(This is the first part of a story I posted on RC.)
“Waiting for someone?”
I finished my Cuba Libre and waved the empty at the bartender, glanced over at the stud pulling out the stool beside me. Big, hairy, lots of naturally faded denim. I shook my head.
“That’s a lot of rum for one little girl.” He sat down and scratched the scruff coating his jaw. He had that glassy GONNAGETMESOME! glaze going on, grinned real big like he knew something. At least he had teeth. “What’s a fine honey like you doing all alone out here tonight?”
I forced a grin. “It’s Christmas Eve. That’s my excuse. What’s yours?”
He hitched a thumb towards a table full of dudes partying hard in the back of the otherwise empty establishment. I chuckled politely.
“So, what do ya do for Christmas then?” he asked.
Nosey bastard. Good boy. “Hitchhike,” I said.
He raised a brow and pivoted swiftly on the stool to face me. “No shit?”
“No shit. Wanna come?”
He stammered and cleared his throat. He obviously had to think about that one. “Huh,” he said finally, swiveling back to his own business and sucking a serious slug from the PBR long neck gripped expertly between a forefinger and thumb.
The bartender chuckled and sat a sweaty tumbler down on the lacquered wood in front of me. I picked it up, saluted him with the glass and put it to my lips, my new admirer watching me like he’d never seen a girl swallow before.
He swallowed too–hard, and pulled a mouthful of cheap American swill to wet his whistle, thoughtfully swishing the stuff and then swallowing again. “Kinda dangerous ain’t it?”
I laughed. “Breathing is dangerous, my friend.”
“Fair enough.” He took a quick look over his shoulder at his buddies, who were throwing darts across the room to see who could nail a life-sized poster of a topless and big-breasted blonde in the bullseyes. He grinned and returned his attention to me. “What’s your family think?”
I shrugged. What’s yours?
“You don’t know or they don’t give a shit?”
He sat back to let that marinate, took another long drink, then another, gave me a sidelong look and downed the rest of the bottle. “What about socializin’? Girl like you gotta have a healthy life.” He winked.
Seriously, dude? I thought you’d never ask!
I took a deep breath. “Well…” I said, winding up, “I work mostly alone and I don’t do the friend thing so great, so no, unfortunately I don’t date much. No pets either. They’re smarter and easier to talk to than men and don’t hit, but my dick of a landlord says no dogs in his dump, and I love pussy but cats are smart and don’t seem to like me… So… I do masturbate. A lot. I like hiking nude in the mountains and fucking myself in the open air, down in the dirt where I belong. I’ll take a nice fat veggie over a fancy piece of plastic any day of the week though, and a dozen times on every Sunday of the month. Cheaper, equipment that emulates human anatomy is way too tiny for much fun anyways, and I get to eat it afterwards.”
i waited five seconds for a response, and getting none, slid off the stool, laid my head back and drained my drink, plunked the glass down on the bar with a satisfying THUNK and wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my jacket. I winked at the amused bartender and tossed him a small wad of bills. I turned to my new friend. “Any more questions?”
He looked at me like I had three heads.
Step one complete.
* * *
The bunch of them roosted around the same big-ass table, sucking beer out of bottles and leering through the haze from the back of the bar–a gang of salty woman-hating pricks I’d teased up and shot down over the Saturday nights of the last month or so. Nobody ever does, but they didn’t need much help hating me.
The guzzling usually started right after work too, and when my roommate went out of town I couldn’t resist the opportunity anymore. I took the week off, found a cheap motel so I could cut out the hitch back and forth and spend my evenings at the bar half-dressed and advertising. Scary, but accidentally showing them some of everything seemed like the right way to attract the wrong kind of attention. I hadn’t owned underwear since the 12th grade anyways, except for the grannies I wore once a month and the harness I strapped my udders into when I jogged. I was short and skinny, but with speed bags for tits and an ass that filled out pants like a pair of wobbly beach balls–well, you didn’t need to pay much attention to know there was nothing but me underneath.
I looked up at the bartender and smiled. “Water, please,” I said.
Up there in the hills, chez Billy Ray looked more like a pickup truck stop than a house of drink, its grungy facade decorated with a flickering neon sign that said OPEN but really meant ASSHOLES BLOWING OFF STEAM. On the inside, heads and horns stuck out of the walls to give the place all the ambience of a hillbilly garage sale, except it sounded like a blue grass festival and reeked of testosterone. Which was cool by me. I was almost always the only girl and that made me the center of attention. I was looking for pissed-off meat eaters anyways and all the fury they had to unload, the rage of lifetimes spent seething in obscurity and breaking their backs in coal mines for minimum wage.
I played a lot of pool that week, which I’d never done before in my life, lost a bunch of bets I couldn’t pay up and by Wednesday night was faking a healthy buzz and joking around about a mass double or nothing involving them lining up and me naked in the cold and bent over the dumpster out back. Now we were getting somewhere.
