Train 887. Change 2
Copyright© 2026 by Virael de la Fer
Chapter 1
Drama Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Mika thought the nightmare was over when she woke up. She was wrong. What begins as another ordinary morning quickly becomes something far darker. The train, the university, even the women-only car — nowhere is safe anymore. Someone is watching. Someone is waiting. And with every passing hour, the girl she used to be slips further away. How much more can she lose before she stops fighting?
Caution: This Drama Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Teenagers Coercion Rape Heterosexual Fiction School Humiliation Rough Gang Bang Group Sex Cream Pie Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Public Sex Teacher/Student
Day 2. Tuesday. Morning.
I stand in the subway car, right by the doors, gripping the cold handrail tightly. The train races along, rocking on the rail joints. The crowd around me is dense, suffocating, smelling of sweat, wet clothes, and strangers’ cologne. At first everything is normal—just cramped. But then the air seems to thicken.
The men around me start moving at the same time. There are six of them. They pin me against the metal door of the car with their backs, not letting me even twitch. Hot, rough hands are everywhere at once. Two pairs lock my wrists above my head, pressing them against the handrail so hard my fingers go numb. Someone behind me yanks my skirt up to my waist; another rips my panties off in one sharp motion—the fabric tears loudly, and I’m left naked from the waist down. Only white knee-high socks and sneakers. My blouse is unbuttoned all the way, my breasts spilling out, nipples instantly hardening from the cold air in the car.
“No! Let me go! Please, don’t!” I scream, but my voice comes out weak, drowned by the roar of the train. None of the other passengers react—they just stand there watching, some of them smirking.
One of them presses against me. Dark, hungry eyes. He hooks my left leg under the knee, lifts it high and wide to the side, pinning it against the door. I’m balancing on one leg, completely exposed, helpless. A hard, hot cock presses against my open slit. He spreads my lips and thrusts in—sharp, all the way to the hilt, without a single word. I cry out from the sudden pain and fullness.
The man starts fucking me—hard, deep, slamming my whole body against the cold metal. Every thrust jolts up my spine, his balls slapping against my wet ass.
From the side another man leans in and roughly grabs my breast, sucking the nipple, biting it with his teeth. A third stands behind me—two fingers without any prep spread my ass cheeks and plunge into my anus, moving in the same rhythm as the first rapist’s cock. A fourth forces my right hand around his cock and makes me jerk him off—the skin hot, throbbing. A fifth simply clips electrodes to my nipples and sends a light current through them. I’m crying, writhing, but my body betrays me—inside I’m soaking wet, clenching around the cock, juices running down my thigh.
Suddenly the man changes, and now it’s ... Takashi. The very same guy from the parallel group—tall, with a soft smile, the one who always greets me between classes and once helped carry my heavy bag.
“Takashi ... no ... you’re ... good...” I sob, but he just smiles and speeds up, whispering against my lips: “I like you, Mika ... that’s why I took you first ... look how wet you are for me...”
They don’t stop. A few minutes later they rip me away from the door and drag me to an empty seat in the corner of the car. Takashi sits first, pulls me onto his lap facing him—his cock slides back inside me completely. Another man climbs onto the seat on his knees and roughly shoves his cock into my mouth—deep, to the throat. I choke, tears streaming, but he holds my hair and fucks my mouth in the same rhythm as Takashi. From behind the third one enters my ass again—this time with his cock, stretching me to the limit. The fourth and fifth stand on the sides, making my hands jerk them off while they pinch my nipples and rub my clit.
I’m completely filled. Three men are fucking me at the same time, while the other two use my hands. The car rocks, people watch, but no one interferes. Takashi grips my hips, lifting and slamming me down onto him, his cock pounding straight into my womb. I moan around the cock in my mouth, tears mixing with saliva. My body trembles, an orgasm approaching—huge, shameful, inevitable.
Takashi leans closer, his lips reaching for mine—he wants to kiss me. His handsome face is right in front of me, eyes warm...
And at that moment the face changes again.
The eyes become small and vicious. The jaw thickens, a double chin appears, skin covered in sweat. It’s no longer Takashi. It’s a fat, ugly man with a sweaty face, sparse mustache, and rotten breath. He sticks out a long, wet tongue and reaches for me to kiss—rough, greedy.
Horror pierces me through and through.
“NOOOOO!!!”
I wake up screaming, the sound stuck in my throat.
My heart is hammering like it’s about to burst. I sit up in bed, shaking all over. My nightgown is bunched up to my neck. My panties are soaked through, stuck to my skin, my pussy throbbing and aching between my legs. The sheet under me is wet. The nightmare felt so real I can still feel them fucking me in threes, Takashi looking into my eyes, then his face turning into that ugly...
