In The Parking Garage

Dr. Mabeuse © 2006

The rap of her boot heels echoing off the concrete walls was the only sound as she walked down the long line of cars, looking for where she'd parked. She'd been sure this was the row—13-D—but where was her car? She shifted her bags to her left hand where the black leather glove would keep the handles from biting into her and looked back over her shoulder through her blonde hair. Perhaps she'd walked past it? But there was no red Peugeot.

She stopped. The yellowish green fluorescent lights bothered her eyes. The floor was damp—wet in places with puddles of black water—and the peeling concrete walls were crumbling in places. This underground garage was a dump, decrepit and depressing and disorienting too. It stunk of gasoline and diesel fumes and wet cement and mold, and in her good gray wool skirt and white blouse and black leather coat and gloves she felt out of place. Her boots were already muddied and possibly ruined. Maybe 13-D was where she'd parked before? 13 something. Maybe 13-B?

A car engine started somewhere in the distance but with the echoes in the cavernous place it was impossible to tell where. The garage went on forever. She wasn't even sure where the exit was now, so she walked till she found a pass through and then turned right, the pace of her footsteps picking up. No cars passed her. The place seemed utterly deserted, though she could hear an occasional bang or slam in the distance.

At last, a wall. A pedestrian walkway. She skipped up on it and walked through to 13-C. Down the row—nothing, no red Peugeot. She returned to the sidewalk and pressed on and came to another blank wall with a door in it. It said "Aisles 20-A through 22-D" and had an arrow pointing down. This was absurd.

She stopped now and looked around in confusion. She put down her packages and pulled on her right glove, the one she'd taken off so she could get her car keys when she thought she knew where her car was. She had her cell phone. Would it work down here? And who would she call? The police? What would she say? I'm lost in the underground parking and I can't find my car?

She felt fear, and then anger. She remembered when she'd left the car there'd been a bunch of men in overalls sitting inside a barrier of yellow safety tape casually eating their lunches and reading newspapers like they had nothing better to do. They'd looked at up at her approvingly as she'd passed and she'd heard their comments and low laughs Where were they now? Where was that barrier of yellow safety tape? Where was anyone?

Moving towards the pass through again, she spotted a flashing light, a yellow light, sweeping over the concrete walls—a wrecker or some safety vehicle, maybe one of those golf carts the garage staff rode in. She ran to intercept it, her packages bumping against her knees.

It was a big step van, the kind usually used for deliveries, painted official city blue, with a yellow dome light flashing on its roof, barely low enough to clear the concrete lintels of the concrete garage supports.

"Thank God!" she breathed, waving her arm to flag it down.

The van stopped opposite her and she peered inside. The passenger door had been removed and replaced by an outward-facing tool cabinet. She looked over the top at the driver, though his face was in shadow.

"Listen, can you help me? I'm lost! I can't find my car! Can you just drive me around till I find it? It's around here somewhere."

For a moment he said nothing and she looked at his big hand on the steering wheel, the muscles in his forearm where his sleeve was rolled up, a smudge of grease on his wrist.

"Can't," he said. "Against the rules."

He shifted into gear and the truck started forward. She grabbed hold of the doorway.

"Please!" The desperation in her voice startled her. "No one will know. I'll pay you. I'm really lost!"

Again the silence. She ducked her head slightly, trying to see his face in the shadows.

"Okay. You'll have to get in the back though, and stay out of sight."

"Thanks! Yes, of course!" She ran to the back of the truck and pulled the door open, stepped up into the interior and pulled it closed behind her. The inside was hung with quilted moving blankets and bungee cords hung from the ceiling. There were tools boxes behind the front seat and cans of paint and other maintenance equipment.

Ellen bent down and walked up behind the driver. The engine was right in the center of the truck, making a big hump next to his seat, and she leaned over it, staring out the windshield as he drove.

"It's a red Peugeot 607. A two thousand five. It shouldn't be hard to find. I really appreciate this."

The van rolled slowly along, and she noticed that the section numbers seemed to make no sense. 13-D, 14-C, 13-E, 14-F. The driver wheeled the truck around several turns then killed the yellow light, turned down a spiral ramp and entered a lower level that was darker and more deserted.

"I really think it was up on the other level," she said.

