Thank you for posting my previous story – The Wicked Card Game. I have been receiving a lot of love from your readers and upon request I want to share my intimate story – Taken at the car park with your readers.
The rap of my boot heels echoing off the concrete walls was the only sound as I walked down the long line of cars, looking for where I’d parked. I’d been sure this was the row— Basement Level 3 -13-D—but where was my car? I shifted my bags to my left hand where the black leather glove would keep the handles from biting into my and looked back over my shoulder through my hair. Perhaps I’d walked past it? But there was no red Mercedes-Benz GLA.
I stopped. The yellowish green fluorescent lights bothered my eyes. The floor was damp—wet in places with puddles of black water—and the peeling concrete walls were crumbling in places. This underground parking was a dump, decrepit and depressing and disorienting too. It stunk of petrol and diesel fumes and wet cement and mold, and in my good grey short pencil skirt and pink blouse and black leather coat and gloves I felt out of place. My good boots were already muddied. Maybe 13-D was where I’d parked before? 13 something. Maybe 13-B?
A car engine started somewhere in the distance but with the echoes in the cavernous place it was impossible to tell where. The parking went on forever. I wasn’t even sure where the exit was now, so I walked till I found a pass through and then turned right, the pace of my footsteps picking up. No cars passed me. The place seemed utterly deserted, though I could hear an occasional bang or slam in the distance.
At last, a wall. A pedestrian walkway. I skipped up on it and walked through to 13-C. Down the row—nothing, no red Mercedes-Benz. I returned to the sidewalk and pressed on and came to another blank wall with a door in it. It said “20-A through 22-D” and had an arrow pointing down. This was absurd.
I stopped now and looked around in confusion. I put down my packages and pulled on my right glove, the one I’d taken off so I could get my car keys when I thought I knew where my car was. I had my cell phone. Would it work down here? And who would I call? The police? What would I say? I’m lost in the underground parking and I can’t find my car?
I felt fear, and then anger. I remembered when I’d left the car there’d been a bunch of men in overalls sitting inside a barrier of plastic traffic cone barrier casually eating their lunches and playing cards like they had nothing better to do. They’d looked at up at my approvingly as I’d passed and I’d heard their comments and low laughs Where were they now? Where was that barrier of plastic traffic cones? Where was anyone?
Moving towards the pass through again, I spotted a flashing light, a yellow light, sweeping over the concrete walls—a wrecker or some vehicle, maybe one of those battery operated carts the staff rode in. I ran to intercept it, my packages bumping against my knees.
It was a big step van, the kind usually used for deliveries, painted official city blue, with a yellow dome light flashing on its roof, barely low enough to clear the concrete lintels of the concrete parking supports.
“Thank God!” I breathed, waving my arm to flag it down.
The van stopped opposite my and I peered inside. The passenger door had been removed and replaced by an outward-facing tool cabinet. I looked over the top at the driver, though his face was in shadow.
“Listen, can you help me? I’m lost! I can’t find my car! Can you just drive me around till I find it? It’s around here somewhere.”
For a moment he said nothing and I looked at his big hand on the steering wheel, the muscles in his forearm where his sleeve was rolled up, a smudge of grease on his wrist.
“Can’t,” he said. “Against the rules.”
He shifted into gear and the van started forward. I grabbed hold of the doorway.
“Please!” The desperation in my voice startled my. “No one will know. I’ll pay you. I’m really lost!”
Again the silence. I ducked my head slightly, trying to see his face in the shadows.
“Okay. You’ll have to get in the back though, and stay out of sight.”
“Thanks! Yes, of course!” I ran to the back of the van and pulled the door open, stepped up into the interior and pulled it closed behind me. The inside was hung with quilted moving blankets. There were tools boxes behind the front seat and cans of paint and other maintenance equipment.
I bent down and walked up behind the driver. The engine was right in the center of the van, making a big hump next to his seat, and I leaned over it, staring out the windshield as he drove.
“It’s a red Mercedes-Benz GLA. It shouldn’t be hard to find. I really appreciate this.”
The van rolled slowly along, and I noticed that the section numbers seemed to make no sense. 13-D, 14-C, 13-E, 14-F. The driver wheeled the van around several turns then killed the yellow light, turned down a spiral ramp and entered a lowest level that was darker, damper and deserted.
“I really think it was up on the other level,” I said.
