I'm sitting on a coach late one night. We're headed north from London up to Scotland and I'm hoping I'll be able to sleep, especially since the seat next to me is free, as are many others. The lights have just been darkened as it is approaching midnight, and around me my fellow passengers are slumbering.

And then somebody slips into the seat beside me. I glance left. It is a black man, quite young, younger than me. Early 20s. He is staring straight at me, and meets my eyes. “Good evening,” he says softly with a slight smile. “Keep your eyes straight forward.”

“What?”

In reply, he turns his hand, resting on the thigh nearest me, around to reveal a sharp blade. “Look forward or I'll use this.”

Oh my God. I'm in a coach, surrounded by people. How can this be happening? My eyes snap instantly forward, but I hiss, “I'll scream and they'll throw you off the coach.”

In a moment he had the knife up against my ribs. “Before they get to me, this will be buried inside your body.” He leaned closer until his lips were right next to my ear. “Is that what you want, to feel this steel slide into you?”

I risked another glance at him “Why? Why are you doing this?”

His other hand came around to pinch my cheek, cruelly twisting my flesh. “I said, look forward.”

Pain stabbed my cheek as I whipped my head forward. Panic raced through me as I rapidly reviewed my options. I could take the risk and call out ... but what if he stabbed me seriously? His being captured by the others on the coach wouldn't be of much comfort to me if I was bleeding to death anyway. He still held the knife against my ribs. I could feel the prick of it every time I took a shaky breath. Was I willing to take that risk?

No.

As I thought the word, I felt a curious sensation come over me of resignation. Whatever happened to me now, I was allowing it to happen. In this moment I was giving myself over to this black stranger with a blade. I was going to permit him to take whatever liberties he intended with my body. Heat rushed between my legs at the knowledge, despite my fear, and I caught my breath. “What are you going to do to me?” I whispered, and he chuckled.

“That's a better attitude from you, cunt. You show a little respect, you hear?”

I nodded.

“Answer me.”

“I hear,” I breathed. “I'll show you respect.”

“Sir.”

“I will show you respect, sir.”

“Good. Now, I have a mate sitting in the seat behind you. Reach up your arms over the back of the seat so that he can grab your wrists. He has a blade too. One moment of disobedience from you and he'll slice you. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Slice me. A mental picture of bright red blood fountaining out of my wrist and down over my body shivered through me and I lifted my arms. A hand closed around my vulnerable wrists, trapping me. The position thrust my breasts forward and exposed my entire body to the man sitting next to me. Instead of taking immediate advantage, however, his right hand merely closed over my left thigh, hot and heavy. I felt the heat of it through my cotton skirt. Oh God, why had I chosen to wear a skirt for the trip tonight? And since it was the middle of summer I wasn't even protected by tights.

His fingers clenched around my thigh, tightening until I knew they would leave bruises, loosened, only to tighten again.

“So where's a cunt like you going tonight?” His voice was so quiet I doubted our nearest neighbours, two rows in front of us, could hear it over the dull roar of the bus's engine, but it seared straight through me.

“Scotland,” I managed, wincing as his hand squeezed me again. “Sir.”

“Where are you getting off?”

“Inverness, sir.”

“Travelling for business or pleasure?”

What was this? He wanted to have an ordinary polite conversation while he molested me? I almost snapped my gaze back to his but remembered just in time how vulnerable I was to him. His hand moved to my other thigh and repeated the painful squeezing.

“Answer me.” His thumb dug deeply into my tender inner thigh.

“Business, sir,” I gasped.

“Mmm.” With a quick flick he pushed up my skirt so that his hand rested on bare skin. “You have a nice lot of meat on you, cunt. I knew I'd enjoy playing with you.”

No longer squeezing, he rubbed his hand hard down to my knee and back up again, not stopping until his thumb rested against my panties. Then down again and back, flattening the flesh he'd spoken of, scraping his palm against me.

