Car Trouble 33

This is part of a story idea I am working on that may turn into something much larger. I'm looking for feedback- specifically, would you read on if I were to take this story further?

In response to some earlier comments: I made this one long at the request of some of you who complained that other scenes I have posted are too short to be a truly satisfying read...

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The morning air was heavy with smoke from the wildfires that had been burning out of control for the last three weeks. It smelled like a nearby campfire to Kat from the balcony of her cabin in the Cascade Mountains. She marveled at its effect on the sunrise and sunsets high up here in the woods. The sun boiled red just above the craggy saw tooth range she could see perfectly from the end of her driveway.

Her excitement grew these last few days each time she made the one-and-a-half-mile-trek to check the mailbox at the end of her driveway. None of her mail was ever sent here to her cabin- not even the typical junk mail that filled her P.O. Box and home box where she lived full time in the city. In this box she received her most highly anticipated correspondence.

Giddy as a schoolgirl, she jogged the final few steps to the rusted old mailbox atop a pedestal of river rock. The door squeaked loudly as she opened it. Inside, pushed all the way to the back, she found a note. She had to extend her whole arm in to the box to reach the tiny scroll.

The note was on a piece of paper birch bark with a leather string tied around it with a bow. Tugging gently, she untied the string and smelled it. Putting the string in her pocket, she carefully unrolled the scroll.

Written in a purple ink she supposed had been made from the blackberries that were plentiful this time of year, she read her instructions:

SATURDAY 7PM

NORTHBOUND HWY 16

MILE MARKER 89

HAIR AND MAKEUP

PINSTRIPES AND HEELS

INSTRUCTIONS UNDER SIGN

She read the note four times to make sure she understood. It was Saturday morning and she would have to get to town in less than an hour if she were to get an appointment. Walk-in's at Wanda's were not welcome, but Kat figured that the promise of a healthy tip might make her unscheduled arrival welcome.

As she jogged back up the driveway, her mind traced the map inside her head along Highway 16. She enjoyed taking long drives up the winding curves of the old two-lane highway. It was the only pass over the mountains that could get you to the city from these remote parts until the new highway was finished a few years ago.

******

Waiting outside the door with a twenty ounce, non-fat, sugar-free, three-pump vanilla, one-pump-white-mocha, three-Splenda latte Kat greeted Wanda with an uncharacteristically inviting smile. "I suppose you think you could bribe me with a drink to get you in without an appointment today," Wanda said, her voice muffled from the vape smoke that poured out of her mouth.

"That. And the $50 tip I am prepared to bribe you with," Kat said.

"I'll bump Tina, but only if you call that old bitch to break the news," Wanda said with a conspiratorial smile.

Two hours later, after successfully dodging all of Wanda's prying questions, Kat strode out made up like a Vegas performer. Big hair, bright cheeks, heavy eye liner and enough red paint on her lips to cover a Corvette.

Back at the cabin, she made good time putting together her wardrobe. The navy blue suit she wore to meetings of great import was her favorite. A button-up blouse, low cut with frills around the collar worked perfectly with the vest that pushed up her breasts. The exquisitely tailored jacket fit her perfectly, accentuating the hourglass contours of her chest, slim waste and ample hips. A pencil skirt completed the ensemble, hugging her lower curves with equal aplomb as her vest.

While many people complemented her when she wore this outfit, it was his nodding approval that she appreciated most. She imagined modelling it for him only a few short hours from now. But first, shower and shave.

•••

Her Dodge Challenger aced the turns and tore its way up the steep hills as she made her way up Highway 16. It was 6:15PM when she arrived at mile marker 89, sixteen miles outside of town. There was a large turn-out to the right side of the road buttressed by thick forest. Shutting off the engine, she sat in her car for a few moments to let her nerves settle.

Stepping out, she took in the view for a moment and noticed how totally quiet it was this far outside of town. In the five minutes she had been there, she had not heard even so much as an airplane flying overhead. He had certainly picked this place for its isolation.

Behind the mile marker sign, Kat found another note as promised.

