My First Patrol Ended in Punishment and Submission

I decided that if I was going to go out and play vigilante, the first thing was to protect my real name. Not out of paranoia, but common sense. In a city where every week someone new showed up flaunting powers, the line between idol, business, and threat had grown blurry, and I wasn’t about to give curious people an easy way to get to my house.

Beyond that idea, my plan was ridiculous. I had no training, no experience, and not even a real suit. I only had a secret burning inside me for months: after a strange night, I woke up different, stronger, with sharper eyesight and an impossible ability to control water as if it were an extension of my body.

I didn’t tell anyone. Not my family, not my friends, not the man I’d spent weeks teasing by pulling at a rope I didn’t know whether I wanted to cut or have tighten around me. I kept pretending to be normal, using my old habits and smiling as if I didn’t feel that living current under my skin every time I turned on a tap or it started to rain.

Two months later, excitement won. That night a thick, warm rain was falling, downtown was half empty, and all day I’d had that fantasy stuck in my head. I didn’t just want to help. I wanted to feel something. I wanted to test myself. I wanted to go out there, body buzzing, and find out how much I could take.

I shut myself in my room with the excuse that I was tired. In reality, I changed quickly, choosing clothes that would let me move and, at the same time, make me feel more provocative than I should have. A short white skirt, black boots, a tight sky-blue top, light gloves, and dark makeup around my eyes that served as a makeshift mask.

When I looked at myself in the mirror, I knew I didn’t look like a heroine. I looked like a fantasy badly contained. An adult woman playing with danger because she needed something to shake her from the inside.

I didn’t put anything special under the skirt. Just the thong I was already wearing, and with those clothes it left me far too exposed. I covered myself with a long coat, opened the window, and used the rainwater to cushion the drop from the second floor. I landed softly, heart racing and a stupid smile glued to my mouth.

The night city welcomed me with shining puddles, neon reflected on the asphalt, and the distant hum of cars. I slipped into a narrow alley, left the coat hidden away, and stayed in my improvised uniform. With a simple gesture, I kept the rain sliding over my body without soaking me, as if a liquid skin covered me head to toe.

I climbed low ledges and balconies, using the pressure of the water to propel myself. From up there I could see empty avenues, half-closed shutters, dark terraces. I found no crimes or monsters. The only thing I found was my own breathing growing heavier and heavier.

I could feel the wind lifting under my bare thighs, slipping beneath the skirt, brushing my ass through the minimal fabric of the thong. Every jump made me aware of my breasts bouncing under the top. Every movement reminded me that I’d gone out almost naked, at night, in the rain, waiting for a confrontation. That started to turn me on in a way I didn’t want to admit at first.

I stopped on a low balcony to catch my breath. There, safe from direct eyes, I slipped a hand under my skirt to adjust the thong, which had ridden up into my ass. The second I brushed the damp fabric against my cunt, I realized it wasn’t only the rain making me wet.

Fuck.

I’d gotten myself worked up. So hot my legs were trembling. I looked down at the nearly empty street and felt a jolt of perversity imagining someone looking up and seeing me there, skirt hiked, mask smeared by sweat.

I should have gone back down. I should have taken a breath and headed home. Instead, I pulled one glove off with my teeth and pressed my palm against my cunt over the thong, rubbing slowly at first, then with more hunger. With my other hand I pinched my nipples through the top and a moan slipped out so clearly it scared me to hear myself.

I slid two fingers beneath the fabric and ran them through my swollen lips. I was soaked. Not merely wet: truly soaked, hot, slippery, needy. I spread my legs wider and started fingering myself while the rain hit my neck and forehead.

I lost concentration and my water shield fell apart. The top clung to my breasts, outlining hard nipples. The white skirt turned see-through over my thighs and the thong traced itself out like an obscene invitation. Even so, I kept going. I thrust my fingers in and out fast, then rubbed my clit with the wet tips while biting my lip so I wouldn’t moan too loudly.

—Ah... yes... —I whispered to myself, leaning against the railing.

The feeling of being so exposed made it worse. I rubbed harder, slipped in a third finger, arched until my legs gave out. The orgasm hit me suddenly, hard and messy, with a spasm that climbed from my belly to my throat. I came shaking, letting out a broken moan while pleasure made me clamp my legs together and soak my hand even more.

I was left panting, fingers sticky, head clouded. The crash came right away, along with fatigue and shame. I’d already made enough of a fool of myself for one night. I thought about going home.

Then I saw them.

Three men were moving along the opposite sidewalk, carrying a tool bag and looking around with that clumsy air of people who think no one is watching them. They stopped in front of a closed jewelry store. One crouched beside the glass. Another watched the corner. The third pulled something metal out of the bag.

