British Museum.” - “Speed-run any%: Anus of the Pharaoh.” She swipes down; a MailOnline headline auto-refreshes: “Lady Croft’s New Relic: Industrial-Strength Shame.” They’ve circled her rear on the beach in neon pink. Lara locks the screen, cheeks scalding. The whole planet is watching, and the signal strength here is five full bars.
Lara Croft: Lara presses the phone face-down into the sand, cuts the signal, and forces a breath so deep it quivers on the way out. For a moment she simply listens: gulls, distant laughter, the soft slap of river against pier-posts—ordinary noises that do not judge.
She tells herself a story: Reputation is just another ruin; you’ve tunnelled through worse. The thought feels steadier than expected. If the world insists on seeing her as a carnival, why not sell tickets? She has always craved edge, danger, applause—only the stage has changed.
A weak grin tugs at the corner of her mouth. OnlyFans? Ridiculous… yet the numbers scrolling past were real currency. She pictures lighting, wardrobe, control of the frame—her terms, her timeline. The idea flickers from absurd to tantalising, a torch at the far end of a very long corridor.
She turns onto her back, lets the sun warm eyelids that still taste of salt and mascara. “Adapt or die, Croft,” she whispers—an old mantra on a new battlefield. The affirmation sounds ridiculous in the open air, but it also sounds true. Muscles unclench; breathing slows; the ache in her lower body eases from acute to background noise.
Behind her, London’s skyline glitters—indifferent, eternal. She will re-enter that city soon enough, but for now she lies quiet, letting the river breeze carry away the last clinging scent of insecticide and shame. Whatever tomorrow posts, uploads, or screams across headlines, the woman on the blanket is already sketching the next move—one she owns outright. And that, she decides, is a start.
Lara Croft: Lara drifts into a shallow, sun-drenched doze, her body finally relaxing into the sand. The distant city sounds blend into a low hum, and for a while, there is only warmth and the faint, rhythmic lap of the Thames.
Then, a cold, wet nose presses against her inner thigh.
She stirs but doesn't fully wake, a dreamy sigh escaping her lips. The sensation is strange but not unpleasant—a cool dampness in the heat. A sleek, muscular Doberman, its collar plain and its owner conspicuously absent, has found her. Driven by instinct, it sniffs intently at the dense thicket of her pubic hair, its nostrils flaring at the potent, human scent.
A few metres away, a group of university students sharing a bottle of wine notice the scene and burst into stifled laughter.
"Oi, check out the guard dog," one of them snickers, already fumbling for his phone. "He's on patrol duty."
"Looks like he's found something interesting to investigate," another adds, zooming in with his camera. "Bet he's never sniffed a jungle like that before."
A woman in her thirties on a nearby blanket shakes her head, a smirk playing on her lips. "Should we do something? That's... that's a bit much, isn't it?"
Her partner, engrossed in filming, doesn't look away. "Nah, let him be. She's not complaining. Looks like she's enjoying the free spa treatment."
The dog, having thoroughly investigated the front, moves around with a quiet, curious whine. Its wet nose prods at the thin string of her bikini bottom, then moves lower, tracing the line of her cleft. Finding the exposed, puffy ring of her anus—still slightly agape from its earlier ordeal—it gives an experimental lick.
The sensation—a rough, warm, wet stripe across the most sensitive and abused part of her body—jolts through Lara's dozing consciousness. But instead of shock or revulsion, a low, pleasurable shudder runs through her. In her half-asleep state, the feeling is abstract, a welcome stimulation that cuts through the lingering numbness. A soft, contented moan escapes her, and she tentatively shifts her hips slightly, unconsciously offering better access.
The students howl with laughter, their phones capturing every second.
"He's giving it a proper clean!" one of them cackles.
"Five-star review from the customer, by the looks of it!" another shouts.
The dog, encouraged by the lack of resistance and the salty taste, continues its ministrations, its long tongue working with a diligent, rhythmic motion.
Lara remains still, a faint, dreamy smile on her face, utterly lost in the unexpected and deeply inappropriate moment of bliss. The crowd's laughter is just background noise to her, another part of the strange, surreal dream she's fallen into.
