The air smells of ozone, stale popcorn, and a faint undercurrent of iron. Around you, people move with the brisk, unbothered purpose of any Monday morning commuters. No one glances at you twice; you are just another body in the flow. You decide to head to work and walk to the nearby train station, stealing a ticket from an automated kiosk, and board the next commuter train heading downtown. The carriage is about half full, people wearing both nothing at all and regular casual clothes scrolling on their phones, talking about how their newest slave was acting up, pissing on books, staring out the windows. It smells of air freshener, ammonia, blood, and old upholstery.

A few meters away, near the doors, a woman in her early thirties stands facing the window. Her back is to the interior of the car. She’s on her phone, speaking animatedly about a school council meeting about making bringing guns to classes mandatory. Her daughter, a girl of about seven with blonde pigtails, stands beside her. The girl is dressed in thigh-high white socks, extremely short denim shorts that only cover half of her ass, and a child's shirt the size of a sports bra, leaving her midriff completely exposed. A pink backpack hangs loosely from her shoulders, which has a few bullet holes and scratches on it.

Just behind them stands a tall, muscular woman in tight black leggings that cling to her thighs that clearly outline the heavy, distinct bulge of a substantial futanari cock. She wears a cropped black top and a spiked leather choker. Her sharp, striking face is expressionless as she looks down at the little girl. The girl looks up at her, her head tilted in curious, innocent confusion.

The woman finds no need to control her thoughts and says aloud: "Damn, you're a sexy kid... cute lips too... hehe. I'm gonna rape you now." She announces as if saying she might sneeze.

She moves smoothly. Her hands gripping the sides of the girl’s head, pulling it close. She bends down and pulls their faces together, pressing her lips against the girl's in a deep, forceful kiss. Her tongue pushes insistently past the child's small, startled lips, swirling around the inside of her mouth. The sloppy sounds fill the train car, and nobody even glances. The girl’s hands begin groping the futanari woman’s chest, completely used to this sort of thing. The mother glances over and then continues her phone call, not caring at all that her daughter is being assaulted.

The futanari woman pulls back from the kiss, her lips glistening with the child's saliva. She unhooks the pink backpack from the girl's shoulders and tosses it onto a nearby seat, where it lands with a wet thud, landing in a pool of period blood that somebody had made earlier. Without breaking eye contact with the little girl, her large hands move to the hem of the child's tiny shirt. In one smooth motion, she pulls it up and over the girl's head, tossing it aside onto the same seat, exposing the young girl's flat chest to the futanari woman.

She then unbuttons the girl’s shorts, sliding them and her panties down her slender legs in one practiced movement, letting them pool around her ankles. Her small, hairless pussy completely exposed to the world. The girl stands naked except for her thigh-high socks, her small body exposed to the cool air of the train car. She shivers slightly but makes no sound, not resisting at all.

The woman grips the girl by her neck and lifts her easily, placing her on her back across the middle row of seats. The girl's head slams against the metal wall of the train car, her pigtails splayed out. The woman kneels on the floor and spreads the girl's legs. She leans in, her face hovering inches from the girl’s hairless, prepubescent pussy. She gives it a long, slow lick from bottom to top.

"Ah-ahhh!!"

A high, startled moan escapes the young girl’s lips. Her back arches involuntarily against the seat as the pleasure hits her.

The futanari woman doesn’t stop. She presses her mouth fully against the child’s small slit, almost like a suction cup, and begins to eat her out with methodical, wet intensity. The sound is obscenely loud in the quiet carriage: Sclorp… Schlorp… lick, lick. The mother, who had finished her call, had long since abandoned her child to go murder a lady the next car over - just for fun.