When Taken at the Flood Pt. 01

Note: This is a nonconsent story, and "harsher" than some readers will likely prefer (especially in Part 2). Though not intended to be sadistic, it emphasizes themes of dominance and humiliation, and shies away from the common pattern of all participants secretly or unwillingly enjoying it. That is just how my fantasy life runs sometimes. Therefore, if it is not your cup of tea, I apologize and encourage you to find something more to your liking.

It is, of course, a tale of sheer fantasy in all respects, intended only for the purposes of erotic entertainment. In real life it is incumbent on all of us to ensure consent in any situation, and to show respect and empathy to those around us—not just with regard to sex, but in every aspect of life.

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CHAPTER 1

* * * * *

I don't know why Grace and I had a standing tennis date with the Schwetzers. The truth was, they were assholes.

Well, I take it back. Not about them being assholes, I mean. But I do know why we had begun playing tennis together, originally.

Do you know how it is, when you first enter into a committed long-term partnership? Sure, each of you has your own friends, and you probably have some shared friends too. Still, at that stage in life it often seems important to start attracting couples into your social orbit: other committed twosomes who can mirror and reinforce your own pairing. The kinds of couples that you expect you will enjoy inviting over—to your holiday get-together, or to try that new sushi place, or to watch the big game—for decades to come.

At any rate, that was very much our state of mind when we moved into town as newlyweds, knowing nobody at all. One of the first 'prospects' I identified was Mark Schwetzer, who worked in the division of PhytoCorp that I had just joined. I learned that he was married and lived in a nearby subdivision—much more swank than we could afford, but only a short drive away. In no time Grace and I had invited the Schwetzers to dinner, and we were soon getting together with them regularly.

They were conspicuously affluent. Up-and-comers. At the time, I think it felt like the obvious move to attach ourselves to them—as if we could ride their social and professional coattails. But the attraction was not entirely one-sided. They didn't seem to have many close friends, so having us ready to jump at their invitations was a plus for them. More to the point, I think they liked how they looked beside a less-glamorous and slightly threadbare pair like Grace and me.

For the first year or two, it seemed like we had fun together. At least that's what we told ourselves. Really, though, it was always somewhat awkward being around them. We didn't love their taste in movies or cuisine. Nor, to be honest, did we really like them. Mark was full of himself, a little crude, and harbored a mean streak that he didn't work hard to hide. His wife Sheila was certainly not someone you could call crude, but she was cold, pushy, calculating. I had thought of her, at first, as Mark's trophy wife, but that wasn't right at all. She was gorgeous, to be sure, albeit in an icy, emotionless sort of way. But she certainly hadn't married Mark for his family money, since we were soon given to know that her clan's inherited wealth ran to just as many zeroes as his. Moreover, she evidently took her 'woman behind the man' role very seriously. It didn't take us long to see that it was her drive, ambition, and social connections which had already set Mark on the path toward becoming a captain of industry.

Early on, Mark and Sheila had sponsored us to join the local country club, and we had been grateful. Scraping together the money for the membership had been precarious, but we'd managed it. And that's when we started our weekly doubles-tennis date with the Schwetzers, every Thursday morning on one of the club's indoor tennis courts.

Gradually, as the years dragged on, our other activities together with them slowly withered away. We got tired of being shown off like their poor relations, and used as the butt of their inuendo and sarcasm. They got irritated by our limited ambitions and social horizons. We all just got bored, and slightly disgusted, by each other. Oh, we'd still act like the best of friends at parties, church events, work gatherings. But we didn't really seek out each-other's company anymore.

From there things only went downhill. Within a few years it became clear that Sheila was gossiping about Grace behind her back, tearing her down with friends and neighbors at every opportunity. Meanwhile at the office, Mark's career bloomed while mine stumbled. I could never actually prove he had sabotaged me; but each time I suffered a blow or he won another accolade, I knew in my heart that the couple had devised some new way to profit at my expense. With his cruelty and Sheila's boundless ambition they made a formidable team.

