Isabella gets mobbed (ENF)

The protests had been growing louder with each passing day, a restless wave of discontent sweeping through the capital. Isabella had been warned not to venture far from the palace, but she refused to be caged. If she was to rule Montesoro, she needed to understand her people, even if it meant stepping into the chaos herself.

Accompanied by a single guard, she slipped out of the palace in a modest, unmarked car and made her way to the outskirts of Valverde. She wore a simple white blouse and black skirt, a far cry from her usual attire, but in truth still too fine for the streets she was walking into.

The market district was alive with tension. Vendors shouted over one another to sell their wares, while groups of men and women gathered in hushed, heated conversations. Isabella could feel their eyes on her as she moved, her guarded posture and unfamiliar presence drawing attention.

“Presidente,” her guard murmured, keeping close. “We shouldn’t stay long. These people—”

“I need to see this for myself,” Isabella interrupted. Her voice was firm, but even she felt the weight of unease pressing down on her.

She turned a corner into a narrower street, where the crowd seemed denser, the air heavier with hostility. That’s when she heard it—a murmur that rippled through the throng, growing louder with every step.

“I can't believe she came,” someone whispered.

“That’s her,” another voice hissed, louder this time.

Panic flickered across Isabella’s face as the realization dawned. Despite her attempt at discretion, they had recognized her. Perhaps it was her posture, her face, or the fine cut of her clothes—whatever it was, the crowd was no longer just curious. They were angry.

“You dare show your face here?” a woman spat, stepping forward with a scowl etched into her weathered features. “After everything your family has done?”

Isabella took a step back, her guard moving to shield her. “I’m here so I may see with my own eyes,” she began, her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her chest.

But the crowd was swelling now, closing in, their shouts drowning out her words.

“Daughter of Satan!” a man bellowed. “She walks among us like she’s one of us? After stealing from us? After letting us starve?”

“Thief!” another shouted. “Murderer!”

The first rock was thrown—a small one, hitting the ground near her feet. Then another, closer this time. Her guard drew his pistol, firing a warning shot into the air.

“Back off!” he barked, but his voice was swallowed by the mob’s fury.

“Run,” Isabella whispered, her voice trembling.

Her guard nodded, waving his gun in an attempt to hold them back, giving her a chance to flee. The mob surged, hands reaching out to grab her, tear at her blouse, pull her hair. The fine fabric of her clothes marked her as the enemy, as the symbol of everything they hated. He disappeared in the wave of bodies, his gun fired again, then went silent. He had sacrificed himself for her escape. She needed to run, to escape, to survive.

Isabella broke away from the mob, her white blouse torn and her stockings ripped, exposing her legs. The crowd surged again, chasing her, shouting, “There she is! Don’t let her escape!” She ran through the narrow streets, her lungs burning with each **** breath. She realised that somewhere along the way her shoes was lost, and her bare feet slapped loudly against the ground.

She had to hide, to find a place to regroup, to think. "She's wearing a white shirt and a black skirt!" someone shouted further down the alleys. "Don't let her get away!" She darted down a side street, then another. The mob was relentless, their anger a living thing that hunted her through the maze of alleys and byways.

Her breath came in ragged gasps as she pushed herself, the cries of the mob echoing behind her. They knew her clothing, and through it, they knew her. She needed to change that, to blend into her surroundings. The old, rusty door of an abandoned shop loomed ahead. With a quick prayer, she threw herself against it. The door yielded with a screech, and she stumbled inside, slamming it shut behind her.

In the dim light of the shop, she caught a glimpse of a mirror. Her reflection stared back—disheveled, wild-eyed, her clothes torn, her legs exposed. She couldn’t stay like this. She needed to change, to become one of the many faceless in the crowd, not the prey they sought.

With a surge of determination, she tore the remnants of her blouse from her body, and shimmied out of her skirt. Standing almost naked in the middle of the abandoned shop, she felt ****, her skin prickling with goosebumps despite the sweltering heat. But there was no time for modesty. Survival trumped all.

She looked around, but found nothing of use, not a single piece of fabric. Her only option was to run back to the car or find something along the way. With a deep breath, she stepped out into the street again, this time much more exposed.

The sun was relentless, its rays searing her skin as she navigated the labyrinth of alleyways and side streets, her bare feet scraping against the rough ground. Sweat beaded on her brow and trickled down her back, and she realised she was completely lost. The mob’s voices were distant now, but the danger was far from over. She was naked and exposed in a hostile world, a far cry from the protected life she’d always known.

And then, as if the universe was playing a cruel joke, she saw them—several men loitering at the end of the alley, their eyes widening as they caught sight of her. They were dirty, their clothes worn and their faces etched with hardship. But it was the look in their eyes—a predatory gleam—that froze Isabella in her tracks.

“Look at this,” one of them sneered, stepping forward. “A naked woman, running through our streets.”

“What a sight,” another chuckled, his voice low and menacing. “What would a fine lady like her be doing in a place like this? And running around in her underwear?”

Isabella could feel her heart pounding in her chest as they closed in, their intentions clear in their hungry gazes. She tried to speak, to reason, but her voice failed her, her mouth dry with terror. She was no longer the Presidente, but a woman, naked and ****, at the mercy of those who viewed her not as a person, but as a possession, a prize to be won.

Their hands were rough, grabbing at her, tearing her underwear. Isabella's screams were muffled by a dirty rag they stuffed into her mouth, the taste of dirt and grime flooding her senses. She felt them pin her down, their weight pressing on her, their breath hot and ragged against her skin. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the sweat and the dirt, as she struggled in vain against their ****.

They took turns, one after the other, their grunts and laughter echoing in the alleyway. The pain was unbearable, each thrust a searing reminder of her helplessness, her violation. She lost count of how many there were, of how many times she felt the humiliation, the shame, the disgust.

When they finally released her, Isabella lay on the ground, bruised and broken. She felt something warm and wet trickling down her thighs, a mixture of their seed and her own blood. She wanted to cry, to scream, but all she could do was curl into herself, trying to find some semblance of comfort, of safety, in the cold, unforgiving ground. Her body shivered with the aftershocks of the brutal ****, each spasm sending fresh waves of pain through her.

Slowly, painfully, Isabella dragged herself to her feet, her legs shaking, her muscles sore. She limped forward, her steps unsteady, her gaze fixed firmly on the ground, now completely and utterly naked.

As she stumbled through the streets, the sun slowly sank below the horizon, casting long shadows that seemed to reach out and engulf her. The city was silent, the mob having dispersed, leaving a hollow emptiness in their wake. Isabella felt that emptiness within her, a gaping hole where her dignity and her hope had once resided, her pussy dripping cum and her insides aching from the brutal ****.

She didn't know how long she wandered, her feet scraped and bleeding, her body aching with each step. But finally, as night fell, she found herself on the street her unlocked car was parked at. With a last surge of effort, she climbed into it, sinking into the seat, her body spent, her spirit shattered.

In the silence of the car, the darkness wrapped around her like a shroud, she allowed the tears to flow. Silent sobs racked her body, the pain and the fear and the despair pouring out of her in an endless torrent. She wept for her innocence, for her naivety, for the illusion of power and security that had been so brutally stripped from her.

Exhaustion claimed her eventually, her sobs fading into silence, her breaths becoming slow and even. As Isabella drifted off into a fitful sleep, she couldn't help but wonder what awaited her when the sun rose again.