In the Parking Garage

She felt him moving the crotch of her panties to the side and she spread her legs for him as much as she dared, as much as was permissible without it looking like she was doing it intentionally. She hungered for a kiss but she knew she wouldn't get one, so she turned her face to the side as if she were denying him herself. Her concentration was on her body now, on his fingers in her cunt and his lips and face on her tits, and her hands hung limp in her sleeves, her legs might as well have been filled with sawdust. She lay in the engine cover like a half-naked rag doll

With her panties out of the way the intimacy of his touch was even more intense, flesh on flesh, all her secrets revealed, and she felt as though she were in the hands of a relentless master who played her 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 she was the instrument, and she had no more control or responsibility than a violin has in the hands of a virtuoso. He played her and she soared with sexual music, and meanwhile the hot, animal throbbing of his hard cock against her hip was like wild obscene metronome, setting the tempo, urging her on, higher and higher

Her hips began to move. She couldn't stop them and what did she care anyhow? She was being raped by a stranger and who would ever know or give a damn? Why shouldn't she milk it for all the pleasure she could? She didn't care what he thought of her, and he already seemed to be able to read her mind and wasn't going to stop till he drove her over the brink, so why not? Why not join in?

Why not fuck his hand since he wanted it so much and she did too? Raise her knees and open her legs? Let him push her skirt up so he could see her naked pussy humping up at his plunging finger as his thumb slid over her clit. Why not let him see her pant and gasp through her teeth as her orgasm rumbled down upon her, as it bore down upon her like big, fiery, incandescent, blinding wave, something selfish and glorious and all for her?

"Oh! Oh! Ohhhh! OHHHHH!!!!!!"

She arched her back, thrusting her cunt up and opening her legs obscenely, knees up, her toes curling up in her boots as pleasure gushed inside her like an obliterating fountain. She felt it in waves like an internal ejaculation, as if she were coming into herself, and she let herself wallow in a pure selfishness she'd never allowed herself with any other lover, entirely her own, not giving a damn about pleasing the man who lay upon her.

He never stopped but stayed with her right through her 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 Ellen had calmed down sufficiently, when her shuddering and spasming had stopped and she at last opened her eyes, half afraid of what she might see, he was on his knees, his face bisected by a sharp diagonal shadow, pulling down the zipper of his jumpsuit.

She couldn't say anything. In some weird, perverse way, she knew she owed him—he'd just seen her come, made her come, and she could hardly claim rape now.

And there was something else. She wanted him now. She wanted to know him, wanted to know who he was, why he'd done this to her, how he knew her so well.

But still, she'd just climaxed. She was too sensitive to take him now, surely he knew that. She'd always been that way. She needed at least a few minutes...

He pulled the zipper all the way down and she saw the two-strapper tee-shirt he wore beneath it, the star of David and golden cross on a chain around his neck as if he was everyman, 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 cock was impressive, erect and angry as only a cock can be, and it made her shamefully proud to see how hard he was for her. He had a thin triangle of hair that led up to his navel, like a symbol of a beast turning into man.

"Wait," she said, stalling for time to catch her breath. "Wait. I can make it good for you. Just give me a minute..."

She still couldn't see his face, but with him on his knees and with her on the engine cover, his dick was at the perfect height. The elastic of his boxers pushed his balls out aggressively and Ellen watched as he fished a condom out of the pocket of his coveralls and tore it open. She sat up and pulled her arms from her coat at last and pushed her tangled hair back from her face, and something about the way he unrolled the prophylactic onto his dick suddenly made her feel ill. It was sticky, lubricated. She didn't want this anymore. She knew she should be thankful that he at least used protection, but what kind of man carries a prophylactic with him in his pocket?

"No," she said suddenly. "No, that's all!" As if she'd made a deal with him and had already fulfilled her part.

She raised her knees, preparing to kick at his chest, but he grabbed her right ankle and his hand was like a steel clamp. She felt his fingers through the leather of her boot, unmovable. Her other foot kicked out at him, but he knocked it away, and then he was between her thighs, his latex-shrouded cock piercing the air like a spear. She half-sat and clawed at him but he pushed her right knee so far back that she couldn't use that arm, and grabbed her left wrist with his other hand and held her as she twisted and tried to hump him off with her body, but rolled into a half-ball as she was she could barely move, and her knee was almost against her shoulder, totally opening her pussy to him. She thrashed beneath him, reaching up at one point to try and bite the hand that held her wrist, but he was too strong and knew how to fight and she didn't, and his big, heavy dick kept on bumping against her cunt as if battering against it. Somehow in the melee she suddenly felt his hand on the back of her panties, tugging so hard her hips jerked into the air, then pulling again until the panties ripped and then tore completely, part of them sliding down below her right knee and the rest hanging like a useless, shredded garter on her left thigh.

The ripping of her panties shocked her almost more than anything else. These were her good panties, her favorite pair, and the man tore them to pieces as if that meant nothing. Tears sprang to her eyes. He was a maniac!

She looked down at his cock now—the turgid length in that obscene latex sheath 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 her boot pushed even harder. With his other hand he threw her skirt up over her waist. He rocked forward and the naked crown of his dick touched the bare lips of her pussy.