Tears pour down my cheeks in hot streams. I stare at the ceiling, breathing hard, and I know my body is already demanding more. Between my legs everything pulses, my clit swollen and aching, panties drenched, the sheet under my ass cold and damp. The nightmare still stands before my eyes—bright, vivid, sticky. Takashi inside me, other men holding me, touching me, using me ... and then that horrible face.
I curl into a fetal position, pulling my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around myself.
“No ... enough ... it was just a dream ... I won’t...” I whisper into the pillow, squeezing my thighs so hard the muscles tremble. I try to think of something else—lectures, Mom, breakfast. But the heat between my legs doesn’t fade. It only grows stronger. Every breath sends a throb through my clit, juices running down the inside of my thigh, nipples rubbing against the nightgown and hardening. My body betrays me again. It wants. It demands.
I lie like that for five minutes, trembling, trying to choke the feeling down. But it only swells.
I can’t hold it anymore. My hands slide down by themselves, yanking the soaked panties to my knees in one sharp motion—I’ve never done this in bed before, always only in the shower, quick and ashamed. Now ... my fingers shake as I spread my legs right on my own bed.
I touch myself. My clit is hot, slippery, swollen. Two fingers slide along my lips, spread them, slip inside—easily, because I’m already drenched from the nightmare. I start moving—slow at first, then faster. And the whole scene instantly floods my head.
I’m back in the car. They pin me to the door. Takashi lifts my left leg high, thrusts into me sharp and deep. His cock is thick, hot, filling me completely. Behind me another man enters my ass—stretching, moving in the same rhythm. A third cock is shoved into my mouth—rough, to the throat. My hands jerk the rest. Takashi looks me in the eyes and whispers: “I like you, Mika ... that’s why I’m fucking you first...” I moan, cry, but my body clenches around him.
They fuck me in three holes at once, hard, without pause. I imagine them cumming—taking turns. Inside me, on my face, on my breasts, in my ass.
My fingers speed up in reality. Two inside, thumb furiously rubbing my clit in circles. I imagine all six of them using me—passing me from cock to cock, filling me with cum, Takashi cumming inside me first, then his face changing and the fat man finishing what he started.
The orgasm hits me suddenly—powerful and deep, my body arching like a bow over the bed. My back lifts off the mattress, legs cramp, fingers inside clench rhythmically. I bite my lip until it bleeds so I don’t moan loud enough for the whole house—my parents are still home, I hear Mom clinking dishes in the kitchen, Dad coughing in the hallway. A quiet, strangled sound still escapes through my teeth: “Nnnnhhh...” Wave after wave rolls through me—inside everything pulses, juices squirting onto my fingers, the sheet, my thighs. I cum long, hard, almost painfully—body shaking like a seizure.
When it’s over I collapse back onto the bed—limp, wet, trembling. Tears flow again. I lie on my back, arms spread, and cry quietly. The sheet under me is completely ruined. My panties are tangled at my knees. Between my legs everything still pulses.
““I ... I just masturbated in my bed, imagining being raped—imagining Takashi fucking me, then turning into that monster ... And I came so hard I almost screamed. My parents are right there ... and I ... I’m so dirty...”
The alarm finally beeps—exactly 6:30.
But I just keep lying there, tears still flowing, and one heavy thought pounds in my head:
Today is Tuesday. They said “we’ll continue tomorrow.” And I already broke ... before I even left the house.
Tears still streaming, I hear the front door slam. Mom and Dad have left. The apartment is empty. The silence becomes deafening.
I get up. My legs don’t obey—rubbery, shaking, as if I really had just been standing in that car. I walk to the bathroom, holding onto the wall like I’m drunk. I turn on the shower. Hot water crashes down on me, but it washes nothing away.
I stand under the streams replaying everything that happened in the last twenty minutes. The nightmare. Takashi—who I always liked—his warm eyes, soft smile. How he entered me, whispering “I like you,” how three men fucked me at once, how they dragged me to the seat and used me like a complete whore. And then ... his face turned ugly. And I came from it. In my own bed. Loud. Dirty.
“What’s happening to me? ... I was always normal. In the morning in the shower—a quiet, quick orgasm, that was it. That was my little secret. And now ... now I’m masturbating to gang rape. I came from being stretched, filled, forced. From Takashi—the good Takashi—fucking me against my will. Did I ... want it? No. No! I hate myself. I’m disgusting. I’m no longer the Mika who just rode the train yesterday. I broke. In one day. In one evening. And the scariest part ... it’s not enough.”
The arousal hasn’t gone. It’s only grown stronger. My clit pulses, inside everything aches and drips. My fingers slide down by themselves—I rub myself furiously, shove in three fingers, then four. But it’s not enough. I want deeper. Rougher. Like in the nightmare. Like when they tore me open.
I look at the shelf. Dad’s shaving foam can. Thick. Cold. Metal. My hand reaches by itself.
