Waiting for The Results

Marilyn sat in the mechanic's waiting room as her car was being serviced. She didn't read, although she'd brought a book. She didn't play on her IPad, although she had it with her. She didn't even reach for her phone, to talk and text with friends.

Instead, she fumed. And as she fumed, the steam built within her, waiting to explode, screaming like a teapot. Mike had done it again.

Every time, every single time, she planned a dinner party or planned to go to one with her friends, Mike suddenly had to "work" late. Rarely did her husband have to work late; it almost only happened when she had made plans with her friends.

How stupid did he think she was? How could he be so obvious, actually rubbing it in her face? Embarrassing her constantly in front of her friends.

And she'd been so grateful that he had agreed to this dinner party, that she had rocked his world last night. She'd offered him an all-access pass, anything he wanted. And he wanted everything -- she was still exhausted from the workout he'd given her.

And then this morning, he'd dared to call her and tell her that he was going to have to work the night of the party.

As she shook her head in anger, she glanced into the workshop and saw the mechanic looking under her hood at her. Leering at her. She suddenly became aware of how short her skirt was, how low her neckline dipped. Then the bastard winked at her.

She felt like steam would shoot out of her ears, like a cartoon character. She was ready to tell off the man, but then thought, "It would serve Mike right," and she felt a smile slowly take over her face. She winked back. She adjusted her seat to give the man a better look.

She saw him call over to one of his employees and give some instructions. Then, wiping his hands on a rag, he came into the reception room. "Getting a little bored out here, missy?" he asked.

"Missy? Is he kidding," Marilyn chuckled to herself. Then, putting on what she thought would be a seductive look, she tilted her head and responded, "A little. Could you suggest something more exciting?"

He reached out and took her hand, pulling her up to him. "My apartment is upstairs. Want to come up, uh," he gave her a slow glance, from her heels to her head, "for a beer?"

She allowed herself to be pulled along, then preceded him up the stairs, well aware that her swaying ass was right in his face. She felt a twinge of excitement dampen her vagina. Would she do this? She thought her asshole husband deserved it.

As they stepped into the apartment, he spun her around and kissed her. She smelled his scent, strong with the sweat of a working man. So different than Mike. She felt his strong arms around her, felt his rigid cock pressing against her pubis. She gave herself to the embrace, as her stomach flipped with sexual excitement. She was doing this! Her first bit of strange in 12 years.

Soon, her clothes were being removed, and she worked the buttons on his shirt, and the buckle on his belt. She stroked his member as he removed her bra and started pulling down her panties. Without ceremony, he pushed her backwards onto the bed and climbed up between her legs.

His armpit was hovering over her face, and the manly smell she had noticed now had a nasty, acrid characteristic that made her stomach flip again, but now not in a good way. The memory of Mike, with his always fresh and clean smell, invaded her mind.

As one hand started massaging her labia and fingers began moving into her, she looked down at the hand roughly squeezing her right breast. Before she could beg him to be gentle, she looked at the ragged fingernails, with half-moons of black grease under the nails, grease that filled the swirls and whorls of his fingerprints and lined the creases in his knuckles. She realized that its matching mate was being shoved into her, filthy and dirty, so different than her husband's clean and loving hands. She panicked and began pushing him off, begging him to stop, please stop.

He laughed, pulled out his fingers and lined up his penis, using his knees to spread her out. "Not until I get mine, you fucking tease." He plunged in as she started screaming and weeping. His filthy hand covered her mouth as he picked up his pace.

It was forever, but in reality, all too soon, before she felt him pulse as he deposited his seed into her. He climbed off and retrieved his clothes. "Stop crying, bitch. You asked for it, and if you try to deny it, my whole shop will testify how you flirted with me and brought me up here." She sobbed, feeling dirtier than the man while she slowly donned her own clothing. "Hurry it up. I've got to get back to work."

