On your birthday, after dinner, you, your parents, and your sisters gathered in the living room to have you open presents. There were the usual, the Swatch watches and a dark blue turtleneck, and then Dad took you to the garage. Of course you knew what he was going to do but it was special after all the waiting and expectation, and even then you didn't think you'd be so affected. There was your convertible, gleaming ivory white, and your father opened the driver's door. A sweep of his hand and you slid in, whereupon he dangled the key ring for your grasp.
"Go ahead, start her up," he encouraged. And it did, a nice assertive American jump to the sound of the engine coming to life. Then Dad indicates the convertible switch, which you turn, and sure enough the gears and levers swing into action, raising the canvas up behind, over, and down neatly in line with the windshield, enveloping you into in its comforting cocoon.
"Oh Daddy!" you exclaim, supremely happy, jumping out and hugging him. "No girl should be without one," he says and you laugh and kiss on the cheek.
Now, a month later, you've done your part at the Motor Vehicle Department and the convertible is yours to drive as you like, where you want. You take it to school to the appreciative looks of those you know and those you don't, student and staff, gearheads and fashionistas, because plainly you have a classic, stylish, outgoing, versatile, and powerful car, whose attributes match your own.
That night you drive to the Pathmark for another of shift of keeping the kids safe in their playhouse. It goes smoothly, no one suffocates in the cage of plastic balls and you get in some interesting reading in the New Yorker, which you'd finally taken up and realized that guy Arthur was right. Pretty opinionated sometimes but he listened well and had some pretty good ideas. No word from him in a while, wonder what's up?
You check out, say your goodbyes to your boss and the odd co-worker and head for your car in the back lot where employees park. No one else gets out when you do, but it's reasonably well lighted. Needless to say you're very surprised when I appear from around the back of your car just as you're about to unlock the door.
"Long time, no see, Anne," I say, striding swiftly toward you and before you can react I grab your wrist, twist it behind it you where I grab your other arm and handcuff them together.
"Happy belated Birthday, sweetness, but I had to wait for you to get that car, didn't I? But no regrets, this night will worth the wait." I move in and embrace you against the door and give you a firm and penetrating kiss, my tongue sliding decisively between your parted lips, my hands sliding under your unzipped jacket, one running up and around your back, the other dropping and rubbing the firm cheeks of your buttocks. All of this is over your turtleneck and pants but shortly, as the kisses continue my hands are now inside your clothing, sliding smoothly on your warm soft skin, inside your bra straps, along and then under your panty's waistband. It's all nicely arousing when I break it off and pull you to the back of the convertible.
"This is your birthday rape fantasy, Anne," I say, "And because I can't having you screaming in case this isn't what you had in mind, this is to shut you up. Close your mouth."
