“You give such better head than a boy,” Rebecca cooed, somewhere above Dora's head.
“Yeah,” said Britt, whose delicate hand held Dora’s face firmly against her roommate’s c*nt. Her voice burbled with arousal and repressed laughter. “You munch carpet like a real dyke.”
Unfortunately, Dora found this very affirming. She knew they were just gassing her up because they knew they could get sex from her whenever they wanted—she’d skipped night classes before just to hang out between their legs—but she wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t getting something out of it too. Right?
She knew these girls weren’t her friends before they ever got at the vodka. She knew they didn’t take her seriously. They made her up like a dolly, dressed her in their tightest sorority girl f*ck-me skirts, shaved her legs for her and teased her when it made her hard. She didn’t think she liked being mocked like that, but it just made her harder, so maybe she was wrong.
But it still caught her by surprise how venomous they could get on nights they were pregaming with intent, systematically getting the alcohol into their blood and the org*sms out of their systems so they could fully commit to their little mind games and pursue rich boys with the long term in mind. Dora almost felt sorry for those guys, but if the cis women at this school tortured her sexually, the cis men just plain tortured her, and she knew which she preferred.
In the past they'd made more of these little jabs, right up to sneering her deadname—“You like that, Theo?”—like they found it just as distasteful as she did. She’d at least had the dignity to leave for the night the one time they’d tried that, and they hadn’t done it a second time. It wasn’t anything she didn’t already know, not really, but it still hurt to hear them treat it like her real, secret identity.
But Halloween was on another level. Blood was running hot, and the outfits were at peak cuteness. God, she was such a stereotype, the way she drooled over their high socks and garters. Rebecca wore a sexy yet uncreative witch costume, while Britt was going as the erotic version of a… construction worker, she guessed? in a hard hat and big belt and a high-viz vest with nothing underneath. Dora was allowed to look and lick, but not really touch, although she could savor the feeling of the braless little titt*es smushed against her back while Britt held her down. Later on, some beer-breathed lacrosse lunk would have his hand under there pawing at those titt*es, but—and this was what satisfied Dora—he’d never hear what her real org*sm sounded like.
One day, all these evil legacy straights would intermarry and keep their money in the family, but at least they would be haunted by how mid the sex was.
She doubled down, straining the muscles in her tongue to bring off tiny blonde Rebecca in her cheapo fake Goth gear (a squeaky grunt, a pleased sigh, and the painful pulling at her hair finally easing off.) She licked the puss* juice off her lips and was released to take a few unobstructed breaths before she was expected to start in on Britt.
*
After, they made her film the two of them doing a dance and a demon ritual for a sexy/spooky TikTok. She had to admit they didn’t do anything by half-measures: they had the mood lighting, a genuinely antique tome smuggled out of the rare books collection, and Rebecca was a Classics major so her Latin was surprisingly excellent. Dora couldn’t follow what she was saying except for picking out words here and there—“corpus,” "poena," “extasis,” and so on—as she zoomed and circled them for cinematic effect, feeling like a pervert, yet also an artiste.
It felt like a powerful earthquake, what happened next. They all toppled to the ground, and the electricity flickered out, and something else started to glow that at first Dora feared was a fire. Her mind flickered through different emergency scenarios—should they evacuate, or brace themselves in a door frame?
What materialized instead inspired a similar feeling of dread, but with no clear course of action it just stayed, pounding through her veins till her whole body was cold.
Standing in the Little Ivy off-campus housing, like a queen among slums, was a... Woman should have been the closest word, but it fell woefully short.
She was magnificent. Taller than seemed possible. You couldn’t look at her all at once, she was bigger somehow than your field of vision. Her body was made of ice, or of light. A blue radiance seemed to resonate from her core. She was gloriously nude, with massive breasts her muscular body seemed to support with ease. She also—Dora’s heart skipped a beat—had a fat co*ck hanging proudly between her legs. She eyed the three girls like a huntress. Like a big cat.
This was a mistake, realized Dora with the sudden calm and focus of a prey animal on the brink of destruction.
The cis girls tried to speak. Did they understand anything? They stuttered, at least: “We, uh, humbly request of you—”
That would be a first, thought Dora, and the Goddess flicked her gaze over at her for a bloodcurdling instant, as though she’d heard.