He said nothing. He drove through a labyrinth of deserted halls and vast empty rooms lit by dim, flickering fluorescent bulbs, some not lit at all. This seemed to be a totally unused part of the garage, probably some shortcut or way to a central office, and when he pulled the truck into a dim and remote corner up against a dead end and threw it into gear, she assumed he'd taken a wrong turn and was going to back up and turn around. He turned around in his seat as if to see out the back doors and so she turned around too, and so when he grabbed her by the coat and suddenly stood up and pulled her violently back over the engine housing it caught her totally by surprise.

"What are you—?"

He pushed her down on her back and held her there as he quickly stepped around her and into the back of the truck so he was looming over her, in complete control, his hands gripping the front of his coat. Fear surged through her body, fighting with utter disbelief. She could feel the strength in his hands and arms and feel the heat from his body but she couldn't quite accept what was happening. The only light in the van was the thin, watery light that seeped in from the windshield so his face was still in shadow, though now she could see his white tee-shirt and the hairs on his chest peeking through his coveralls.

"I strongly suggest you keep quiet," he said, his voice a deep, low whisper. "I don't want to have to hurt you."

She felt a thrill of horror and she automatically tried to push him away, but he quickly yanked the top of her coat halfway down her arms, efficiently trapping her in her own garment. The strength and expertise of his moves instinctively told her she was dealing with a professional, someone who had done this before.

"Wait! Wait!" she cried. "Do you want money? I'll give you money! There's money in my purse. Just don't hurt me!"

That seemed to give him pause and she took that as an encouraging sign. She froze, not daring to move.

"Really. Take it. Take what you want. If it's not enough I can get you more."

Another brief silence, then he said. "I don't want money. What kind of man do you think I am?"

His answer panicked her, and she tried again to reach up and at least claw at him but he got his hand beneath her and yanked her coat from behind, making it into a tourniquet that bound her arms tight against her sides and rendered her helpless. She was deep underground, hundreds of feet from anyone, and when his hand went to her throat she knew she had no choice but to lie absolutely still, well aware that he had enough strength in that one hand to choke her to death right there.

She watched as his hand went to the buttons on her blouse and opened them, and she felt the fabric give and collapse onto her skin like something defeated. There was a pause, then he slowly opened the delicate silk of her blouse like a man unveiling a meal, exposing her chest and her bra. His entire head was still in shadow, but she could feel his eyes on her, taking her in, and then his hand reappeared and closed experimentally on her breasts, first one, then the other. She felt the strength in his fingers, the tension as he fought the urge to crush them in his hands, a perverse kind of gentleness, and that made her bold. She summoned all her strength and tried to free her arms again but he held her now with embarrassing ease, as if he were consumed with her breasts and hardly even aware of her struggles. He wasn't an especially large man, but he seemed terribly strong and focused, and yet she sensed through his touch that his intention wasn't to hurt her. He was almost worshipful.

His hand left her breasts and slid back up to her throat and he pushed her face gently up and to the side as if to examine her face. He caressed her cheek tenderly, perhaps trying to calm her, but if so, his touch had the opposite effect and she suddenly began to panic as she realized the seriousness of her predicament, lying on her back in a deserted garage with her arms trapped and blouse open, being touched by a stranger. She suddenly couldn't control her breathing and her breasts began to heave as she began to pant and hyperventilate and there was nothing she could do about it.

"Hush," he whispered, his lips right next to her ear. "Nothing to be afraid of."

He put his hand lightly over her mouth, not so firmly that she couldn't breathe, and by some miracle, she calmed down almost immediately, or perhaps she just gave up.

He removed his hand and his fingers slid down over her chest to her breasts. He traced the edge of her bra over her mounds and she lay absolutely still, her attention drawn reluctantly to the soft touch of his fingers on her skin. He repeated the motion, this time sliding his finger inside the cups, insinuating himself between into the warm, humid space between her flesh and the brassiere. She closed hr eyes in denial. Her breasts were exquisitely sensitive and erotically charged, and yet this was rape and there could be nothing pleasurable about it. She wouldn't even think about letting it feel good.

And yet he dipped his finger deeper into her bra like some curious visitor to the depths, and as he swept it slowly along, his nail brushed the circumference of her areola, and she was shamed by the sudden splash of interest they seemed to feel.