Lara Croft: The dog's diligent licking shifts from curious investigation to something more primal. The stimulation, combined with Lara's potent scent and her passive, receptive posture, triggers a base instinct. A low growl rumbles in its chest, a sound of focused intent.
Lara, lost in a haze of sleep and unexpected pleasure, mumbles something incoherent. A husky, breathy whisper escapes her lips: "Mmm... yes... right there..." The words are slurred, dreamy, utterly disconnected from the reality of the situation.
Then, the dog's hindquarters tense. It scrambles for purchase on the sandy towel, its front paws digging into the small of Lara's back. Its movements become frantic, jerky. An erect, red-tipped penis emerges from its sheath, a stark and shocking sight against the sleek black fur.
A collective gasp ripples through the onlookers, followed by a wave of stunned silence that quickly breaks into raucous laughter and shouts of disbelief.
"Oh my GOD!" a woman shrieks, her hand flying to her mouth. "Is it—is it trying to mount her?"
A man nearby, his face a mixture of horror and hysterical amusement, points. "It is! The bloody dog's going for it! Look at the size of that thing!"
The dog thrusts its hips forward, but its aim is off. Lara's hips are pressed flat against the towel, her rear not elevated enough for a successful mating attempt. The dog's engorged member bumps and slides uselessly against the smooth skin of her lower back and the curve of her buttock, leaving wet, frantic streaks.
The students are in hysterics, their phones now recording vertical video for maximum impact.
"This is the best day of my life!" one of them howls, tears streaming down his face. "He's trying to shag her! And she's loving it!"
"Get a better angle!" his friend yells, scrambling for a clearer shot. "This is going viral for sure!"
Lara, still mostly asleep, feels the pressure and the frantic movement. In her dream, it translates into something else entirely. She lets out a low, throaty moan and pushes her hips down harder into the towel, a subconscious attempt to ground herself against the sensation, which only further frustrates the dog's efforts.
The spectacle is both horrifying and absurdly comical: a world-renowned adventurer, dead to the world on a public beach, being vigorously and unsuccessfully humped by a stray Doberman while a crowd films and cheers. The dog, confused and increasingly frustrated, continues its futile attempts, its panting breaths loud in the afternoon air.
Lara Croft: The sensation finally cuts through the fog of sleep—a warm, insistent pressure sliding between her ass cheeks. It’s not the gentle lapping of before; it’s something more urgent, more physical. Lara’s eyes flutter open, confusion clouding her vision for a moment. She shifts, and the pressure moves again, a firm, rhythmic bumping against her.
She cranes her neck, looking over her shoulder. The sight that greets her is so absurd, so utterly surreal, that her brain short-circuits. A sleek, panting Doberman is straddling her lower back, its hips pumping in a frantic, futile rhythm. For a heartbeat, there is only stunned disbelief.
Then, a sound escapes her—a choked, disbelieving giggle that quickly erupts into full-blown, hysterical laughter. It’s not a laugh of joy, but of pure, unadulterated madness. The sheer ridiculousness of the situation, the culmination of the entire humiliating day, breaks something inside her.
Still laughing, she fumbles for her phone, her fingers brushing past the countless notification bubbles. She doesn't see them. All she sees is the shot. She switches the camera to selfie mode, angling it to capture her own tear-streaked, laughing face in the foreground and the dog's determined, humping form in the background.
With a shaking thumb, she hits the 'Go Live' button.
"Hey, guys," she gasps, her voice breathy and laced with hysterical giggles. "So... this is how I've been woken up from my nap. Seems I've... uh... made a new friend." She lets out another peal of laughter as the dog gives a particularly vigorous thrust. "He's... he's very enthusiastic! Very... forward!"
She adjusts the angle, giving her live audience a clearer view of the canine suitor. "I don't think he's having much luck, though. Poor guy. Wrong equipment for the job, maybe?" She laughs again, the sound high-pitched and unhinged. "Talk about a doggy-style wake-up call!"