“And what do you have to offer me?” she interrupted Rebecca, in a voice like a clocktower. Rebecca offered up a vague croak. Britt giggled nervously, tucked her hair behind her ear, looking up with baby eyes. Did she realize what she was doing? Or was this just her instinct whenever she wanted something?
“Nothing at all,” concluded the Goddess, “as I suspected.”
She turned her back on Dora, who felt like a shadow had passed over the sun. She relaxed a fraction, but stayed transfixed as the apparition advanced on the frail, drink-clumsy girls before her.
“Then you’ll have to entertain me yourselves.” She made a sharp, abortive gesture at them, ripping something immaterial away.
There was no other way to describe it: the light dropped out of their eyes. Britt and Rebecca turned to one another, slowly, locked eyes and performed a sort of circling dance that seemed to last forever. Suddenly, they both attacked like animals. They grappled with one another, snarling and scratching, pulling hair and ripping at each other’s clothing till they were half-naked, then toppled to the ground and started grinding like they were trying to enter each other’s body through the skin. They kissed like dolls being smashed together, teeth denting cheeks, lips bruising.
Dora leapt back, completely shocked, totally disturbed, yet still feeling a numb calmness. She watched as her tormentors debased each other, and the only feeling able to reach her body was her resurgent sexual hunger. She couldn't look away.
Britt, who was on the field hockey team, quickly gained the advantage. She straddled Rebecca’s chest and face, humping furiously till she found friction against her chin, grunting like an ape. Her own drool hung in a string until it caught onto her exposed breast. Rebecca screamed and snarled when her bare hip scraped against the rough carpet, and dug her pretty white teeth into her friend's thigh like she was trying to tear a chunk out. Britt shoved her head away, pushing her face against the floor just as she’d done to Dora a few minutes before—but instead of just holding her in place, she straddled her whole head, earnestly trying to smother her, and when that failed she reared back and began to piss in her face, violently. Rebecca screeched and kicked her feet, pelvis thrusting impotently into the air.
That was when Dora snapped out of it, grabbed her shoes, and ran.
*
She got herself off campus, the way she always did when she tried to leave her problems behind, and managed to throw herself into the last car on the light rail at the last possible second. She doubled over, supporting herself on the pole as she caught her breath. Only then did she finally feel safe enough to lean over and pull her sneakers on over her muddy socks.
The car was already half-full, thankfully of drunk people on the way to parties, who paused their conversations only momentarily, and ignored her again once the shoes were on. Nobody seemed to care, so she relaxed microscopically.
She was still wearing Britt’s camisole and miniskirt and not much else, shivering from the evening rain, feeling ridiculous in a plastic mall goth choker and an off-brand thong that she could feel her package spilling out of. Whatever styling her hair had undergone, it was now as lank and limp as if she had just stepped out of the shower. Even in an otherwordly situation like this, she considered how she looked to others: in crisis? Or maybe just caught up in the Halloween spirit. Either way, she was not prepared to interact with the public.
Her mind was racing. She had to keep reminding herself she was sober. What had happened to Britt and Rebecca? Would they go back to normal? Would they even survive? Was this real, or was this the most vivid, wettest nightmare she’d ever experienced?
Her back grew warm, like she was sitting too close to a campfire. For a moment she feared it was blood, that she’d been struck while fleeing, but when she craned her neck to see, the truth was more distressing: the Goddess stood right behind her, as though She were just on the way home from the office. She waited for Dora to really take Her in, Her nudity and iridescence, before stepping in even closer.
Dora turned away and tried to brace herself, but when a heavy hand settled suddenly on her hip, she almost screamed. It was hot, near burning. The hand began to slide down her thigh. She tried to lurch away, but another arm, lithe and irresistible, twined around her waist, pulling her roughly back against the massive, sweltering body and trapping her firmly in place. God, Her body was too strong to be resisted. She waited for someone to see, but she got only a perturbed glance from a guy in a suit, who quickly looked away. Could nobody perceive the creature wrapped around her? Did they only see a pale, wild-eyed wet little rat of a transvestite with a beyond-anxious hunch? She must look deranged. Beyond help.
Desperate for an anchor, she gripped the bar above her head with one hand, and grappled hopelessly against the goddess’ iron arms. It was like laying her palm on a just-hot stove. She was sweating so much she could feel it running down her back, clinging to her clothes, pasting her hair to her face.