In those wee hours, with eyes glazed, brains well-lubricated and nobody watching, my playmates became very brave, cracking jokes about their big dicks and my fat ass, smacking me around, exploring my sub-skirt anatomy and jamming their sticky fingers in my mouth, raking my top down as they pawed my flopping tits. All I could do was close my eyes and enjoy the ride, shivering because I was freezing cold and scared out of my skull, squirming and biting back tears while they slapped, grabbed and probed. I had work to do and knew too well that I’d hate myself more than I already was if I wussed out on this thing. So I sucked it up and stuck to the plan, choked down the fear and returned their very witty banter in quick but cluelessly promiscuous fashion, doing my best to slut around, show myself off and encourage them to take whatever they wanted.
I’d actually read up on rape-baiting, girls fake-passing out and luring frat boys to take advantage of their limp but secretly eager corpses. And that was fine for them. Enticing a bunch of dudes to stick their dicks in me by pretending not to be there just wasn’t my style. I had zero interest in a clueless pity-fuck by jerks who were either too lazy to try or figured they had no chance of getting into my pants without breaking some laws, yet didn’t have the cajones to rape a 97-pound chick unless her eyes were drugged shut and she was too toasted to resist. Rape was supposed to be a power thing, something forced on me that I didn’t want, right?
What I needed was the chaos and genuine hostility of the real thing. I needed helplessness. I needed intimidation. I needed violence. I needed a train of hungry, furious, brutal monsters glaring into my wide open eyes as they tortured my mind, pillaged my body and destroyed my soul, taking their rage out on me because I was the safe, easy, available target, a solitary and disposable thing that would bruise when they hit it, wail while they fucked it and then slink quietly away when they were finished because it knew it deserved their wrath. Socially stupid, inept at life and alone, with impulse control problems and no money to pay for pills I wouldn’t have taken anyways, I was a walking flaw with nobody and nothing, the perfect irrelevant piece of meat for this job.
I had thought for years about how to make this happen and it had taken me at least that long again to grow the balls I needed to actually do it. I mean, if I wasn’t hurting anyone I believed more than anything in my right to be me, and I was at my best on my hands and knees with my clothes off, someplace where words like NO and STOP had no meaning. What I really wanted was whatever I was told to want, and without that direction I felt a little lost. But there was a huge difference between the need to feel useful, pining away about it on the internet and taking the steps necessary to live the fantasy. Sure, I’d been fucked plenty of times when I didn’t want to be and forced to do things that I’d cried my eyes out about later. Hadn’t we all? It was just never enough, and I was too big a chicken to do anything about it.
But that was a long time ago. I was different now, with the benefit of life and experience better equipped to surrender and accept what I was and why I was here–really, a very simple animal. I knew the pain I was inviting in this den of misogyny. I had lived it before, in a different time and place, and screwed around more recently trying to get back there, this after years spent trying to ignore the lying better angels and rekindle the nerve to get serious about being the real me again. Making my head ready was a torturous process, but only because the pain of memory conflicted with this need I was feeling and for way too long I was way too afraid to just let people give me what I had coming.
It was late-January, threatening snow, and as the lone prey among all those predators I felt defenseless, insignificant and small. Being all but naked in a room where everyone else was wrapped up against the cold, with nothing between my body and all those carnivores but a film of white cotton, I was on full display and free for the taking, no strings attached, thrilled but terrified at the same time. I had worked hard for more than a month to get here, and now that this thing I had craved for so long was rapidly becoming inevitable I wasn’t so sure I wanted it anymore. Just then, in that place, it seemed like every hungry eye was all over me, a step in the right direction, but I had never felt so exposed or so alone in my life.
As was the plan, life was all but out of my hands. The point of no return was fast approaching and very soon I was going to have a decision to make. It was Thursday night of that week and I had pretended to drunkenly wander into the mens’ room. I had dropped my coat and shoes off in the bushes on my way in that afternoon, leaving myself clothed in a sheer one-piece romper that I had to step in and pull up to get my legs and arms into and then somehow zip up the back. I’d asked the housekeeper at the motel to help me into the thing before I came here and now I had to take it all the way off again if I wanted to pee, the problem being that I could coax the zipper down okay but never had any luck coaxing it back up again by myself. And now I was sitting on the toilet with the stall door ajar and my clothes pooled in a cloud around my feet.
The problem had been a problem by design when I was home all comfy on my couch, devising my course of action. I’d spent many a night with a girthy vegetable between my legs, visualizing myself clinging to the romper top and trying to cover up as I staggered back into the crowd with the back of my one-piece gaping open down past my bare crack. I had gone as far as picking a couple of teeth out of the zipper to make things more interesting, something I was really regretting now that I had unzipped as far as I could, ripped the zipper permanently open and in my enthusiasm torn the romper in half all the way through the crotch. That was definitely not part of the plan.
