Yay Feminism

She'd got sharked, was what happened. Just before the storm hit.

Sharked, if you haven't heard of it, is when a mean shithead sneaks up behind you in public and pulls your shorts down, or your pants if you're wearing pants, though it's easier to do to somebody in shorts than in pants, unless they're real loose and baggy. Depantsing, obviously, or just plain "pantsing" is the other thing it's called. Sharking is the newer cooler name for it. Usually when it happens to a guy, like a nerd in a school hallway, then it's referred to as pantsing. When it's done to a girl like her, it gets the slightly sexier, more predatory name of sharking.

Well, she got sharked. And it wasn't a guy that did it to her. It was a woman. One of the evil-looking biker broads. Definitely a biker broad, too—this one was all decked out in studded leather, despite the heat, with a black cowboy hat. Cackling like a Halloween witch, after she did it. Got her shorts all the way down around M's ankles in one savage yank.

M had tripped and fallen right over on her face. Which allowed the evil biker broad to swoop down again and snatch the shorts from around her feet. Pulled them off her completely! Then, worst of all, the bitch twirled the shorts around in the air over her head, and flung them far as she could across the crowd.

And guess what? M wasn't wearing any panties, either. Because it was so hot a day, she hadn't put on underwear. Tended to make her ass get itchy and break out, when it got too sweaty, if she wore too many tight layers during the summer. So all she'd had on was the skimpy cut-off jean shorts, which didn't cling too close, and then they were gone, just like that. And she was stark naked in the middle of the festival.

She didn't have shoes on either, not by then. She lost those a little bit before she lost her shorts. She'd been wearing sandals—not cheap crummy flipflops but a nice sturdy pair of the gladiator style that fit securely around your ankles and keep snug on your heels, when you walk around. But somehow by dumb luck one of the straps busted loose, and the sandal wouldn't stay on her foot after that. She threw the damn thing in a trash can. Tried walking around with just the other one still on, but it felt too strange. The sole was too thick, with a raised heel, so that leg stood higher off the ground than the other and it had made her feel crooked. Especially since she was so drunk—if she kept trying to walk about like that, pretty soon she would have puked all over herself. So finally she gave up and discarded the other sandal too. Tons of other people were running around the place barefoot. She might have been the only topless person at the festival that year, it seemed, but being barefoot wasn't unusual or noticeable at all.

Being completely butt-ass naked was of course a different story. Bad enough when she was just topless. Losing her bottoms too, people started to go wild. And this time, there was no question about it—it wasn't just a matter of paranoid perception, like it might have been before. Everybody was pointing at her and laughing their heads off. She couldn't tell herself she was only imagining this—that shit had really happened, on all sides. Every direction she turned. (These terrible images came back to her the strongest, inevitably, in the van). She burst into tears, but nobody offered her any help or sympathy. Just mockery. They pointed and they jeered and they scorned her, the whole awful merciless crowd.

It was the worst moment of her life.

And then that storm hit. Wonderful timing. Like God cranked a faucet on. Where had all the clouds come from? She hadn't noticed them moving in ... Well, while that must have been happening, she'd been too busy dancing, and too damn drunk. Lost in her own imaginary world. She'd been bopping around with her arms waving over her head and her eyes tight shut, right in front of a huge speaker stack next to one of the rock stages. The speaker pile was taller than she was, and she'd been pressed up against it, with her back turned to everybody else. Standing that close, the music was deafening. And it made her whole body vibrate, every note hitting her all over head to toe like violent slapping blasts of hot wind. Made her hair fly back, beat by beat, but the impacts never hurt her, harsh as they were. More like an intense deep-tissue massage, all over her nearly-naked body at once. Felt pretty awesome. She'd completely lost herself in the noise, the feeling, the power ... Which was exactly what she wanted—it let her pretend there was nobody else there. Just her and the music and her pleasure in moving with it and against it and through it. She couldn't even think. Only dance on that one fixed spot. No name, no memory, no fears. There was nothing else in the entire universe. It was all dead and gone and meaningless.

Must have made it ridiculously easy for that biker bitch to sneak up on her like she did.

After this point, she has to rely on the guy to tell her the rest of what happened to her. Almost no more pieces come back. At least not until he'd brought her to this van ... she has a few more flashes from that part of the story. They're the most dubious pictures, though.