He said nothing. He drove through a labyrinth of deserted halls and vast empty rooms lit by dim, flickering bulbs, some not lit at all. This seemed to be a totally unused part of the parking, used for storing construction materials or probably some shortcut or way to a central office, and when he pulled the van into a dim and remote corner up against a dead end and threw it into gear, I assumed he’d taken a wrong turn and was going to back up and turn around. He turned around in his seat as if to see out the back doors and so I turned around too, and so when he grabbed me by the coat and suddenly stood up and pulled me violently back over the engine housing it caught me totally by surprise.
“What are you—?”
He pulled me down on my back and held me there as he quickly stepped around me and into the back of the van so he was looming over me, in complete control, his hands gripping the front of my coat. Fear surged through my body, fighting with utter disbelief. I could feel the strength in his hands and arms and feel the heat from his body but I couldn’t quite accept what was happening. The only light in the van was the thin, watery light that seeped in from the windshield so his face was still in shadow, though now I could see his white tee-shirt and the hairs on his chest peeking through his overalls.
“I strongly suggest you keep quiet,” he said, his voice a deep, low whisper. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
I felt a thrill of horror and I automatically tried to push him away, but he quickly yanked the top of my coat halfway down my arms, efficiently trapping me in my own garment. The strength and expertise of his moves instinctively told me I was dealing with a professional, someone who had done this before.
“Wait! Wait!” I cried. “Do you want money? I’ll give you money! There’s money in my purse. Just don’t hurt me!”
That seemed to give him pause and I took that as an encouraging sign. I froze, not daring to move.
“Really. Take it. Take what you want. If it’s not enough I can get you more.”
Another brief silence, then he said. “I don’t want money. What kind of man do you think I am?”
His answer panicked me, and I tried again to reach up and at least claw at him but he got his hand beneath my and yanked my coat from behind, making it into a tourniquet that bound my arms tight against my sides and rendered my helpless. I was deep underground, hundreds of feet from anyone, and when his hand went to my throat I knew I had no choice but to lie absolutely still, well aware that he had enough strength in that one hand to choke my to death right there.
I watched as his hand went to the buttons on my blouse and opened them, and I felt the fabric give and collapse onto my skin like something defeated. There was a pause, then he slowly opened the delicate silk of my blouse like a man unveiling a meal, exposing my bra. His entire head was still in shadow, but I could feel his eyes on my, taking my in, and then his hand reappeared and closed experimentally on my breasts, first one, then the other. I felt the strength in his fingers, the tension as he fought the urge to crush them in his hands, a perverse kind of gentleness, and that made me bold. I summoned all my strength and tried to free my arms again but he held me now with embarrassing ease, as if he were consumed with my breasts and hardly even aware of my struggles. He wasn’t an especially large man, but he seemed terribly strong and focused, and yet I sensed through his touch that his intention wasn’t to hurt my. He was almost worshipful.
His hand left my breasts and slid back up to my throat and he pulled my face gently up and to the side as if to examine my face. He caressed my cheek tenderly, perhaps trying to calm my, but if so, his touch had the opposite effect and I suddenly began to panic as I realized the seriousness of my predicament, lying on my back in a deserted parking with my arms trapped and blouse open, being touched by a stranger. I suddenly couldn’t control my breathing and my breasts began to heave as I began to pant and hyperventilate and there was nothing I could do about it.
“Hush,” he whispered, his lips right next to my ear. “Nothing to be afraid of.”
He put his hand lightly over my mouth, not so firmly that I couldn’t breathe, and by some miracle, I calmed down almost immediately, or perhaps I just gave up.
He removed his hand and his fingers slid down over my breasts. He traced the edge of my bra over my boobs and I lay absolutely still, my attention drawn reluctantly to the soft touch of his fingers on my skin. He repeated the motion, this time sliding his finger inside the cups, insinuating himself between into the warm, humid space between my flesh and the bra. I closed my eyes in denial. My breasts were exquisitely sensitive and erotically charged, and yet this was rape and there could be nothing pleasurable about it. I wouldn’t even think about letting it feel good.
And yet he dipped his finger deeper into my bra like some curious visitor to the depths, and as he swept it slowly along, his nail traced the circumference of my areola, and I was shamed by the sudden splash of interest they seemed to feel.
