tagNonConsent/ReluctanceWrong Side of the Road

Wrong Side of the Road

byfloweringquince©

[BDSM, MMM/f, gangbang, Black/white interracial, non-consenual. Blasphemous, vulgar and obscene language; racial slurs.

This is the first chapter of a much longer story: please let me know if you'd like more.]


*

So - I was out of gas.

So - I was out of gas in the middle of nowhere.

So - I was out of gas in the middle of nowhere, wearing the same skimpy cocktail dress I'd had on when I stormed out of what I'd thought was *our* hotel room in Vegas, after Ray's wife (he'd said he wasn't married, but she sure seemed to think he was) informed me that it was *their* hotel room. Ray had just stood there, grinning like the world's stupidest sheep - and wearing my best white lace teddy.

I'd been so blind with fury that I'd just turned on my spiked heel and gone; ignoring my suitcase and other belongings; ignoring my gas gauge; and ignoring the low-battery signal on my cell phone, which was by now thoroughly dead.

So - I was fucked.

Well and truly fucked. I'd driven for hours in a blind fury, had somehow gotten onto this two-lane stretch of what was definitely not the right road, and had no idea where I was. The gas tank ran dry just about the time the sun came up. That had been about three hours ago.

I sat and fuming at Ray for a while, and then cried a bit, and then went back to clenched-jawed fuming. After that began to lose its thrill, I looked around at the nothing that was the desert: cheatgrass, some smallish rocks, and a vast expanse of crumbly broken alkaline clay. No signs or buildings, no saguaros or Joshua trees, not even a tumbleweed to keep me company.

I'd thought I should stay with the car: my shoes were utterly useless for walking any distance, and the car was the only thing that cast any shade big enough to sit in. But by now I was wondering if this road was even in use: not one car had come by in three hours. The day was already getting very hot, and I was worried about my skin. A sleeveless mini-dress had been a great 'dare-to-bare' statement in Vegas last night; but I was a redhead with that pale, slightly freckled, sunburns-in-a-second skin. And, of course, my sunscreen was in that hotel room, along with just about everything else I might want.

I was getting thirsty, too - I'd had some water in the car, but it ran out about the same time as the gas. I was trying not think about something I'd read about the Arizona Highway Patrol: they used the acronym "J-FROG" for some of the bodies they found in the desert, when there was no evidence of an accident or foul play. It stood for "Just Fucking Ran Out of Gas."

That thought led me to stand up for roughly the hundredth time to squint into the silver-white mirage at the horizon (I'd left my sunglasses in the hotel room too, damnit), absently twisting my the length of my hair up into an impromptu knot as I tried to will a passing motorist into existence.

Fuck, now the desert was playing tricks on me: I could swear I saw something big, white, and automotive; floating within that shimmering glare. And here I'd figured it would be at least mid-afternoon before I started hallucinating.

Instead of fading back into the dazzle, though, it gathered itself into solidity and continued to come on towards me: a big white cargo van, all metal and exhaust and reality. Okay, so there is a God after all. I stood in the middle of the road grinning like a maniac, whooping and waving both arms to flag it down.

The lettering on the side of the van advertised "Easy E's Electrical Repair & Emergency Field Service: No Job Too Far." I was sure glad whatever job had brought it out here hadn't been too far. The van slowed to a stop in front of me and the driver's window rolled down, and then I was looking up into a kindly face.

"Y' be needin' a li'l he'p mebbe, Ma'am?" He smiled down at me. He was a tall, muscular-looking black man, in a red plaid shirt that set off the cinnamon tints in his coffee-dark skin. He was very good-looking, but might almost have been a little scary if he hadn't been being so kind and polite.

"Oh, yes, thank you so much!" He offered me a ride to somewhere I could call my auto club, almost apologizing for the fact that the immediate area was a cellular dead zone. I climbed up into his air-conditioned van gratefully, settled into the big comfy passenger seat, and kicked off the expensive 3-1/2" heeled monstrosities that had been masquerading as my shoes.

"T'ain't ev'y pretty white lady I meets starts takin' her clothes off fi'st chance she gits."

I blushed to the eyebrows. "Oh, I'm sorry! I should have asked first. I can put them back on if you -"

" 'S a'wright. 'Dem things don' look real comft'ble, and y'all gots pretty feets anyways."

I blushed even more furiously, but smiled. "Uh, well, thank you."

He offered me a sports bottle of water. " 'S nice an' cool, but I on'y gots de one bod'le an' I already drunk some outta it. But I ain't got nothin' catchin', an' so long as y' don' min' a li'l Negro spit..."

I was appalled that to think that anyone might turn cool water in the desert, just because a black man had drunk from the bottle. "I, uh, I guess I don't think that Negro spit is any worse than any other kind. Thanks again, you're being very kind."

I took the bottle and sucked a deep, long swallow from it. I cocked an eyebrow at him, and said "Then again, I'm not all that sure that Negro spit is much better than any other kind."