“Do you like the feel of my hand on your thigh?” Before I could answer, he chuckled. “Be truthful, now. I already know the answer.”

His thumb traced my panties, barely touching except to tease, but enough to feel the blazing heat between my legs.

“Yes, sir,” I whispered.

“And why is that, cunt? What does that make you?”

Instinctively I knew what he expected me to say. “Because I'm a cunt, sir.”

In reward, he scraped his thumbnail down my slit. “Indeed you are. I knew you were, the moment I saw you.” Another scrape, slightly harder. “I saw you at Victoria, waiting to board the coach. You were eating a chocolate bar. No wonder you're such a meaty little cunt. Aren't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are you?”

How could I say it? Wasn't it humiliating enough that I was sitting here letting him feel me up and talk to me like this? How could he make me participate in my own humiliation?

His fingers grabbed a chunk of my inner thigh and twisted sharply. “What are you?”

I bit my lip sharply to prevent a gasp of pain, then dragged in a breath. “I'm a meaty cunt, sir.”

“Yeah, you are.” He twisted my flesh again, even harder. “Do not hesitate again or my mate behind you will cut you.” His hand left my thigh to pick up the knife he'd casually balanced on his own leg. “Or is that what you're after? Do you want to be sliced, cunt?”

“No, sir,” I whispered desperately.

“I think you do.”

“No, please!”

I felt the prick of his blade against the thigh flesh he'd just abused. “Want me to slice you like the piece of meat you are?”

“No, sir, please. Don't!”

He dragged it along my skin, not pressing hard enough to penetrate. Would he? Would he really do it?

“Fine,” he said abruptly. “I'm going to push up your top and take off your bra. I want to see those big tits of yours. Maybe I'll cut them instead. Would you like that, cunt? Want me to slice off your nipple?”

“No, sir,” I whimpered.

He pushed my top up to my neck, then muttered a curse as he discovered my bra did up at the back. In an instant he lifted the blade, gripped the centre front of my bra and sliced straight through it. A moment later both of my breasts were bared to him. He reached up and twisted the dial for the air conditioning overhead. Icy air blasted through straight down onto my chest and I felt my nipples tighten.

“Such fat tits you have,” he whispered, and I knew he was staring at them. “Big fat round tits, just like I knew you had.” He was now sitting sideways on his seat, facing towards me, and he lifted his hands, leaving the blade resting on my thighs. He held them just in front of my breasts.

“Ask me to touch your titty meat.”

“Please, sir, touch my titty meat.”

“How do you want me to touch your titty meat?”

Shit, why couldn't he just touch them and be done with it? “Please, sir, cover my t-titty meat with your hands and -- and squeeze them.”

He did just that, closing his hands over my balloons of flesh. They were big enough to completely cover them, and he began to squeeze, just gently at first and then progressively harder until his fingers were digging painfully into me.

“Do you like this, meat?”

His action sent spurts of heat straight from my tits to my cunt, and I nodded. “Yes, sir. I like you squeezing my bare tits.”

He kept squeezing and then he caught fingersful of my tits to twist and pinch. For several minutes he devoted himself to pinching every inch of my tit flesh around and around except for my nipples. Those he left completely alone as they throbbed beneath the icy air conditioning. Pain was arcing through me with each pinch and twist yet I found myself lifting my tits, pushing them forward into his grasp.

“So what job do you do?” he asked casually, as though we were polite acquaintances sitting across a dining table from each other, as though he wasn't mauling my bare tits so painfully I could barely breathe.

“I-I'm a defence lawyer.”

“You work in court?” An extra hard twist just above my nipples on both tits.

I shuddered in pain. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you ever feel the criminals looking at you? Ever suspect they might be picturing you like this, with your tit meat naked and exposed for them to play with and hurt?”

Sometimes a fantasy similar to that was all that got me through a monotonous court morning. “Occasionally, sir.”

