'And now my dear, now you're going to fuck the driver.'
Those were the last words the older man said to Francesca before the car came to a stop, somewhere in the countryside, although from her position in the middle of the back seat she can't see out of either window. Outside is pitch black and freezing cold. She doesn't have any desire to leave the warm inside of the car, but she doesn't think that she'll have a choice. Something else is about to happen, the next stage of the night is about to begin. She wants to prepare herself, mentally if not physically, but for what? To fuck the driver? Is that all?
Her entire life Francesa has found sex an unsatisfactory experience, a disappointingly flat development which would start with something like arousal at the thought -- or reality - of being touched by a man, but once events were underway, she would always cool off. Something was missing. She couldn't sustain her arousal, and even the thought of an orgasm with a man was laughable. When she was alone in the darkness of her bed, she could touch herself to a climax, but touch alone was never enough. She had to think and imagine, picture different scenarios in her mind -- different, but in some respects always the same: men who demanded things from her that she was only half willing to give. Pinning her down on the floors of dirty public toilets, or behind the bandstand in a local park, or in someone's basement. Queues of men with their zips open and their dicks out, long and hard and eager, dicks waiting to use her. She, feeling fragile and helpless, spreadeagled on some mattrass with her arms and legs stretched in all directions so she couldn't move. Sometimes blindfolded. She'd dreamed of herself gagged before she ever learnt that gags even existed. She just knew, instinctively, that what she needed was something deeper and darker than what other women wanted and felt. She needed force and to be made to feel that there was no choice, even though the choice was in reality always hers -- it was her fantasy, and in the daydream she never resisted what the men got her to do. The rooms-full of imaginary lovers who would defile her would talk about her like she's a thing to be passed around and sneer at her confusion and her arousal, but she never resisted her humiliation, never said no. Instead, she felt something exciting and pleasurable which she could never feel when the proceedings were loving, gentle, and calm.
She didn't know why she was wired this way, what it was that had gone wrong with her burgeoning sexuality when she was very young, but she knew that she'd been like this since those first sexual stirrings when she was just ten or eleven. Maybe all girls dreamed of being touched by their teenage heroes, characters from books or comics, the odd pop star. But she dreamed of being violated by them, held down and used, a strong hand over her mouth, clothes ripped from her body, exposed and humiliated, often publicly. She dreamed of being hit, sometimes hard. She wondered what a slap across the face would feel like. Was it still violence if she wanted it? She didn't know. When these things happened to the grown-up Francesca in real life, she didn't find an answer to those questions. All she knew was that there was a longing in her body that only harsh, strict love could ever satisfy.
Now the car has parked, and the men exit, motioning for Francesca to follow them outside. She steps into the freezing night and starts to shiver, almost uncontrollably. She's thirsty and a little bit hungry and needs the toilet. 'Where are we?' she asks. 'I need to pee.'
The men look at her, laughing like she's a cute five-year-old.
'You can pee in a minute. First, I want you to meet the driver,' the man with the gravelly voice says to her with a nod, like this is something that's obvious to everyone except her.
Ah, yes, the driver. The one I'm supposed to fuck, she remembers. Does that mean all three men will fuck her tonight? Her overstretched bladder responds with an uncomfortable twitch.
The house they're standing in front of looks like a typical Cotswold cottage, all yellow stone and picture-perfect garden, the carefully maintained shrubs green and pretty, even in the dead of the English winter. It's gorgeous, she thinks, and would be even more gorgeous in the summer when the hydrangeas bloom and everything's abuzz with bees and butterflies.
But they're not here to admire the house.
Francesca focuses her attention back on the car and the driver who -- she hopes -- will eventually come out, to put her out of her misery. Waiting, knowing that just a few feet from here is the man who will shortly be penetrating her, but not being able to see him -- it's agony, both for her curiosity and her dignity. Finally, the door opens and a man comes out, stretching to his full height by the side of the car.
'Sir!'
