Hotboxing

(Orig. Posted on EMCSA, January 2013--Mr. J)

*

The quiet January night is deceptively calm as the curvaceous figure lurks beyond the orange haze of the street lamps. Every so often the vroom of cars echoes in the air like a suburbanite cry, the automobiles calling out in the dark night. Rarer still are the cries of coyotes further afield, their pangs of loneliness reverberating in the air like a painful melody. But for the most part it is like any other neighborhood.

Manicured gardens...Picket fences...Oak trees reaching out into the starry heavens above....

It is a perfect cover for a thief--a car thief, specifically.

The safety of the woods offers no comfort as Jennifer Cayden scans the neighborhood with her eyes. The brambles prick her ankles as she gazes at the sprawling brick colonial that is her target's house. Why a engineer making well over seven figures would need four bedrooms and three baths to himself Jen can't fathom. All she knows is the person's name, address, and layout of the home. If she absconds with the package and makes a clean getaway before the poor sap wakes up to find the experimental car stashed in his garage is gone. By that time she would be long gone and six zeros richer. Surely her target knew the risks of taking his work home with him.

Jen knows hers very well.

Stealing cars for a living is not without its risks. The best case scenario might be a joyride in a bait car followed by a lengthy stay in the state penitentiary. Yet to date the mauve-haired rogue has managed to evade such eventualities. It helps to be selective. The type of vehicles her high-end clients prefer generally protects against such eventualities, but it is only a small comfort. Jen protects herself the best she can, yet even the hardiest of thieves has a bad day.

After six years on the job, the 24 year-old knows a thing or two about bad days. A cattle prod may may come in handy, and a side-arm is even better. But if the cops make a bust, or a gang banger pulls out his semi, there is only so much one can do. It helps to have a cool head--but if she catches a bullet, so be it.

Not thinking about it helps. That, and plenty of vodka.

The last of the lights finally goes out in the home. Jen grasps her utility belt as she performs a final inventory check. Multi-meter, check, Wires, check, microreader, double-check. The cold steel of the .45 rests comfortably near her hip as her hands rest near her sides. Jen lets out a sigh of relief.

Athletic legs move fluidly and cautiously as she creeps toward the backside of the property. She vaults over the high hedges with ease, pausing to consider the modest pool in the inner garden before moving on. The moonlight offers the barest of illumination as she zips up her dark hoodie. Almond eyes finally alight on the garage, the white door beckoning towards her.

The car itself is average by California standards, somewhat larger than a mid-priced sedan. Yet it is its shape that grabs Jen's eye. It isn't so much a car as a bubble, the spherical shape inspiring giggles rather than awe. Jen struggles to see the appeal, but then again, it is southern California. One press of the button on the specially designed microreader her bosses gave her and she's in like Flynn.

The first thing that impresses her is the interior. Plush leather seats, a chrome dashboard that glistens like the sea, and a steering wheel straight out of a video game. The stereo even looks Space Age.

The would-be bandit removes the hood from her head, letting manes of medium-length purple hair fall around her face.

Jen glances at the set up again. There should be an ignition source somewhere. She fishes out her multi-meter and discovers the power source hidden just under the dash. If her guess is correct, the wires should be located just under her feet.

The would be bandit removes the hood from her head, letting manes of purple hair fall around her face. All she has to do is remove the panel and...

Jen smarts as her head bumps against the dash. Klaxons interrupt the calm. As if the pain is bad enough, there is the very real fear of being found out. Jen reckons she has only a few seconds to bail and run into the darkness.

"INTRUDER, IDENTIFY YOURSELF!" A metallic voice calls out.

Jen looks on in shock.

"INTRUDER, IDENTIFY YOURSELF! YOU HAVE THIRTY SECONDS!"

"George Washington?" Jen cries out.

"NAME NOT ON FILE, TWO ATTEMPTS LEFT."

"Abraham Lincoln?"

"NAME NOT ON FILE, ONE ATTEMPT LEFT."