Lara's words trail off into more laughter as she watches the dog's desperate attempts to gain purchase, its hindquarters working overtime as it tries in vain to hump a high enough angle to make contact. "...I guess you could say I've been dogged!" she finally finishes, letting out one last burst of hilarity before shaking her head in amazement. As the livestream continues, Lara's audience begins to grow, each new viewer no doubt drawn in by the bizarre and utterly unbelievable spectacle unfolding before their eyes. Comments begin to flood in on the screen, ranging from the predictable "ew gross!" to the more supportive "girl you're handling this like a champ!" to the downright lewd "fuck I would give anything to be that dog right now." But through it all, Lara maintains her air of bemused detachment, laughing off each new development as she continues to beam at her phone camera, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she's just become a viral sensation in the most humiliating way possible.
She's so caught up in the bizarre comedy of it all, in the performative act of narrating her own degradation, that the true, profound humiliation of the situation hasn't yet registered. She's treating it like another adventure, another crazy story to tell. The fact that she is live-streaming herself being humped by a dog on a public beach, with her gaping anus likely still on display, is just part of the show. The audience numbers on her screen are skyrocketing, but she doesn't see them. She only sees the absurdity, and she leans into it, a queen of her own crumbling castle.
Lara Croft: The beach, which had been a chorus of laughter and shocked exclamations, falls into a stunned, horrified silence for a split second. Then, the noise erupts again, louder and more intense.
"Someone get that bloody dog off her!" a woman shrieks, her voice sharp with genuine alarm.
A man nearby, who had been filming with glee, now looks sick. "Oh, Christ. That's not funny anymore. That's... that's bestiality."
Lara, meanwhile, is scrolling through the live comments with a manic grin, her own laughter drowning out the growing concern around her. "Hah! This one says... 'Looks like he's trying to dig for treasure!'" she reads aloud, her voice cracking with hysterical mirth. The comment strikes her as so perfectly, absurdly fitting that she throws her head back and laughs harder than ever.
The motion, the convulsive shake of her laughter, causes her hips to lift involuntarily a few inches off the towel. It's just enough.
The dog, frustrated and driven by instinct, seizes the opportunity. With a final, powerful thrust, it drives forward.
Lara's laughter cuts off instantly. Her eyes fly wide open, her jaw dropping in a silent scream of shock. The sensation is unlike anything she has ever felt—a sudden, shocking, full invasion. It's not the cold, hard plastic of the can; it's living, warm, and terrifyingly alive.
She stares into her phone's camera, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated horror. Her free hand flies to her mouth. "Oh fuck," she breathes, the words barely audible. "No way... it's in? It's actually in?"
On the screen, the comments shift from jokes to a flood of "HOLY SHIT" and "OMG DID THAT JUST HAPPEN" and "SOMEONE STOP THIS."
Panic seizes her. With her other hand, she reaches back blindly, trying to push the dog's muscular flank away. "Get off! Get off me!" she cries, her voice rising in pitch, but the dog, now finally achieving its goal, locks its forelegs around her waist and begins to thrust in earnest, its movements becoming rhythmic and purposeful.
The live stream captures every second: her horrified face, the desperate scrabbling of her hand against the dog's side, and the undeniable, rhythmic motion of the animal's hips. The audience numbers are exploding, but now it's a car crash, not a comedy. Lara is no longer laughing. She is trapped, live on camera, in the most humiliating and violating situation imaginable.
Lara Croft: The laughter died in her throat, replaced by a cold, suffocating dread. The initial shock of the invasion gave way to a horrifying realization: she was stuck. The dog's thrusting had ceased its frantic pace, replaced by a firm, unyielding pressure. A thick, bulbous knot at the base of its penis had swollen inside her, locking them together in a grotesque, biological embrace.
Panic, pure and undiluted, flooded her system. She pushed against the dog's flank with her free hand, but it was like pushing against a brick wall. The animal panted heavily, its body weight pinning her down, its knot securely anchored deep within her stretched rectum.
"Oh, God, no," she whimpered, the words a choked sob. "No, no, no..."
Her phone slipped from her trembling fingers, landing screen-up on the blanket. By some cruel twist of fate, it had fallen at an angle that perfectly framed her horrified, tear-streaked face for the continuing live stream. The audience was no longer laughing. The chat was a frantic scroll of "WTF IS HAPPENING," "SOMEONE CALL THE RSPCA," and "THIS IS ILLEGAL."
The sounds of the beach rushed back in, louder and more accusing than ever. Gasps of horror. Shouts of disgust. The unmistakable sound of more phones recording, capturing her ultimate shame.
