tagNonConsent/ReluctanceBass-Ackwards Ch. 01

Bass-Ackwards Ch. 01


Author's Note: Hi, my friends! This story probably falls more at the Reluctance end of this category than at the more hardcore NonCon end, so let that be your guide as to whether your free hand wants to go with you on this journey. My outline tells me this thing should be 8 chapters. I have 1 and 2 written, 3 almost done, and the rest will come as I'm able. It's been a nice break from revisions on The Eighth House, which have been making me crazy for months. Enjoy!


* * *

The Haul Ash Truck & Trailer rental office in Ashland, Texas didn't have a neon or LED 'OPEN' sign in the window when Christina Lee Dodd showed up for her closing shift that Thursday, even though it was one o'clock in the afternoon. That was because her boss was too cheap for them to have one.

Instead, there was the cracking plastic one that read 'OPEN' beneath a little clock someone could manually move the hands on, to show the entire dozen customers they might have over the course of a week when an employee would be in the building. The back side said 'CLOSED' and the entire thing was older than dirt.

Christina pulled off the highway and the tires of her '80 Bronco crunched over the gravel drive and parking area until she pulled up at the side of the squat little manufactured building that was her only place of employment. She cut the engine and shouldered her purse. Looked down at herself and let out a breath.

This was not her normal work attire. Christina was a jeans-and-t-shirt kind of girl. But not today.

Not today.

She stepped out of the truck—she called it a truck, she didn't care what her cousin Lloyd down in Tyler said—and straightened the gores of the summer dress. The rare specimen in her wardrobe was navy blue and dotted with tiny pink and white flowers. It came with equally tiny sleeves and its hem fell somewhere south of slut but north of schoolteacher. There was a fair amount of the jersey material: it swung and fluttered when she walked.

Her and her brown cowgirl boots and long blonde hair, on display like it almost never was, marched their way to the front door. She made her best effort to wipe the grim look off her face and look chipper.

She was trying to charm her boss.

The twined chain of mini cowbells dangling from the inside handle of the door clunked their dull alarm as she pushed her way into the office. Air conditioning blasted her in the face. It was hot already, and only May.

"You're eight minutes late."

Ah, there. There was Bill Marshall.

Bill was her boss. And Bill was an asshole.

"Sorry, Bill. Let me just clock in."

"Mmhm." He grunted in disapproval. It was pretty much his default response, now that she thought of it.

Haul Ash still had an honest-to-goodness time card punch clock, and for similar reasons as their OPEN sign. Christina pulled her card and did the deed, then slid it back in its slot below the three others there: Jonah, Travis, and of course, Bill.

She came around the front counter in all its faux-marble Formica glory and slid her purse onto the shelf below, the same as she did every day. Bill turned on the tall shop stool where he'd sat in front of the front desk computer and slid off toward the door to the back half.

"I'm gonna make some more coffee."


Christina began shuffling through the printed invoices on the counter and took over the stool, still warm. She made a face.

If he'd noticed a difference in her appearance at all, he hadn't so much as twitched an eye about it. Sounds of puttering and clacking of kitchenware came from the back half, which was what everyone there called the combination break and storage room of which the rear portion of the building consisted.

The whole floorplan, if you could call it that, was a simple rectangle, divided neatly in half, the front room allotted to the space where customers came and waited or paid, the back a catchall for everything else, with a smaller bit sectioned off on the west side for a bathroom. There was also a second building in back a detached aluminum affair where repairs happened, and it was mostly Travis and Jonah who worked out there, anyway.

Fifteen minutes passed while she busied herself. Thirty minutes. An hour.

She shifted on her seat. She'd heard the back door open and close, which meant Bill had probably gone to the shop and Christina was alone in the office.

At some point, she was going to have to ask him, because at four o'clock he was going to go home. She needed tomorrow off. Needed. It was no joke. And Bill Marshall was one hard stick of butter. The man needed softening.

For probably the twentieth time, her eyes flitted down to the probably way-too-obvious dress. She had some cleavage—not much, but some—and it was doing its best to sit up straight and look pretty. Had her mascara wondered what it was doing in the light of day when she'd dug it out from the bag under her sink? There was hardly time for makeup anymore, but today she'd made time. Just a little.

