Road Rage

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A young woman gets pushed too far and pushes back.
1.7k words
4.36
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Lissette was having a bad day.

It had started that morning, when she had woken up with a terrible headache. Then, going outside to pick up the newspaper, she had stepped in a pile of poo. Some asshole had let his dog take a shit right in her driveway.

It hadn't gotten any better at work. At noon, she had opened the refrigerator to discover that some jerk had stolen her lunch. During her afternoon break, the obnoxious new guy from accounting had been badgering her for a date yet AGAIN, despite the fact that she had firmly said no many times. And at a quarter to five, she had checked her email and found an angry message from her boss's boss. Apparently, her boss had fucked something up and rather than own up to it he had instead blamed HER for it. And to top it all off, her headache had not gone away despite all the medicine she had taken.

So naturally, when Lissette got in her car for the drive home, her fuse was short. The unusually heavy traffic on the freeway didn't help matters.

After a wearying hour-long drive, she was finally almost home. Two more exits and she could get off this damn freeway, then it was just three blocks to her house. In anticipation of getting off the freeway soon, she was in the far right lane. The traffic in every lane was heavy, moving at about fifteen miles per hour.

Suddenly, she heard the roar of a car engine traveling at high speed. She looked in her mirror and saw a silver sports car zooming along the shoulder of the road. She shook her head at this reckless and illegal behavior. The sports car went by her on the right, slowing down, and tried to cut right in front of her.

On any other day, she would have let it go, decided it wasn't worth a fight, and let the driver in. But not today. She had had it with assholes getting away with shit.

She kept very close to the car in front of her, not giving the silver sports car any room to get in. The driver, a middle-aged, snobbish-looking man with sunglasses and slicked-back hair, glared over at her. He began pounding the horn with his right hand while giving her the finger with his left. All the while, swear words and threats were flowing liberally from his mouth.

Keeping the gap tight, she slowly moved past him, giving him the finger back as she passed by. His threats and curses became louder, and he was still honking his horn. Finally the noise became fainter as she passed him. As she approached her exit, Lissette leaned back in the seat, feeling better. She smiled as she broke loose from the freeway traffic and sped onto the offramp.

Suddenly, she heard the roar of a familiar car engine. She looked in her mirror again. Sure enough, the silver sports car was behind her and coming up fast. As she made her way onto the surface streets, the asshole driver kept right behind her, still swearing and giving her the finger. A wave of anger swept over her. This jackass had started the whole situation, and was now following her in a fit of self-righteous rage.

She was approaching a fork in the road. She knew that not far down the left fork was a police station. She could drive there, and be safe, and...

And what? Let the asshole driver most likely get away, or at best get a fine and a slap on the wrist, and let him do it again and again to other drivers? And surely he wasn't an asshole only on the road. Guys like him were exactly the kind of jerks who let their dogs shit in other people's driveways, stole people's lunches, sexually harassed people, and blamed others for their own failures. She felt her rage grow as she thought of the other bad things that had happened to her that day. Her headache increased in pain as well.

She knew two other things. She had a gun in her glove compartment. And the fork on the right led to an isolated area. A very isolated area.

On any other day, she would have taken the left fork. But today was not any other day.

She took the right...

She drove along the road, watching as the houses thinned out. She drove fast, as if she was frightened and trying to get away. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she grinned wickedly. The silver sports car was still following her.

Soon there was nothing but trees and bushes alongside the road. Lissette put on a burst of speed, whipping her car sharply to the right and onto a dirt turnoff. The turnoff dead-ended after a couple hundred yards. She stopped the car and reached into the glove compartment. She put on a pair of black leather gloves and took out the .45 pistol waiting inside. She chambered a round and flicked the safety off. She also kept a thigh holster in there and she now used it, quickly and efficiently putting it on and strapping the handgun to her thigh underneath the skirt she was wearing. She then got out of the car, face expressionless but heart pounding.

The silver sports car appeared. The driver smirked to himself when he saw Lissette trapped at the dead end. Turning his car sideways to block the only way out, he screeched to a stop and climbed out. The look on his face was one of cockiness and arrogance. He had her now. He was a big man, about 6'1" and 200 pounds, wearing a loud and expensive sport suit. She was a slender, pretty young woman, about 5'7" and 120 pounds. She wore knee-high black leather boots, a black miniskirt, and a white top. The sleeves of her top were rolled up, displaying her slim, tanned, feminine forearms. The top was low-cut, giving a hint of her small, firm, round 34B tits. Her thighs were thin, but had visible muscle tone.

"Suck my dick, bitch," the man growled, advancing on her.

She smoothly pulled out the gun from underneath her miniskirt and aimed it right at his head. He froze and a look of pure terror appeared on his face. Sweat dripped down his brow.

"I didn't hear you," she said. "Say it again."

His mouth opened, but no words came out. He took half a step backward.

"What's the matter, baby?" she taunted him. "Don't want me to suck your dick anymore? Cat got your tongue?"

He managed to squeak out, "Please...I'm sorry, I'll go..."

"You're not going anywhere," said Lissette, tightening her grip on her gun.

He raised his hands. "Please! I'm sorry! I shouldn't have done that! Please have mercy, I'm begging you!"

"Shouldn't have done what? Driven illegally along the shoulder? Tried to cut me off? Given me the finger? Cursed at me? Threatened me? Chased me? Boxed me in here, thinking you'd trapped me?"