"Someone help her!" a woman's voice cried out, laced with genuine panic.
"Don't just film, you idiots, do something!" another voice yelled.
But no one moved. They were frozen, a sea of horrified faces, watching the surreal, nightmarish spectacle unfold.
Lara's composure shattered completely. The bravado, the dark humor, the defiant acceptance—it all evaporated, leaving only raw, terrified vulnerability. She twisted her head, trying to see the crowd, her eyes wide with pleading desperation.
"Help," she begged, her voice breaking. "Someone, please?! Get it off me! Please!"
The dog, oblivious to her terror, shifted its weight slightly, and the movement sent a fresh wave of nauseating pressure through her core. She was trapped, physically bound to the animal, and emotionally exposed to the entire world. The thirty-minute estimate felt like a death sentence. Every second stretched into an eternity of utter, unimaginable humiliation.
Lara Croft: Lara’s face was pressed into the rough weave of the beach blanket, her cheek grinding against sand. The immense weight of her breasts was a crushing burden, flattened painfully beneath her, the soft silicone and flesh spreading out in two vast, pale mounds. Each ragged breath she took was a struggle against the pressure on her chest and the deeper, more violating pressure from behind.
Then, a new voice cut through the cacophony of gasps and recording clicks. "Brutus? BRUTUS! What the bloody hell are you doing?!"
A man in his late forties, red-faced and sweating in a tight polo shirt, pushed his way through the ring of onlookers. His expression cycled from confusion to dawning horror as he took in the scene: his prized Doberman, Brutus, locked firmly onto the bare backside of a woman he vaguely recognized from the news.
"Get off her, boy! Come!" he commanded, his voice cracking with panic. He tugged uselessly at the dog's collar, but Brutus, lost in his biological imperative, merely grunted and held fast.
The man's face flushed an even deeper red as he finally noticed the forest of phones pointed at them. "Stop filming this, you sickos!" he roared, waving his arms at the crowd. "Have you no decency? This is a private... a medical... a... just stop it!"
Lara, for a fleeting second, felt a surge of gratitude. Finally, someone is trying to help. But it evaporated instantly as the reality of the situation crashed down on her. This man was the owner. This was his responsibility.
"You!" she spat, her voice muffled by the blanket but laced with venom. "Why didn't you neuter this beast, you bastard?! Look what he's done! Look what you've let happen!"
The man flinched, his anger deflating into defensive exasperation. "He's a show dog! His bloodline is champion! I... I didn't think he'd... on a public beach..." His words trailed off as he realized how pathetic they sounded. He knelt beside her, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper. "Look, love, I'm sorry. Truly I am. But there's nothing we can do. The knot... it has to... finish. It's biology. We just have to wait."
The word wait landed like a physical blow. Twenty-five more minutes. Twenty-five minutes of being a public spectacle, a living pornographic exhibit, a viral sensation. She could feel the dog's hot panting breaths on her back, the occasional, involuntary twitch of its body.
On her phone screen, which still broadcast her anguished expression to the world, the live chat was a frenzy. Comments scrolled too fast to read, a blur of emojis, shock, and lewd speculation. And then, the distant wail of a siren cut through the air, growing rapidly closer. The police. They were coming. But they wouldn't arrive for another ten minutes. She would still be here, tied to this animal, when they arrived. The humiliation was not over; it was only entering its final, most official act. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, the livestream audience continues to grow at an astounding rate. New viewers tune in by the thousands, each one eager to witness the shocking debacle unfolding before their eyes. On the stream chat, comments fly by faster than anyone can read them. Some express revulsion at the scene, others post lewd jokes and innuendo, while still others try to offer helpful advice - though it's unclear whether Lara is even aware of their suggestions. "Maybe she likes it," one user types, setting off a flurry of heated arguments and debates. "First she shows of her holes on the train, now this? This was intentional!!!" Others are not so generous. "She's probably just happy she gets to finally feel something inside her," another user snarks. Amidst the chaos, one comment stands out - a stark announcement that quickly spreads like wildfire through the chat: "Police are en route, ETA 10 minutes" Lara, oblivious to this development, continues to squirm and thrash beneath the dog's still-mated form. The man, seeing no other choice, kneels down beside her and places a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of support. "I know this is awful, but hey - it'll all be over soon," he says, his voice tinged with a tinge of desperation. "Just try to breathe, okay? In and out." Lara nods jerkily, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps as she struggles to regain control of her body and her emotions. "But after this, what are people going to think?" she sobs, her words barely audible over the sound of the dog's panting. "Everyone saw, and now… and now they'll always remember me like this!" The man shakes his head, his own face contorted with sympathy. "Listen, I'm not going to lie to you - this situation is pretty messed up," he says. "But once it's over, people will move on. They always do. You just gotta focus on getting through this moment, okay?" Lara nods, though whether she really believes him is anyone's guess. All she can do for now is hold on tight and pray that the next quarter hour will somehow pass more quickly than the last.