Excitement changed shape inside me. Adrenaline came back. So did the stupid idea that this was my chance to debut.

I came down from the balcony using the water to cushion the jump and planted myself behind them. I straightened my back, put my hands on my hips, and tried to sound confident.

—It’s over. You’re not stealing anything tonight. There’s a new vigilante in town.

All three turned at once. From above they’d seemed ordinary. From the ground they were huge. Broad, hard-faced adults, the kind who had thrown punches too many times. They looked at me in silence for a few seconds, their gaze shamelessly dropping over my wet body.

One burst out laughing.

—And what’s this? —he said—. A heroine or a slut in costume?

—Look at her properly —another added—. She came dressed like that because she wanted to be seen.

The third gave me a slow, disgustingly calm smile.

—You didn’t come to stop anyone. You came to be used.

Right away I felt my nipples harden again under the soaked top. I hated that they noticed. I hated more that part of me enjoyed that dirty look, that cold appraisal, like they were stripping me before touching me.

—Shut up and get on the ground —I said, though my voice came out less firm than I wanted.

They didn’t obey. One of them moved with a speed I hadn’t expected and grabbed my arm, twisting it behind my back. The pain made me gasp. Another stepped up in front and caught my chin between his fingers, forcing me to look at him.

—With that little skirt, that mask, and that slutty face, you don’t give orders —he muttered—. You take them.

I struggled, tried to use the water, but the surprise shattered my concentration. I felt the second man yank my skirt up, leaving my ass almost bare under the rain. The thong bit even deeper between my cheeks. I wanted to kick him, and I did: I hit him in the crotch with all the strength I had.

He folded with a grunt, but he didn’t go down cleanly. The one holding me tightened his grip and forced me to bend forward. The third, who hadn’t intervened until then, came up behind me and palmed one ass cheek, then slapped it hard enough to make me jerk.

—That’s more like it —he said—. Fighting a little.

I pulled water up from a puddle to hit him in the face and managed to push him back. I used the movement to wrench free for an instant and stumble backward, but the man in front of me grabbed my top. He pulled so hard the fabric gave way. My breasts burst out at once, heavy with rain, nipples tight and dark from the cold and excitement.

All three stared. None of them pretended to be embarrassed. I tried to cover myself, but the first man was still controlling one of my arms.

—Fuck —one of them muttered—. You really wanted attention.

—Don’t touch me —I said, though they were already touching me.

The one in front squeezed a full breast with his hand, hard, without any gentleness. I moaned against my will. The bastard smiled as soon as he heard me.

—Listen to that. The little whore gets wet.

He lowered a hand to my pubic mound and pressed over the thong right on my cunt. It wasn’t a light touch. It was firm, possessive pressure, checking. When he felt how wet I was, he let out a rough laugh and showed the others his fingers.

—See? It’s not fear.

My face burned with shame. My cunt burned too. It was humiliating, filthy, too much. And even so, my body answered with another pulse of heat between my legs.

—Please... —I began, not knowing if I was begging them to stop or asking for something else.

—Don’t say “please” yet —said the one twisting my arm—. First learn to stay still.

They shoved me against the metal shutter of the neighboring shop. The cold surface pressed into my nipples and drew a whimper out of me. The third man spread my legs with his knee and pulled my thong down to mid-thigh. The damp air hit my cunt directly, open and exposed. I closed my legs on reflex. He slapped the inside of my thigh and forced them back open.

—Still.

That order went through me with a violence that threw me off balance. It wasn’t just fear. It was a physical response, immediate, as if something inside me wanted to obey. I stayed still an extra second, and they noticed.

—That’s it —said the one with the rough hand on my nape—. Like that, yes.

The man in front shoved two fingers straight into my cunt. They slid in easily because I was so wet. I let out a loud, ashamed moan and tried to move my hips away. He gripped me with his other hand and started fingering me without any soft rhythm, driving them to the hilt and pulling them out slick with my juice.

—Look at her —he mocked—. She came out saying she was going to save the city. And really she just needed someone to spread her legs.

—No... ah... that’s not it...

—Then clench less when I put my fingers in you.

I couldn’t answer. Because it was true. My body was clamping down on him. It was almost sucking his fingers in. Each thrust made me shake, and the mix of fear, exposure, and shame had me one step from losing control.

The one behind me seized my hair and forced my head back. Then he spat into my open mouth as I gasped. The gesture hit me deeper than a slap. Indecent, brutal, dominant. And instead of breaking me, it folded my knees with sheer perversity.

—Swallow —he ordered.

I swallowed.

All three of them went silent for a fraction of a second. The message was clear even to me: I had crossed a line. I wasn’t the vigilante controlling the scene. I was the trapped, aroused, ashamed woman discovering how much being ordered around turned her on.

