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“Fuck.”
You pat your pockets again, as if that might bring your phone back.
“Fuck.”
It doesn't.
You try to remember where you last saw it. Probably at the bar, after your friend had texted you that she was going home with someone. You'd put it down and ordered a drink, trying to figure out how you were going to get back home now that your ride had left. By the time you'd finished your drink and went to find a taxi, however…
“Hey!”
You turn to the voice behind you, finding yourself staring up at the blond man who'd tried to buy you a drink earlier. Johnny, you're pretty sure he'd called himself. He'd taken your rejection with a shocking amount of grace, apologising for wasting your time and heading to another part of the club. But now he's jogging over to you, holding up your phone. Thank fuck.
“You uh, you left this at the bar.”
You groan, shoulders slumping. “Thanks, I was losing my mind.”
“Yeah, I would be too if I lost mine,” Johnny smiles broadly. “But the bar tender saw you put it down and leave, apparently. When he saw me leaving, he recognised me from earlier and asked if I could give it to you. I think he thought I was your boyfriend.”
He gives a friendly laugh, and you find yourself more at ease. Your eyes track your phone in his hand, but he seems too caught up in chatting to remember to hand it over.
“Are you waiting for your friends?”
Your friend. Your mood sours at the reminder. “Waiting for a taxi.”
“Ah,” his smile is gentle and understanding. “Need a ride? My car's just down there and I was heading home anyway.”
You watch as he gestures—with your phone, your fingers itch to grab it—towards a flashy sports car parked in an alley down the street. Normally, you wouldn't take rides from strangers. Especially not ones who tried to pick you up at the bar. But there's not a taxi in sight and he's been a perfect gentleman so far…
“Fuck it, sure.” You sigh and wave for him to lead the way. “I live up north, is that too out of your way?”
“Not at all, don't worry about it.”
His car is nice. Even nicer on the inside. It smells like fresh leather seats and his cologne. Everything is perfectly clean and it even gives a pleasing little greeting jingle as he turns it on. He drops your phone into the little cup under the door handle, and you're tempted to reach across him to grab it. But you don't really need it until you get home, so you just remind yourself to ask him for it when you arrive.
“So, you got ditched?” The car doors lock automatically as he shifts into drive and eases out of the alley.
“Yeah.” You scowl and look out the window. “I didn't even want to come out with her tonight, but she begged me.”
“Oof,” he gives a sympathetic little grimace. “That's rough.”
The two of you make polite small talk—or, rather, he talks about the weather and work and the song playing on the radio—as you watch the city streets pass by. It's soothing, all the lights and steady movement. Almost hypnotic. With his smooth voice in the background, you find yourself zoning out.
“Uh, hey…” With a blink, you realise you don't recognise where you are. Another blink and you realise you never told him where you live. “Sorry, um, I think we're too far north? I live down by the big bowling alley…”
“No worries,” he smiles over at you. “I've got it.”
You nod and settle back in, uneasiness creeping into your chest. A few minutes pass and he makes no turns to head back towards your place. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, but he looks just the same as he did before. Calm, content, friendly.
“Can I have my phone back?” You shift uncomfortably. “Please?”
“Oh!” He laughs like he's forgotten, hand drifting over to your phone. “Thanks for reminding me.”
He rolls down the window. Dread settles like lead in your stomach as you watch him toss your phone out like it's nothing and roll the window back up again. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. You're going to kill your friend. If you ever see her again. If this guy isn't some serial killer who's going to make you his next trophy.
“Hey!” It's a strangled little yelp, and your face burns in shame that you can't keep your voice steady.
He chuckles to himself but doesn't say a word. Your eyes flick to the lock on your door, and you realise there's no way for the passenger to open it without the driver unlocking it. Should you grab the wheel? Should you scream? Should you try to attack him? You feel frozen. No matter what you do, it doesn't seem like it'll end well for you.
Just as you resolve to pull the wheel and let whatever happens happen, he pulls into a parking lot. It's dark and nearly empty—a rarity in the city, and never a good sign. The flickering neon sign flashes “MOT L” and occasionally “MO L”, but you know what it is. The sketchy little motel on the east side that everyone avoids like the plague unless they want to get caught up in some shady business.
“Are you going to kill me?” Your mouth is dry, throat scratchy as you manage to breathlessly ask the question. If you're going to die, you'd at least like the courtesy of a heads up.
“Kill you?” Johnny laughs heartily. “God no, not unless you give me a good reason to. Do you want me to kill you?”
You stare at him, eyes wide and unblinking. “N-no…?”
“Good.”
He looks at you like you're the crazy one, but parks up and gets out of the car anyway. One touch of his hand to the handle and the door opens, letting you out of the car. He steps aside—ever the gentleman—and you wonder if you could make a bolt for it before he catches you. This isn't a part of town you want to be alone in without a phone, but you also don't want to be alone with him.