Somehow, she managed to pay her bill to the smirking girl at the desk, got into her car and drove down the block before pulling over and parking. She could hardly see through her tears. She sat there, wishing she could go back, go back before the man winked at her, before she became so stupid. She saw the people walking by, looking in at the sobbing woman. As a young black man, with concern showing on his face, started to approach her door, in all probability to find out if she was okay, she quickly started her car and drove away home.

She couldn't stop crying. When she got home, she showered, dried, then showered again. Still not clean, she filled up a hot bath and sat in it until the water turned cold. Mike found her in the chilling water, weeping uncontrollably.

As he comforted her, emptying the tub and wrapping her in warm towels, he kept asking what was wrong. She could hear the panic and concern rising in his voice. His loving voice. This was a man who loved her, who cared for her, who took care of her. So what if he didn't like dinner parties or more likely, couldn't stand her friends. He loved her and she loved him.

As he calmed her sobs, she blurted out that she had been raped. "Oh, my god," Mike yelled, gathering her into his arms. "It'll be okay, honey. Who did it?"

She couldn't tell him about the mechanic. It would come out that she had gone upstairs willingly. She had participated in being stripped and stripping the man. She wasn't innocent and her husband would never forgive her.

She told him that she had stopped to shop down the block from the mechanic's and had been pulled into an alley by a black man and then raped. Mike jumped up and was on the phone to the police, ignoring her entreaties to let it go, that she didn't want to go through the humiliation of a public trial. Mike told her that they couldn't let the bastard get away with it.

Soon she was repeating the story to two officers, making up a description of a young, black man. The police then insisted she have a rape kit down at the hospital. "Although, ma'am, after bathing they're unlikely to find anything now, but we might get lucky." As the nurse swapped her vagina, she wondered how she had let the day go so wrong.

The next afternoon, she was surprised by a call from the police requesting she come in to view a lineup. They had found the man she described. Mike, who had taken the call, agreed and suddenly Marilyn found herself at the station, looking at a lineup of six, young black men. She gasped out loud when she saw the third man -- he was the one who had approached her car the day before. She had inadvertently described him, down to the scar he had on his forehead.

The woman sergeant who was conducting the procedure had heard the gasp and demanded, "You see him, don't you, Marilyn."

Without thinking, she responded, "That third man..."

Satisfied, the sergeant smiled. "We thought so. He works at the fast-food restaurant just around the block. The shirt you described was the shirt their employees must wear, and he was the only young black man who worked there yesterday. And he got off just before the time you were raped."

Marilyn quickly tried to backpedal. "I can't be sure. He looks like him, but I would hate to be wrong." She looked at Mike for support. "I don't want to accuse someone who might be innocent."

Mike hugged her and held her tightly as he said, "But you're not wrong, sweetheart. He was wearing the shirt, just like you described. He's the only one who fit the description and he was right there at the time you were raped. You have to identify him."

Marilyn began crying. "I can't, Mike, I can't. Please don't make me."

The sergeant stepped in. "No one is going to make you, ma'am. If you can't, or don't want, to identify your attacker, no one can make you. But we'll work on him and try to get a confession." She shook her head, adding, "But without your identification or a confession, we'll have to let him go."

Marilyn quietly wept on the way home. She could feel Mike's disappointment that she wouldn't identify her rapist, that likely the man would get away with it. He tried to convince his wife that the man would likely repeat his vile act with other women if he wasn't stopped. Marilyn just cried.

In the end, Quinton, the young man, was released, but the record of his arrest would follow him. That afternoon, the fast-food restaurant, where he was a management trainee, released him. Having an employee arrested in their restaurant reflected badly on their establishment. They felt that where there was smoke, there was fire. They couldn't afford to have a suspected rapist on their payroll.

Quinton was an ambitious man, but a good, caring person. He was raised by a single mother in the projects but had managed to avoid the gangs and the drugs that his contemporaries usually succumbed to and has done well in school and had seen the management trainee program as his ticket out of the projects and the government subsistence that his mother survived on. He planned to make a better life for himself, his mother, and his little sister. He was the man and the main provider now for his home.