The guy speaks English as well as Spanish. That's a blessing. She'd been scared he wouldn't but he does. His English isn't real great, but hey now, it's better than her Spanish. Took four years of it in high school and it doesn't make any difference. All gone, pretty much.

He says he tripped over her, crawling around in the mud between people's legs while the rain was pelting down. Trying to find her shorts, and failing. No joy down there at all. The shorts have disappeared forever, and her phone and spare house key with them. Also she was trying to keep hunkered low like that just to hide herself, as much as possible. Lucky she didn't end up trampled to death.

Moment he spotted her, he recognized her and he rescued her. Didn't hesitate. (Claims he didn't see her earlier. Didn't see her dancing or when she got sharked. Didn't know she was there at the festival 'til he physically tripped over her—he'd been at a different stage before the storm started and the park started to clear out.) Took off his shirt to give her, and then when she had trouble standing up, 'cause someone had accidentally kicked one of her ankles, he picked her up and carried her out of there like a fireman, to this van of his, which was parked in an alley a couple blocks away.

They'd been inside here ever since, rest of that day and all night.

During the little five or ten minute hike from the park to the van, while he was still carrying her in his arms, he told her she'd started to kiss him along the way, and to nibble at his shoulder and his neck and his earlobe. And that as soon as they were inside the van, while he was examining her leg—and it didn't turn out to have been hurt as much as they first thought—she had taken off the shirt he gave her. "I don't need this no more, thanks," was what he said she said.

And things had pretty rapidly progressed further from there ...

So. If the man was to be believed, it was M that initiated the sex, not him. Even if he might have had semi-sinister selfish motives when he started to help her, she never gave him a chance to act on them, because she acted first.

And M knew herself and her nature well enough to recognize the fact that his version of events was perfectly plausible. Not at all out of character for herself, when she was drunk or even when she wasn't, if she was feeling highly emotional. Which she had been.

And more than that, physically, she knew she must have been in a, shall we say, highly-energized state. A state of strong sexual excitement. The public nudity alone would have done that to her. Lit her up inside like a firecracker. It had been a horrifying humiliation, but that would not have prevented it from arousing her at the same time. Actually the horror and humiliation of the experience would have increased her arousal.

She'd already been keyed-up pretty bad from practically the first moment they arrived at the festival. Before anything else happened, she started getting dangerously horny. Well, sure—it was what she'd been expecting. What she kept trying to warn her friends about. Showing off your tits in a public park at a summer festival is a blatantly sexual act. The longer she stayed out there, the worse it got. It wasn't something a girl just got used to and forgot about—at least not a girl like her. The horniness only continued to build and build inside her; she felt it surging and boiling and boiling hotter and hotter in her belly and inside both her breasts, in both her jutting rock-hard nipples, and of course deeper down too, inside her swollen dribbling pussy ...

Add to that the blatant stimulation from the giant speaker stack when she was dancing right in front of it, practically pressing against it that whole period. Intense vibrations pulsing all through her, doing what they were bound to do ...

Earlier, when her group first got to the Smash ... First thing, they'd gone to a little booth right next to one of the park entrances to have their chests painted, before they ventured into the heart of the festival. They all got large colorful butterflies painted over their breasts. The woman that had painted M's looked just like Halle Berry. It had been difficult to sit still for it—the brushes tickled a lot. Worked her up pretty seriously. Had to bite her bottom lip real hard 'til it was finished to keep from making embarrassing whimpers. And the way the woman kept smiling at her, and the way her eyes twinkled—might have been her imagination getting carried away, but M was pretty sure the woman was really into her. Like she wanted to take her off in a corner of the booth after the painting was done and make out with her. If she'd gone ahead and suggested it, M would probably have agreed. Just for the experience, why not?

In a way, it had felt like cheating, those big butterflies. When the paintings were done, they weren't actually truly topless anymore, their tits were covered just about as well as they would be if they were wearing bikini tops. Bikini tops don't hide the juicy details of what you're carrying around any better than a thin layer of rubbery body paint does. All the guys can still see exactly how big you are, and they can see your nipples popping through. It doesn't feel much different, for the girl herself. Except your tits sway around more than they would, when you move.