No, she didn't want this, she didn't want this. That's why he was holding her down, holding her one leg bent up and her other wrist down. Her free hand tried to claw at his chest but she could hardly reach him like this. She got her hand inside the leg he was holding and clawed at him but it was like trying to get a purchase on stone. She dug into his cotton tee shirt and felt it rip but his muscles were like marble. He was too close for her to use her free leg, and now his dick was touching the flesh of her cunt and it was too much. She tried to squeeze herself shut but there was a part of her that wanted this, that wanted it so much and wanted it just like this, with his hands on her holding her down and her clothes ripped and shredded, her will violated, her body used and exposed, but she didn't want it and she did and she wanted him to make her do it and she didn't, and her mind whirled and his cock pressed against her and then she had no choice whatsoever anymore.

"Owwwww! No! Damn it!"

Her back arched, her pussy opened, the thickness of his impossibly hard cock slithered into her with the immutability of fate itself, a power stronger than what she wanted or didn't want. It slid into her, it slid into her, deep, merciless, till she was filled with him, entire with him, completed by him, his prick filling her and making her desires whole, his balls pushed by his shorts against the crack in her buttocks, their load of precious masculine come pressing against her asshole.

He pushed into her and left it there, made her choke on his fullness—left it there as he hung over her breathing deep and gasping with pleasure for a long, long, moment, and she felt him throbbing inside her, felt the beat of his heart inside her body, hot and excited. Then he relented. His strength pulled back like an ebbing wave and he slid it slowly out so she could breathe again, and then as if acting with deliberate cruelty, he pushed it back into her again. He did this several times, overcome with the sheer pleasure of being inside her tight, quivering sheath, and finally, when this savage, brutal spearing had taken all the fight and resistance out of her, he began to fuck her—long, sure, fulfilling strokes, as if savoring every millimeter of her, memorizing every angstrom of her cunt. How did he know it was just what she wanted as well? Slow like this, deep like this, full and entire. Time to study him too and feel for once the sheer 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. She had never consented, never invited, never offered. Everything was taken from her. She owed him nothing but hatred and contempt. She was free to lie there, letting him do as he wanted; taking every deep, mind-shattering thrust, every trembling shove, every quivering grasp of his fingers on her ass as he worked himself off in her passive, violated body. He was a selfish pig, using her for his own swinish pleasure. Why shouldn't she be selfish too and take it for what it was worth?

She stopped all pretense of resistance. She threw her hands back over her head, exposing her breasts to him, and he fell upon them like a slavering dog in an orgy of bestial carnality, sucking, squeezing, biting. His cock was right where she liked it, and then he lifted his legs and spread them outside hers and squeezed her legs together to make a tighter channel for his plundering dick, trapping her thighs between his legs so that his shaft rumbled over her clit, piercing her that way too, the salacious juice of their coupling greasing her thighs and wetting the fine nylon of her ruined stockings. He fucked her just like she needed it. His mouth was on her tits again, famished, starving for her, and Ellen felt that bone deep, subhuman primitive masculinity ravishing her flesh, taking without asking, fucking her, filling her, and she threw herself into it, giving as good as she got, raping as well as being raped. She closed her eyes and felt the primitive freedom of being used. No one could blame her for this filthy pleasure. No one.

He lost patience with the limitations on this male-outside position, and opened her legs with his knees again and plunged back into her, fucking her with animal ferocity just as her orgasm started, and Ellen 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!

She felt his ribs heaving like bellows between her knees as he fucked her 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 her greasy sheath like a slicked-up piston, his fingers tightening frantically in the smooth globes of her ass. At a certain moment he froze, but by then Ellen was choking in her own insensate come, her head back, eyes sightless, body quivering spastically as she felt the powerful contractions of her womb bear down on his deep-sunk, invading shaft. She couldn't scream, couldn't breathe, couldn't make a sound as she felt him shove deep, mashing her ass against the engine housing and grinding his pubic bone against her clit, and he made a strangled and strangely pitiful sound in his throat as she felt the rubber jerk inside her as it caught the spastic jets of his thick, eager seed. She let herself go, let go of herself totally and slid over a waterfall of sensation onto a pool of bursting light and glorious sensation that was reserved for her alone—the filthy exudate of life injected into her body, condom be damned—and she floated there for a long, eternal instant before returning once again to the grim reality of the guilt and blame and the parked truck and the moving blanket over the engine cover, the groaning, sweating man between her legs, the condom coming loose from his deflating penis.

He removed himself from her body without a word, rather as if he'd finished some thankless job, moved into the darkness into the back of the truck and she heard the snap of latex as he removed the rubber. She didn't see what he did with it, nor did she care to look.

She was in no hurry to move now or cover herself up. She had the moral authority of a victim and she was his problem now. She lay there with her skirt up, her legs apart, her labia still gaping from his penetration, her blouse and bra a mess. He came to her and picked her up under the arms and sat her on the floor behind the engine housing. She didn't object. She 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. Ellen glanced up at him occasionally as she fixed her bra and buttoned her blouse and skirt and saw the lights sweeping across his face, but she really couldn't get a complete picture of his face. It was like seeing a face through a slit, and, oddly, she wasn't interested any longer. Things had changed between them.

In a matter of minutes they were there at her car, the red Peugeot. He stopped the van and put it into park and said nothing.

As she turned to get out of the truck, she 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. She looked at the stencils and then up at the inscrutable "13-F" that marked the row in which her car stood.

The truck idled as she opened the back door, picked up her packages and stepped out onto the concrete. She watched him as he took a cigarette from a pack on the dashboards and put it in his mouth, and she 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 garage, do you?" she asked. "You don't even work for the city at all."

The cigarette illuminated his face as he drew on it. "Nope," he said.

"Then why?"

He sucked in some smoke, then let it out. She 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 her 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 truck into gear and drove off down the row of parked cars, the yellow light flashing.