With ten seconds to go, she searches her mind for her target's name. She remembers it was Jim something or another. Miller, Mann...

"JAMES MATTHEWS!" Her voice cracks.

"HANG ON ONE MOMENT," The voice informs her.

Jen lets out a deep breath as the voice fades away. That was a close one, she reflects as she wipes the sweat from her brow. An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air for several minutes. Maybe the worst has passed?

The speaker crackles ominously to life.

"VOICE PRINT DOES NOT MATCH NAME ON FILE. SORRY."

Jen's eyes widen as the metallic coils wrap around her torso and arms, holding her down. Her skin shivers as the cold steel presses against her stomach. Her hands strain against the cords, but it's a vain effort. She could feel the revulsion building up in the back of her throat. She would scream, if she could.

That is, if the bubble car lets her.

The tentacles slacken, but only briefly as their arms make themselves felt. They take their time as they trace the contours of her blushing cheeks en route to her chest. The coldness only makes Jen turn her head. But even here, the bubble car has its away. The fingers grab her chin firmly and turns her head back around.

The bubble car wants her to watch. She has to watch.

She wonders if this might be a perverted trap laid by Mr. Matthews. There are plenty man-boys like him in these parts, rich techies with a tainted sense of humor. Perhaps he's intending to have a little fun before he reports her to the authorities. It's hard to say.

He could be watching right now, getting his rocks off as he watches her writhe on a monitor screen.

Jen whimpers as the tentacles trace the contours of her breasts. They tease and squeeze as the hands roam around her body. She can feel her nipples harden as they wander around. She moans involuntarily.

The would-be bandit catches a glimpse of her own reflection as arms make short work of her hoodie and blouse. A lustful flicker flashes in her eyes as the clothing flutters onto the floor like leaves at her feet.

Could it be...arousal?

Jen shakes her head. It couldn't be. Having a vibrator or two at home is one thing but this... This is life and death. Her mind races with thoughts of exits and escape plans. If only she could wriggle away just long enough to climb under the dash and disable the car before it's too late.

Get it together, girl, she tells herself.

A fog of confusion has already set in, thanks in no small part to the thumping bass of trance music on the radio. The stereo blares to life almost as an afterthought. Perhaps the bubble car wants to relax its victim? In any case, the background noise is a little...distracting. There's something not quite right about the pulsating thump emanating from the speakers.

Her hips sway rhythmically along with the music. She's been near this sort of precipice in a dozen bars and nightclubs before. Yet somehow this is different. There is none of the autonomy, the freedom to pull back when the music and alcohol become too much. Call it suggestion, pseudoscience, whatever you want, but it's as though the car is willing her to dance.

She is only its puppet.

The tentacles have long since grown tired of her chest by this time. Robotic fingers inch towards the waistband of her tights, tickling and teasing her belly button with glee. A giggle echoes off the window...hers. The fit of uncontrolled laughter takes her by surprise as they trace the Japanese iconography above her mid-riff. Her muscles slacken with each caress.

By the time they've gotten around to peeling off her tights, Jen can already feel the whoosh of blood circulating through her veins. The heat between her legs is unbearable. There is no question she's wet anymore, only how much.

"Noooo," Jen protests half-jokingly as they pry her legs apart.

Dampened Lycra panties fall to the wayside as Jen glances at glistening patch of pubic hair underneath. The lilac colored hairs glimmer faintly in the dim light. There is almost a sparkle in the gleam of her moist pink lips. Her eyes wander towards her creamy white thighs and back again.

It is the most beautiful sight in the world.

Jen cranes her head as the fingers check her for wetness. She gasps the digits of cold steel makes contact with her pudenda. The sensation is off-putting at first. Her shoulders relax as Jen closes her eyes, letting them roam free...

A sucking sound jolts her awake. She opens her eyes to discover the magical fingers have disappeared. A pang of abandonment settles in as she whimpers softly...and just when they were about to become good friends.