M had found that fact kept taking her by surprise. Like when one of her friends would say something to her and she'd turn around, and then feel her tits swing when she did—and of course it would be a bigger swing than if she'd had a proper top on. Not a huge difference—but she'd be able to feel it. And every time it would send a little zing of electricity through her body. Almost like somebody goosing her. Thinking: Oh God ... Oh God ... I can't believe I'm doing this ... I can't believe I'm letting all these people look at me this way ... Oh God ... I can't believe what it's doing to me ... And I can't believe how frigging good it feels ... It's making me hot, so hot ... It's making me so hot I can barely breathe properly ... Oh God ... Oh God this is crazy ... Oh God ...

And all that was just the first five minutes. Before all the rest of the really crazy craziness started. She hadn't had a single drink yet, when she was thinking those thoughts.

Then she lost all her friends, and got scared, and surrendered her sobriety ... only to have all the rest of her clothes and possessions stripped away, and every scrap of dignity remaining to her ...

So this big muscular man pops out of nowhere, in the role of a heroic rescuer when things have got as bad as they can be, and she's crawling helpless and naked and utterly disgraced in the mud like a beast, bawling her eyes out ... He provides her the perfect outlet for all of these feelings, once he carries her away from there to someplace private and sheltered and safe. This van. It seemed she had taken the opportunity. Well, yes. She would have.

M could understand the impulse, and she knew she would not have been able to resist it if she tried. Which she probably hadn't. She could get pretty far out of hand when she got turned on. Especially if that occurred while she was intoxicated. It had got her into trouble in the past.

She turned wild. And that's what must have happened yesterday. She let her wildness loose and it had consumed her, and in the end she'd gone all out and spread her legs for this guy—not quite a complete stranger but pretty near—and let him have his way with her.

And after thinking through all of this stuff, carefully piecing the chain of events back together, M came to another conclusion. Her wildness had reawoken. Oh God. Strong as before. Stronger.

She felt it kindle inside her. Like tiny sizzling sparks flaring up and whirling around and bouncing off each other inside her stomach and her crotch. She felt her breathing quicken, and her heartrate right along with it, turning her giddy and flushed and a little flustered. The muscles in her legs kept twitching and tightened, and the muscles in her pussy. It wasn't only semen that was leaking out from it now.

She was going to give herself to this man again, before she made him drive her home.

After all, if she'd let a guy like this fuck her—with a dick like that, too—she should at least be able to remember it. And she didn't. No fair. If he'd been an ordinary-looking guy, with an ordinary-looking dick, then she could have let this go. She could fill in the blanks for herself. But that wasn't the case.

She'd done this, dammit. She wanted to know what the fuck it was like. Good or bad.

She was going to have to put herself through it again.

6.

"Go real slow, okay?" she told him, as he took position atop her.

Her tone of voice when she said it was firm and authoritative, much as she could manage, but that was a hard stance to hold on, underneath him. Especially at the feel of the head of it starting to press against her and divide the crease. Self-consciousness flooded her. She pushed defensively at his hips with both her hands. Couldn't help herself. "Please do it slow." Her voice wasn't commanding anymore, that time. It sounded pitiful, a scared little girl's voice. She wanted him to do this—she really did—but it was still terrifying, feeling him begin. It reasserted the vulnerability of her own smallness and softness, in contrast to his huge rigidity, poised at her threshold, and pulsing. Turned her timid in a flash. Just that first exploratory nudge.

He kissed her forehead and the tip of her nose, and whispered reassuring nonsense. He'd fallen into Spanish again but that didn't make much difference. She could tell the gist of it from his manner. And he did, indeed, do as she had asked him. He went in slow. Real slow.

For a while, anyway.

It still didn't slide in easy. Not like any other cock she'd let in there. It took some steady determined pushing and squeezing and stretching to get that bastard started into the hole, just the head. Oh man oh man. She held her legs as wide apart as she could pull them—so wide the joints actually hurt worse than his cock did when it finally properly penetrated her. She concentrated on her breathing, timing her exhalations to his forward motions.