Yet, still, we kept playing tennis with them. At first it had seemed like a lark. After a while, a way to stay active. Finally it devolved into a necessary chore; something that had to be accomplished each week, like taking out the trash. The fact was that Mark and Sheila were much better than us at tennis, as at everything else, and they delighted in rubbing our noses in it. If we won even one out of twenty times it would infuriate them, and set them to arguing bitterly about which of them had 'dropped the ball' and allowed us to beat them. But usually they whipped us handily, and their evident sense of physical and mental superiority—the air of condescension that dripped off them until it seemed to pool on the court—was hard to bear, even once a week.

Despite all that, we could never summon the courage to cancel our standing tennis date. For one thing, to break with Mark and Sheila, obviously, openly, permanently, felt a little risky. But it was more than just that. Tennis still reminded us of the optimism we had felt as a younger couple—the enjoyment we had taken from having these upscale friends, the pride we'd had in being accepted to the club, the expectations we had had for social and career success. To drop our weekly tennis game would be to finally admit that those feelings had been nothing more than phantoms, and that we were firmly set on the road to banal mediocrity. Those were difficult things to face. And so we kept playing tennis.

* * * * *

That fateful Thursday, we arrived at the club early, and changed into our 'proper' tennis whites, as we always did. The Schwetzers arrived late, making us cool our heels a little in order to show us our place, as they always did.

Grace and I had driven to the club in separate cars, so that we could go our different ways afterwards. The game was scheduled for an early dawn hour, and both the parking lot and the club itself were virtually empty. Most of the members were rolling in dough—executives or pampered housewives—and I imagined they were all still in bed, sleeping off yesterday's cocktails.

We weren't so lucky, however. In a line-manager position like mine, I had to be on the job promptly, even before the workers started arriving. Grace was teaching, now, to make some extra money, and needed to be at school just as early to prep the classroom. Mark, on the other hand, in his new position as executive director of our division, could basically show up to work whenever he wanted; while Sheila was a woman of leisure. The Schwetzers knew all these things, of course, and I'm sure took pleasure in making us sweat the clock.

So, we stood in the observation lobby, above the courts, waiting for them to arrive. Grace watched idly at the interior windows, which overlooked the courts themselves. Glancing over, I saw that one of the staff members was down there, swishing a broom, aimlessly, over the already-immaculate hard surface. Then, impatiently, I returned my gaze to the exterior windows, facing the parking lot—folding my arms around my racket, tapping my foot, waiting for the Schwetzers to make their grand entrance.

At last, with a screech of tires, I saw their giant black Escalade corner aggressively into the parking lot. Engine roaring, it sped toward the club building, racing across the nearly-empty expanse of paving, before juking suddenly into the empty parking spot which lay nearest to the front door. This was a 'compact-car' space, far too small for such a monstrosity. It was also the space right next to my Toyota.

There was a smash, audible through the observation windows up where I was, and a tinkling of broken class. The Escalade jerked and halted, partway into the space. I saw Sheila stick her head out the passenger window briefly, before retreating again behind the tinted glass. Then the Escalade backed out, and went to park at the other corner of the lot.

From where I stood, it looked like the giant black SUV, with its height advantage, had had much the better of the encounter. Its only visible damage was a nasty scrape on the bumper, with maybe some light denting. My little Corolla, on the other hand, was a mess—taillights shattered, bumper hanging off, fender bashed in, rear-door misaligned, and some kind of damage to the back wheel that made me doubt whether it could even drive. Silently I cursed myself for dropping my collision insurance—a few months ago, that had seemed like a smart way to economize.

Grace hadn't been watching, but the sound of the crash had gotten her attention. She wandered over next to me and looked down casually, before tensing slightly. Eyes wide, she turned to me with a low but heated voice: "John, was that...?"

"Yep, my car."

"And it was...?"

"Yep, the Schwetzers just bashed it in."

We watched Mark and Sheila, already in their tennis togs, hop out of their SUV and walk, stiffly and speedily, into the building, carefully ignoring my wrecked car. By now I'd gotten over the initial surprise and begun to process the secondary emotions. To be honest, I was feeling a little steamed about it—it's not a pleasant thing to see someone trash your property through their own carelessness. Grace obviously felt the same way. "John! They didn't even leave a note or anything! What is wrong with those people? It looks like it could take weeks to fix. How are we going to get to two jobs, 70 miles apart, with one car? And where's the money going to come from? You know our credit cards are maxed out!"