OPEN HOOD

TURN ON FLASHERS

STAND IN FRONT

BEND OVER ENGINE

WAIT

With a rush of excitement, she hurried back to her car. Throwing her coat on, she did as she was instructed. As she waited, she breathed in the odor of spent gas and burnt rubber. She wondered if she should sit for a while since she was so early. Then she heard a truck somewhere in the distance chugging its way up the winding hills.

Taking position, she did her best to bend over, arch her back and shove out her ass. She felt like a piece of meat dangling on a hook. There was no holding back her impatience to be found this way, the way he wanted her.

Never before had she taken instructions from a man like this. Only a month ago she would have scoffed at the idea that she would be sent on such a frivolous, wanton errand, going willingly into the wild without explanation. And now, here she was, following his orders like a woman for hire.

She desperately hoped that he noticed every detail of her preparation. Would he know all that she had done to make herself into this perfect object of his desire. If only she could tell him about Wanda's, or the frantic drive two counties over to get a pair of white panty hose or the blood red color she painted her toe nails.

God, she hated painting her nails, especially her toe nails. He wouldn't even see them in her closed toe heels. But she wanted everything to be just right. She wanted him to find everything in order. She had even brought her leather messenger bag she used when traveling for business meetings.

Rolling around the corner, she saw his orange, banged up old Ford truck slow to a stop a hundred yards after passing her. A loud clank sounded as the white reverse lights came on and he backed up next to her on the shoulder of the road. "Evenin' Ma'am," he said, tipping his well worn ball cap. "Need a hand?"

He played the part brilliantly, like a perfect stranger rolling up on a hapless motorist stranded out on a country road. Getting out, he walked up behind her slowly, making no attempt to hide his gawking eyes, tracing the line from her ankles up the back side of her body. He had with him a canvas bag she presumed he used to carry his tools.

"It's awfully dangerous for a little lady to be stranded out her, alone, with no cell service," he said ominously.

"I'm sure its nothing...maybe I just need to put some oil in the filters?" she said, doing her best to play her part. She loathed helpless women who knew nothing about cars, and yet, felt a thrill acting the part for his pleasure.

"Let's have a look," he said, bending down and looking under the hood. "Well, you got any oil in the trunk?" he said, blatantly looking at her breasts before moving his eyes to hers.

It disgusted her when men looked at her as an object, like a piece of meat, as though she were an animal at auction, her only value being the sum of her proportions. But the way he did it, like a lion surveying his pride and deciding which lioness to mount first, roused a primal need in her. She had never wanted a man's approval more than now, here, in this moment. Contrary to who she was through and through, she wanted to be nothing more than an object for him to use as he wished in this moment.

"Let me check. Wait here," she said as she hurried to the driver's side to pull the trunk release lever.

The trunk popped open and she bent over and leaned in, pretending to look for oil. As she did, she felt his gloved hand on the back of her thigh just below the cleft of her behind. "Hey, stop that! What are you doing, mister?!?" she shouted.

Trying to raise back up out of the trunk, she continued protesting as he groped her, holding her down in the bent over position with both hands now. "Get your hands off of me, you creep! What do you think you're doing? I'm gonna scream if you don't stop it right now!" she protested.

"No one is gonna hear you out here," he said with assurance.

"SOMEBODY HELP ME!!" she screamed. "HE'S RA..." Her voice was muffled by his hand over her mouth.

Leaning over her, pressing his full body weight onto her, she couldn't get up. Flailing with her arms and legs, she tried to break free, landing a few blows to his arms and legs, but not enough to hurt him or get him off of her. With a quick shift of his body weight, he lifted her up and out of the trunk and now had her in a headlock.

She tried to scream but her voice was little more than a squeak as he tightened his hold around her neck, lifting her body off the ground at one point. He had positioned himself in a way, pressing her against the side of the car that she could not get in a good kick or punch. Remembering her training, she stomped down with her heel on his boot and felt her ankle turn as the stiletto heel landed on the steel toe protector. The stiletto came unglued and broke off her shoe.

Wriggling frantically, she grabbed at his arm to break free or at least get some air. Finally, after pulling with all her might, she gasped for air. In the few seconds she had to breathe, she pleaded with him. "You're hurting me! Don't hurt me! Please! I'm begging you!"