Then, by Dora’s count, a third hand draped, delicately, across her throat.
She froze. Then she shuddered, her full body did, at the primal impossibility of it.
She felt tears of dread trembling on her eyelashes, but she wasn’t throttled as she’d instinctively feared. Instead, two full, fever-warm fingers slid between her lips, obstructed her chattering teeth, and began to slowly, gently almost, f*ck her mouth. She gagged softly to the Goddess’ rhythm, not quite loud enough to be heard over the clatter of the rails, the murmuring and coughing of the other passengers. If she appeared alone, her mouth must just be hanging open, quietly gulping. Her stance would be of someone who was too tired or intoxicated to stand, or was fighting the need to piss.
Something pushed against the small of her back, fat and heavy, something with a pulse so strong it seemed to have a heartbeat all its own. At first she thought it was another arm. But the Goddess rolled Her hips, and Dora knew—it was the co*ck. She shuddered again, wracked with apprehension. She had never encountered an organ of such size, trans cis or otherwise. It seemed impossible that the thing could get bigger, but based on what she’d seen before, the Goddess was indeed a grower.
She couldn’t prevent a groan of terror, but the Goddess plugged her throat with Her fingers and shushed in her ear, “Quiet, darling girl.” Her voice was sonorous, a full choir, a single predatory animal. “I’m here to give you what you need. Neglected by those frivolous little slu*ts, you poor thing.”
The lowest of the Goddess’ three hands slid up her thigh, up beneath her flimsy skirt, and fondled her in a firm, proprietary fashion, like a farmer examining livestock. Then Her fingers focused on Dora’s asshole, prodding and teasing it. Her genitals were treated an afterthought, worked up to wet hardness then abandoned, again and again, until Dora was so hard it hurt.
“I enjoyed their energies," She continued, "their lust and rage, but yours is…” and She drew the word out, savoring it: “Exceptional.”
Dora was used to being exceptional; it was a double-edged sword. Always had been.
She didn’t know what she feared more right now—rape, torture, or dying, exposed and debased, on the dirty subway floor, in front of a dozen disdainful strangers. But she was breathing so fast she thought she might faint.
Maybe nobody else could see the celestial being looming over her, but the boner tenting the too-small skirt would be obvious if she hadn’t already hunched her shoulders and shuffled around to face the corner, shielding her front as best she could.
“You have so much passion in you,” the Goddess crooned, and reached around to tease her co*ck once more. “So much to give.” And she twisted her wrist like she was snapping a ripe apple off of a branch.
Dora came voicelessly, but with an enormous gasp, and she felt her knees bruise when they gave out and hit the floor.
*
She staggered off the train at the first opportunity. The Goddess had vanished, but as she walked she began to realize she was no longer in control of her own movements. She wanted to go out onto the semi-busy street, but she wasn’t able to approach the exit. She felt like a little girl standing on a parent’s feet as they danced, the way her steps were taken for her as the Goddess— inside her skin —walked her into the ladies’ room.
Instinctively, absurdly, since passing was the least of her problems right now, she glanced in the mirror to check for stubble. She was taken aback by her reflection, the way she was standing to her full height, shoulders proudly back. Bedraggled as she was, she looked… kind of good.
Without even latching the bathroom door, the Goddess made Dora’s puppet body begin to undress, until she was completely naked except for her battered pink Reeboks and her ruined, frilly socks. Goosebumps raced across her whole body, the anxiety of being caught momentarily greater than her mortal fear.
Stop , she begged, every reflex screaming to cover herself, but it was as though the connection between her mind and her body had been severed. No, hijacked. She stood on a toilet with the stall door hanging wide open so she could see herself in the mirror, exposed, harder than she’d been since starting HRT. She stared at herself, had to—couldn’t close her eyes now, or even look away. She crouched and spread her legs and reached beneath her, started fingering her own asshole. She felt everything, the burn of her muscles as she contorted and arched, the stretch of her hole as it was bullied open. It looked obscene beyond words.
“Mmmmm,” her own mouth said, salaciously, like she’d never heard anyone say outside of p*rno. She bit her lip seductively, bucked her hips to make her co*ck throb, gave f*ck-me eyes to the mirror. “I can tell you’ve never come from just your c*nt. Don’t you think that would make you a perfect girl, Miss Dora?”