“I’m going crazy ... I can’t ... this isn’t me anymore...” I whisper, but I’m already sitting on the edge of the tub, spreading my legs and pressing the cold nozzle against my entrance. It goes in heavily—stretching me wider than any cock from the dream. Cold metal slides inside, pressing against the walls, filling me completely. I start moving it—slowly at first, then harder, faster, slamming it to the deepest point. With my other hand I furiously rub my clit. In my head the car again: Takashi enters first, other men hold me, fuck my mouth, my ass, everywhere. I cry and moan at the same time.
The orgasm strikes like lightning. My body arches, back slamming against the tiles, legs cramping. I cum so hard a strangled scream tears out of me. Inside everything clenches around the can, juices squirting, mixing with the water. I hold it deep, not pulling it out, and tremble.
And then ... hysteria hits.
I slide down to the shower floor, sit, pull my knees to my chest. The can is still inside—cold, heavy, stretching me to the point of pain. I can’t pull it out. I just sit under the noise of the water and cry. Real, loud, tearing sobs. My body shakes with convulsions—I hug myself, but the crying doesn’t stop.
“I ... I fucked myself with a shaving foam can ... in the shower ... in my own apartment ... right after my parents left for work. I came from it. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted it to be like the nightmare. I can’t stop anymore. I hate myself. I hate my body. I hate that I like being used. Takashi ... if he knew I came imagining him raping me ... I’m dirty. I’m no longer human. I’m just ... a hole. And tomorrow on the train it’ll be worse. They said ‘we’ll continue.’ And I ... I already broke myself. Without them. I’m scared. I’m so scared that tomorrow I won’t even want to resist. That I’ll want them to do even worse. That I’ll never be the old Mika again.”
Water pours over me, washing away the tears, but not the shame. The can is still deep inside—cold, alien, reminding me of every thrust. I sit on the floor and sob under the shower noise because only under that noise can I really cry. No one will hear. No one will help. I no longer know who I am.
I turn off the water. My hands shake so badly I can barely close the tap. The can is still inside—cold, heavy, alien. Slowly, with painful effort, I pull it out and put it back on the shelf as if nothing happened. Water washes away the last traces, but inside me everything still pulses with emptiness and shame.
I step out of the shower. My skin is red from the hot water and from how hard I rubbed myself. On wobbly legs I walk to my room. The floor is cold under my bare feet. I don’t look down—I’m afraid to see what my bed has become.
First—the bed. I make it carefully, almost ritually. I pull the sheet tight, smooth the folds with my palms. The huge wet spot in the center—dark, treacherous—I see it from the corner of my eye but deliberately ignore it. I just smooth over it as if not looking means it never existed. “It wasn’t me. It’s just sweat. Just water from the shower. I’m normal. I’m still normal.”
I get dressed. First—plain white panties. The same ones as yesterday. The same ones that will be tomorrow. I have a whole pack of them—identical, cotton, no lace, no patterns. Like everyone else’s. Safe. I pull them on slowly, feeling the fabric stick to my still-wet skin. Then—a dark knee-length skirt. Not the short school one, but the other one Mom once bought “for growth.” It sits looser, fully covering my thighs. I tug it down, adjust it. Today I won’t look like “easy prey.” Today I’ll be ordinary. Invisible.
Bra. White, plain. Blouse—light, but not the university uniform, just a regular one I sometimes wear. I button every button one by one, as if building a wall between myself and the world.
I brush my hair. I don’t make two pigtails—just let it down to look older. I look in the mirror by the door.
An ordinary, unremarkable skinny girl. Thin shoulders, pale skin, big eyes—slightly frightened, but I force my gaze to harden. “It’s just a day. Just Tuesday. Nothing happened. I was just tired yesterday. Today everything will be fine. The skirt is long. I won’t stand by the door; I’ll stay in the middle. Everything will be fine”
I grab my backpack—heavy, with textbooks. Turn off the light. Lock the door. In the stairwell it smells of yesterday’s rain and the neighbor’s coffee. I go down the stairs, pressing the skirt with my hands even though it’s already long.
At the station—crowd. I check the board: the women-only car is four trains away. Four. That’s almost half an hour of waiting. I can’t. I’ll be late for first period. The supervisor will notice. My parents will find out. No.
A regular train arrives. Doors open. The car is packed to the brim. People pile in, pushing. I stand on the platform for a second, heart hammering in my throat. “Don’t ... wait for the next one...” a voice whispers inside. But my legs take a step forward and I enter the crowded car.
The doors hiss shut behind my back. The crowd immediately presses me from all sides. Smell of sweat, wet clothes, alien bodies. I try to hold the handrail high, but my hands shake. The knee-length skirt suddenly feels too thin a shield. Inside me that same treacherous heat rises again—after everything that happened this morning in the shower.
“I’m normal. I’m ordinary. Nothing will happen. Just crowding. Just morning.”