With an arm around her waist and the other around her throat, he lifted her slightly and began walking her into the woods. His significant height and strength advantage made it all but impossible for her to stop him. All she could do was fight for air.

"I'll give you money! You can have anything! You can have my car!" she continued playing the role. She felt liberated in this drama, free to play the part of the damsel in distress. She hated fairy tales as a girl. She loved watching nature shows, drawn to the urgent struggle for life, feeling no pity for prey caught by its predator.

Fully immersed in the role, tears streamed down her cheeks as her assailant dragged her deeper into the woods. Arriving at a large tree in the dense forests, he threw her down to the ground. Sensing her opportunity, she sprang to her feet in a crouching, fighting stance, surveying the landscape and possible exit paths.

Deciding on a route away from him, she turned and tried to run. In the thick brush and shrubs of the forest floor, she staggered and couldn't find her footing. In a pair of stiletto heels, one of which had broken off, she could hardly make any progress. He laughed as he pounced on her.

Summoning every ounce of her strength, she fought to break free from his grip. With an arm loose, she swung wildly, trying to hit him in the face, in the neck, anywhere. Catching her free arm and taking both of her wrists into one hand, he knelt on top of her, pinning her down.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a zip tie. Despite her violent thrashing, he was able to roll her over and bind her hands behind her back. She breathed in the musky smell of soil and moss as he pressed her face into the dirt which brought back memories of hunting for truffles in the woods with her grandfather.

Rolling her back over, face up, she laid on top of her hands that were bound tight enough to start cutting off blood flow. Within a minute, her fingers were starting to get numb. The pain of laying on top of her arms was not at all unpleasant. Her hair was disheveled and in her face, little bits of leaves and dirt snagged in it.

"You're hurting me! Why are you hurting me?!?" she whimpered, exaggerating the weakness in her cries.

Sitting on top of her, he reached down and took hold of her blouse, tearing it open in one violent motion, the buttons ripping off like a zipper opening. The feeling of her $550 Gucci blouse being torn apart was more exciting than any time she had ever worn it before. With one more ripping movement, he tore the rest of the buttons on her blouse and vest, exposing her chest and the La Perla bra she reserved for special occasions.

"Please stop!" she cried pitifully before making herself sob.

Taking the shoulder straps of her bra in hand, he began to pull. Not hard enough to tear them, but hard enough for the delicate, lace straps to dig into her back and shoulders, pulling slowly, increasing the pressure ever so slightly. The sound of individual threads tearing increased as he pulled harder and harder, her body now starting to lift slightly off the ground before one of the straps finally gave way, exposing one of her breasts. Lifting again, he pulled up on the other strap, raising her body unevenly, one shoulder hoisted off the ground.

The fabric dug into her skin like a piano wire. Her cries grew louder until the second strap broke and her body crashed once again to the ground, both of her breasts sloshing free. She felt the smooth leather of his glove against her skin as he slid it beneath the underwire of her bra. With one hand, he pressed down around her neck as he pulled up on her bra. His powerful hands pushed and pulled her body like a rag doll. She was sure that if the clip in the back didn't break, he might break her ribs just before losing consciousness.

Jerking his hand quickly, the clip mercifully gave way. When her body came to rest on the ground again, he yanked to free the tattered material off of her. Her skin burned around her ribcage where the strap had rubbed her raw.

Sliding his body down over her thighs, then over her knees and then her shins, he found the bottom of her skirt. His strong hands had to rip at the fabric as most of it was trapped underneath her body. Freeing enough of it, he pushed it up over her thighs, revealing the bright pink and orange panties under her panty hose.

He grabbed hastily at her panty hose, yanking down hard on them, the thin yet resilient fabric pulling hard against her skin as he jerked it from between her legs. He had to tug several times to get them down between her fleshy thighs as she squeezed them together tightly.

Threading his hand under the V line of her panties at the top of her thigh, he reached through to the other side and began pulling them up toward her belly button. The fabric wedged between her outer labia as he pulled hard, the rest of the fabric wedging up her cheeks from below, raising her torso up off the ground. The pain was exquisite and excruciating for the fifteen seconds it took for the fabric to give way.