Reckless, with an empty head, you try to make a run for it. Springing out of the seat, you push off as fast as you can, hoping madly to find a place to hide so you can regroup and figure out how to get home from here. The asphalt is hard beneath your feet, and your steps echo loudly as you run.
You make it past him.
Past the back of the car.
Half way across the lot.
A hand wraps your wrist tight, holding you like an anchor as your momentum pulls you away from him. The pop is sickening, but you manage to twist just enough to keep it from dislocating entirely as he pulls you back to him. Your back to his chest, he dips his head down to whisper in your ear.
“That's not very nice. And after I gave you a ride and everything!” His breath is warm. You shudder. “Come on, time for you to show me how grateful you are.”
An arm around your middle hoists you up just enough to drag you, your feet stumbling uselessly along the ground as he bodily forces you towards the motel entrance. You thrash in his arms, nails clawing at his skin as you shriek desperately, hoping someone—anyone—will hear you.
A hand clamps over your mouth, muffling your cries to a weak yowl in your throat, animal and aggressive. Your teeth clack, trying to bite at the soft flesh of his palm, but he cups his hand and you can't quite reach. You even swing your feet back, hoping for your heel to catch his shins, anything to stop him in his tracks. Nothing works.
“Mr. Brandt,” the clerk behind the motel desk looks bored. “Your usual room is free.”
“A hand with the door, please?” Johnny's voice is downright conversational, even as he drags you down the hall after the clerk. “This one's a feisty one.”
The clerk gives a vague grunt of acknowledgement and unlocks the door at the end of the hall, letting Johnny drag you into the dim, grungy little room. The door locks behind you both, and you hear his footsteps retreat down the hallway as Johnny presses you up against the locked door.
Your hand fumbles for the knob, hoping to find the lock on this side. To turn it. To open the door somehow and escape. But it's a simple, smooth knob that doesn't budge when you twist it, and the feeling of Johnny's laughter against your back confirms for you that you're not escaping that way.
A warm hand slides up your shirt, sending a shudder through you. You feel disgusting already. Is it insane to wish he was a serial killer? That instead of forcing himself on you like this, he would just put you out of your misery? Insane or not, you find yourself imagining a better world where the hand groping you is holding a knife.
“Don't be so frigid,” his voice is a low groan as his hips press against your ass, grinding into you. “I just want to have a little fun…”
Fun? You snap your teeth, struggling against his weight as he pins you to the door, feet barely brushing the floor. Fun? You'll fucking kill him if you get the chance. All you need is a clear shot at his throat and you'll tear it out with your teeth. If he weren't so fucking strong.
The wandering hand slides down your pants, under your underwear, stroking and fondling like this is nothing more than a fun little fling for both of you. You hate the heat the his touch brings, struggling harder against him as though you can convince your own body to stop feeling good. As though struggling doesn't make his cock harder as it grinds against you. But you can't not struggle. You can't just let this happen.
“Fuck you.” You grit your teeth, throwing your elbow into his ribs.
He wheezes at the contact, winded for half a moment. Just long enough for you to feel triumphant. Maybe you can fight back. Maybe you can kick this creep's ass. Maybe you can even steal his keys and drive yourself back home or something. Maybe—
“You little bitch.”
It's a rough, animal growl.
And then his hand is in your hair, yanking your head back hard enough to make something in your neck twinge. He throws you toward the bed. The edge hits you just under the ribs, knocking the air from your lungs and spasming your diaphragm in a painful hiccup. You're just barely recovering your breath in short bursts as he grabs your ankles and pulls them up to force you onto the bed properly.
His knees dig harsh into your sides as he straddles you, forcing your hands down on either side of your head. His fingers lace with yours and squeeze painfully tight. An opportunity. One you won't pass up. With a quick turn of your head, you lunge for his wrist with your teeth, hoping to feel the soft give of flesh.
You don't.
He pulls your interlocked hands back. His eyes blaze. Then the back of your own hand comes down on your face, once, twice. Hard hits straight to the eye, leaving spots in your vision.
“Stupid cunt. Don't you fucking dare.”
He backhands you once for good measure, leaving your head spinning. You barely notice the way rough hands tug your clothes off. Shirt. Pants. Underwear. Each item pulled irreverently off you and tossed across the room. His clothes follow—not that you see them, you only feel the heat of his skin against yours as his cock falls to rest on your stomach, dripping precum against your skin as he ruts against you.
“Let's put that mouth to better use, huh?” He grabs your face, squishing your cheeks. “You'll be a good hole, won't you?”
He pulls your head back by your hair, forcing your mouth open with a strong grip on your jaw. Still dizzy, you can't do much more than try to push away his cock with your tongue as he forces himself into your mouth. It's less than useless. Precum drips across your tongue, sweet and tangy, as he pushes his cock into your mouth. With no care for your comfort, he continues to push past your gag reflex and deep into your throat.
