In the Parking Garage

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 good boots were already muddied. 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.