"Yes, all of those things! I was wrong on all of those things! Please don't kill me!"

Lissette shook her head. "No, you're only sorry for one thing. You're only sorry you got caught." All this time, she had been slowly but steadily advancing on him. Now she was almost upon him. She suddenly hit him in the face with her pistol, sending him to the dirt.

She kicked him in the side with her big black boot, cracking one of his ribs. "I know assholes like you all too well," she said, kicking him again, in the head this time, giving him a terrible headache. "You think you're better than everybody else. You think the world owes you everything. You think you don't have to play by the rules. And you always blame others for all your own problems." She kicked him hard in the back as she finished speaking.

Rolling on the ground in pain and clutching his cracked rib, the man began begging and pleading again. She simply stood over him, gun pointed at his face, and waited for him to finish his whining.

"Oh, you're begging me now. That's interesting. I wonder what things would be like if I didn't have this." She waved her gun. "I wonder what you'd be doing to me if you'd trapped me for real. I wonder if you'd listen to my pleas." He turned his head away in shame. His hypocrisy had been exposed.

He was pale with fear. Begging wasn't working. Running wouldn't work. Fighting wouldn't work. The sickening feeling of finality began to sink in. He was out of options, and out of time.

"On your knees," she ordered.

He obeyed, trying to plead for mercy with his eyes.

She ignored it. "Open your mouth."

He opened his mouth. She approached him, holding her gun, still aimed at him, right in front of her crotch, as if it was a surrogate phallus. He wet his pants as he realized how it was going to end.

Shoving the barrel of the pistol into his mouth, she spoke the four words he knew were coming. The words he knew would be the last he would ever hear.

"Suck my dick, bitch."

She pulled the trigger.

Lissette discovered that her headache was now gone. She looked dispassionately at the blood pooling from the corpse. She scanned the dirt road to make sure no one else was there, then collected the spent cartridge from the ground. Reholstering her gun underneath her miniskirt, she bent over the body, fishing in the dead man's pocket for his car keys. Still wearing her black leather gloves, she moved the silver sports car to give her enough room to get out.

Putting his keys back in his pocket, she gave the corpse one last glance before heading back to her own car. As she started the engine and unstrapped her pistol from her thigh to put back into the glove compartment, she thought of the trouble she was in at work and her asshole boss who had gotten her into trouble.

She looked at the gun in her gloved hand, and smiled.

THE END

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AnonymousAnonymousalmost 6 years ago
A story needs villains and heroes

As is, you've got two villains, the guy who started it and Lissett. Teaching him a lesson would be more appropriate and effective. If caught, Lissett would face either a life sentence or close to it, deservedly so. Her actions didn't justify the actions of her antagonist. He was unarmed and contrite (not genuinely contrite, but still...), then he was murdered in cold blood; he was no longer a threat. She might plead self-defense, might plead guilty to manslaughter and not serve the time a homicide conviction would give her.

auhunter04auhunter04about 8 years ago
couple of things

all you remarking about hiding a 1911 under a miniskirt. bet all you were thinking about it being on the outside of the leg. Bet none of you considered the inside of the leg. Having said that why did she even bother to conceal the weapon, simply holding it behind her would work given the way the scene transpired.

For the young lady who asked why didn't she just leave him with broken ribs. I would bet this this wasn't the first time he had done something like this and when his ribs healed he would do it again. This way this heroine insured this rapist would never assault anyone else.---something I am in favor of for all rapists, abusers and molesters.

We cannot prevent the first time but we as a society can sure as hell prevent any further acts once caught and prosecuted.

have a nice day y'all

LittlerackLittlerackabout 9 years agoAuthor
Actually...

Actually, HH, just like 'Anonymous' said, there are many more .45 semi-autos than just the M1911. The author did think about what *she* was writing. I do own a 1911, but I would never try to use it as a concealed weapon. I also own a compact .45 that I actually have carried concealed in a thigh holster under a miniskirt. Although I never said the gun in the story was a 1911, I do take responsibility for not specifically mentioning what model of .45 it was. I should have made that more clear.

I appreciate the compliments on the story.

AnonymousAnonymousabout 9 years ago
Sorry HH

There are any number of compact .45 carry weapons available now. Check out the new line of striker fired weapons from S&W and Springfield. They're available in 9mm, .40 and .45 and they're pretty sweet carry weapons.

You/re right about the Govt model though. I have one and it comes in at 3.2 pounds loaded. Colt used to make (and maybe still does) make a Commander in .45 that was a pretty nice carry piece. The lightweight version was the best.

The Commander and the compact versions of the M&P and XDM series can easily be carried by a woman under a skirt although under a mini-skirt may be pushing it.

H.H.MorantH.H.Morantabout 9 years ago
one suspension of disbelief too far - way, way too far - otherwise five stars

Somebody else mentioned my problem (otherwise I love the story) with a slender woman in a miniskirt strapping a holster and 45 BENEATH that skirt. It seems that the weapon was an automatic (so-called - really a semi-automatic); I'd guess it would have been the iconic M1911 that was standard issue for the US military from 1911 until 1985. This weapon weighs two and a half pounds unloaded and measures eight and a quarter inches long.

This pistol would not go under a miniskirt. Maybe if she were wearing an A-Line dress (fitted at the hips and widening outward, leaving the impression of the capital letter A) it would work. Too bad the author weakened a fun story by not thinking very hard about what he was writing.

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