Lara Croft: The word echoed in her mind, cold and final: Zoophilia. An illegal sexual act. A perversion. A crime. The full weight of what was happening—what was being recorded and broadcast to millions—crashed down on her. She wasn't just a victim of a bizarre accident; in the eyes of the law and the world, she was a participant in bestiality. The footage from the train, of her shoving the can inside herself, would now be seen as a prelude to this. A pattern of deviancy.
A fresh wave of anger, hot and desperate, surged through her, momentarily overpowering the shame. "Stop filming!" she screamed, her voice raw and cracking. She tried to twist her head to glare at the sea of phones. "Haven't you done enough? Get away from me!"
Her outburst was met with a mix of reactions. Some people lowered their phones, looking chastened. But others, emboldened by the spectacle, moved in closer. One man, in particular, dropped to his knees just feet away, his phone's camera zooming in with a mechanical whir. The lens focused intently on the point where the dog's knotted base disappeared into her swollen, stretched anus, a horrifically intimate close-up.
The dog's owner saw it too. His face, already flushed with embarrassment, twisted into rage. "You! Get back!" he roared, surging to his feet and shoving the intrusive filmer. "This is a woman in distress! This isn't a bloody peep show!"
A heated argument erupted between the owner and the crowd. "She was asking for it!" a woman's voice shouted from the back. "Did you see what she did on the train? She had a whole can up there! This is just the next logical step!"
"Yeah!" another voice joined in. "She was livestreaming it herself a minute ago! She was laughing! She wanted this!"
The owner, overwhelmed, could only sputter in frustration. "That's not—! She didn't—! You're all sick!"
Lara heard every word. The accusation that she had wanted this, that it was intentional, was a poison dart to her heart. They were using her own moment of hysterical, unhinged laughter against her. They were stitching together a narrative of a depraved woman who got off on public humiliation and bestiality.
And the police were already aware. They weren't just coming for a stray dog incident; they were coming for her. They had seen the train footage. They would see this. They would have all the evidence they needed to charge her. Her life, her reputation, her freedom—it was all dissolving in the most public way imaginable, trapped on a beach with a dog's knot buried inside her and a million cameras documenting every second.