The day he was fired, he immediately began canvassing businesses for openings and putting in applications. He couldn't afford to be without a job, even a low paying fast food job. It put food on the table. Without it? He didn't want to think about that.

By the end of the day, he was discouraged. Every application demanded to know if he'd ever been arrested. He'd always proudly been able to answer, "No". How would he ever be hired if he had to put down that he'd been arrested for rape? Even the company where they knew him, should have known he wasn't a rapist, felt that they couldn't have him as an employee. What chance did he have anywhere else?

That woman, that Marilyn Garber, had ruined his life. That night, all night, he dwelt on that. His anger and frustration grew exponentially every hour, until morning, when he fished out a telephone book.

Mike had reluctantly gone to work at Marilyn's insistence. In her guilt, she couldn't take any more comfort from Mike; each attempt to console her made her feel even more guilty. She begged him to go and leave her to deal with her pain alone. When he finally left, she sat morosely at the kitchen table still in her bathrobe and nightgown, berating herself for the mess she'd made of her life.

When she heard a tapping at her back door, it puzzled her. No one came to the back door, except the gardeners, but they weren't due today. When she opened the door, there stood Quinton. She froze, her eyes wide.

"Lady," Quinton began, wanting to call her a bitch, but trained his whole life by his mother to be a polite young man, "You've ruined my life. Why are you accusing me of rape? I've never touched you." He stepped into the house, forcing Marilyn to retreat before him. "But you owe me something now."

He pulled open her bathrobe and eyed the see-thru nightie. "And you're going to make this right, aren't you?"

"How? How can I," the wife sobbed. She saw no mercy in the man's eyes. Her guilt made her sob uncontrollably. She did owe him. "I'll do whatever I can. Please, I didn't mean any harm. It was an accident."

Quinton wasn't mollified by her plea. "You cost me my job, you Karen. I can't put food on the table. Why did you do this to me? Why? I didn't do nothing to you!"

Marilyn stopped and looked up at him, eyes filled with tears. She didn't know what to say. Her blank look just further enraged the young man. He shoved her back and demanded that she get dressed. When they went to her bedroom, she looked at him, questioningly.

"I'm not going anywhere, woman. I'm not letting you out of my sight or you'll have me arrested again."

Reluctantly, with Quinton watching, she turned and stripped off her nighty, exposing her backside to the young man. As he looked at her pale, white ass, he almost turned and left, feeling guilty at what he was going to do. But then he remembered that he was already suffering the consequences of what she had accused him of and told her to hurry up. As she reached for jeans, he stopped her with a shout, and told her, "A skirt, and lose the panties. And no bra under your shirt."

As soon as she was dressed, he walked her out to her car. As he directed her where to turn, she began sobbing again, and asked where they were going. "We're going to a friend's crib. Now be quiet until we get there." He couldn't take her home. His mama would never approve.

When they entered his friend's Darrell's crib, they were greeted by twelve young men, all friends of Quinton's. Marilyn pulled back when she saw all of them and began shivering. Quinton smiled at her, and told her, "They're going to be witnesses who will be able to testify that you came here on your own, that you're here willingly. You're not going to be able to tell anyone that I raped you, ever again."

More than a few of his friends high-fived the man as he pulled the woman into the bedroom. As she passed, those not high fiving were groping her breast and running their hands up her legs under her skirt. The terrified wife actually breathed easier when Quinton closed the bedroom door, and they were alone.

"Now strip," he commanded. "You accused me, and now I'm going to get what I'm already paying for."

"Paying for?" Marilyn didn't understand.

"Yes, paying for! I told you, you cost me my job, cost me the money I need to feed my momma and sister! You owe me, now strip down and get on the bed." Quinton was already stripping off his own clothes.

