Daddy’s Solicitor

The Metro to Châtelet, Friday night, the romantic weekend he promised after Morrison's verdict. Checked myself in the hotel mirror before we left. Lipstick perfect. Mascara fresh. Court-appropriate blouse and skirt, tights underneath. Professional. Except no knickers.

Wore this outfit so strangers could see through the tights. So Daddy could show me off.

Now we're on a packed carriage with PSG fans heading back from the match and they notice when the train lurches and my skirt rides up. They can see the tights, see through them. Ten of them maybe. Scarves and shirts and that post-match energy that hasn't settled.

One of them says something in French. His mates all turn to look. Then Daddy's hand is on my lower back, gentle at first, but his fingers hook into my waistband and he pulls my skirt higher. Deliberate. Making sure they all get a proper view.

"Daddy, what are you--"

"Shh. They're just looking."

Except they're not just looking. The nearest one steps closer. Says something else in French, questioning, his eyes on Daddy not me.

Daddy nods.

That's all it takes.

The French guy's hand lands on my thigh. On the tights. Testing. Waiting to see if Daddy stops him. When he doesn't, when Daddy just lights a cigarette instead, against the rules on the Metro but nobody's saying anything, the French guy's fingers find the gusset of my tights and he doesn't bother being gentle. Just pushes the material aside and shoves two fingers into my cunt.

Gasp. Grab the handrail.

This is what I need. The reset button. The thing that drags me out of listless nothing into this.

More hands now. Pulling at my skirt. Someone rips the tights. The sound loud in the carriage. Fabric tearing right up the back. Cold air. Multiple hands spreading me open and someone's fingers push into my arse without warning. Two fingers. Stretching.

The train doors open at the next station. People get on, see what's happening, get back off. Doors close. Train moves.

They're talking fast in French. Excited chatter I don't understand. Then one of them starts working on his belt, looking at Daddy the whole time. Checking. Daddy just smokes. Watches.

My wrists get grabbed. Someone's scarf wrapping round them. PSG colours. Soft material binding me to the handrail tight enough I can't move my arms. The first one with his belt undone pushes forward. His cock out. Hard. He's young. Nervous. Looks at Daddy one more time.

"She can take it. Can't you?"

"Yes, Daddy." My professional voice. Keeping it controlled even now.

The young one positions himself and pushes into my cunt through the torn tights in one brutal thrust. Make a sound I can't control. His mates start singing. Some PSG chant. The beat matching his thrusts, rough and fast.

Daddy moves closer. His hand in my hair. Gentle. "You alright?"

Nod. Can't speak.

"Good girl. Let them have what they need."

The young one finishes fast. Three more thrusts then pulsing. Hot cum flooding my cunt. He pulls out. Embarrassed maybe. His mates laugh. One of them shouts "Trop vite!" and they're all laughing and the next one doesn't wait.

This one's older. Confident. Spits in his palm and rubs it over his cock. Then pushes into my arse without asking. Just shoves hard and I scream at the stretch and burn and Daddy's hand tightens in my hair.

"Take it. Just breathe."

But the older one doesn't ease in. Just keeps shoving until he's fully seated. Then fucks my arse brutal. Using me. His hands gripping my hips so tight it hurts. The torn tights shredding more under his fingers. Fabric catching and rubbing with each thrust.

Treat me like I'm nothing. Make me your slut not just call me one.

Someone else pushes his cock at my face. Slaps my cheek with it. Says "Ouvre ta bouche" and I look at Daddy and he nods and I open my mouth. The guy pushes in. Hits the back of my throat. I gag but he doesn't stop. Just keeps pushing until his balls press against my chin.

Two of them using me now. One in my arse, one in my throat. The rhythm opposite. When one pulls out the other pushes deep. The train stops at République. More people looking in, backing away, the doors closing.

Drool runs down my chin. The guy in my mouth pulls out and wanks himself over my face. Hot spurts hitting my cheek, my neck, running down onto my tits that are out now. Someone pulled my top down. When did that happen? The one in my arse comes next. Buried deep. Grunting. Can feel each pulse as he empties into me.

They swap out. Two more ready. This time they coordinate better. One lies on the floor of the carriage and pulls me down onto his cock. Into my cunt. I'm still tied to the handrail so my arms are stretched above me at this painful angle. Another one positions himself behind me and pushes into my arse. That same brutal entry. No mercy. Both holes full now. Both of them moving. Using me together.