Each inch further was a whole new ordeal ... Made her grunt, and then made her moan. "Uhhoohh." God, it started the old Madonna song in her head. No escaping the connection. It really was just like that shit, like she'd never been fucked before, or like every other time had been a joke, a con, a fake-out. And to think, they already did this once yesterday? Why was it still so difficult? Well, there was an obvious answer to that one. Intoxication. Her dad (a pretty nerdy guy) used to call alcohol "social lubricant". This added another level of meaning to that definition, didn't it? Jesus Christ ... Oh sweet dear Jesus ... Jesus Christ!

If only they had some more alcohol in here she could have guzzled before they started. She should have sent him out to get some. Maybe she still should.

Oh Christ. Oh Jesus. Oh oh oh.

Why had she wanted to do this again? Was it too late to back out? How much more to go? Half? Little less than half? Holy shit. Fuck was she thinking? Why had this felt like an appealing idea?

He was pushing in more now ... and now a little more ... Oh man. Oh Jesus. No more, please. She couldn't stand much more ... How much more? One last inch? Just one? Could she take one more? God, she didn't know. Maybe, maybe not. Either way, she was about to find out. 'Cause here ... he ... went ...

"Ahuhh! Ohhoohh! Dear God! Gaahhuuh!"

M was not usually a very vocal individual, during sex. In fact her last boyfriend complained about that, and it was one of the reasons he broke up with her. He didn't think she enjoyed sex with him. He was wrong, actually. She enjoyed sex a great deal. She enjoyed it with him and with everybody else she's been with in that way—a little shy of ten guys, by this time. Which at her age (28) she considers a pretty decent number, neither too big nor too small. She just wasn't the sort of person that made a lot of noise when she was feeling pleasure, sexual or otherwise. Didn't feel that impulse. If her last boyfriend would have looked her in the eyes during the sex, he would've been able to see her enjoyment, rather than hear it—that was where she best expressed those kinds of feelings. In her gaze. Ideally, when she was making love, her and the guy stared into each other's eyes the whole time. That was how she liked to do it. That was the way it felt best for her. Real soulful stuff. But the last boyfriend never did that with her. He always only wanted to be behind her with his nose buried in her hair. She was glad when he dumped her; saved her the hassle of being the one to initiate the break-up. She'd kept putting off the chore for weeks ... A bad habit of hers in that situation.

Just about the only time she'd made a lot of outcry during sex was her second time. Yeah, not the first, the second. And those hadn't been cries of ecstasy. Losing her virginity had gone surprisingly easy for her, painwise. Then the second time it was like she'd had to pay for that. It was the idiot guy she was with—he did a real good job taking things nice-and-easy with her the first time, so he thought that meant he could cut loose and go hog-wild after that. He did not get a third opportunity.

That was what now, like a decade ago? Almost.

This time ... that giant cock ... she got vocal again, real quick. It made her, for a change, feel the need. And it wasn't only at the beginning, as she got used to him. Oh no. She didn't quiet down again until the deed was done.

In fairness, he didn't hurt her. Not really. It wasn't like she was afraid it might be. It wasn't anything like that bad second time from her past. He was very careful with her. Not exactly gentle, but very much in control of what he was doing. Even after he started speeding up substantially. He knew what he could get away with and what wouldn't work. No doubt this guy had got a lot of practice using that thing on lots and lots of other girls. He'd learned the right ways to use it. Good for him.

It was still quite a strain. And the strain never exactly eased off like she hoped it would. She expected to adjust inside—and she did, probably, but not as much and not in the way she expected. She thought the strain would gradually fade off, like once his cock got done stretching her out enough inside, and her channel got used to accommodating him, he would start to feel the same as other guys had in there. That didn't happen. The strain never faded, and she never got used to it, she just learned to live with it. And to enjoy it, too, admittedly. But it certainly never got comfortable, or easy. It wasn't a relaxing experience. Sex usually was, for her. Mostly with guys she'd hooked up with, they would take things as slow as possible. She tended to prefer long lazy fucks ... most of the sex she had was in the early morning, the we-just-woke-up kind. Well, so was this—except it wasn't. Nothing sleepy or dreamy about this stuff. This guy was giving her the opposite kind of rundown. Workout sex or rollercoaster sex. It wasn't bad, it wasn't destructive, but it put her through her paces, and pushed her to her limits.