Christina was not ignorant. She knew about the Halo Effect. If a body needed to ask favors, better to do it not looking disheveled and tired. Especially not if you needed them from the owner of Haul Ash Truck & Trailer.

By the time the clock read ten after three, they'd had all of one customer pick-up and two phone calls asking about hours. Bill had returned and put away a box of packing tape, restocking the shelves of the few items they sold rather than rented, and then had gone off again into the back half.

You need to do this, Christy. Or you're not gonna get a chance.

She sighed and hopped down from the stool. Pushed through the door to the back.

Her boss stood on a stepladder in the storage side of the room, and had his head periscoped into one of the acoustic tiles of the ceiling. He was fiddling with something out of sight above the shifted tile.

Christina crossed the room to lean against a long folding table that stood along the opposite wall. A wide, horizontal window, banded with aluminum blinds, grinned at her back and lit the room.

He hadn't acknowledged her entry yet, and the knot in her stomach from having to ask for anything made her almost give up and leave. Everyone knew Bill handed out extra time off like the Devil handed out ice water.

"Bill," she said, forcing her own hand.

"Yeah." He was still up to his ears in the ceiling.

"I gotta ask you something."

"What's that?"

He stepped down, replacing the tile and dusting his hands on his jeans. Would it work? Could she sweet-talk Asshole Bill?

"I need to know if I can take tomorrow off."


Dammit! Just like that?

"It's really important," she said, "and Travis is gonna be here."

He deposited a pair of red-handled pliers he'd been using on top of the stepladder. "Answer's still no."

Now he was washing his hands in the sink of what counted as their break room. It was really just the west side of the back half, where they had a card table and some folding chairs set up next to a mini fridge.

Christina ground her teeth, her head welling with the consequences of not having the time she needed the next day.

"I've worked here two years and haven't asked for one day off, Bill." So much for sweet talk.

Her boss turned around and eyed her, wiping his hands with a paper towel.

"I don't see what that has to do with the schedule." He regarded her with just a hair of annoyance, and his mouth came open as if he was going to add some other pointed comment, but then shut. Was there the slightest tilt of his head? Was that movement of his eyes him taking some notice of her dress for the first time? Some of her legs, her collarbone on display?

"Please," she said, trying her best to add honey instead of salt. "I'll make it up."

He snorted and tossed the paper towel in the trash. Sauntered in her direction. No. Not 'sauntered'. That would imply some sort of self-aware ego, some cocky show he was putting on, and Bill never put on anything. Either way, in a moment they were closer and, for whatever reason, it made Christina press the backs of her thighs against the table in unconscious retreat.

"You'll make it up?"

Why did it sound like a threat?

Still, she nodded at the sliver of hope. "I will."

"OK, Christina Lee." His voice was quieter than its usual bark, and it made her insides curl. "You can make it up by bending that pretty little ass over this table for me. Right now. Or you can quit whining and come in tomorrow. And you won't bring this shit up ever again."

Her jaw hung slack.

Bend over the ...

Damn! The dress was supposed to paint a picture, not pull audience members up on the stage! Shit!

Bill had hooked thumbs into his belt, one eyebrow up, waiting, while she gaped at him.

Who looked at Asshole Bill that way? The man was, well, not quite old enough to be her father, but still. He wasn't in bad shape she supposed, but attractive? Someone to fantasize about? Someone to invite quickies with? Not even.

But you need tomorrow off. You. Need. It.

It was three-fifteen in the afternoon, for Pete's sake! A customer could come and—

"That's what I thought," he said, turning for the door to the front. Noo! Fuck! "You better be here on ti—"

"OK." His hand stopped on the doorknob. "Bill, OK." Just his head swiveled and she caught the side of one eye. "I will. I'll do it."

For the briefest of moments, just when he turned back to face her, she thought there was a slackening of his features. Some indication he was as dumbfounded as she was. But just as quick, it was gone, and his mouth settled into a hard line.

"All right then," he said, thumbing the lock closed. "Go on."

Her hands gripped the laminate wood edge of the table behind her. Bill Marshall had no sense of humor at all. He was not joking, not even one little bit.