One more rip and her panties were off. Despite her outward protests, the front of her panties were wet, soaked with anticipation. As she was about to complain again, the man shoved her panties in her mouth. The tastes and textures of her sodden lace panties and sweat laden leather work gloves on her tongue were surprising.

Kat had long regarded the vagina, even her own, as unappealing, even disgusting. She made every effort to render her nether regions devoid of smell and wetness. Aside from washing, she had refrained from touching herself until just a year ago when she and Hal, her ex-husband, had officially separated. The messaging of her conservative upbringing rendered any exploration of female genitalia taboo. Now, with her soaked, shredded panties shoved deep in her mouth, touching the back of her throat, they tickled her fancy as much as her gag reflex.

She would have never regarded any of this as pleasurable before meeting him. Forcing it upon her as he did so many other new things, she found it thrilling. Tilting her head back, she hoped he would shove them deeper. She wanted to test how far she could take his gloved fingers down her throat before gagging.

From a back pocket in his jeans, he produced a length of rope. Flipping her on her side, he tied one end of it to her left wrist. He did so with an ease that suggested his hands were well trained in knots, something she found attractive. Nothing roused her more than the strength and surety of a man skilled in his trade.

Pulling tight on the rope, it cinched around her wrist. Kat fought to break free only to find that the harder she pulled, the tighter the knot clenched. He rolled her back over again, face down in the soil and whispered, "I like it when you fight... You like it when it hurts."

Now, he fished another rope out of his other back pocket and bound her ankles. The whole process only took only a few seconds. She imagined his practiced hands roping her like a hog or a steer at a county rodeo. Rising to his feet, he stood over Kat and watched as she wriggled around on the ground trying to roll herself face up. Finally, she rolled onto her side and began trying to get to her knees.

When she had almost managed to right herself into a kneeling position, he grabbed her arm above the elbow and lifted her. He was able to command her body effortlessly. Pain spread from her shoulders as he raised her to her feet. Now standing, the pressure in her shoulders relented.

Bending down and putting his shoulder into her midsection, he gathered her into a fireman's carry and walked her over to a large tree. He set her back down gingerly on her feet. She did her best to maintain her balance in her broken heels atop the lumpy forest floor. He pushed her against the tree.

As he bent down to reach into his canvas bag, she began shouting unintelligibly at him, her mouth still filled with her panties. In an attempt to run, she fell before she could take a step. She shook and flailed violently on the ground trying again to break free. Her muffled screams were growing more desperate.

Before she could force the panties out of her mouth, he pounced on her, rolling her onto her back and shoving them back into her mouth with his gloved fingers. He rolled up a bandana and tied it as a gag in her mouth around the back of her head, making it hard to breathe. Grabbing a handful of her hair which was now ratted and filled with twigs and dirt, he squeezed.

She hated the idea of someone pulling her hair. Kat had never allowed anyone to do that to her. Her immediate reaction was to surrender to the pressure. He wasn't pulling as much as gathering it tightly as she might do to pull it into a pony tail. His grip now tightened. He pulled and lifted until her head came off the ground.

As the pressure grew, she understood the appeal of hair pulling. The slow pulling was blissfully painful. She breathed out heavily through her nose as he pulled harder and harder. With his free hand, he slapped her across the face. "It'll only get worse if you keep trying to run away," he said in a whisper.

Rising to his feet, he pulled her to her feet and leaned her against the tree once more. There she remained while he rummaged through his canvas bag. As he emptied some of its contents on the ground, Kat made another attempt to flee.

As with before, she fell after her first step and he was on top of her again. Hair again in his hand, this time, he pulled harder. The slap was much more forceful than before. The leather glove against her cheek was strangely comforting and not at all painful.

How could this brutality excite her so? She couldn't explain why she wanted him to go harder, farther, take more. Why was she- this woman who would never allow anyone to disrespect, mistreat or violate her- wishing for this strange man to brutalize her body and force her submit to his torture?