He grasped the top edge of the cup and slowly slid it slowly down over her breast as if ejecting a piece of fruit from its peel, apparently fascinated by its slow exposure. She tried to control herself as the fabric dragged over her nipple but it was maddening, or the sense of outrage was too much, or something prompted her to try one more time to resist this violation of her privacy and she twisted on the engine cover and raised her shoulders to protect her breasts, tried to kick at him or get a knee against his chest, but again, he thwarted her efforts with humiliating ease, yanking her coat tighter to pin her arms and brushing her legs aside. All his attention was on her body now, and it was if she herself were nothing more than a minor irritation, easily disposed of.

Ellen groaned with impotent anger and fear. She raised her head like a witness to her own rape and watched as he pulled down the other cup so that both breasts spilled free, and then closed her eyes as his head came down and his tongue touched her nipple.

His breath was on her flesh, then his tongue was circling her nipple in slow, wet circles, and despite herself, Ellen felt the surge of salacious pleasure between her legs. His lips formed a ring around her areola and sucked, and she felt the breath from his nostrils on her skin. It was filthy and disgusting, and she dropped her head back on the engine cover as if she could deny the terrible pleasure she felt. She couldn't allow herself to feel this, but she couldn't deny it either, and besides, what choice did she have? Her arms were trapped in her coat and she was bent back over the engine housing as this stranger hunched over her like a vampire with his victim, slowly gorging himself on the warmth and tenderness of her breasts.

She didn't know what to feel. It was assault—rape—but her shock and her disorientation were too great, and his physical strength and desire were overwhelming, like a physical force or a wave holding her down. He had an uncanny sense of just where and how to touch her, as if he could read her mind or already knew all her secrets—a strange kind of physical intimacy that spoke directly to her body and cared nothing what her mind thought. The way he lingered at her breasts—sucking, licking, teasing, catching her nipples in his teeth—was far more than was necessary if he were simply going to rape her. He seemed to know just what she liked, just how she operated. He seemed to know instinctively how erotically charged her breasts were and exactly how she liked them treated, just how to squeeze, just where to touch. He knew just when to punctuate the cloying sweetness of a tongue teasing her nipple with the sharp spear of his teeth.

One nipple then the other—the slow circles, the fluttering tongue, the long, lurid licks, and finally sucking her tit into his mouth and biting and sucking it, his urgent, animal sounds of pleasure, his urgent, kneading hand. He released her throat and now as he teased one breast with his mouth, he pinched and rolled the other nipple with his hand, smearing his saliva around the areola, dragging his nails over the fleshy dome until she was covered with goose bumps and quivering with need. When she thought she couldn't stand the stimulation to her nipples anymore, he began to kiss and lick her breasts from armpit to sternum, planting soft bites on the full undersides or rubbing his rough, unshaven face on the upper slopes, holding her arms back and making her fight the urge to press herself harder into his mouth, wallowing in the softness of her tits until she'd totally forgotten her pledge to let herself feel nothing.

"Oh! Oh!" She raised her head. The stimulation of her breasts was becoming more than she could bear. Her nipples were stiff and aching, and her tits felt full and swollen. She looked down at him to try and determine his attentions but still all she could see was the top of his head and his strong hands holding her arms, arms that to her own shame had stopped struggling.

She couldn't just surrender like this, so she tried to writhe and twisted on the engine cover, trying instinctively to escape the maddening licking and sucking of her naked breasts, but all she could move was her legs, and all she succeeded in doing was making her skirt slide up her thighs. He noticed this, and let go of one of her arms and slid his hand up under her skirt, sliding up the inside of her leg, as if to show her that there were any number of ways to broach her defenses.

This assault on her sex was too much, took the whole thing to another level, and she began to fight, but it was a strangely tense and silent struggle—her labored panting and struggling for breath and occasional groan of resistance; the soft creak and rustle of her leather coat; the lewd suck of his mouth on her flesh or his hot animal growl of lust that gave her a weird, lewd thrill, as if she were watching herself be devoured.

The struggling got her nowhere, but suddenly he stopped and straightened up. He was on his knees next to the engine housing where her legs couldn't get at him, one hand still holding the back of her coat, but lightly now, and as he straightened up his face disappeared into the shadows again. She thought maybe he'd stop now, that maybe he'd taken her far enough to get her all hot and break her spirit, and that that's what he'd wanted. Maybe now he'd stop and figure he'd taught her a lesson and humiliated her, laugh, tell her to get dressed and drive her to her car, but he showed no sign of letting her go.