Jen's eyes widen as one of them transforms, digits rearranging themselves to form a phallus like shape. She shudders as the gleaming member slithers across her legs and thighs. The thought of being penetrated by this thing...it's too frightening.

A yelp escapes her mouth as it eases its way in. The rounded tip feels surprisingly warm as it pushes past her nether lips. Has it learned to respond to her desires?

The member rocks slowly in tune to her gyrating hips. The stereo provides the beat as they grind against each other in a sensual rhythm. Jen loses herself in the music. Nothing else matters but the thumping bass and her own immediate need.

Jen's eyes flutter as she thinks of her beloved Adam. The mentor, the lover, the man her pulled her out of a cycle of loneliness and despair and gave her a life worth living.

She'd only been a runaway when they bounced into each other at an east L.A. bar six years earlier. Jen was a rebellious eighteen year old with a long series of stints in juvenile hall and foster care. Adam was a handsome rogue who loved to steal cars.

It was a perfect match. Jen had many lovers, yet the older man's wavy hair and stubbly cheeks excited her in a way that few could. Her heart beat just a little faster whenever they were near, and the barest touch would send her body tingling.

There was something animal-like in her attraction to him. Mere lust couldn't account for it. It was something more intangible. Sometimes she could glimpse through the tough facade and glimpse a broken soul of rare compassion and wit only to slip once again behind dark inscrutable eyes. All he needed was a savior.

It was not to be. Jen strove to show her love in all the little and not so little ways. Yet with each gesture Adam became harder to reach. She cursed the job that brought them together. Adam's untimely car crash dashed hopes for a rapprochement. Yet ironically it was Jen who became bitter as she was left to pick up the pieces.

The void inside her hasn't been filled since.

The soft focus of memory gives way to reality as she opens her eyes. The tentacles have her on all fours now, the members alternating between her ass and cunt. Her knees dig into the plush leather as they thrust and plunge. Rivulets of come cascade down the back of her legs in dawdling drips, clinging to her skin in a mixture of sex and sweat.

"Uggghhh..." Jen grunts.

Her back arches as she spreads her legs for her new hosts. A sensual moan adds yet another layer to the pulsating soundtrack on the stereo. She no longer conceives of the guttural sounds as jarring. To the contrary, they spur her on to greater and greater pleasure.

Jen gazes at the disheveled hair clinging to her face. It feels strangely liberating to watch herself being used up. Maybe it is the music, but it just feels...right somehow.

Her will to resist waxes and wanes with each thrust. If she listens very closely, she could hear the sensual beat calling back to her. Submit, submit, submit, submit...

Yes, yes I do, the thought lingers in her mind.

A new visitor introduces herself to her lips. The metal member brushes itself teasingly along the sides of her mouth. It smells of her own sweat and come. Obviously it's been somewhere it shouldn't have been.

She flicks her tongue around the rim, saliva coating it's smooth head. The length of its shaft is covered in her own fluid as she samples its wares. The metal phallus seems taken in by her boldness. It doesn't quite know what to make of it, as though the ministrations were part of a strange human ritual. The tang of Jen's juices saturate her taste buds. The taste is sickly sweet, like a creamsicle. Is this what she tasted like to Adam? A shudder of pleasure jolts through her at the thought.

Already Jen could feel the thought patterns rearrange themselves in her head. The urge to escape feels anathema anyhow. Not when she existed to live and serve her new master.

Maybe this was her reason for living after all.

The tentacles are ratcheting up their tempo now. The would-be bandit feels the pressure building up inside her. The cascades of pleasure are much too intense. She doesn't know how much longer she can hold off until climax.

An orgasmic scream rents the air as the tentacles come. Bits of foam cover her body as Jen collapses in a pool of lather and her own sticky fluids. A smile creeps along her face as she stares at the ceiling above.

It feels good to succumb.

Up above the garage, a young man rests comfortably in his bedroom, completely oblivious to what has transpired. A drone of white noise fills his ears as he rests his head upon the pillow. No one could say for sure whether he heard the moans and panting below.

But one thing is certain: it's been a very good night.