—Good girl —murmured the one holding me.

That praise hurt more than any tug. I felt my clit throbbing wildly. The man between my legs withdrew his fingers and gave my cunt two wet slaps. Then he rubbed my clit with his thumb, fast and cruel, while the other one kept me pinned against the shutter.

—Tell us what you are —he said.

—No...

The hand on my clit increased the pace until it became unbearable.

—Say it.

—A... ah... an idiot.

I got slapped so hard on the ass it burned up to my waist.

—Again.

—A whore —I finally blurted, broken with shame—. A whore who came out like this so she’d be seen.

—Now we’re talking.

The man touching my cunt lifted one of my legs and propped it on a fallen tool box beside the shutter. The position opened me wider. Without stopping the rubbing, he showed me three fingers shining with my own wetness and shoved them all the way inside, stretching me abruptly. I screamed. I felt my cunt opening, resisting, then giving way around his hand.

—Fuck, how tight —he said, half laughing.

—Then get her ready properly —another behind me answered—. Since she wanted to patrol, she can learn to serve.

I wanted to say no. I truly did. But the thumb kept grinding my clit while the fingers opened and closed inside me, and the scene had turned me into a bundle of hot nerves. The only thing that came out of my mouth was a trembling moan.

—Did you hear her? —said the first—. That’s not a refusal.

Then he kissed me, but it wasn’t a sweet kiss or even an awkward one. It was an invasion. He shoved his tongue in almost until I gagged, using my mouth the way he used my cunt: by force, sure I would give in. And I did. I moaned against his mouth, sucked his tongue without meaning to, and that only made them harder.

They turned me around. I ended up facing them, my back against the shutter, tits bare, skirt wrinkled up to my waist, thong hanging from one ankle. One of them held my wrists over my head. Another knelt between my legs and spread my cunt lips with two fingers to look at me.

—She’s dripping.

Before I could react, he put his tongue on me. A long, hard lick, from my opening to my clit. I arched so hard my head knocked against the metal. He did it again, now slower, parting me with his fingers and burying his face between my thighs as if he wanted to devour me whole.

—No... don’t do that... —I said, and it sounded exactly like a plea for him not to stop.

He sucked my clit and nearly unraveled me. His fingers went back in at the same time his tongue struck up top with savage precision. I writhed, tugging at my trapped wrists, legs shaking and mouth open. Every time I tried to close them, the third man slapped my thigh.

—Open.

I obeyed.

The orgasm hit me too fast. I felt my belly contract, my cunt clenching around the fingers of the kneeling man, and unbearable heat spreading down my legs. I came in his mouth with a scandalous cry, shaking all over. He didn’t pull away. He kept licking while I trembled and tried to escape the excess.

—Look at her coming —I heard distantly—. And she still wanted to act tough.

I was so sensitive that any touch hurt. Even so, one of them got me onto my knees by pulling my hair. The street water mixed with my scraped knees against the pavement. The man who had kissed me stood in front of my face and stroked my lower lip with two fingers wet from me.

—Open it.

I opened my mouth.

He pushed two fingers down my throat, slow at first, then deeper. I started drooling at once. He watched me with terrible calm, using my mouth while the other man held me by the hair so I couldn’t turn away.

—That’s it. That’s how you learn who’s in charge.

The humiliation made me moan around his fingers. I pulled them out slick with spit. He patted my cheek like a reward and, without giving me time, hauled me back to my feet.

—Turn around.

I braced my hands on the shutter. No one needed to push me. I opened my legs on my own, dizzy, wet, defeated. I heard one of them unzip behind me and felt the heat of his body approaching my ass.

He brushed my entrance with the head before entering. That single touch was enough to make me gasp. He was thick, much thicker than my fingers, than his fingers, than anything I’d felt like that in such a brutal, public position. He pushed into me slowly, stretching me centimeter by centimeter, while I clung to the metal and tried not to lose my footing.

—Breathe —he ordered—. If you relax, it goes in better.

I did. And when he finally drove it all the way in, I screamed. Not from clean pain, though there was some. I screamed from the wild fullness, from the way he opened me and filled me and made it clear, without words, that my body was being used on his rhythm, not mine.

He stayed still for a second, buried to the hilt. Then he started fucking me. Hard. Dry at first, then looser thanks to how wet I was. Every thrust slammed my breasts against the shutter, made my belly quiver, ripped moans from me that I no longer tried to stifle.

The man in front of me grabbed my jaw to force me to look at him while they fucked me.

—Look at me when you come again.

He pinched one nipple until I moaned louder. The one behind me, the one fucking me, landed a brutal slap on my ass and then ran his hand over the burning mark before driving into me harder.

—Fuck, how tight she is —he growled behind me—. The heroine’s got a cunt addicted to punishment.