She lay there nervously, confused and ashamed at her sudden feeling of anticlimax. Her clothes were a mess, her blouse open and bra down, her breasts red and chaffed from his beard and her nipples painfully erect, her skirt up around her thighs.

She realized though that he had no intention of stopping. He was just stopping to admire her, to let her feel her own helplessness. His hand reached out and slid up her leg under her skirt and touched the soft skin next to her pussy and she cried out with a sudden and renewed sense of outrage and violation. When he'd straightened up she'd managed to work her right arm free and she tried to push him away with it but he laid his weight back on top of her and reached behind her head with his left hand, caught her right wrist and held it easily, leaving her defenseless. He still had one hand free to plunder her body and his mouth returned to her naked tits as if his work wasn't finished.

"Relax now," he said. "Just relax..."

With his weight upon her she now couldn't avoid feeling the rock-hard stalk of his cock stabbing against her hip like a cold chisel, and she didn't know why she was so surprised, but she was. Taken was the word that flashed into her mind. I'm going to be taken. He won't be able to control that prick even if he wanted it too! His dick was like a force of nature, something separate from him, urging him on, controlling him, not to be denied. It was inevitable, beyond restraint, and for the first time, Ellen felt really frightened.

"No! No!" she cried, and she tried to writhe away from him again, but he had her so securely pinned with his one arm that he took his other hand from beneath her skirt and casually finished unbuttoning her blouse down to her waist, taking his time, confident that she had absolutely no way to stop him or get away. Despite her struggles he began to sensually caress her bare stomach, dragging his fingers over the sensitive flesh and making the muscles clench. He slid his hands down over her hips, then found the button on the side of her skirt, opened it and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the skirt open and pushed skirt and slip down till they were below her panties, and then his hand began to graze teasingly over the bare skin of her thighs and her panty-covered mound, caressing her, tickling her, coaxing into arousal, as if he had all the time in the world. The feel of his fingers on her mound, the ease with which he touched her and the casual way his hand toyed at the juncture between fabric and flesh made her start to throb with physical desire.

She pushed and heaved and bucked her hips, but he was like a piece of iron—too strong, too heavy—and she realized that her gyrations were sexual and suggestive. They were only making her look more eager and hungrier. Finally she just stopped, gave up. She would save her strength for when she really needed it, for when he tried to shove his cock into her. Maybe then she could raise her knees and push him off, or get a knee into his balls. Meanwhile his kissing and sucking of her tits had never stopped, but the focus of both their attentions had shifted to the area between her legs where she was even more hungry and more needy and the feelings ran deeper and harder to control. She was throbbing with shameful and painful need.

He seemed to be in no hurry to fuck her though. He played with her belly and hips, slid his fingers under the waist of her panties and reached down, teasing her, playing in her pubic hair, teasing her until her pussy needed his touch, until she wanted to feel his hand there against her empty hunger. She closed her eyes in frustration and anger and finally, finally, his hand left her panties and slid under her skirt and touched her pussy from below.

His fingers pressed the moist crotch of her panties up against her sensitive flesh and Ellen bit her lip to stifle a cry of fulfillment. Her body arched and quivered in response, but she fought it, trying not to move, trying not to give him the satisfaction of seeing the effect he had on her, but his fingers seemed so curious, so fascinated with her, and the places he touched were so right, the pressure, the stroke so perfect. For all the furious passion of his mouth on her breasts, his fingers on her cunt were like those of a fearful boy—curious, worshipful, and yet quick to learn which spots made her respond with a quick jerk of her hips or a little moan, a sharp intake of breath or subtle shiver—a soft massage of her labia, a teasing finger sliding up and down her slit or probing into her opening, gliding in circles over her clit or pressing firmly and rhythmically against it, or occasionally taking her entire pussy in his hand and squeezing in an act of mannish possession that touched something deep and primitive inside her and made her want to cling to him. He was clever and perceptive, masterful and patient, and soon she felt the sharp and jangling adrenaline-soaked fear leaving her muscles and being replaced by the deep and profound ache of pure sexual tension, a delicious sexual tightening that both relaxed her and made her harder and more solid. His hands knew her pussy intimately now, as well as she knew it herself, and she gave up struggling against him, gave it up entirely.

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. "Call me if you ever need anything."

He shifted the truck into gear and drove off down the row of parked cars, the dome light revolving, splashing lurid yellow light into the dark shadows of the garage.