He grasped the top edge of the cup and slowly slid it slowly down over my breast as if ejecting a piece of fruit from its peel, apparently fascinated by its slow exposure. I tried to control myself as the fabric dragged over my nipple but it was maddening, or the sense of outrage was too much, or something prompted me to try one more time to resist this violation of my privacy and I twisted on the engine cover and raised my shoulders to protect my breasts, tried to kick at him or get a knee against his chest, but again, he thwarted my efforts with humiliating ease, yanking my coat tighter to pin my arms and brushing my legs aside. All his attention was on my body now, and it was if I myself were nothing more than a minor irritation, easily disposed of.
I groaned with impotent anger and fear. I raised my head like a witness to my own rape and watched as he pulled down the other cup so that both breasts spilled free, and then closed my eyes as his head came down and his tongue touched my nipple.
His breath was on my flesh, then his tongue was circling my nipple in slow, wet circles, and despite myself, I felt the surge of salacious pleasure between my legs. His lips formed a ring around my nipples and sucked, and I felt the breath from his nostrils on my skin. It was filthy and disgusting, and I dropped my head back on the engine cover as if I could deny the terrible pleasure I felt. I couldn’t allow myself to feel this, but I couldn’t deny it either, and besides, what choice did I have? My arms were trapped in my coat and I was bent back over the engine housing as this stranger hunched over my like a vampire with his victim, slowly gorging himself on the warmth and tenderness of my breasts.
I didn’t know what to feel. It was assault—rape—but my shock and my disorientation were too great, and his physical strength and desire were overwhelming, like a physical force or a wave holding my down. He had an uncanny sense of just where and how to touch my, as if he could read my mind or already knew all my secrets—a strange kind of physical intimacy that spoke directly to my body and cared nothing what my mind thought. The way he lingered at my breasts—sucking, licking, teasing, catching my nipples in his teeth—was far more than was necessary if he were simply going to rape me. He seemed to know just what I liked, just how I operated. He seemed to know instinctively how erotically charged my breasts were and exactly how I liked them treated, just how to squeeze, just where to touch. He knew just when to punctuate the cloying sweetness of a tongue teasing my nipple with the sharp spear of his teeth.
One nipple then the other—the slow circles, the fluttering tongue, the long, lurid licks, and finally sucking my tit into his mouth and biting and sucking it, his urgent, animal sounds of pleasure, his urgent, kneading hand. He released my throat and now as he teased one breast with his mouth, he pinched and rolled the other nipple with his hand, smearing his saliva around the areola, dragging his nails over the fleshy dome until I was covered with goose bumps and quivering with need. When I thought I couldn’t stand the stimulation to my nipples anymore, he began to kiss and lick my breasts from armpit to sternum, planting soft bites on the full undersides or rubbing his rough, unshaven face on the upper slopes, holding my arms back and making my fight the urge to press myself harder into his mouth, wallowing in the softness of my tits until I’d totally forgotten my pledge to let myself feel nothing.
“Oh! Oh!” I raised my head. The stimulation of my breasts was becoming more than I could bear. My nipples were stiff and aching, and my tits felt full and swollen. I looked down at him to try and determine his attentions but still all I could see was the top of his head and his strong hands holding my arms, arms that to my own shame had stopped struggling.
I couldn’t just surrender like this, so I tried to writhe and twisted on the engine cover, trying instinctively to escape the maddening licking and sucking of my naked breasts, but all I could move was my legs, and all I succeeded in doing was making my skirt slide up my thighs. He noticed this, and let go of one of my arms and slid his hand up under my skirt, sliding up the inside of my leg, as if to show me that there were any number of ways to broach my defenses.
This assault on my pussy was too much, took the whole thing to another level, and I began to fight, but it was a strangely tense and silent struggle—my labored panting and struggling for breath and occasional groan of resistance; the soft creak and rustle of my leather coat; the lewd suck of his mouth on my flesh or his hot animal growl of lust that gave me a weird, lewd thrill, as if I were watching myself be devoured.
The struggling got me nowhere, but suddenly he stopped and straightened up. He was on his knees next to the engine housing where my legs couldn’t get at him, one hand still holding the back of my coat, but lightly now, and as he straightened up his face disappeared into the shadows again. I thought maybe he’d stop now, that maybe he’d taken me far enough to get me all hot and break my spirit, and that that’s what he’d wanted. Maybe now he’d stop and figure he’d taught me a lesson and humiliated me, laugh, tell me to get dressed and drive me to my car, but he showed no sign of letting me go.