Normally she would object, would point out that even cis women usually needed external stimulation to reach org*sm, that that was a reductive and essentialist take—but also she almost came on the spot. How this superhuman being was so keyed into human fetishes, she didn’t know. With another burst of arousal and shame, she supposed it could all be coming from her own deep-down thoughts.
She had two fingers in her own asshole now. She moaned, bouncing on her hand, fondling her own chest, pinching her nipples so hard tears slipped down her blotchy face. Her mascara was ruined. She looked desperate and sex-drunk.
This time, the Goddess vanished utterly just when she was on the brink of org*sm, so that when Dora strained with the effort of f*cking herself to completion, she could be sure it was her own doing.
She pumped three more times before she came again and collapsed to the sticky tile, banging her elbow on the toilet tank on the way down. The sensation of the floor against her bare asscheek made her shiver. Before the tremors even subsided, before the echoes of her cries even faded, she dragged herself upright and slammed the stall door shut. Sniffling, she struggled back into her clothes. She felt so good it hurt, or hurt so bad it felt good.
She waited. But the Goddess was gone.
*
Dora hadn’t stepped inside a Catholic church since the day she came out, but she was familiar with the one on the corner by this particular train stop. It still held a strange comfort to her, the quiet and the high ceilings, the low light and the smell of incense. She went inside and there were frowning old people there but nobody stopped her, and she dropped to her knees at the altar just when she feared they would give out again. She clasped her hands hard, trying to get the shaking under control. She bowed her head and started whispering a shaky Hail Mary, something she also hadn’t done in years. It came back with ease, so she did it again, rocking slightly to soothe herself. And again.
The place was so warm and tranquil that this time it took a moment to notice the heat at her back.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head minutely, feeling hot tears dropping on her bare thighs.
“Shh, don’t fret,” the Goddess murmured in her ear, Her voice so husky it seemed to vibrate through her very bones. She braced Her strong, invisible arms on either side of Dora, boxing her in, pressing Her heavy breasts against her back; so much stronger than the skinny underclassmen Dora had allowed to hold her down before. She started to play with Dora's hole again, this time ignoring her co*ck completely, letting it fill up, aching and straining, on its own.
She teased her for a long time, letting Dora twitch and quiver while she pretended to be deep in prayer, until her tears were no longer of humiliation but of denial. Then She whispered, "I'll take you now."
Powerful hands gripped her hips and lifted them with ease, posing her like a lewd doll with her back arched and her ass up. Dora heard the parishioners gasp, hid her eyes and waited for her skirt to flip up, the way the college girls loved to do to her, but the Goddess didn’t even bother: she moved with intent, yanking Dora’s panties down and letting them fall to the floor around her knees.
She felt something press against her asshole as the sultry voice by her ear crooned, "You know, I don't prefer you to those girls just because this is my favorite hole to conquer—although it is. And it isn't because you worked harder to become yourself, although you did." She licked Dora's ear with a long, muscular tongue, coaxing out a low, despairing whine. "It's because you will go to incredible lengths to satisfy your own pleasure." She bit down so hard Dora sobbed. "I admire that."
And She pushed.
It was thicker than anything Dora had ever taken, and felt endlessly long as it filled and filled her, but she had no choice but to push back and let it. She was pushed steadily downward until she was prone and pinned down on the church carpet, and she was already beyond words when the rape began in earnest.
She was suffused, glowing, unbearably hot but still bearing it, blazing like a beacon.
Soon, she would scream and org*sm violently for almost a full minute. The horror of the pious around her would do nothing but prolong the wild, wicked feeling, so that by the time she collapsed near-unconscious she was giggling to herself uncontrollably. She would writhe on the carpet, with no option left but to luxuriate in her degradation, hear them shouting, hear someone call for help, and embrace herself, and laugh.
*
In yet another dark miracle, Dora left the church not in handcuffs but on a stretcher. She would be discharged by an overwhelmed clinic before Halloween night even ended, and she would step outside onto the cool quiet sidewalk possessed of a strange new confidence.
She was not a sacrifice like her little frenemies from school, but a tested and worthy vessel, a mortal witness who had felt the ecstasy of divinity. She felt the Goddess watching her, and she felt the glow of worship rekindle inside her after years of dormancy. She was ready to be touched again, eager, and unshakably faithful it would happen. A true believer.