The man, growing increasingly exasperated and angry at the crowd's refusal to cease recording, steps forward with a menacing glare. "Alright, that's enough!" he bellows, his hands raised in a threatening gesture. "I warned you people once already - I won't ask again! Put those cameras away!" A few of the more timid onlookers comply, but many others simply move in even closer, their faces twisted with a macabre blend of morbid curiosity and voyeuristic lust. "She looks like she enjoys it," one man calls out, gesturing towards the growing wet spot on the crotch of Lara's bikini bottoms. "Maybe she should just be honest about what she is!" Others chime in, their voices raising in angry shouts as they argue over the nature of Lara's involvement in these sordid acts. "Let's face it - who goes on the train and the beach dressed like that unless they're asking for trouble?" one woman asserts. "And now this… it's not an accident, it's a pattern!" As the crowd grows more heated and the cameras continue to flash, Lara feels her face grow hot with shame. She wants to shout back at them, to tell them all just how wrong and unfair their assumptions are, but the lump in her throat makes it impossible to speak. The man, seeing Lara's distress, turns to her with a look of fierce protectiveness. "Don't let these people get to you. They don't know anything about you or what's really going on here." Lara nods weakly, trying to muster up some semblance of hope in the face of this overwhelming humiliation. But deep down, she knows that the damage has already been done. Once the police arrive, once this livestream goes viral, there will be no turning back - her life as she knows it will be over. As the minutes tick by and the knot shows no sign of loosening, Lara begins to contemplate the sheer absurdity of the situation she's found herself in. The dog, Brutus, seems to have no interest in moving - it merely pants contentedly, its tail thumping against the ground as it rests atop its conquest. The man, seemingly oblivious to the dog's obvious pleasure, continues to fret and pace nearby. "Come on, buddy, just calm down," he says, his voice laced with a tinge of desperation. "We're gonna get you off that beautiful thing any minute now." Lara, her face contorted with a stew of humiliation and disgust, wants to correct him - to point out that being locked together like this with an animal is anything but beautiful. But the words die in her throat as she watches the crowd of people who are apparently finding the spectacle erotic. Meanwhile, there were at least 2 separate livestreams which she wasn't aware of, the one running on her own phone that she dropped earlier, this one captured only her face and her scantly covered breasts and a second livestream from the guy that got very close to capture the dog's knot earlier. The comments poured every second: "Wonder if she's a size queen," one user types. "If not, she must be now!" "Holy shit, that knot is massive!" another chimes in, followed by a series of eggplant and beaver emojis. "Wonder if she can walk after this?" The whole world is watching, and they're all seeing her at her most vulnerable and depraved moment. She feels sick to her stomach, knowing that her life will never be the same after this. But even through the overwhelming shame and despair, Lara can't deny the stirring of something else deep within her. It's a sensation that she's never experienced before, and it feels wrong to enjoy on some primal level - but she can't ignore it. It's the feeling of fullness, of being claimed and dominated in the most carnal and primitive way possible. Her breasts heave with each ragged breath, the thin fabric of her bikini top doing little to conceal her puckered nipples and the growing flush of her skin. Between her legs, she can feel a sticky heat building, her slit slicking up with each throb of the dog's pulsating member inside her. Part of her is disgusted with herself for even contemplating such depraved thoughts - after all, this is not normal behavior by any stretch of the imagination. But another part of her, a darker, more primal part, is beginning to revel in the illicit nature of the act. She feels a rush of excitement at the sheer taboo of it all, knowing that she's doing something so utterly forbidden and depraved. As the knot continues to hold firm, and the crowd of onlookers begins to grow even more brazen in their gawking and filming of the scene, Lara feels herself teetering on the brink of something terrifying and exhilarating all at once. She's on the verge of a decision that would change her life forever, but she has no idea what she's going to choose. Will she give in to the dark desires that are calling to her from the depths of her depraved psyche? Or will she cling to the last shreds of her humanity, refusing to accept this new role as the world's most famous zoophile? Only time will tell - but as the minutes continue to tick by, and the knot shows no sign of loosening, Lara knows that she's running out of time to make her choice…
Lara Croft: The distant wail of sirens grew into a deafening roar as two police vans and a car screeched to a halt on the promenade above the beach. Officers in high-visibility vests poured out, their faces a mixture of professional stoicism and sheer disbelief as they took in the scene below.
The crowd, far from dispersing, seemed to swell with the arrival of authority, their phones now pointed at the police as well as Lara. "Move along! Nothing to see here!" an officer barked through a megaphone, his voice tinny and ineffective against the buzz of the crowd.
"Nothing to see?!" a man yelled back, laughing. "Are you blind? That's Lara Croft getting shagged by a Doberman!"
The officers pushed their way through the throng, their expressions hardening as they reached the epicenter of the spectacle. Their training hadn't covered this. One young constable, fresh out of the academy, looked like he might be sick. His senior officer, a woman with a grim, set jaw, took charge.
"Alright, what's the situation here?" she asked, her eyes scanning the scene: the distraught woman pinned to the ground, the frantic dog owner, the knotted dog.
The owner rushed forward, his hands raised in a gesture of helplessness. "Officer, it's my dog, Brutus. He got loose, and... and this happened. It's a biological thing, the knot. We just have to wait it out. She's innocent in all this!"