I lay there nervously, confused and ashamed at my sudden feeling of anticlimax. My clothes were a mess, my blouse open and bra down, my breasts red and chaffed from his beard and my nipples painfully erect, my skirt up around my thighs.
I realized though that he had no intention of stopping. He was just stopping to admire me, to let me feel my own helplessness. His hand reached out and slid up my leg under my skirt and touched the soft skin next to my pussy and I cried out with a sudden and renewed sense of outrage and violation. When he’d straightened up I’d managed to work my right arm free and I tried to push him away with it but he laid his weight back on top of me and reached behind my head with his left hand, caught my right wrist and held it easily, leaving my defenseless. He still had one hand free to plunder my body and his mouth returned to my naked tits as if his work wasn’t finished.
“Relax now,” he said. “Just relax…”
With his weight upon me. Now I couldn’t avoid feeling the rock-hard stalk of his cock stabbing against my hip like a cold chisel, and I didn’t know why I was so surprised, but I was. Taken was the word that flashed into my mind. I’m going to be taken. He won’t be able to control that cock even if he wanted it too! His cock was like a force of nature, something separate from him, urging him on, controlling him, not to be denied. It was inevitable, beyond restraint, and for the first time, I felt really frightened.
“No! No!” I cried, and I tried to writhe away from him again, but he had my so securely pinned with his one arm that he took his other hand from beneath my skirt and casually finished unbuttoning my blouse down to my waist, taking his time, confident that I had absolutely no way to stop him or get away. Despite my struggles he began to sensually caress my bare stomach, dragging his fingers over the sensitive flesh and making the muscles clench. He slid his hands down over my hips, then found the button on the side of my skirt, opened it and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the skirt open and pulled skirt and slip down till they were below my panties, and then his hand began to graze teasingly over the bare skin of my thighs and my panty-covered cunt, caressing my, tickling my, coaxing into arousal, as if he had all the time in the world. The feel of his fingers on my mound, the ease with which he touched me and the casual way his hand toyed at the juncture between fabric and flesh made my start to throb with physical desire.
I pulled and heaved and bucked my hips, but he was like a piece of iron—too strong, too heavy—and I realized that my gyrations were sexual and suggestive. They were only making me look more eager and hungrier. Finally I just stopped, gave up. I would save my strength for when I really needed it, for when he tried to shove his circumcised cock into me. Maybe then I could raise my knees and push him off, or get a knee into his balls. Meanwhile his kissing and sucking of my tits had never stopped, but the focus of both their attentions had shifted to the area between my legs where I was even more hungry and more needy and the feelings ran deeper and harder to control. I was throbbing with shameful and painful need.
He seemed to be in no hurry to fuck me though. He played with my belly and hips, slid his fingers under the waist of my panties and reached down, teasing me, teasing my until my pussy needed his touch, until I wanted to feel his hand there against my empty hunger. I closed my eyes in frustration and anger and finally, finally, his hand left my panties and slid under my skirt and touched my pussy from below.
His fingers pressed the moist crotch of my panties up against my sensitive flesh and I bit my lip to stifle a cry of fulfillment. My body arched and quivered in response, but I fought it, trying not to move, trying not to give him the satisfaction of seeing the effect he had on my, but his fingers seemed so curious, so fascinated with my, and the places he touched were so right, the pressure, the stroke so perfect. For all the furious passion of his mouth on my breasts, his fingers on my cunt were like those of a fearful boy—curious, worshipful, and yet quick to learn which spots made my respond with a quick jerk of my hips or a little moan, a sharp intake of breath or subtle shiver—a soft massage of my labia, a teasing finger sliding up and down my slit or probing into my opening, gliding in circles over my clit or pressing firmly and rhythmically against it, or occasionally taking my entire pussy in his hand and squeezing in an act of mannish possession that touched something deep and primitive inside my and made my want to cling to him. He was clever and perceptive, masterful and patient, and soon I felt the sharp and jangling adrenaline-soaked fear leaving my muscles and being replaced by the deep and profound ache of pure sexual tension, a delicious sexual tightening that both relaxed me and made me harder and more solid. His hands knew my pussy intimately now, as well as I knew it myself, and I gave up struggling against him, gave it up entirely.