My better nature tried to assert itself, urging me to give the other couple the benefit of the doubt. "Don't worry, Grace, probably they already know it's my car, and are coming up here to apologize. It's not like too many other people are parked down there. And, anyway, they must be insured."

* * * * *

By the time the Schwetzers made it up to the observation lounge, they had their cool back. If Mark was at all phased by just having destroyed someone else's vehicle, he certainly didn't show it. Walking easy, movie-star jaw set as firmly as ever, he sauntered over for his usual too-hard handshake as if nothing had happened. "Hey John, Hi Grace. sorry we're late. Ready to get spanked?" He flashed a thin, predatory smile.

I hardly knew how to respond. "Uh, aren't you forgetting something Mark?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, all innocence.

"What he means, Mark," Grace butted in, "is that you just wrecked his car. Maybe totaled it. Were you going to forget to mention that?"

I saw Mark's jaw muscles work a little bit. I got the impression he had taken an instant dislike to being scolded by Grace. "I... don't know what you're talking about. Someone wrecked your car?"

This was just too brazen by half. I spluttered. "M-Mark, what the hell?! I just saw it. You rammed into it with your ridiculous Escalade in the parking lot!"

"Jeez, calm down John. I'm sorry if someone hit your car, but it wasn't us. God, it's no wonder you can't break into upper management—you gotta learn not to sweat the small stuff."

Anger flooded through me now. I could feel my face flush. Grace obviously felt the same way—her eyes glowered, her mouth creased into a harsh frown, her arms folded over her chest. This rich, entitled bastard was going to try to deny the obvious. With one call to his insurance agent, we could be made whole. But it was clear that he had no intention of making that call. I knew him well enough to understand that this was a pure, impulsive power-play on his part. In a split-second, he had decided to tip our precarious finances, and heck, maybe our lives, over the edge. Simply because he could.

Still, I tried to reason with the man. "Mark, your insurance will cover it. What's the big deal?"

At this, Sheila rolled her eyes, and leaned in, the tips of two cold fingers brushing lightly on my arm for emphasis. "Look, John, Mark said he didn't do it. And from where I stand, it appears like you may have backed into us. Not that we wanted to say anything, since we know how hard you two little mice work to make ends meet. But if you insist on forcing the matter, well, Daddy has a lawyer who just loves these kinds of cases." She glanced around the empty foyer and gave a dry chuckle. "I have no doubt we can turn up plenty of witnesses on the club staff who will testify to how recklessly you were driving. In fact, I feel like my neck is still aching from the impact..." Here, she rubbed the base of her skull theatrically.

Grace couldn't hold herself back any longer, the heated emotion of the moment magnified by years of smaller slights and insults. "God—you arrogant bitch!" she spat out. Then, in a lower hiss: "I don't like to say this, but you two are feeble excuses for human beings. Always hiding behind Daddy's money and Daddy's lawyers. Always scheming. Always stabbing people in the back. Why don't you, just this once, take responsibility for yourselves?!"

I loved her for it, but we both knew that such a direct attack would only make Mark and Sheila hit back even harder. "Look," Mark jeered, "don't go blaming us for the mess you've made with your lives. Face it, you are mediocrities at best. Probably wouldn't even have made it this far without our help. If a tiny fender-bender throws you into a snit, then what does that say about you?"

Ouch, that stung. "Damn it Mark, you owe us!," I pleaded. "It's open and shut. Just pay to repair the car and it all goes away. We can pretend it never happened. Or, we can never see each other again, if that's what you want. But, let's not make it any worse than it already is."

"John," he eyed me serenely, "do you think I'm even listening to the diarrhea coming out of your mouth? Do you think I even care about penny-ante stuff like this?" The deceptive calm of his voice contained equal parts menace and saccharine. "Here's a tip: back down now, before it too late. You don't want to go up against us. You two have never won a thing against us in your life. Hell, you two can't even win a tennis game against us—you're pathetic at every level of human existence. The only way to avoid losing is if you don't even try."

"Oh, so you think we can't beat you two? You think you're better than us?" Grace broke in again, fury boiling just below her surface. "Well, guess what? We're not afraid of you. We'll take this as far as we need to. Go ahead, hide behind your lawyers if you're too spineless, we don't care."

