He said nothing. He drove through a labyrinth of deserted halls and vast empty rooms lit by dim, flickering fluorescent bulbs, some not lit at all. This seemed to be a totally unused part of the garage, probably some shortcut or way to a central office, and when he pulled the truck into a dim and remote corner up against a dead end and threw it into gear, she assumed he'd taken a wrong turn and was going to back up and turn around. He turned around in his seat as if to see out the back doors and so she turned around too, and so when he grabbed her by the coat and suddenly stood up and pulled her violently back over the engine housing it caught her totally by surprise.

"What are you—?"

He pushed her down on her back and held her there as he quickly stepped around her and into the back of the truck so he was looming over her, in complete control, his hands gripping the front of his coat. Fear surged through her body, fighting with utter disbelief. She could feel the strength in his hands and arms and feel the heat from his body but she couldn't quite accept what was happening. The only light in the van was the thin, watery light that seeped in from the windshield so his face was still in shadow, though now she could see his white tee-shirt and the hairs on his chest peeking through his coveralls.

"I strongly suggest you keep quiet," he said, his voice a deep, low whisper. "I don't want to have to hurt you."

She felt a thrill of horror and she automatically tried to push him away, but he quickly yanked the top of her coat halfway down her arms, efficiently trapping her in her own garment. The strength and expertise of his moves instinctively told her she was dealing with a professional, someone who had done this before.

"Wait! Wait!" she cried. "Do you want money? I'll give you money! There's money in my purse. Just don't hurt me!"

That seemed to give him pause and she took that as an encouraging sign. She froze, not daring to move.

"Really. Take it. Take what you want. If it's not enough I can get you more."

Another brief silence, then he said. "I don't want money. What kind of man do you think I am?"

His answer panicked her, and she tried again to reach up and at least claw at him but he got his hand beneath her and yanked her coat from behind, making it into a tourniquet that bound her arms tight against her sides and rendered her helpless. She was deep underground, hundreds of feet from anyone, and when his hand went to her throat she knew she had no choice but to lie absolutely still, well aware that he had enough strength in that one hand to choke her to death right there.

She watched as his hand went to the buttons on her blouse and opened them, and she felt the fabric give and collapse onto her skin like something defeated. There was a pause, then he slowly opened the delicate silk of her blouse like a man unveiling a meal, exposing her chest and her bra. His entire head was still in shadow, but she could feel his eyes on her, taking her in, and then his hand reappeared and closed experimentally on her breasts, first one, then the other. She felt the strength in his fingers, the tension as he fought the urge to crush them in his hands, a perverse kind of gentleness, and that made her bold. She summoned all her strength and tried to free her arms again but he held her now with embarrassing ease, as if he were consumed with her breasts and hardly even aware of her struggles. He wasn't an especially large man, but he seemed terribly strong and focused, and yet she sensed through his touch that his intention wasn't to hurt her. He was almost worshipful.

His hand left her breasts and slid back up to her throat and he pushed her face gently up and to the side as if to examine her face. He caressed her cheek tenderly, perhaps trying to calm her, but if so, his touch had the opposite effect and she suddenly began to panic as she realized the seriousness of her predicament, lying on her back in a deserted garage with her arms trapped and blouse open, being touched by a stranger. She suddenly couldn't control her breathing and her breasts began to heave as she began to pant and hyperventilate and there was nothing she could do about it.

"Hush," he whispered, his lips right next to her ear. "Nothing to be afraid of."

He put his hand lightly over her mouth, not so firmly that she couldn't breathe, and by some miracle, she calmed down almost immediately, or perhaps she just gave up.

He removed his hand and his fingers slid down over her chest to her breasts. He traced the edge of her bra over her mounds and she lay absolutely still, her attention drawn reluctantly to the soft touch of his fingers on her skin. He repeated the motion, this time sliding his finger inside the cups, insinuating himself between into the warm, humid space between her flesh and the brassiere. She closed hr eyes in denial. Her breasts were exquisitely sensitive and erotically charged, and yet this was rape and there could be nothing pleasurable about it. She wouldn't even think about letting it feel good.