He chuckled again, low and deep, obviously enjoying himself. His pinches moved to focus just beneath my nipples, taking in more flesh at a time, holding for several seconds on each agonising twist. “You ever represent rapists?”

“I have, sir.”

“Do you ever imagine being alone with them, trapped there, knowing they're going to rape you and there's nothing you can do about it?”

“Sometimes, sir.”

“Does that fat cunt of yours want to be raped?”

How did I answer that? Right now it was so wet I feared I was leaking all over the seat. I felt a throb deep between my legs and gasped raggedly. “Sir,” I whispered, unable to bring myself to answer either way. “Sir, please.”

His fingers closed over my nipples and twisted. Brutally. Nearly bringing me out of the seat as I jerked forward, instinctively trying to lessen the vicious pain.

“How about by a blade, meat?” he hissed into my face as I could no longer keep myself from looking into his eyes. “Want to feel my blade between your legs?”

Instant melting in the part of me he'd just threatened. Why, oh why? I stared at him, lungs seized by a mixture of shock and terrible desire. Of course I didn't want his blade between my legs.

His fingers tightened on my nipples again, squeezing tighter, tighter, tighter, as my mouth opened in a silent scream of agony, then he snapped his fingers off. My head dropped as I struggled to drag in oxygen. Oh God, oh God, oh God, what was happening here? How could this be happening? How could I be sitting here while this perfect stranger abused my body? How could I be letting him?

I opened my mouth again, this time determined to scream because I had to put and end to this -- only to feel the blade prick against my cunt, right through my sodden panties.

“Want it right in your clit?”

“No! No, please. Please don't do that, sir, please!”

“Close your mouth.”

I snapped it shut.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered.

Mute, I obeyed, spreading them as wide as I could on the coach seat, deliberately opening myself up to him even as every nerve in my body screamed at me not to, to instead protect myself. But I couldn't. All I could do was let him push my skirt up until he exposed my panties to his gaze and to his blade.

Changing the angle of the blade in his hand, he drew his fingertip down my soaked slit. At the bottom he poked gently, forcing the material up into me. My hips instinctively lifted towards him.

“You're nothing but a slut,” he said, disgust thickening his quiet voice. “Just a slut piece of meat who'll willingly open her legs to any man who asks.”

“Yes, sir.”

To emphasise the humiliating point, he pinched my plump labia together. “Want me to slice this meat between your legs?”

“No, sir, please!”

The knife twisted in his hand, now blade down. “Sit very still then,” he commanded, and proceeded to lacerate my panties. “Lift your hips.” I obeyed and he slid the wet material out from under me. “Open your mouth.” I obeyed, and he stuffed the remnants of panties into my mouth then pinched my lips closed. “No more noise out of you. And keep your eyes straight ahead.”

It was the most effective bondage I'd ever experienced. I couldn't look at him or touch him, and now he'd deprived me of my only means of communication. I fixed my eyes on the back of the seat in front of me, concentrating hard on its dark form, trying not to anticipate what my tormentor was going to do to me next. How he was going to hurt me.

Instead his hand returned to my steaming cunt, brushing against the outside. “Ah,” he said, “cunt meat. My favourite. Bare and raw and stewing in its own sticky juices.” His fingers slipped easily between my labia and one thrust hard and deep up into my cunt. “That could just as easily have been my blade,” he reminded me, as if I'd forgotten, “slicing right up inside your cunt.” The finger withdrew then slammed home again, eliciting a gasp from me muffled by the panties. Withdrew again. “No noise, I said,” he chided, and I felt him grab a handful of my pubic hair and twist viciously, nearly lifting my hips off the seat. “That hurt?”

I nodded.

“Good. It was meant to.” He did it again. “No sound at all out of you. Meat doesn't make a noise.”

Meat. That's all I was. Trapped there in the coach seat I felt like nothing more than tit meat and cunt meat for this black man's pleasure. Just a juicy piece of meat waiting to be used.