Prologue

I felt nothing anymore.

I didn’t want to run. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to fight. All of that had died inside me long ago. Only emptiness remained — and this endless, throbbing horror in my head.

Another day. Another rape. Another complete stranger lifts my legs and spreads them wide to shove his cock inside me.

I lie on the train seat — my blouse torn to shreds, hanging in rags, bra and panties long ripped off by someone earlier and either left on the floor or taken as trophies. The car is half-empty — just a few people at the far end, one scrolling on his phone, another staring out the window. No one interferes. No one even turns around.

His cock presses against my slit — hot, hard. One thrust — and he slams in all the way, sharp and deep. Fast, brutal strokes. I turn my face toward the seatback. I don’t care who he is, what he’s wearing, what he looks like. Just another rapist using me. Or maybe one of the previous ones — their faces have long blurred into one.

His pace quickens. The station is coming up soon, and he probably needs to get off — so the rhythm turns frantic, savage. Every thrust echoes inside me, and here it comes again — that damned betrayal of my body. I feel myself getting wetter, my walls clenching around him on their own, gripping tighter, as if inviting him deeper. My clit swells from the friction, throbbing in time with his movements, my stomach muscles contracting in waves — my body responds with such eagerness, as if he were a beloved lover, as if I’d been waiting for this. Heat spreads through my lower belly, my breathing stutters, my thighs tremble not only from pain.