My breath caught, knees instinctively clapping together, hands flying to cover my suddenly hardening nipples. Flushing floridly, I glanced up into the face of a huge man, bushy, leathered and rough but not un-handsome, smirking at me with savagery in the curve of his lips–the way a wolf would grin at a maimed white-tail doe. He was stepping further into the stall and unbuckling his belt.
My tummy tingled. My heart slammed. I licked my lips and swallowed. Here we go.
“So?” he said.
I dropped my eyes, forced a bashful smile as I slid off the seat to my knees and reached for him, nudging his hands away and tugging his pants down across his thighs, finishing the job of freeing his cock myself. He reeked of alcohol and sweat, and I couldn’t see his face but I could feel his gaze boring into my skull, smell the thickness of contempt in the air.
I paused, shivering. I’d wanted them pissed, but…
“So, get the fuck on with it,” he snarled, grabbing handfuls of my hair and jerking my face to his crotch, yanking my whole body forward across the cold industrial tile.
My eyes stung, misted, fat tears pooling on my lower lids and rolling down my cheeks. I trembled. My mind raced, a billion bloody images of me splattered across the grimy white floor tearing through my brain.
I bowed my head, clasped him behind the thighs and parted my lips over the head of his swollen cock, sucking softly and flicking his organ with the tip of my tongue. I bobbed, stroking him with my mouth, deeper each time until I was taking the length of him into my throat, retreating until I had the slick tip of him between my lips, tasting and looking up for him to see the appreciation in my eyes, then leaning in and opening wide to swallow him once again.
He gripped my head with both hands and matched my rhythm with lusty thrusts of his hips, pumping IN-out, IN-out, IN-out, grunting and fucking my mouth with increasing violence. IN-out-IN-out-IN-out.
“Ooooh shhhhh…” He impaled my throat sternum-deep and inhaled sharply through his teeth, his fingers sinking into my hair, clutching and holding himself in the furnace of my body. He tensed. He yanked me off his shaft, poised for the final climactic plunge.
And I pulled away.
He looked down at me, jaw clenched and eyes bulging like his head was about to explode, face red and twisted. I wrenched my head out of his grasp and forced myself up, kicking the romper aside and backing away to put some space between us. “I’m sorry,” I said, trembling, “I can’t.”
A pause. He drew a slow breath, then took another step toward me, close enough that his shirt grazed my jutting nipples every time he breathed. God. I could feel the weight of him towering over me, the quiet rage pulsing from his body.
He thrust his pelvis forward, his cock bobbing in front of him and prodding my belly. “You can’t what?”
Cold porcelain caught me behind the bends of my knees. “I can’t do this,” I said, my legs spreading to straddle the toilet bowl as I backed away some more, reaching blindly behind me for the wall with both hands. I couldn’t look at him and struggled to breathe as I stared at the floor, but my words were even.“And you can’t make me,” I whispered.
I’d played this out a million times in my mind and still had no guess what was coming. Not knowing had always been a huge part of the fantasy, though standing here cornered by an angry man, naked and trying not to hyperventilate, I began seriously questioning the wisdom of my choice. I needed it. I’d made it happen. My heart pounded in anticipation but my head wanted out.
The heel of his hand bashed into my jaw, white light stinging my brain as the blow snapped my head sideways, sending my glasses flying and knocking me off my feet, slamming me into the metal partition of the stall. I reached a hand out for something, anything to break my fall, and finding nothing but a handful of air, crashed like a bag of meat to the floor.
He laughed through heavy breaths, shuffling to me in his drooping pants. He grabbed my face with one hand, lifted my gaze to meet his and squeezed my cheeks into a painful pucker. His hiss sliced the air like a razor blade, “I can do any goddamn thing I want.”
My body quaked with sobs but I made myself nod, lower my eyes, lift my hands to his thighs and lean closer so I could love him with my mouth, licking, teasing, tasting, crying and hating myself but whimpering and sucking hungrily at the same time.
I slowed, kissed the head of his cock affectionately, smiled playfully through tear-dewed lashes and ran my hands up his body as I stood, guiding him with me as i turned, pressed my back to the side of the stall and spread my legs, my hands resting at his waist and gripping lightly.
He dipped his hips to fuck.“Nnnng,” he purred,“You fucking slut…”
The impulse formed in the split second it took my thalamus to process the vibration of his voice on my eardrums, flicking down synapses to the tip of my tongue and on through nerves to my right rectus femoris, iliopsoas, sartorius, and tensor fasciae latae.
“Fuck YOU!,” I spit, simultaneously lifting my thigh and crushing his testicles with my knee.
I felt around frantically for my glasses, and not finding them, pulled myself to my feet, blinked and groped my way through the blur to the door. I gingerly pushed it open. The buzz of the crowd hummed down the hall. I gulped a throat full of saliva. Here comes step three…