Daddy crouches next to my head. His hand stroking my hair. Almost tender. "How many's that?"

Try to count. Can't think.

"Four," he answers for himself. "Maybe five. Doesn't matter. They're not done yet."

Sob. Not from pain but from something else. Something deeper.

"You can do it. I know you can."

The two inside me speed up. Finding their rhythm. Pounding. Their balls slapping against me with each thrust. The shredded tights are soaked now. Ruined. Sticking to my thighs where they're not torn away. I'm close. Need to come.

"Daddy, please. Can I--"

"No. Not until they've all finished."

Whimper. Just taking it. The stretch and fullness and the wet sounds of them fucking me.

They both come within seconds of each other. More cum. Flooding my cunt and arse. Dripping out because there's too much. Pooling on the carriage floor. Number seven steps up. Wants my mouth. Shoves in deep. Fucks my throat hard whilst number eight takes my cunt from behind. Grabbing my hair for leverage. Can't breathe around the cock in my throat. Gagging. Spit everywhere. Mascara running. Can feel it on my cheeks.

They finish. More cum down my throat, in my cunt. The taste mixing with the cigarette smoke that Daddy's still smoking. Two left. Maybe. I've lost count.

Number nine is huge. Older guy. Greying hair. He wants my arse. Uses his mate's cum as lube. The slide more intense because I'm so raw now. So swollen. He takes his time though. Long slow strokes. Making me feel every inch. His hands spreading my arse cheeks wide so his mates can watch him entering me.

The final guy doesn't wait for his turn. Just positions himself under me and pushes into my cunt alongside number nine in my arse. Both holes full. That thin wall between them stretched tight.

Come without permission. Can't stop it. Body convulsing. Clenching around both of them. Screaming.

Daddy's hand clamps over my mouth. "Quiet. You'll bring the police."

But he's smiling. Knows I couldn't help it.

The two of them keep going. Through my orgasm. Using my spasming body. Both coming within a minute. The last loads. Filling me until I'm overflowing. Cum running down my thighs and dripping onto the floor and soaking into what's left of my tights.

They untie the scarf. My arms drop. Dead weight. Can't lift them. The train pulls into Hôtel de Ville. The PSG fans get off. A couple of them nod at Daddy on their way past. One pats his shoulder. Another says "Merci" quiet enough I barely hear it.

Then it's just us in the empty carriage. Me collapsed on the floor in the puddle of their cum. Daddy stubbing out his cigarette. He helps me up. Gentle now. Tries to fix my skirt as best he can. My top. The tights are just shreds hanging off me so he pulls them off. Wipes my face with his sleeve.

"Can you walk?"

Try. My legs shake. Give out.

He picks me up. Carries me off the Metro. Through the station. Nobody stops us. Everyone looking away. Pretending they don't see.

---

Back at the hotel. The suite he booked. Expensive. Romantic even. Champagne sitting in ice that's melted now. He lays me on the bed. Starts undressing me. Slow. Careful. Examining everything.

"Here." His finger traces a bruise on my hip. Dark purple. "And here." Another on my thigh. "They marked you good."

His hands keep moving. Finding each spot. The fingerprints on my wrists from where they held me. The red marks on my throat from the ones who fucked my mouth too deep. The tenderness between my legs when he touches there.

He runs a bath. Carries me to it. The water too hot at first then perfect. Gets in behind me. His chest against my back. His arms around me. Just holds me.

Long time passes. The water cooling. Neither of us speaking.

He says, "You did so well. Ten of them. My perfect girl."

Can't respond. Too wrecked. His hands move in the water. Gentle. Washing me. The soap stinging where I'm raw but he's careful. Taking his time. Getting every trace of them off my skin.

He lifts me out. Dries me with the hotel towels. Still careful. Patting rather than rubbing. Carries me back to bed. Lies next to me. Watching my face.

"You know I'd never let anything actually happen to you."

Do know. Have always known.

His hand finds mine. Threads our fingers together.

"The tribunal's in three weeks. You'll have the bruises faded by then. But you'll remember this. When you're standing there arguing employment law in your good suit. You'll remember what you let me do to you on the Paris Metro."

Will remember. Know I will.

He pulls me closer. My head on his chest. His heartbeat steady against my ear.

Fall asleep like that. Safe. Despite everything. Because of everything.

His.