Lara, hearing the word "innocent," let out a choked sob. The words a choked sob. Innocent? The world had already tried and convicted her on live television. The policewoman's gaze fell on her, and Lara saw the flicker of recognition—and then the dawning horror as she connected the face to the viral train footage she'd undoubtedly been briefed on.
"Ms. Croft?" the officer said, her voice carefully neutral. "We're going to get this sorted. Just try to stay calm."
But calm was impossible. The presence of the police made the situation terrifyingly real. This wasn't just a humiliating accident anymore; it was a criminal investigation. She was a suspect. The fear of arrest, of charges, of a court case, was a cold fist closing around her heart.
Meanwhile, the two men who had gotten the closest for their footage saw their opportunity. As the police tried to form a perimeter, the men ducked under an officer's arm, their phones held low, zooming in on the grotesque junction between woman and animal. They captured the subtle, involuntary twitches of the dog's hips, the way Lara's body shuddered with each movement, the raw, stretched flesh around the base of the knot.
"Get back!" the policewoman shouted, but it was too late. The footage was already being livestreamed, the most explicit and damning evidence yet.
Lara squeezed her eyes shut, tears streaming down her temples and into the sand. The weight of the dog, the pressure inside her, the flashing lights, the shouted commands of the police, the jeers of the crowd—it was a sensory overload of pure, unadulterated hell. She had fallen from the heights of global admiration to the absolute depths of depravity, and the law was now here to officially document her rock bottom.
Lara Croft: The young constable, eager to resolve the horrific scene, moved forward and grabbed the dog's collar, giving it a firm pull. "Come on, you brute, let go!"
A deep, warning growl erupted from the Doberman's chest, a sound of pure menace. Its body tensed, a clear threat to anyone who tried to separate it from its mate.
The dog's owner lunged forward, his face pale with panic. "No! Don't! You'll hurt him! And her! The knot has to release naturally! You'll tear something if you force it!"
The senior officer quickly waved the constable back. "Stand down, Miller! The man's right. We don't want to cause more injury."
Then, a larger officer with a brutish face and a thick neck scoffed. "Sod this. This is a public nuisance and an indecent act. Just put a bullet in the mutt's head. Problem solved."
A collective gasp went up from the crowd and the other officers. The dog's owner looked horrified. "You can't be serious! That's my champion dog!"
Lara's eyes flew open in sheer terror. The thought of the dog being executed while still inside her was a new layer of nightmare. The image flashed in her mind: the crack of a gunshot, the warm spray of blood and brain matter, the lifeless weight of the animal collapsing onto her, its knot still lodged deep within her. The headlines wrote themselves: LARA CROFT INVOLVED IN BESTIALITY AND NECROPHILIA INCIDENT. She would never, ever recover.
"NO!" she screamed, her voice raw with panic. "Don't you dare! Just wait! Please!"
The senior officer shot the oafish cop a look of pure disgust. "Holster that thought, Jenkins. That's not procedure and you know it. We wait."
The tension eased slightly, but the absurdity of the situation was overwhelming. The formalities of police work had to continue. One officer, trying to maintain a semblance of professionalism, keyed his shoulder mic and spoke into his radio, his voice a low, formal monotone.
"Control, this is Unit Seven on scene at Thames Beach. We have a... a situation. Female subject, identified as Lara Croft, is currently... uh... physically connected to a male Doberman pinscher. The animal is... knotted. Owner is present. Advise we are unable to safely separate at this time. Awaiting natural... conclusion. Over."
The crackle of the response was unintelligible, but the officer's grimace said it all. The entire Metropolitan Police force was now aware of the predicament.
All they could do was stand there, a ring of high-vis jackets around a woman and a dog engaged in a forced mating act on a public beach, while the world watched and waited for the biological timer to run out. The senior officer glanced at his watch. "How much longer?" he asked the owner, his voice weary.
"Should be any minute now," the owner mumbled, looking at the ground, unable to meet anyone's eye.
Lara lay still, her body trembling, every second an eternity of shame under the watchful eyes of the law and the unblinking lenses of a thousand cameras.
Lara Croft: The change was abrupt, visceral. One second, the knot was a thick, unyielding blockage, a crushing weight inside her. The next, a sudden, almost painful loosening—a sigh of flesh and muscle giving way. Lara felt a scalding gush of heat surge around her opening, the dog's hot, viscous semen flooding her lower rectum. It's thick, overwhelming, flowing out in ragged spurts that filled the cramped space of her asshole and began to dribble onto her inner thigh.
