Marilyn sat in the mechanic's waiting room as her car was being serviced. She didn't read, although she'd brought a book. She didn't play on her IPad, although she had it with her. She didn't even reach for her phone, to talk and text with friends.
Instead, she fumed. And as she fumed, the steam built within her, waiting to explode, screaming like a teapot. Mike had done it again.
Every time, every single time, she planned a dinner party or planned to go to one with her friends, Mike suddenly had to "work" late. Rarely did her husband have to work late; it almost only happened when she had made plans with her friends.
How stupid did he think she was? How could he be so obvious, actually rubbing it in her face? Embarrassing her constantly in front of her friends.
And she'd been so grateful that he had agreed to this dinner party, that she had rocked his world last night. She'd offered him an all-access pass, anything he wanted. And he wanted everything -- she was still exhausted from the workout he'd given her.
And then this morning, he'd dared to call her and tell her that he was going to have to work the night of the party.
As she shook her head in anger, she glanced into the workshop and saw the mechanic looking under her hood at her. Leering at her. She suddenly became aware of how short her skirt was, how low her neckline dipped. Then the bastard winked at her.
She felt like steam would shoot out of her ears, like a cartoon character. She was ready to tell off the man, but then thought, "It would serve Mike right," and she felt a smile slowly take over her face. She winked back. She adjusted her seat to give the man a better look.
She saw him call over to one of his employees and give some instructions. Then, wiping his hands on a rag, he came into the reception room. "Getting a little bored out here, missy?" he asked.
"Missy? Is he kidding," Marilyn chuckled to herself. Then, putting on what she thought would be a seductive look, she tilted her head and responded, "A little. Could you suggest something more exciting?"
He reached out and took her hand, pulling her up to him. "My apartment is upstairs. Want to come up, uh," he gave her a slow glance, from her heels to her head, "for a beer?"
She allowed herself to be pulled along, then preceded him up the stairs, well aware that her swaying ass was right in his face. She felt a twinge of excitement dampen her vagina. Would she do this? She thought her asshole husband deserved it.
As they stepped into the apartment, he spun her around and kissed her. She smelled his scent, strong with the sweat of a working man. So different than Mike. She felt his strong arms around her, felt his rigid cock pressing against her pubis. She gave herself to the embrace, as her stomach flipped with sexual excitement. She was doing this! Her first bit of strange in 12 years.
Soon, her clothes were being removed, and she worked the buttons on his shirt, and the buckle on his belt. She stroked his member as he removed her bra and started pulling down her panties. Without ceremony, he pushed her backwards onto the bed and climbed up between her legs.
His armpit was hovering over her face, and the manly smell she had noticed now had a nasty, acrid characteristic that made her stomach flip again, but now not in a good way. The memory of Mike, with his always fresh and clean smell, invaded her mind.
As one hand started massaging her labia and fingers began moving into her, she looked down at the hand roughly squeezing her right breast. Before she could beg him to be gentle, she looked at the ragged fingernails, with half-moons of black grease under the nails, grease that filled the swirls and whorls of his fingerprints and lined the creases in his knuckles. She realized that its matching mate was being shoved into her, filthy and dirty, so different than her husband's clean and loving hands. She panicked and began pushing him off, begging him to stop, please stop.
He laughed, pulled out his fingers and lined up his penis, using his knees to spread her out. "Not until I get mine, you fucking tease." He plunged in as she started screaming and weeping. His filthy hand covered her mouth as he picked up his pace.
It was forever, but in reality, all too soon, before she felt him pulse as he deposited his seed into her. He climbed off and retrieved his clothes. "Stop crying, bitch. You asked for it, and if you try to deny it, my whole shop will testify how you flirted with me and brought me up here." She sobbed, feeling dirtier than the man while she slowly donned her own clothing. "Hurry it up. I've got to get back to work."
Somehow, she managed to pay her bill to the smirking girl at the desk, got into her car and drove down the block before pulling over and parking. She could hardly see through her tears. She sat there, wishing she could go back, go back before the man winked at her, before she became so stupid. She saw the people walking by, looking in at the sobbing woman. As a young black man, with concern showing on his face, started to approach her door, in all probability to find out if she was okay, she quickly started her car and drove away home.
She couldn't stop crying. When she got home, she showered, dried, then showered again. Still not clean, she filled up a hot bath and sat in it until the water turned cold. Mike found her in the chilling water, weeping uncontrollably.
As he comforted her, emptying the tub and wrapping her in warm towels, he kept asking what was wrong. She could hear the panic and concern rising in his voice. His loving voice. This was a man who loved her, who cared for her, who took care of her. So what if he didn't like dinner parties or more likely, couldn't stand her friends. He loved her and she loved him.
As he calmed her sobs, she blurted out that she had been raped. "Oh, my god," Mike yelled, gathering her into his arms. "It'll be okay, honey. Who did it?"
She couldn't tell him about the mechanic. It would come out that she had gone upstairs willingly. She had participated in being stripped and stripping the man. She wasn't innocent and her husband would never forgive her.
She told him that she had stopped to shop down the block from the mechanic's and had been pulled into an alley by a black man and then raped. Mike jumped up and was on the phone to the police, ignoring her entreaties to let it go, that she didn't want to go through the humiliation of a public trial. Mike told her that they couldn't let the bastard get away with it.
Soon she was repeating the story to two officers, making up a description of a young, black man. The police then insisted she have a rape kit down at the hospital. "Although, ma'am, after bathing they're unlikely to find anything now, but we might get lucky." As the nurse swapped her vagina, she wondered how she had let the day go so wrong.
The next afternoon, she was surprised by a call from the police requesting she come in to view a lineup. They had found the man she described. Mike, who had taken the call, agreed and suddenly Marilyn found herself at the station, looking at a lineup of six, young black men. She gasped out loud when she saw the third man -- he was the one who had approached her car the day before. She had inadvertently described him, down to the scar he had on his forehead.
The woman sergeant who was conducting the procedure had heard the gasp and demanded, "You see him, don't you, Marilyn."
Without thinking, she responded, "That third man..."
Satisfied, the sergeant smiled. "We thought so. He works at the fast-food restaurant just around the block. The shirt you described was the shirt their employees must wear, and he was the only young black man who worked there yesterday. And he got off just before the time you were raped."
Marilyn quickly tried to backpedal. "I can't be sure. He looks like him, but I would hate to be wrong." She looked at Mike for support. "I don't want to accuse someone who might be innocent."
Mike hugged her and held her tightly as he said, "But you're not wrong, sweetheart. He was wearing the shirt, just like you described. He's the only one who fit the description and he was right there at the time you were raped. You have to identify him."
Marilyn began crying. "I can't, Mike, I can't. Please don't make me."
The sergeant stepped in. "No one is going to make you, ma'am. If you can't, or don't want, to identify your attacker, no one can make you. But we'll work on him and try to get a confession." She shook her head, adding, "But without your identification or a confession, we'll have to let him go."
Marilyn quietly wept on the way home. She could feel Mike's disappointment that she wouldn't identify her rapist, that likely the man would get away with it. He tried to convince his wife that the man would likely repeat his vile act with other women if he wasn't stopped. Marilyn just cried.
In the end, Quinton, the young man, was released, but the record of his arrest would follow him. That afternoon, the fast-food restaurant, where he was a management trainee, released him. Having an employee arrested in their restaurant reflected badly on their establishment. They felt that where there was smoke, there was fire. They couldn't afford to have a suspected rapist on their payroll.
