My name is Fucktoy Evans AnalSlut. Yes, that’s my real name. Yes, I hate my Succubus mom for giving it to me, and it’s still not the shittiest gift I got from her. I don’t have her fiery red eyes, horns and tail, or her power to manipulate men at will. All I have is regular brown hair, regular brown eyes, a useless pair of ridiculously huge tits, and an aura that gives men the uncontrollable urge to rape me.
What did I get from my typical human dad? Braces and glasses. I’m just blessed, aren’t I?
If you have a Y-chromosome and get a single glance at me, you will push your own mother out of the way while fumbling to get your cock out of your pants. It doesn’t matter how much I beg you to stop; the spell will only break after you ejaculate the biggest load of your life inside one of my holes. That’s why I don’t beg anymore or scream or cry. I just let it happen; attracting attention only makes it worse. The last thing I want is an endless loop of gangbanging cops calling for backup.
You might be thinking the classic macho bullshit that, with the way I dress, I’m 'kind of asking for it', right? Wrong. I’m not asking for it; I’m unwillingly demanding it. Even in a hijab, men would hold me down and rip my clothes off. That’s just how this half-succubus thing works; I don’t make the rules. Going commando under an itsy-bitsy skirt makes me look like a slut, but it saves me from needing to replace my torn panties every half-hour.
So why the thin, see-through, braless, white shirt? Same thing. Plus, the closest I am to naked, the bigger the chance someone will prematurely squirt their load on my thigh while feeling up my boobs. Besides, have you ever seen watermelon-sized tits on such a short, slim girl before? They don’t make bras for girls like me because girls like me aren’t supposed to exist. So I have to deal with my breasts bouncing all over the place for the sake of maybe coming back home with a shirt still on my back.
The other advantage of dressing like a slut is something that took me a long time to come to terms with. Men are monsters. Groping, drooling, fucking monsters. But—sigh—it’s not their fault. Sure, some of them might be depraved perverts, but I'm sure a fair share are decent family men who would have never even fantasized about sexually assaulting a disproportionately busty girl like me without a demonic aura compelling them to. They deserve to think that I was... 'asking for it'. Last thing I need is some law-abiding dad hanging themselves over the guilt from raping a teenager on the train to work.
Speaking of trains... and rape, I leave two hours early for school every day, so that the train is mostly empty and I’ll only get raped a handful of times. Once there, the only tricky part is avoiding being seen by the janitor and the vice-principal; everyone else, faculty and student, is female.
My classmates hate me, of course. To them, I am a freak slut with a freak slut name. All-girl schools are a cesspool of judgmental bitches, but I’ll take hate over rape any day. There’s probably some jealousy there, too, because of my physique. Even though it would make them empathize instantly, I wouldn’t wish any of them in my shoes for even just one day.
The teachers and administrators know what I am. Outside of my home, the classroom is the only other safe place. But I knew this could all be undone if the school board screwed up just once and sent...
“Good morning girls, my name is Mr. Peterson. Your teacher is feeling a bit under the weather today, so I’ll be picking up where she left off if you don’t mind.”
...a male substitute teacher.
My perfect tits from hell were squished against the deck of my desk, nipples erecting out of panic, as I tried to disappear behind my front neighbor. The way Mr. Peterson was trying to sort out his papers instead of frothing at the mouth looking around for fresh meat meant he hadn’t sensed me yet. If he was the kind of teacher that let us read in silence, maybe I’d get out of this one unviolated. Keep in mind that I had already been raped five times that day and it was still early morning, but in the middle of class would have been a first for me. Hard to believe I’ve avoided it for so long.
“Analslut, Fucktoy? Is this some kind of joke?”
Right... my name is usually first on the roll call list. Yes, it’s a hilarious joke; please move on. You’ll find the other names on the list perfectly dull. Maybe he would have, but everyone turned around in their chairs to stare at the Fucktoy and laugh. My joke of a name never got old to them.
“What is happening here? Are you bullying this poor girl? This... fuck... fucking slut!”
It didn’t matter that two dozen phones were now pointed at him, Mr. Peterson took his cock out of his pants while blitzing my desk.
I got up to run. Not that it would matter with a man in my gravitational field, but you never get rid of the initial flight response until they trap you in a car, a dark alley, or in this case, a simple corner.
My tits are magnets for hands. I was facing the corner, but my assailant’s palms reached around and buried deep into the soft tissue as he slammed into me. While violently massaging my left breast and painfully pinching the puffy nipple of my right, the man’s cock was poking at my butt in search of the chaffed opening.
“I'll fuck your ass, little fucking slut.” Mr. Peterson’s was spitting his words like a snake’s venom. When his cock grew tired of only rubbing the outside of my ass, he lifted me by the waist and slammed my body over the nearest desk. Without my built-in airbags, I might have busted up my nose.
The desk I was bent over was not mine. A foot away from the action, a girl sitting there looked like she was having the time of her life framing my whimpering face in a nice close-up. No doubt this video would have many different angles that someone would inevitably edit together in a professional-looking pornographic movie. I know my career choices are limited because of my condition, but I hate that I’m accidentally becoming an unpaid pornstar.
Mr. Peterson’s cock was big. If he didn’t have sex for brains, he too would have been surprised at the size his penis engorged because of my unholy genetics. With no lube, no foreplay, no warning, the twelve-inch monster plunged into my ass, still sore from the few that were in there earlier that morning. I squealed with pain, tears running down my face, drenching my breasts along with my snot and drool (rape is not pretty), but after a minute, the adrenaline faded, leaving the familiar hopelessness to fill the void.
I looked at the closest camera lens and tried to smile. “Oh, yes. Give it to me, Mr. Peterson.” The sound of a crotch slapping against my reddening ass punctuated every word. I couldn’t save this guy’s career, but it would look better for him if it appeared consensual on camera. So, with every thrust, my rectum stretched, and my anus tore, but my moans might have been ambiguous enough to convince the world I was asking for it.
His hands found my breasts again to wring them like Tour the France handlebars while he howled in pleasure. I had clouded more than his mind; over two cups of semen were being squirted up my colon in a minute-long ejaculation. Mr. Peterson would have post-nut clarity for a week.
While getting filled with his seed, I was still moaning, still asking for it. You’ve seen the way I dress, right? With a skirt like that? Of course, I’m asking for it.
Hyde relapsed into Jekyll when the last thick rope of jizz joined the pool of goo clogging my guts. “Oh god... what have I done?”
“It’s OK,” I finally found my breath to say, but he had already run away. My shirt had survived another encounter so I stretched it back over my handprinted fun bags, and I had a nearby chair to sit down to keep my gaping ass from leaking cum all over the floor. Don't worry about me; I’ve had way worse. It's just too bad I could never show my face in school again. Or so I thought.
“That was amazing! Thanks for getting rid of him, Fucktoy.” A student told me, lowering her phone. I don’t know most of their names, honestly.
“I should invite you over to meet my stepdad,” said another. “He’s a huge asshole, and my mom would probably break up with him if he went crazy and fucked my friend on the diner table.”
Friend? Someone wanted to be my friend not just despite my condition but because of it? “S-sure... I’ll give it a try.”
“Can you get my uncle to rape you publicly when you're free? My parents don’t believe that he touches me at night.”
“My boyfriend caught me cheating on him, and it would totally save our relationship if he was forced to cheat on me too.”
And that, folks, is my superhero origin story. I don’t always make the world a better place, but I at least I have friends now.