Sheila was unimpressed. "Oh dearie, do be quiet," she snorted contemptuously. "You're only making it worse for yourself..."

Mark, on the other hand, seemed to have been affected by Grace's repeated jabs. His face reddened and his cool mask slipped for a moment. "What the hell, bitch?!," he broke in, drowning out his wife. "What do you mean, spineless?" His intimidating frame seemed to grow even larger as his bile rose. "John, you need to shut this woman up before she gets you in trouble. We don't need lawyers and courtrooms to beat you, we can demolish you at anything you choose. Heck, I'd flip a coin for the cost of repairs, except I know you losers are too damn poor to pay me when I win."

Grace's back was up now, and blood was in her eyes. She apparently was not thinking with much rationality, and she definitely was not going to stay quiet. "Tennis," she said in measured voice, through gritted teeth. "We are going to fucking beat you at tennis, Mark. And then you are going to pay to repair the damn car."

"Yeah, right," he chuckled mirthlessly, recovering some of his self-command, "you're going to beat us at tennis. Sure. But there's one little problem. I'm not going to play unless there's a fair wager involved. And you two don't have anything I want."

"This is stupid," I interjected. "We don't need ridiculous bets, we just need to get the car fixed and move on."

"Yeah, that's just what I expected from you," Mark sneered. "Your bitch has a little spark in her, at least, but you, John, are just a saggy-assed waste of space. Of course you're too chicken to make a fair bet, you want something for nothing."

"Don't talk to him like that, you entitled prick!" Grace retorted, still seething, still straining to keep herself in check. "Who said we're scared of a fair bet? Coward!"

It was at this stage that I spotted an evil glint in Mark's eye, and felt a quaver in my gut. I knew that up 'til now, Mark had still been basically functioning within his normal range of a being a dick. But he certainly had the capacity for greater depths of cruelty, and I could tell that some horrid idea had just occurred to him. "Well, there is one thing I'd play you for, Gracie doll. But you're too small-time for what I have in mind. You two definitely do not have the guts."

"We're not afraid of you, Mark." Grace remained hot. "Name the bet and we will whip your ass!"

"Well, miss high-and-mighty, what I really want is to see you learn a little humility. Specifically, I'd like to see you stripped naked, here in the club. Without your clothes, I bet you'd find it in your heart to speak to me with some respect."

"Y-you bastard!," Grace shot back, momentarily tongue-tied.

I tried to cut in. "No way, Mark, this is getting out of hand..."

"Uh-huh, what did I say?," Mark scoffed, sharing a knowing smile with his wife. "They're small-time chicken-shits."

By now, Grace's face, and her clavicle where it showed above the modest V of her white tennis dress, were bright red. Her chest was heaving. Her eyes were wide and intense, her nostrils flared. I had no idea she could be roused to such a temper; and, in a mood like this, any caution she had was flung to the winds. "Fuck you, Mark, you are on! We will fucking destroy you!"

"No, wait, wait!" I broke in again, still trying desperately to find a way to head this thing off. "Grace is angry, but this isn't a fair bet either. She's worth way more than the cost of car repairs."

"Yeah, well, I don't know about that," Mark retorted, tilting his head back and appraising my wife disdainfully. "For a few overpriced drinks and some tips I can go to JustGirlz down on the 202 and have a much hotter piece of flesh than this give me a lap dance... Still, it would be worth a lot to me to see this bitch humiliated. So, tell you what we'll do: for each game we win, Grace will strip off a piece of clothing. For each game you win, Sheila will take something off. If you can get her naked first, then I'll pay to repair your car."

As Mark spun out this indecent proposal, Sheila pivoted to her husband with an offended expression and tugged on his arm. I saw him lean down and whisper in her ear—I'm sure reminding her how reliably they trounced us. The concerned expression did not entirely disappear from her face, but after a moment she nodded and recovered her cool veneer. "It really does seem a more than generous offer, Gracie," she hummed. "Especially for that," gesturing, with an air of slight repugnance, to take in the length of Grace's (actually quite pleasant) body. "Anyway, it will make for such amusing social media posts afterwards."