He laughed, and I heard more laughter as the door in the aluminum partition behind our seats slid open. I asked "Um, are there more people riding in the back?"

I heard the multiple click that meant he'd automatically locked all the doors from the driver's seat. His speech pattern suddenly changed from Mississippi Delta to South-Central LA. "I guess I forgot t' tell you that the ride ain't free."

I'd been right: he was kind of scary now that he was no longer being kind. He reached over towards me, and I shrank back a little; but all he did was press the button that released my seat belt. As the belt slithered rapidly back into its coils, the metal belt latch slapped against the round under-curve of my left breast. And that made him smile.

Hands like steel clamps grabbed me by my upper arms and spun me out of my seat. I landed on my knees, facing backwards and looking up at a very big, and very scary, black man.

He was huge, like a broad, high wall of muscle. His skin was so dark it had blue tints to it, and his face and cheekbones had a proud arrogance that made me think of legendary African warriors. He was dressed as a modern black warrior: oversized white t-shirt, extreme baggy jeans, sunglasses, shaved scalp; and enough gold rings and chains to deck a small but very expensive Christmas tree. "So you "ain't all that sure" about nigger spit? How about some nice hot nigga spunk?"

On either side of him, a workman-like array of metal bins and tool lockers lined a narrow aisle leading back into the van. A floor-to-ceiling locker door just behind the passenger seat suddenly opened. The man who stepped out of it wasn't so tall as the other two; but was a sheer mass of muscle upon muscle, like a human range of mountains. His skin was the warm brown of milk chocolate, and his body, head, and features all shared a similar rounded quality. He was dressed like the bigger-than big man holding my arms, differing only by wearing an A-shirt, perhaps a few fewer gold rings and chains, and a black "LA Raiders" do-rag. "Y' see, we'll ride you all the way into town - but I mean we'll *ride* you all the way into town."

"Wha-? Electricians don't wear -" I looked back at the driver. "Who *are* these guys? Are they even *with* Easy 'E's Electri-"

The bigger-than-big man, who was still holding me firmly by the arms, cut me off with a rich, sinister laugh. "Ain't no Easy 'E', cracker bitch. That's just up there to keep the cops from gettin' all worked up about three niggas in a van; and so's to help us get sweet little bitches to come 'long for the ride. This here's our rollin' crib, and you our brand new entertainment system: you get to fuck and suck all three of us all the way."

He pulled me to my feet, pressing me harshly against his body, and tilted his head down to look straight into my eyes. "And your ass is gonna be special just for me."

Then he simply lifted me, keeping my arms trapped against my sides, and carried me back through the van. I flailed and kicked at him, but couldn't land a solid blow anywhere. Mountain-Ranges-of -Muscle went ahead of him; and, at the far end of the rows of lockers, drew back a black-out curtain to reveal a very un-workman-like king-sized bed.

My mind was absolutely unprepared for this: it was utterly unequipped to believe this could be happening. But my gut already knew and had told me: they were serious, and more than serious. I could not find a coherent thought to put in my brain, but my body was trying to shrink away into itself, as if to somehow hide and disappear.

Bigger-Than-Big, who seemed to be the one calling the shots grabbed my arms again and pulled me face-down onto the bed. The walls surrounding the bed were padded with upholstery, and there were various large and small pillows scattered all around - along with a small, but ominous-looking, amount of rope.

Mountain-Range-of-Muscles tied my wrists together behind my back, while Bigger-Than-Big leashed each of my ankles to appallingly convenient tie-downs on either side of the bed. Those Bigger-Than-Big thighs straddled easily over my hips then, and suddenly I felt the steely cold metal of a knife along my spine. I'd been yelling whatever objections I could think of, but now I started to scream and fight in a panicked frenzy.

To no avail. Mountain-Range-of-Muscles came up and knelt around my head, trapping it tightly between his knees. His hands pressed my upper back into the mattress, and with my ankles tied and the other man's thighs holding my hips down, I was effectively immobilized.

The knife didn't cut me, though. I felt it slide up my spine, and my dress and bra fell away from my sides as he slit them open. That relieved my frenzied terror, only to create a different horror: if they weren't concerned about keeping the dress for when they let me go, they might not ever intend to let me go. Not alive, anyway.

The straps of my dress and bra were cut and fell away, and then my head was freed and Bigger-Than-Big's steel-muscled arm tilted me up by my shoulders. That pulled my back into an arch, which forced my bound hands against his groin. I could feel a bulge that seemed unreasonably large already, but was rapidly growing.

The last touch of fabric fell away from my chest as his huge hands closed over my breasts, covering more of me than most of my D-cup bras did. His head was above mine, looking down onto the milky-pale tits captured in the ebony strength of his hands. "Damn, Snowflake, you so white you almost blue."

He lowered me to the bed, and slid down my body to straddle me at the knees. I felt the dull edge of the knife slide between my thighs, and then up along the crack of my butt, as he sliced open what remained of my dress. "Fire in the crotch, Dawgs! - We got us a natural redhead!"

