Wild Ride

It was dark when she drove up to the gates of the Majestic. For some unknown reason, they were wide open. Arna's Wrangler lurched up the ramp and clattered to a stop. She cut the engine, jumped out. The air was still and balmy in the manner preceding a storm.

She saw Marque's classic T-bird silently sitting in the lot with its headlights on. She clopped up to the driver's-side door. With both palms she slapped the tinted window. "C'mon outta there, you double-crossin' sonuvabitch!" Getting no response, she kicked the side panel and pounded the hood. She cursed and ranted then stepped back to gain momentum for the next assault of rubber-toed sports shoe against molded chrome. Before she could land another fell blow to the defenseless fender, a dull thud sounded. She skidded to a stop on one heel with the other suspended in midair. Her ears perked up to detect more pounding coming from the back of the car. Cautiously, she walked around to the trunk. She startled to see it bounce with a solid bang and a muffled groan.

Arna noticed the keys dangling from the lock. She gave them a hard twist. The latch clicked back and the trunk lid lifted to reveal her bane -- the dashing, charismatic, manipulative and renown escape artist Marque D. Sade who had tied her up in litigation over ownership rights to her late uncle's theater. Trussed up in chains with his hands handcuffed behind his back and his ankles cuffed together, a red ball gag was in his mouth, he struggled against his bonds and tried uttering unintelligible but urgent words to her.

Before Arna could turn to see the threat standing behind her, a strong set of hands grabbed her from behind and shoved her inside the trunk on top of him. The lid slammed shut locking them in the tight confines. The eyes of one couldn't make out the face of the other, not only because of the darkness but because they were stuffed in tight with her nose filling the recess of his right eye and his nose lodging along her left cheek. The car motor revved, pinning them tighter together in a sudden pitch.

He grunted through the gag for her to remove it from his mouth. Her fingers frantically clambered across beard stubble and pulled at the straps. "How the hell to you get this gross ol' thaing off anyway?" Her thick Texas drawl twanged sharply on her fear-tightened vocal chords.

He couldn't make out the look of distaste on her face. His tongue worked futilely against the latex ball in a fierce attempt to communicate. "Come off, damn it." She was on the brink of panic when her fingers fell upon found the hitch and loosened it.

Marque spat the ball out. He knew he'd have to gain control of Arna in order to gain control of the situation. "Arna, Arna, listen. You've got to help me concentrate so that I can get us out of here."

"How do I do that?"

"Get me hard."

"Pardon me?"

"Stroke my dick and get me hard." His cupid lips fluttered against her mouth.

"But why?"

"Do you want to get out of here or not?"

Arna reached down and felt for his fly. She unzipped it and wrapped her fingers around his pulsing organ.

"That's a good girl." Marque encouraged.

She worried, "I don't see how this is—"

"Shut up and stroke." He wrapped his lips around her mouth to silence her.

The car's roar reduced to a low idle. They had come to a stop. They heard the door slam shut. The engine purred on. A long sliding metal sound ensued, like that of a garage door being shut. If they could have seen each other, they would've have watched the color draining from their faces upon the realization that they were being gassed with carbon monoxide. How much time would they have? Arna was the first to cough.

"Arna, listen to me, I'm not sure I can get us out of here. But I know we can go out in a blaze of sexual ecstasy. Let me suck and nibble your nipples." Marque coughed from the exhaust seeping into his lungs.

"We're gonna frickin' die and you want to fuck around?" Her voice rose to a pitch indicating tears were about to follow.

"Shhh, Arna, don't cry. Please, just do as I ask." He gently pulled at her lips with his, working his mouth around hers.

She struggled to pull up the hem of her sweatshirt over her braless breasts. Then she brought her hand up to the back of his head to pull it down into the cleavage of her plush bosom. She pressed her neck painfully up against the backboard in order to bring her right nipple to his mouth. He suckled with the fearsome survival instinct of a kit. Arna groaned, coughed, and kissed the top of his head.

He lifted his head and worked his mouth along her neck, sucking hard. He made hickeys on her neck, breast, shoulder, wherever he could place his mouth. His cock sat poised at the point of ejaculation.

She pulled down the elastic of her sweatpants and pulled the smooth moist head of his penis toward the thick bush of her wet pussy. She did the best she could to get his organ to the target area but the cramped conditions prevented a perfect trajectory. With his bone-solid dick poised along her pussy, she rubbed furtively.

Her moans of pleasure were punctuated by hacking coughs and streaming tears. She felt his mouth once again searching for hers. His moans of delight rumbled in his throat. Her inner thighs were hot and wet. She felt the fingers of his hand push open her labia and fondle her clit while his mouth more ravenously engulfed hers.

Arna's yelp fell trapped under his lips. She brusquely pushed him back and coughed out. "You're free?"

"Uh-huh." He shot his fleshy arrow into her bullseye. They both quivered in orgasm.

He reconnected his mouth to hers then released with a sloppy sucking noise. "What do you say we get out of here?" He reached over and pulled a cord. The engine cut off and the trunk opened up in a billow of smoke that was sucked up to a high ceiling by powerful fans. When the haze cleared, Arna saw the crowd of cheering, hooting onlookers.

She covered her exposed body parts and took in her surroundings. They were in a large plexiglass box inside a vast hangar with huge television monitors suspended above. She heard her cries of passion surging from a set of loudspeakers. To her horror the death ride in the trunk had been filmed with a night vision micro camera, and now it was being played back on the big screens. Tears poured from her eyes as she watched Marque D. Sade turn his back on her to face the crowd.

"Sex and death are kindred spirits," he announced to the cocky zipping up of his fly.

The people roared and rocked the floor with their stomping feet.

"People, settle down. What you've just witnessed is extreme escapism and unless you really want to die, I advise that you do not try this at home or in your garage EVER!" The rowdy audience hooted away, but he knew they were listening. "Unfortunately, this is going to be our one and only show in the lovely town of Blue Earth."

The crowd jeered with boos and hisses.

"But it has my pleasure to bring you a taste of our talents to the stage so that next time you are in Billings or Boise, you might find us performing there. We need your support."

Cheers and whistles rang to the rafters.

"We acquired this abandoned hangar on the spur of the moment through a benefactor who risked it all by not clearing it with the authorities. I'm sure we all will have plenty to answer to come Tuesday morning. However," he tried to speak over the brouhaha, "HOWEVER," a swath of silence washed over the crowd, "I know she knows in her heart that she did the right thing in preserving our rights to express ourselves as we see fit. Our forefathers took these risks when they published papers against their British overlords. Why should it be any different for us when we question the oppressive status quo?"

Loud cries of "Yeah!" And "Fuckin'-A!"

We may be misunderstood, but we are alive and we have the right to express our lives and values as would any Bible-belt housewife on the school board, like the one I just banged. Now, go home and don't be destructive. BE CONSCIENTIOUS AND DO IT SAFELY!