But I already feel—someone behind me is pressing closer than necessary.
And I know: they’re here. They’re waiting.
The car doors close behind my back with a cold, merciless hiss, and the world shrinks to the size of a tight metal box. The crowd piles in after me, pressing me against the window like a wall. I feel alien bodies crushing me from all sides—shoulders, hips, backs. The smell of sweat, wet clothes, coffee and cigarette smoke from someone’s coat hits my nose. I try to hold the handrail high so I don’t fall on the next jolt, and repeat to myself like a spell: “Today everything will be different. Long skirt. I’m not yesterday’s Mika. I’m ordinary, invisible, protected. I won’t allow it. I won’t allow it. I won’t allow it.”
But hands find me almost instantly. As if they’d been waiting for me since morning.
First a palm—heavy, hot—lands on my ass over the skirt. I flinch, squeezing my thighs so hard the muscles ache. “No ... please ... not today ... I did everything right...” A second hand comes from the side, under the skirt, fingers crawling slowly, confidently up the inside of my thigh, as if they have every right. They push aside the edge of my panties, touch my clit and start rubbing—circular, insistent movements. Exactly like I did this morning in bed. Exactly like with the can in the shower.
My body betrays me instantly. After everything at home—after two orgasms from my own fingers, after I fucked myself with cold metal—I’m too sensitive. My clit swells in seconds, becomes hot and throbbing. Juices appear treacherously fast, flowing onto the man’s fingers, soaking my panties. I feel it running down the inside of my thigh, hot and shameful.
“Why ... why am I wet again?” my mind screams inside. “I hate this! I cried in the shower, I hated myself, I wanted to die from shame ... but my body ... my body is dripping again. It wants. It demands. I’m disgusting. I’m no longer human. I’m just a hole that drips from one touch. I broke this morning. I can’t stop anymore. I hate myself. I want to disappear.”
The fingers spread me wider. A cold, smooth egg-shaped vibrator presses against my entrance and slides in easily—I’m too wet, too ready. Click. Low buzzing starts inside, right on the most sensitive spot. Every jolt of the train amplifies it, sending vibration through my whole body—from my belly to my fingertips. I press my forehead to the cold window glass so I don’t fall. My legs shake, knees buckle. The first orgasm hits me in a minute—quiet, convulsive, shameful. Inside everything clenches around the vibrator in rhythmic spasms, juices flowing in a hot trickle down my thighs, soaking the hem of my skirt. I cum standing, in a packed car, and feel my body arch on its own, my breathing break, tears already running down my cheeks.
“I came ... again. From someone else’s vibrator. In the car. It’s my own fault. I could have screamed, could have broken free, hit them, but I stand here cumming. Because my body wants. Because this morning I already broke myself. I can’t resist anymore. My mind screams ‘no,’ but my body ... my body is enjoying it. I hate this body. I hate myself. But ... god ... it feels so good ... No! No! I shouldn’t think like that!”
One of the men pulls his fingers out. They glisten in front of my face—wet, sticky, covered in my juices. He brings them to my lips, slowly smears them across, as if he wants me to smell and taste myself.
“See?” they seem to say. “You’re already dripping. Look how wet you are. And this morning you told yourself today would be different. You lied to yourself. You’re already ours. Your body is already ours.”
Tears run down my cheeks in hot tracks. I shake my head but stay silent. My voice is gone. Fear strangles my throat.
The second hand takes my free palm and places it directly on a hot, throbbing cock—already pulled out of the pants, thick, heavy, slippery with precum. It’s alive under my fingers. The man squeezes my wrist and starts moving my hand up and down.
And I ... keep going by myself.
Tears flow harder, but my fingers move—fast, obedient, under the hem of his jacket. “This is better...” I repeat to myself like a prayer, trying to drown out the scream in my mind. “Less noticeable. If I do what they want, they’ll finish faster. No one will see. No one will hear. I’ll just survive. I have to survive. If I resist—it’ll be worse. I already broke this morning. I already came from the can. This is better. Safer. I’m just ... helping them. So it ends quicker. I’m not a whore. I’m just surviving. I’m not like that. I’m not like that. I’m not like that...”
The vibrator suddenly switches to full power. The second orgasm hits me like lightning—stronger, deeper. My body arches, I press my forehead into the glass, legs cramping. Inside everything pulses, juices running down my thigh straight onto the hem of my skirt. I cum again, quietly sobbing, feeling every spasm echo in my chest, in my head, in my soul.
“I’m cumming ... from being used. From jerking a stranger’s cock myself. My mind screams ‘stop,’ but my body ... my body trembles with pleasure. I hate my body. I hate myself. But I ... like it. No. No! I don’t want to like it! I want to die from shame. I can’t pretend to be normal anymore. I’m already ... theirs. And the scariest part—part of me no longer wants to resist. Part of me already wants this to continue...”