And yet he dipped his finger deeper into her bra like some curious visitor to the depths, and as he swept it slowly along, his nail brushed the circumference of her areola, and she was shamed by the sudden splash of interest they seemed to feel.

He grasped the top edge of the cup and slowly slid it slowly down over her breast as if ejecting a piece of fruit from its peel, apparently fascinated by its slow exposure. She tried to control herself as the fabric dragged over her nipple but it was maddening, or the sense of outrage was too much, or something prompted her to try one more time to resist this violation of her privacy and she twisted on the engine cover and raised her shoulders to protect her breasts, tried to kick at him or get a knee against his chest, but again, he thwarted her efforts with humiliating ease, yanking her coat tighter to pin her arms and brushing her legs aside. All his attention was on her body now, and it was if she herself were nothing more than a minor irritation, easily disposed of.

Ellen groaned with impotent anger and fear. She raised her head like a witness to her own rape and watched as he pulled down the other cup so that both breasts spilled free, and then closed her eyes as his head came down and his tongue touched her nipple.

His breath was on her flesh, then his tongue was circling her nipple in slow, wet circles, and despite herself, Ellen felt the surge of salacious pleasure between her legs. His lips formed a ring around her areola and sucked, and she felt the breath from his nostrils on her skin. It was filthy and disgusting, and she dropped her head back on the engine cover as if she could deny the terrible pleasure she felt. She couldn't allow herself to feel this, but she couldn't deny it either, and besides, what choice did she have? Her arms were trapped in her coat and she was bent back over the engine housing as this stranger hunched over her like a vampire with his victim, slowly gorging himself on the warmth and tenderness of her breasts.

She didn't know what to feel. It was assault—rape—but her shock and her disorientation were too great, and his physical strength and desire were overwhelming, like a physical force or a wave holding her down. He had an uncanny sense of just where and how to touch her, as if he could read her mind or already knew all her secrets—a strange kind of physical intimacy that spoke directly to her body and cared nothing what her mind thought. The way he lingered at her breasts—sucking, licking, teasing, catching her nipples in his teeth—was far more than was necessary if he were simply going to rape her. He seemed to know just what she liked, just how she operated. He seemed to know instinctively how erotically charged her breasts were and exactly how she liked them treated, just how to squeeze, just where to touch. He knew just when to punctuate the cloying sweetness of a tongue teasing her nipple with the sharp spear of his teeth.

One nipple then the other—the slow circles, the fluttering tongue, the long, lurid licks, and finally sucking her tit into his mouth and biting and sucking it, his urgent, animal sounds of pleasure, his urgent, kneading hand. He released her throat and now as he teased one breast with his mouth, he pinched and rolled the other nipple with his hand, smearing his saliva around the areola, dragging his nails over the fleshy dome until she was covered with goose bumps and quivering with need. When she thought she couldn't stand the stimulation to her nipples anymore, he began to kiss and lick her breasts from armpit to sternum, planting soft bites on the full undersides or rubbing his rough, unshaven face on the upper slopes, holding her arms back and making her fight the urge to press herself harder into his mouth, wallowing in the softness of her tits until she'd totally forgotten her pledge to let herself feel nothing.

"Oh! Oh!" She raised her head. The stimulation of her breasts was becoming more than she could bear. Her nipples were stiff and aching, and her tits felt full and swollen. She looked down at him to try and determine his attentions but still all she could see was the top of his head and his strong hands holding her arms, arms that to her own shame had stopped struggling.

She couldn't just surrender like this, so she tried to writhe and twisted on the engine cover, trying instinctively to escape the maddening licking and sucking of her naked breasts, but all she could move was her legs, and all she succeeded in doing was making her skirt slide up her thighs. He noticed this, and let go of one of her arms and slid his hand up under her skirt, sliding up the inside of her leg, as if to show her that there were any number of ways to broach her defenses.