I felt him moving the crotch of my panties to the side and I spread my legs for him as much as I dared, as much as was permissible without it looking like I was doing it intentionally. I hungered for a kiss but I knew I wouldn’t get one, so I turned my face to the side as if I were denying him myself. My concentration was on my body now, on his fingers in my cunt and his lips and face on my tits, and my hands hung limp in my sleeves, my legs might as well have been filled with sawdust. I lay in the engine cover like a half-naked rag doll
With my panties out of the way the intimacy of his touch was even more intense, flesh on flesh, all my secrets revealed, and I felt as though I were in the hands of a relentless master who played my like a fine violin, bringing forth high trills of thrilling pleasure and low, rich tones of soul-shuddering desire. This dark, shadowy man in coveralls was the maestro and I was the instrument, and I had no more control or responsibility than a violin has in the hands of a virtuoso. He played my and I soared with sexual music, and meanwhile the hot, animal throbbing of his hard circumcised cock against my hip was like wild obscene metronome, setting the tempo, urging me on, higher and higher
My hips began to move. I couldn’t stop them and what did I care anyhow? I was being raped by a stranger and who would ever know or give a damn? Why shouldn’t I milk it for all the pleasure I could? I didn’t care what he thought of me, and he already seemed to be able to read my mind and wasn’t going to stop till he drove me over the brink, so why not? Why not join in?
Why not fuck his hand since he wanted it so much and I did too? Raise my knees and open my legs? Let him push my skirt up so he could see my naked pussy humping up at his plunging finger as his thumb slid over my clit. Why not let him see my moans and gasp through my teeth as my orgasm rumbled down upon my, as it bore down upon my like big, fiery, incandescent, blinding wave, something selfish and glorious and all for me?
“Oh! Oh! Ohhhh! OHHHHH!!!!!!”
I arched my back, thrusting my cunt up and opening my legs obscenely, knees up, my toes curling up in my boots as pleasure built inside my like an obliterating fountain. I felt it in waves like an internal ejaculation, as if I were coming into myself, and I let myself wallow in a pure selfishness I’d never allowed myself with any other lover, entirely my own, not giving a damn about pleasing the man who lay upon my.
He never stopped but stayed with my right through my orgasm, somehow knowing when to ease up, when to back off and slow down so that the insistent stimulation became the soothing caresses of comfort, and when I had calmed down sufficiently, when my shuddering and spasms had stopped and I at last opened my eyes, half afraid of what I might see, he was on his knees, his face bisected by a sharp diagonal shadow, pulling down the zipper of his jumpsuit.
I couldn’t say anything. In some weird, perverse way, I knew I owed him—he’d just seen me cum, made me cum, and I could hardly claim rape now.
And there was something else. I wanted him now. I wanted to know him, wanted to know who he was, why he’d done this to me, how he knew me so well.
But still, I’d just climaxed. I was too sensitive to take him now, surely he knew that. I’d always been that way. I needed at least a few minutes…
He pulled the zipper all the way down and I saw the white tee-shirt he wore beneath it, the broad plates of his pecs. He reached down and hooked his thumbs into the waist band of his white boxer shorts and peeled them down till his cock and balls spilled over the top and hung there, looking like puppets posed against a curtain on their little stage. His circumcised cock was impressive, erect and angry as only a Muslim’s cock can be, and it made me shamefully proud to see how hard he was for me. He had a thin triangle of hair that led up to his navel, like a symbol of a beast turning into man.
“Wait,” I said, stalling for time to catch my breath. “Wait. I can make it good for you. Just give me a minute…”
I still couldn’t see his face, but with him on his knees and with me on the engine cover, his cock was at the perfect height. The elastic of his boxers pulled his balls out aggressively and I watched as he spit on his hand and smeared his saliva over his cock. I sat up and pulled my arms from my coat at last and pulled my tangled hair back from my face, and something about the way he stroked his cock suddenly made me feel ill. It was sticky, lubricated. I didn’t want this anymore. I knew I should be thankful that he at least used protection, but what kind of man carries a condom with him in his pocket?
“No,” I said suddenly. “No, that’s all!” As if I’d made a deal with him and had already fulfilled my part.