"Um, OK." She started to turn. To face the other way. "OK."

Holy fuck are you gonna do this? This is like, every sexual harassment stereotype in the world.

Christina put her hands on the table. Leaned forward on tentative arms.

"All the way down," he said from somewhere closer behind her. "Shoulders on the table."

Oh shit, oh shit.

How much higher would her dress come up if she bent over that far? But she went down on her elbows, and then laid the side of her face on the surface like he'd asked.

You're worried about what he's gonna see? You know he doesn't want to bend you over just to laugh at you. You know what he wants.

She breathed, her breasts squished up against the wood, and waited. The radio was still on in the front office, and cars shushed past on the highway.

"Reach back and lift up your skirt." The voice was closer, still.

Christina swallowed. She was just supposed to bend over. When had this become some fucked up game of Simon Says?

She reached back, began gathering fabric.

"All the way up. Over your ass."

The rest of it came. She hiked it to lay over her tailbone and let go, the back door that led outside to the shop horizontal in her line of sight.

Long seconds went by and Bill said nothing. What was he doing back there? Just staring at her underwear?

Then came the touch of a hand.

Christina started. His work boots had made no noise on floor. Now there were at least two fingertips tracing skin along the panty line at her leg. She hadn't worn anything special. He'd be looking down at underwear that were plain, yellow, serviceable. None of this had been a part of the plan.

"Move your feet apart." He tapped at her ankle with the side of his boot, and she shuffled her soles a little wider on the tiles.


Another tap, one on each side this time, and with more force. Her feet slipped outward and her weight came onto her belly. She had to look like half a sawhorse at this point, but that was the least of her problems.

A full set of male fingers slid down over her covered mound. Slid and began to massage.

Dear God, Bill Marshall is touching my pussy.

Not just touching. Rubbing. While she spread her legs in the back half of the fucking office. And the more he worked the pads of his fingers in little circles, the more she felt her body dampen the fabric.

You are not getting wet right now. There is no fucking way.

Just when something embarrassing was about to squeak out from between her teeth, the hand disappeared. The sound of a belt buckle replaced it.

Christina began to breathe through her mouth, those low, controlled breaths of a person trying to avoid panic. It was going to happen. She was going to let her boss put his dick in her for a goddamn day off.

Fabric rustled and fingers were back. They were hooking under the waistband, tugging. Her panties stretched over the swell of her ass and wider across her hips. Down he pulled them. Down and down, until they made a tight cotton bridge, strung between the tops of her thighs.

Cool air touched her lips. So did the head of Bill's cock.

Damn, he doesn't mess around.

Did she want him to mess around? No. Get it over with.

A palm splayed over the small of her back and he leaned some of his weight while the blunt head—guided by his other hand, no doubt—smeared the moisture between her lips.

Oh god oh god.

There was no big announcement. No dramatic sounds or exclamations. Just hot, hard dick as it stopped playing and started pushing its way into her body.

It was both familiar and unfamiliar at once. Cock was cock, more or less, and Christina was no virgin. But this one was new. This place was new. Her boss, who she was just supposed to charm, was now halfway inside her. And who knew he was even interested in the first place?

No. Make that all the way inside, the press of hips and groin cushioned against her ass, of—oh my god!—his balls warm and kissing her lips.

"There we go," he said, settling in to the hilt. "Theeere we go." He pulled out, almost to the tip, and thrust back in, the whole length in one go. She couldn't help a gasp.

The same pattern happened again: a near total withdrawal, a breath, a swift plunge to the root, and hold. And again.

And again.

Bill Marshall was fucking her. And true to his asshole colors, he was not going to be a gentleman and hurry up about it. He was going to take his time.

She lay with her upper body on the table, legs spread, stretching her panties out, her boss's work boots keeping her ankles apart while he nailed her with an infuriating deliberation. She didn't know what to do with her hands. They came up at last to brace near her shoulders, halting the jerk of her body each time so her head wouldn't bang on the wall.

The table, however, had no such protection and bang-thumped the bottom of the window molding with every metered thrust.

Noises were starting to grind out of her throat. She couldn't help it. He was thick enough. Long enough. She was maybe stunned by disbelief, but not in terrible distress.