She felt a pressure building, a familiar expulsion of gas combined with the sudden release of muscles under the assault of the semen. Then, with a wet, obscene fart that echoed in the suddenly quieting crowd, a thick stream of her own waste—combined with the copious amount of dog cum—squirted from her anus. It landed with a wet splat onto the sand beside her, a grotesque testament to the violation she’d just endured.
Lara’s breath hitched. The initial shock was overwhelming—warmth, wetness, the embarrassing release—but then, a strange, almost shameful sensation bloomed. Despite the horror of what had happened, her body registered the raw, animal stimulation, the deep fullness, the unfamiliar warmth. A slow, involuntary flush crept up her neck. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will the feeling away, but the memory of the fullness lingered, a shameful echo in her core.
And then she caught sight of her own phone, lying abandoned near the blanket, still streaming her last moments. She twisted her head slightly, catching glimpses of the manic, lewd comments scrolling across the screen:
“She’s still shuddering!” “Do you see her? She’s enjoying the cum!” “That, that’s like… jizz.” “Dude, she came when the knot popped. Look at the face!”
The revelation hit her like a punch to the gut. She'd been caught looking not averted in disgust, but almost—yes—pleased. A smirk broke through her mask of horror before she could stop it. She saw herself, caught between the flush of shame and a strange, shuddering smile.
“Uuuuuggh,” she muttered, her voice croaky and low. “What a goddamn mess.”
Around her, the air had thickened with silence. The crowd, the officers, even the police radio chatter had paused, as if collectively holding their breath. Officers exchanged awkward glances, some discreetly averting their eyes from the spot where the dog’s knot had previously been lodged. The senior officer cleared his throat, finally giving in to the gravity of the situation. "Okay. That’s enough. Let's clear the area, start dispersing the crowd before this gets any more out of hand.".
Lara Croft: The officer's voice was distant, muffled. "Ms. Croft? Can you stand up?" His gaze was politely averted, but she could feel the weight of the crowd's eyes—judging, filming, absorbing every detail.
Lara remained frozen for a moment, the aftermath of the act still raw, her body reeling. Her eyes flicked down to her own lower body, where her dark, thick pubic and anal hair framed a now-gaping, pulsating opening. It felt raw, exposed, and utterly violated. The involuntary tightening and loosening of her anus, a reflex of the deep fullness and warmth it had just endured, was a secret shame she couldn't erase. She looked up, her face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and the lingering remnants of shame.
When she tried to move, her muscles trembled under the strain of what had just happened. The officer extended a gloved hand, his eyes distant, almost apologetic for the need of her compliance. With a deep breath, she let the police officer help her sit up, her face burning as she scanned the beach for her shredded dignity.
Adjusting her bikini, which had shifted during the ordeal, she felt the weight of the world press down on her. She grasped the officer’s outstretched arm, and he hauled her to her feet, his grip rough yet practiced.
The scene had shifted once more—she was no longer a tangled mess; she was a notorious criminal, a public disgrace, yet the police still needed to uphold some semblance of order.
"Good. Can you walk?" he asked, his voice sharp, professional.
Lara nodded, biting her lip to keep the groan of pain from escaping her throat. The muscles in her lower back and inner thighs were on fire from the struggle, but the memory of being tied to the dog still clouded her thoughts. With the officer's support, she took a tentative step. She might have stood a bit wobbly, but she was still on her feet.
The officer released her arm and gestured to her phone, which was lying on the blanket, its screen still flickering with the live feed. "We're going to need that, Ms. Croft."
Lara nodded again, the world around her spinning as the events of the day crashed into her all at once. The police had arrived, and as they began to escort her away from the scene, she knew she could no longer outrun her punishment. She was taken by the officers, her head held high in a last attempt at dignity, yet surrounded by the ever-present judgmental stares.
The camera flashes still kept popping, and voices from the crowd were hushed now—everyone watching her being led away like a criminal, their excitement overshadowed by the sheer shock and disgust of the crowd.
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Lara Croft's Adventurous London Beach Day