I raised my knees, preparing to kick at his chest, but he grabbed my right ankle and his hand was like a steel clamp. I felt his fingers through the leather of my boot, unmovable. My other foot kicked out at him, but he knocked it away, and then he was between my thighs, his latex-shrouded cock piercing the air like a spear. I half-sat and clawed at him but he pulled my right knee so far back that I couldn’t use that arm, and grabbed my left wrist with his other hand and held me as I twisted and tried to hump him off with my body, but rolled into a half-ball as I was I could barely move, and my knee was almost against my shoulder, totally opening my pussy to him. I struggled beneath him, reaching up at one point to try and bite the hand that held my wrist, but he was too strong and knew how to fight and I didn’t, and his big, heavy cock kept on bumping against my cunt as if battering against it. Somehow in the melee I suddenly felt his hand on the back of my panties, tugging so hard my hips jerked into the air, then pulling again until the panties ripped and then tore completely, part of them sliding down below my right knee and the rest hanging like a useless, shredded garter on my left thigh.
The ripping of my panties shocked me almost more than anything else. These were my good panties, my favorite pair, and the man tore them to pieces as if that meant nothing. Tears sprang to my eyes. He was a maniac!
I looked down at his cock now—the turgid length in that obscene cock in the dim light, straining in a backwards arc like a snake about to strike, his balls heavy and potent like two evil henchmen—and then up at his face, but again, all was shadow—darkness. Just that hairy chest with the gold chain, the broad pecs and knotted shoulders. He slid forward on his knees and the hand on the ankle of my boot pulled even harder. With his other hand he threw my skirt up over my waist. He rocked forward and the naked crown of his cock touched the bare lips of my pussy.
No, I didn’t want this, I didn’t want this. That’s why he was holding my down, holding my one leg bent up and my other wrist down. My free hand tried to claw at his chest but I could hardly reach him like this. I got my hand inside the leg he was holding and clawed at him but it was like trying to get a scratch on stone. I dug into his cotton tee shirt and felt it rip but his muscles were like marble. He was too close for me to use my free leg, and now his cock was touching the flesh of my cunt and it was too much. I tried to squeeze myself shut but there was a part of my that wanted this, that wanted it so much and wanted it just like this, with his hands on my holding me down and my clothes ripped and shredded, my will violated, my body used and exposed, but I didn’t want it and I did and I wanted him to make my do it and I didn’t, and my mind whirled and his cock pressed against my and then I had no choice whatsoever anymore.
“Owwwww! No! Damn it!”
My back arched, my pussy opened, the thickness of his impossibly hard cock slithered into me with the immutability of fate itself, a power stronger than what I wanted or didn’t want. It slid into me, it slid into me, deep, merciless, till I was filled with him, entire with him, completed by him, his cock filling me and making my desires whole, his balls pulled by his shorts against the crack in my buttocks, their load of precious masculine come pressing against my asshole.
He pulled into my and left it there, made my choke on his fullness—left it there as he hung over my breathing deep and gasping with pleasure for a long, long, moment, and I felt him throbbing inside my, felt the beat of his heart inside my body, hot and excited. Then he relented. His strength pulled back like an ebbing wave and he slid it slowly out so I could breathe again, and then as if acting with deliberate cruelty, he pulled it back into me again. He did this several times, overcome with the pleasure of being inside my tight, quivering cunt, and finally, when this savage, brutal spearing had taken all the fight and resistance out of me, he began to fuck me—long, sure, fulfilling strokes, as if savoring every millimeter of my cunt, memorizing every angstrom of my cunt. How did he know it was just what I wanted as well? Slow like this, deep like this, full and entire. Time to study him too and feel for once the physicality of fucking? To get to know every bump and vein and ridge, every sensitive spot and gasping point on his penetrating tool? To feel the excruciating, shuddering knife-edge control behind every thrust, his tension and tremble and open-mouthed groan?
And yet it was rape. I had never consented, never invited, never offered. Everything was taken from my. I owed him nothing but hatred and contempt. I was free to lie there, letting him do as he wanted; taking every deep, mind-shattering thrust, every trembling shove, and every quivering grasp of his fingers on my ass as he worked himself off in my passive, violated body. He was a selfish pig, using me for his own swinish pleasure. Why shouldn’t I be selfish too and take it for what it was worth?