"We better save one for the next time we need to measure one red cunt hair." Mountain-Range-of-Muscles had resumed his position kneeling around my head. His bulge pressed into my scalp, and I could feel the heat of him through the crotch of his jeans. As he shifted himself, the silky strands of my hair caught on and slipped from the rough stitching of his inseams. I was breathing him, too; inhaling not only the smell of his sweat, but the aniline odor that his sweat released from the denim of his jeans, and the strong glandular smell that sweat washes from a man's testicles. "Scream, you red albino bitch ho. I want your hot breath on my balls."

It startled me to realize that I wasn't screaming. I'd been too shocked, too stunned, too much overtaken by rapid and overwhelming events. He slid his hands under me to squeeze my breasts, and stroked his thumbs down hard on my nipples. I screamed then, and kept on screaming; but his thighs muffled most of the sound.

At the same time, Bigger-Than-Big was feeling up my butt cheeks, squeezing and kneading them. He cut the straps of my panties away from the thong of my panties, and pulled the newly freed thong up to give me a tight, nasty, little wedgie. He drew it back out very slowly, and dropped the loose end somewhere away from me. I was now fully naked now, lying on the ruins of my clothing.

Now his hands slid inside my thighs. A finger, then several fingers probed inside my pussy lips; and then I felt the cool touch of the air on my private, inner parts as they were pried open to view. "Oh, Cracka Bitch got a sweet strawberry-pink little cunt!"

Those huge calloused fingers slid up and down along my pussy lips, their rough tips flicking my clit at the end of each slide - and I felt myself getting wet, my breath coming hot and short, my hips yearning to press myself harder into that stroking hand. My body was responding to this, and that was just one more thing I was helpless against.

Suddenly, that big finger plunged into me. I jumped at the penetration, and at the surprise of it.

"Sweet and *Hot* little cracker cunt!" He withdrew his finger almost all the way and slammed it back into me with a second finger alongside it. I jumped again, at the penetration and at a touch of pain - he had very large fingers. He laughed. "Sweet, hot and *tight*!"

He gave me pussy a couple more finger-slamming strokes; and then withdrew. "Ryde, come get yourself a good feel before you take over driving."

The Mountain-Range-Of-Muscles let my breasts go then, and freed my head; but immediately his were the new pair of hands were on my pussy; his fingers opening, stroking, sliding, poking, penetrating. A sudden invasive push at my anus made me flinch and cry out.

"Fuckin' A, you is one tight-ass, cracker-ass, cunt-ass red albino bitch, ain't you?" But then he slapped one ass cheek, withdrew his fingers, and was gone.

Bigger-Than-Big was now kneeling in front of my face. He grabbed my hair with both hands to tilt my head back. "Shut up your screaming; Cracka Bitch. Now you gonna get some of that good nigga spunk. But first you listen to me real close.

His eyes bored into me; and his look seemed to speak of how easily my death could happen. and of how easily my body might never be found. "We gonna fuck you every way that you can be fucked, but we do not *have* to fuck you up. But you bite me, or any of us; or you find some other way to hurt one of us; and you can bet what will be left of your sweet little ofay ass that we *will* fuck you up. You understand me, Cracka Bitch?"

This laying out of terms shocked me into at least one thought, and it was oddly similar to what he'd just said: they were going to have their way with me, and there was no escaping that; but, if I were very lucky, and I played my cards right, I might still be breathing when they were done with me. (I tried to put aside any idea of what besides killing me outright "fucking me up" might mean - they'd probably heard that rap song about the cheese grater too.) So, I set myself the goal of getting out of this alive. I needed to get away if and when I could, and in the meantime I had to avoid making them angry.

I tried to nod in response to his question, but the huge hands closed tightly in my hair kept my head from moving.

"Do You Understand Me, Ms. Skanky White Trash Cracker Bitch?!" He demanded.

"Yes, Mister..." I suddenly couldn't remember what the other men called him. "Sir, I certainly won't do anything like that at all."

He released my head to start shucking his jeans and boxers. "Hey, ya hear that? This cracka bitch called me 'Mister Sir.' I like that. I think I'm gonna make that my name from now on. 'Mista Suh.' "

"You and yo' *ass*, mistah-suh!" Mountain-Range-of-Muscle's voice came from the driver's seat now. "Wick picked us up one *crazy*-ass cracker bitch, is all. 'Now on, I'm gonna start doing the pick-ups. Then I'll get myself the first fuck, too."

"Ryde, ain't no white girl, or any color girl, gonna get into this van with you driving; 'less she truly *gone* crazy, or you waving a big stack of money, or both." Wick was suddenly astride my thighs.

Bigger-Than-Big had pulled his shirt off. "Besides that, little Miss Cracka Bitch, Wick's got the littlest dick - we don' wanna you gettin' all stretched out right away."

"Littlest dick, my fuckin A!" Wick slid his arms in under my ribs and hips and lifted my body well up off the mattress. "Johnny, slide that big-ass pillow in underneath a' her; and then we'll see who's got the littlest fucking dick!"

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