Hauling Ass

I drive a lot. I drive all over the state, and I'm never shy about seeing a new road or town. And it's not a small place.

I was on one of my usual roadtrips, looking for new places and maybe a better job market, this time exploring northwestern bits I'd never been to before. I had a map, but I didn't usually use it. I didn't usually know where I was except for a general idea until I asked gas station attendants, and it was the sort of area where even they couldn't give you a straight answer without using the words "in between."

At this particular moment in time I was "in between" Adrian and Vega, and just about all I could tell you was that I should have gone to the bathroom at the last gas station I'd seen. It should have only been about another ten minutes, but the seat belt was doing cruel things to my bladder, so I finally decided to pull off and piss behind the car.

There wasn't much traffic, so I didn't worry too hard about anyone seeing me. Besides, the idea of someone catching a glimpse was actually more exciting than anything else. I pulled down my jeans to my knees, spread my feet, and leaned against the car in a creative pissing position my dear college buddy had deemed "the drunken hobo."

A blaring honk from a truck without a trailer made me jump, and I lost my balance and stumbled, barely keeping out of my own puddle. I tossed a finger at the truck as it blew past and pulled up my jeans. I walked around to the drivers side and got in before I noticed the truck had pulled off, too. I thought for a second.

I could start the engine and speed off, ensuring my safety and a thoroughly uneventful roadtrip...or I could see what the muscular beast stepping down from his rig wanted.

Hey, I'm always up for meeting new people.

So I put my keys in the ignition, rolled down the driver's side window halfway, and sat back to wait. If he really had something to say, maybe the long walk to my car would help him get it in order. In the meantime I studied him. The closer he came, the nicer he looked. Probably a good ten or fifteen years older than me, he looked to be in his late thirties. I brushed too-long bangs out of my eyes to get a better look. That was long, dark hair coming out of his hat, about shoulder length. A strong, bristled jaw, a muscled frame, blue jeans that had the sorts of tears and holes in them you get from playing hard. Big black boots. A black shirt with some kind of splashed, messy looking print that could only imply a metal band.

...Shit. As much as I loved metal, I hadn't had much luck with metalheads. I'd put the percentage of loud music lovers that I knew who could also hold an intelligent conversation at around 10%. Don't judge, I told myself, he hasn't even said hello yet.

Nor did he. He reached the window, set his huge arms on top of the car, peered in and said "Well don't you look feral."

Feral. Acceptable word.

I smiled and asked what he wanted. I knew I looked his type, with my eyeliner on and my piercings in. Maybe this would go better than bad.

"Thought I'd take you up on that offer." His voice was a low growl, an accent that wasn't Texan coming through. Those eyes were a cold, deep blue that almost wasn't blue at all. His breath smelled like Camels.

"What offer might that be?" I asked, smirking up at him. Ah, Pantera, that was his shirt. It was a legitimate tour shirt, too. Impressive.

"Be polite. Say either yes Sir or no Sir."

I blinked. It was an intriguing offer. Figuring that it wasn't that hard to change my mind, and I didn't give a shit about pissing off someone I'd never see again, I went with "Yes, Sir."

He grinned a little, just at the corner of that hard mouth. "Won't you come over to my place?" He gestured back to his truck, and I opened the door and stepped out. I had a long walk back to his giant, shiny-as-fuck rig to think about what I was doing, but all I could focus on was the smell of Camels. I tried to make conversation, but he wasn't very talkative. We reached the door and he invited me into the back of the cab. I paused for a second, but truthfully, it was all so exciting that there wasn't a chance in hell of me turning around.

True to his clothing preference, his CD player had been left on and was still blasting Pantera. He turned it down and looked at me for a long time. I returned the stare as long as I could, before finally looking at the bed. It might have been respect, or it might have been an invitation to study other aspects of my own personal clothing preferences.

He reached up and snaked a thick finger through the O-ring on my collar. "No tag, pussycat?" I blushed, realizing the song playing at the moment was a cover of Cat Scratch Fever. "No," I replied quietly.

"You know what that thing means, right?"

"I know what it used to mean. Now it's meaning has changed."

"Really?"

"Really."

He studied me a second more, and finally I decided explanation was in order. "It used to mean what you may or may not think it does. Now I am my own Owner."

"Ah." Finger still in the loop, he tugged me closer. I had to scoot toward him to keep from falling forward. "I'm glad, then, because otherwise this would probably be pissing Someone off, huh."

"Dunno."

His eyes got hard and he jerked the collar. "I didn't hear a 'Sir.'"

"I mean no Sir, it...it actually, it's fun." I was losing my edge, becoming that sloppy submissive. I was letting a stranger push me around. I felt ashamed, but I also felt the rush of excitement start to leak into my jeans. What a stupid day to go commando -- now I was going to have to wash these somewhere along the drive.

His finger left the collar and went instead to around my throat. His hands were huge, and I felt secretly wonderful. My eyes fell shut and I felt his other fingers circle my waist just under my top. He pulled me closer to him and asked if I'd ever been properly dominated.

It broke the spell and this time it was my expression that got hard. I told him sure, I'd been dominated. It all sounds amazing until it happens, then you realize it's just another way to say one-sided sex. I said it was great to serve, but remembering it just reminds me why I own myself nowadays. I said it isn't like in the stories. He didn't let go of me, but he waited patiently while I turned my own mood sour. I got quiet for a minute and sat there frustrated, my neck in the hands of a total stranger, feeling more and more hopeless about sex and relationships, and wishing with all my heart that I was on the road again.

It wasn't until I decided to act on that impulse and tried to pull away that his grip tightened on both parts of me. Something very wrong clicked in my mind and I lost it. I couldn't talk, couldn't think, just struggled against that grip that wouldn't let go. Some part of my brain knew it wasn't hurting me, just holding me, but that didn't stop me from freaking out. I elbowed and pushed, and got one of his hands off of my waist, only to have it pin both my arms against my sides and circle me even more completely. I might have been crying, but I don't remember anything else. I got too worked up, and I'd gone and passed out.

Bad, right? Eh, when you don't have anything to lose, adventure is adventure is adventure.