Her body began to respond. Though he never sped or slowed, he slid easier as arousal started to seep.

You are not turned on by Asshole Bill! There is a warm, hard penis prodding around in your lady parts, and your body is meant to react.

Thumbs came to knead at her cheeks as he kept up the slow, jolting rhythm.

Thumb, singular. A wet pad pressed over another hole and began to massage in circles. Christina almost choked on her own spit. Instead she made a humiliating sound and might have tilted her hips to meet him.


Why was it wrong? Why was it wrong if she enjoyed some of it?

Because it's Bill, and Bill is a prick.

Finger replaced thumb, spit-slick and assertive. Her mouth came open when the tip of it pushed inside her ass. A whine came out when it burrowed further, rasping past all kinds of nerves and confusion.

The pattern of his thrusts evened out now; it seemed like he couldn't maintain the same kind of focus while his hand had an agenda of its own. And that agenda was fingering her ass while he fucked her.

Asshole Bill is fingering your asshole, Christina Lee!

She gave up a choking sound as her throat and tongue couldn't figure out if they wanted to laugh or cry.

The digit plumbed in and out, roughly in time with the movement of his cock, and the entire business was utterly wrong. Wrong and ... something else. He'd better be watching her ass and not seeing her face turning red.

What had been bizarre, though simple enough, became more difficult. There was a new tightness. What was he—

A second finger.

Christina gave up and let the noises come. This could be her secret shame, that she was letting this happen. There was no possible way this could have repercussions after today. Nope. Nosiree.

She had no control over what was coming and going in and out of her holes. Nothing should be coming in or out of that tight little pucker between her cheeks in front of another person, and especially not the man who handed her a paycheck every two weeks. But here it was happening anyway.

And here was her pussy, sucking him down, making embarrassing wet noises around his girth. Here was her back, trying to arch like it had no clue what an indication like that might mean to the man behind her.

He was rotating the fingers, corkscrewing in and out. Scissoring them, stretching her. Her nails scraped over the table, eyes shut tight.

But shut tight because it felt ... good.

'Double Penetrated in the Back of the Haul Ash' is the worst porno title ever. Congratulations, Dodd.

Everything stopped.

Motion. Sound. Breathing.

Her pussy and ass were full of Bill Marshall. All her private places were exposed and tacky with her own juice and probably some of his spit. The moment was competing with a scant few others for the most powerless she'd ever felt in her life. Then, he spoke.

"You want the rest of today off, too?"

She swallowed, wetting her throat. "What?" Christina hadn't considered having to sit around here all evening after this crazy shit had gone down. It wasn't like she'd planned it.

The two fingers shifted. "You let me have this ass, you can go home. I'll stay the rest of your shift."


Bill was going to disrupt his precious schedule for anal?

There was a lot to inventory in an extremely short span of time. Letting him fuck her at all was bad enough. There was that. And there was the fact that his two fingers were one finger more than she'd ever had in her ass. He hadn't been a monster with her pussy, but this was anal. But did she want to stay here? Talking to customers? Printing invoices? Cleaning the office? There was nowhere to really clean herself up but the decrepit little bathroom. Was she going to finish her shift with her boss leaking down the backs of her—

"OK," she blurted. "Yeah."

" 'Yeah' what?"

"Yeah, I want to leave." She closed her eyes again and thought of the promise of her shower, waiting at home. "You can ... you can have it."

"All right," he said, pulling out of both her holes at once. "Good."

All right? Good? What a weird fucking thing to say.

But then what could he say at this point that wouldn't be weird?

And now there was a spongy cock head pushing between her cheeks.

Relax. You gotta relax or this shit is gonna hurt.

It didn't, though.

He was wet from her pussy—that backstabbing little muffin!—and all his earlier fingering had her ass relaxed and slick. Strategic motherfucker. She thought the ring would fight him, but it didn't, at least not very much. He teased the tip in and out and, though the humiliating wrongness was off the charts, it cost her no more than a dull ache at this point.

But that was only an opening act. Bill held her cheeks apart with his hands and worked his cock further, further. At each new push, too, he made sure to pull out and remind her disoriented hole with a new entry that it ought to be good and stay open wide for him.

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