As she laid down on the bed, Quinton began to caress the woman's body. He sucked on her hardening nipples and ran his hand up her legs to massage her genitals. He was an inexperienced young man; he didn't go down on her, as oral sex wasn't in his limited repertoire. But he was gentle, and Marilyn found herself responding. His body was taunt and strong, his skin smooth over his muscles. His scent, well, she found his scent the manly odor she had expected from the mechanic, clean and strong. As his fingers slipped into her, she felt the moisture spreading, his digits now slick against her labia. As he moved up and kissed her lips, she responded, pushing her tongue between his lips, fencing with his tongue.

She reached down and stroked him, then pulled him towards her. She rubbed the head of his cock against her slit, coating it with her excretion. It parted her lips, and he pressed in. Soon, she was humping back and moaning as he pounded her greedily.

When she screamed out her climax, she could hear a cheer erupt from the living room outside the bedroom door. She cringed in embarrassment, realizing that they had put on a show for his friends. But inwardly she smiled, realizing that she had found what she had been looking for that morning in the mechanic's shop.

Quinton picked up his pace, and she felt him pulse again and again within her, setting off another orgasm that almost made her rise up off the bed.

Quinton rested on top of her for a moment, both enjoying the post-climax endorphins. Then he climbed off and began dressing. When she moved to follow suit, he stopped her, telling her to stay on the bed. When he finished dressing, he gathered up her clothes.

"You're going to put food on my table, until I can find me another job. My friends out there are going to pay to use you, and you're going to be my whore for the day." Quinton stared without emotion at the woman to whom he'd just made love. She stared back, unbelieving.

"I'm not a whore, Quinton. I'm sorry for what I did, but I can't screw your friends. Give me my clothes, please." Marilyn began crying again. "You can't force me to do this. It's rape."

Quinton looked around the room at the nanny cams his friend used to surreptitiously record his sexual activities. "You'll do it, or the police will see the edited version of the film we just made on that bed. There's no date, so I'll tell them it was last week, and you accused me of rape because I told you I was ending our affair. That should be good enough to get you charged with filing a false report and open you up for a civil suit. A settlement would probably make me more money than I'll make being your pimp, so either way I win." He smiled. "And I'll even give your husband a copy of the film. I'm sure he'll love hearing you orgasm and scream out 'Fuck me, fuck me'"

Marilyn gasped and searched the room for cameras. She didn't see any but found it hard to doubt Quinton. Mike couldn't see the film -- he would never understand or forgive her.

Her tears dried up as her depression grew, but she nodded her head, accepting Quinton's control. He opened the door, and announced, "Okay, who's first?"

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Two weeks later, Marilyn hadn't heard from Quinton again, so she assumed that he'd found another job. She hoped so. She felt dirty from her afternoon as his whore. She was still overwhelmed by depression, which her husband attributed to her rape. But she was no longer worried about Quinton or the mechanic. She had a new problem.

Her period hadn't come. Her fertile period was about to begin the last time she'd had sex with Mike, the night before she had had sex with the mechanic. It was almost over when Quinton screwed her and pimped her out.

Any one of the fifteen men who had used her that month could be the father. She needed an abortion. But when she approached Mike about it, he was horrified. He didn't believe in abortion, even in the case of rape. He told Marilyn that it wasn't the baby's fault.

"Besides," he said, "There's a 50-50 chance that it's mine. Maybe we'll be lucky." Then his visage turned stern. "If it's not, then we'll have DNA proof against the rapist." Marilyn shivered as she thought of the film Quinton would produce if it was his DNA or if the police matched it to any of her "johns". She knew that the cameras hadn't stopped rolling after Quinton had left the room. She was sure that they had neatly captured her multiple acts of prostitution.

She pleaded with her husband to let her get rid of the problem, but he was adamant that she should have the child. They could raise it or put it up for adoption if it was too hard for her. Besides, he insisted, "I think it's mine. I know it's mine. You know I've always wanted to have children with you. We couldn't get rid of it when there's a good chance it's mine."

She couldn't tell him that it wasn't a 50-50 chance that it was his. It was more like 7 to 93 that it was his. Or rather, 93 to 7 that it wasn't. She didn't like the odds at all. She wasn't sure she could survive the next 8 months, waiting for the results.