“Fuck that's good. Go on, suck, whore.”
One hand comes up to hold your nose, his hips thrusting shallow in your throat. He never pulls back quite enough for you to breathe. It's not long before your lungs are burning, throat spasming around his cock as he fucks your mouth. Your vision spots, your fingers and toes twitch, but he doesn't pull back.
Rather, he fucks your throat brutally. Hard enough to bruise. You gag and retch around him, throat squeezing his shaft as your body tries to push him out. His low grunts and moans are muffled by his thighs on either side of your head. It hurts. It disgusts you. Tears wet your cheeks. You try to sob, but it only serves to tighten your throat around him.
“See? It's not hard to be a hole. It's all you're good for anyway. A quick fuck. If you'd just taken the drink I offered you, this could've been fun for you too, you know. I'd have made you cum first and everything. But bitches like you who play hard to get need to be treated rough, don't you? Reminded of your place. As a cocksleeve. A glorified sex doll. A toy.”
He pulls out just as your vision starts to dim. You gasp, taking in as much oxygen as you can. Your throat is raw and scratchy. It feels violated. Fucked like nothing more than a pocket pussy. A fleshlight for him to use and throw away once he's cum. Has he? Has he cum yet? Your addled brain scrambles to remember, desperately hoping the answer is yes. Hoping that he's done with you. But your mouth doesn't taste bitter and your throat doesn't feel sticky and you can feel his cock still hard against your ass as he flips you over roughly. His hands spread your cheeks, taking stock of you like a piece of meat as he decides exactly how he wants to fuck you. You don't dare squirm. You don't want that thick cock down your throat again.
“Let's get some use out of you, huh?”
He spits on your hole. It's warm. Violating. Dripping. And the feeling only intensifies as he works both of his thumbs into you, rough and uncaring. He spreads your hole, unrelenting against the tightness, until he's satisfied. You feel more spit, his thumbs working in and out of you. And your traitorous body heats up, arousal laying heavy in your gut. You hate how good it feels. Being treated like a worthless object. Being spread open and leered at like a piece of meat. Your hole being stretched with not nearly enough lubrication to keep it from hurting.
And then the blunt head of his cock is pressing against your hole between his thumbs. He all but stretches your hole around his cock, only withdrawing his hands once the head is firmly inside of you. For a moment he enjoys the heat of you around him. The near suffocating tightness of your unprepared hole. And then he's bullying his cock further into you, thrust after thrust forcing him in dry until he's balls deep inside of you.
“Fuck, baby, so tight,” he groans out, voice hot in your ear as he folds his body over yours. His arm holds your hips up, keeping you under him as he fucks you like a bitch in heat. “Such a worthless cunt, this is all you're good for. A set of tight warm holes for a guy like me to fuck. Can't believe I bagged such good rapebait.”
It can't feel good for him either. It's dry and tugging, his cock inside you, thrusting over and over. There's no way it feels good. But he's hard and rough, enjoying your pain and the feeling of violating your body more than actually fucking you. You think back on his words, wondering if this really would have gone better for you if you'd just said yes. You wouldn't be laying here, getting raped in a dingy motel room, if you'd just let him buy you a drink.
The thought wrenches a sob from somewhere deep inside you. The pain and fear welling until you can't hold it back anymore. It only draws an answering moan from him, low and visceral, as he fucks you harder. Your cheek presses against the scratchy sheets, tears soaking into the cloth until its wet against your face. And all the while he ruins your tight hole, getting off on raping you.
“Should I cum inside?” His breath is hot against your ear, fingers digging harsh into your stomach as he fucks you harder. “Should I cum deep inside my new fucktoy? I bet you'd like that. Say no all you want, we both know it means yes. Your body doesn't lie.”
Humiliation joins the pain and fear, tears almost as hot as the arousal washing over you. You burn and ache and throb, feeling your pulse in every inch of your body. He fucks you like you're nothing. Pulls your hips closer. Bottoms out. Holds you there as he groans curses in your ear and empties his load into you like you're nothing more than a cumdump. You dance so close to the edge. So fucking close.
And then he pulls out. His hand comes out from under you, letting you all but slide off his cock and back onto the bed. He rolls over to the other side, settling in with an arm behind his head, lighting up a cigarette like the two of you have just made love. He leaves you dripping with his cum, squirming with need, barely able to hold your tongue to keep from begging him to finish the job. To keep raping you until you cum.
“See?” That smug smirk. He knows what he's done to you. “Not so bad, was it? All that fuss over nothing.”
He takes a drag, idly watching the smoke curl up to the ceiling. He ashes the cigarette.
“Maybe I'll let you cum next time.”