I stopped all pretense of resistance. I threw my hands back over my head, exposing my breasts to him, and he fell upon them like a slavering dog in an orgy of bestial carnality, sucking, squeezing, and biting. His cock was right where I liked it, and then he lifted his legs and spread them outside mine and squeezed my legs together to make a tighter channel for his plundering cock, trapping my thighs between his legs so that his shaft rumbled over my clit, piercing me that way too, the salacious juice of their coupling greasing my thighs and wetting the fine nylon of my ruined stockings. He fucked me just like I needed it. His mouth was on my tits again, familiar, starving for me, and I felt that bone deep, subhuman primitive masculinity ravishing my flesh, taking without asking, fucking my, filling my, and I threw myself into it, giving as good as I got, raping as well as being raped. I closed my eyes and felt the primitive freedom of being used. No one could blame me for this filthy pleasure. No one.
He lost patience with the limitations on this male-outside position, and opened my legs with his knees again and plunged back into my, fucking my with animal ferocity just as my orgasm started, and I went delirious with need.
Yes! Yes! Yes! Harder, you motherfucker! Harder! Get it! Get me off! Fuck that hot cunt—fuck me, you perverted prick! You cunt-slave! You know you want it! You want to spit that dirty cum in me! Give me your filthy shit you filthy motherfucker!
I felt his ribs heaving like bellows between my knees as he fucked me hard and fast on his knees, his ass flexing and tightening like a dog’s as he sent that big log slipping and sliding in and out of my greasy cunt like a slicked-up piston, his fingers tightening frantically in the smooth globes of my ass. At a certain moment he froze, but by then I was choking in my own insensate cum, my head back, eyes sightless, body quivering spastically as I felt the powerful contractions of my womb bear down on his deep-sunk, invading shaft. I couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t make a sound as I felt him shove deep, mashing my ass against the engine housing and grinding his pubic bone against my clit, and he made a strangled and strangely pitiful sound in his throat as I felt jets of his thick, eager seed. I let myself go, let go of myself totally and slid over a waterfall of sensation onto a pool of bursting light and glorious sensation that was reserved for my alone—the filthy exudate of life injected into my body, I was floating there for a long, eternal instant before returning once again to the grim reality of the guilt and blame and the parked van and the moving blanket over the engine cover, the groaning, sweating man between my legs, the cum dripping from his deflating cock.
He removed himself from my body without a word, rather as if he’d finished some thankless job, moved into the darkness into the back of the van.
I was in no hurry to move now or cover myself up. I had the moral authority of a victim and I was his problem now. I lay there with my skirt up, my legs apart, my labia still gaping from his penetration, my blouse and bra a mess. He came to my and picked me up under the arms and sat me on the floor behind the engine housing. I didn’t object. I heard him zip up his coveralls and then he got back into the driver’s seat without a word. He turned on the lights, turned on the yellow dome light, and pulled out of the space.
Up, up, to the previous level and the rows of cars, neither of them speaking. I glanced up at him occasionally as I fixed my bra and buttoned my blouse and skirt and saw the lights sweeping across his face, but I really couldn’t get a complete picture of his face. It was like seeing a face through a slit, and, oddly, I wasn’t interested any longer. Things had changed between us.
In a matter of minutes we were there at my car, the red Mercedes-Benz GLA. He stopped the van and put it into park and said nothing.
As I turned to get out of the van, I noticed a rack against the back door that held a stack of cardboard stencils—13-E, 13-F, 12-C, 14-B, 15-D, 10-A…—an entire deck of numbers and letters, all of them used and used recently, judging from the odor of spray paint. I looked at the stencils and then up at the inscrutable “13-F” that marked the row in which my car stood.
The van idled as I opened the back door, picked up my packages and stepped out onto the concrete. I watched him as he took a cigarette from a pack on the dashboards and put it in his mouth, and I could see his eyes in the flare from the lighter in the rearview mirror as he lit it.
“You don’t really work at the parking, do you?” I asked. “You don’t even work for the city at all.”
The cigarette illuminated his face as he drew on it. “Nope,” he said.
He sucked in some smoke, then let it out. I saw him check the rearview mirror.
“I like women,” he said. “Some people get lost and need help. I do what I can.”
He reached over and gave me a grimy business card. It had a name and a phone number on it.
“Call me if you ever get lost again,” he said.
He shifted the van into gear and drove off down the row of parked cars, the yellow light flashing.