I didn’t even have breath left to deny it. I could only move back, meeting his thrusts, my face burning with shame at how obvious my excitement was. The man in front slipped a hand between my legs and started rubbing my clit again, exactly where I was most sensitive.

—No... wait... not like that...

—Like this, yes.

I broke. The second orgasm came harder than the first, triggered by the exact mix of penetration, pain, and that merciless rubbing on my clit. I felt my cunt pounding out of control around the cock fucking me, and the man behind me let out a rough laugh when he noticed.

—She’s coming all over me. Look at her.

I came moaning against the face of the man holding me, saliva on the corner of my mouth, rain in my hair, my body shaking obscenely. They didn’t stop for that. The one behind kept thrusting until he grew more erratic, heavier, and at last he buried himself with a deep grunt. I felt the hot release inside me, deep, and my legs went weak.

They held me before I could fall. I could barely think. I could barely remember that I was supposed to stop them.

And then something happened that gave me back a shred of lucidity. Sirens sounded in the distance.

The three of them heard them too. The one inside me pulled out cursing and stepped away. The one in front let go of my face. The third took two steps toward the tool bag. That tiny crack was enough for my shame to turn into rage.

They hadn’t just overpowered me. They had assumed that because I’d enjoyed it, they could leave without consequences.

I raised my hands. The rain left in puddles, on rooftop edges, in drains, and on their own clothes answered my call. This time I didn’t fail. I was empty, yes, but also furious.

Columns of water climbed their legs like liquid snakes and closed around their torsos, their arms, their throats. I watched them struggle, cough, search for air. One tried to come toward me. I clenched my fingers and the whirlpool slammed him to his knees. Another tried to reach for something on his belt. The water immobilized his wrist.

—Stay still —I said, and now I really did sound like someone giving orders.

Keeping them subdued split my head with effort, but I wasn’t letting go now. I wrapped them completely, leaving them no room, controlling the pressure just enough to make them give in and end up unconscious on the wet ground. They fell heavy, defeated, still breathing.

I stumbled over to check. They had pulses. They were still alive. Beside them, the tool bag suddenly looked ridiculous, almost childish, compared to everything that had just happened.

The sirens were much closer now. I was still naked from the waist up, my skirt twisted, my legs streaked with rain, saliva, and semen running down the inside of my thigh. My body ached and, worse, it was still sensitive, alive, electrified by what had happened.

I took a dark shirt from one of them and pulled it on as best I could. It didn’t cover much, but it was better than nothing. I recovered my thong from my ankle, though I didn’t bother pulling it back up. I didn’t have time. I called emergency services from a phone I found lying there and gave them the location in a broken voice before hanging up.

When I ran back through the alley, I no longer felt like an innocent debutante. Nor like a triumphant heroine. I felt like something else: an adult woman who had discovered, in the most brutal way possible, that danger didn’t just turn her on — it could also devour her if she let her guard down.

***

I went back to the hiding place where I’d left my coat and found the space empty. The boxes were gone. The coat too. I stood frozen, panting, with the man’s shirt stuck to my body and my cunt still throbbing from the blows and orgasms.

The situation was absurd. I had to go home like this, half-naked, marked, and smelling of sex under a shirt that wasn’t mine. I should have felt defeated. Instead, while I leaned against the wall for a second to catch my breath, I felt that heat under my navel again, deep and treacherous.

It wasn’t simple arousal. It was the physical memory of having been forced to obey and then of taking control back with my hands still trembling. That mixture left me with an impossible truth I couldn’t ignore: what had terrified me wasn’t only the attack. It was realizing how much domination, humiliation, a hard order, and punishment on the body had turned me on.

I touched myself without thinking, over the shirt, between my swollen legs. I was so sensitive that I barely brushed my clit and my knees gave out. I pulled my hand away at once, breathing deeply.

—Not here —I told myself quietly.

But my head no longer obeyed decency entirely. As I started walking again, slow and alert, I knew that night wasn’t going to let me sleep. Not because I was afraid of being recognized. Not because of the sirens. Not because of the disaster of my debut.

What wouldn’t let me sleep was remembering every order, every hand, every slap, every time my body opened even while my pride wanted to resist. And also remembering the exact moment when I had them at my feet, subdued by my will, after they had treated me like a slave.

Then I understood that my first patrol hadn’t taught me only how to fight. It had shown me the kind of darkness I carried inside. One that wasn’t going to disappear by denying it. One that, sooner or later, would seek out another rainy night, with a better suit, more control, and far fewer illusions.

Because now I knew something I had only barely suspected before: in me lived both the woman who loved giving the order and the one who shivered at receiving it. And that mix, dirty and dangerous, had just been born whole in a wet alley.