This assault on her sex was too much, took the whole thing to another level, and she began to fight, but it was a strangely tense and silent struggle—her labored panting and struggling for breath and occasional groan of resistance; the soft creak and rustle of her leather coat; the lewd suck of his mouth on her flesh or his hot animal growl of lust that gave her a weird, lewd thrill, as if she were watching herself be devoured.

The struggling got her nowhere, but suddenly he stopped and straightened up. He was on his knees next to the engine housing where her legs couldn't get at him, one hand still holding the back of her coat, but lightly now, and as he straightened up his face disappeared into the shadows again. She thought maybe he'd stop now, that maybe he'd taken her far enough to get her all hot and break her spirit, and that that's what he'd wanted. Maybe now he'd stop and figure he'd taught her a lesson and humiliated her, laugh, tell her to get dressed and drive her to her car, but he showed no sign of letting her go.

She lay there nervously, confused and ashamed at her sudden feeling of anticlimax. Her clothes were a mess, her blouse open and bra down, her breasts red and chaffed from his beard and her nipples painfully erect, her skirt up around her thighs.

She realized though that he had no intention of stopping. He was just stopping to admire her, to let her feel her own helplessness. His hand reached out and slid up her leg under her skirt and touched the soft skin next to her pussy and she cried out with a sudden and renewed sense of outrage and violation. When he'd straightened up she'd managed to work her right arm free and she tried to push him away with it but he laid his weight back on top of her and reached behind her head with his left hand, caught her right wrist and held it easily, leaving her defenseless. He still had one hand free to plunder her body and his mouth returned to her naked tits as if his work wasn't finished.

"Relax now," he said. "Just relax."

With his weight upon her she now couldn't avoid feeling the rock-hard stalk of his cock stabbing against her hip like a cold chisel, and she didn't know why she was so surprised, but she was. Taken was the word that flashed into her mind. I'm going to be taken. He won't be able to control that prick even if he wanted it too! His dick was like a force of nature, something separate from him, urging him on, controlling him, not to be denied. It was inevitable, beyond restraint, and for the first time, Ellen felt really frightened.

"No! No!" she cried, and she tried to writhe away from him again, but he had her so securely pinned with his one arm that he took his other hand from beneath her skirt and casually finished unbuttoning her blouse down to her waist, taking his time, confident that she had absolutely no way to stop him or get away. Despite her struggles he began to sensually caress her bare stomach, dragging his fingers over the sensitive flesh and making the muscles clench. He slid his hands down over her hips, then found the button on the side of her skirt, opened it and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the skirt open and pushed skirt and slip down till they were below her panties, and then his hand began to graze teasingly over the bare skin of her thighs and her panty-covered mound, caressing her, tickling her, coaxing into arousal, as if he had all the time in the world. The feel of his fingers on her mound, the ease with which he touched her and the casual way his hand toyed at the juncture between fabric and flesh made her start to throb with physical desire.

She pushed and heaved and bucked her hips, but he was like a piece of iron—too strong, too heavy—and she realized that her gyrations were sexual and suggestive. They were only making her look more eager and hungrier. Finally she just stopped, gave up. She would save her strength for when she really needed it, for when he tried to shove his cock into her. Maybe then she could raise her knees and push him off, or get a knee into his balls. Meanwhile his kissing and sucking of her tits had never stopped, but the focus of both their attentions had shifted to the area between her legs where she was even more hungry and more needy and the feelings ran deeper and harder to control. She was throbbing with shameful and painful need.

He seemed to be in no hurry to fuck her though. He played with her belly and hips, slid his fingers under the waist of her panties and reached down, teasing her, playing in her pubic hair, teasing her until her pussy needed his touch, until she wanted to feel his hand there against her empty hunger. She closed her eyes in frustration and anger and finally, finally, his hand left her panties and slid under her skirt and touched her pussy from below.

His fingers pressed the moist crotch of her panties up against her sensitive flesh and Ellen bit her lip to stifle a cry of fulfillment. Her body arched and quivered in response, but she fought it, trying not to move, trying not to give him the satisfaction of seeing the effect he had on her, but his fingers seemed so curious, so fascinated with her, and the places he touched were so right, the pressure, the stroke so perfect. For all the furious passion of his mouth on her breasts, his fingers on her cunt were like those of a fearful boy—curious, worshipful, and yet quick to learn which spots made her respond with a quick jerk of her hips or a little moan, a sharp intake of breath or subtle shiver—a soft massage of her labia, a teasing finger sliding up and down her slit or probing into her opening, gliding in circles over her clit or pressing firmly and rhythmically against it, or occasionally taking her entire pussy in his hand and squeezing in an act of mannish possession that touched something deep and primitive inside her and made her want to cling to him. He was clever and perceptive, masterful and patient, and soon she felt the sharp and jangling adrenaline-soaked fear leaving her muscles and being replaced by the deep and profound ache of pure sexual tension, a delicious sexual tightening that both relaxed her and made her harder and more solid. His hands knew her pussy intimately now, as well as she knew it herself, and she gave up struggling against him, gave it up entirely.



She felt him moving the crotch of her panties to the side and she spread her legs for him as much as she dared, as much as was permissible without it looking like she was doing it intentionally. She hungered for a kiss but she knew she wouldn't get one, so she turned her face to the side as if she were denying him herself. Her concentration was on her body now, on his fingers in her cunt and his lips and face on her tits, and her hands hung limp in her sleeves, her legs might as well have been filled with sawdust. She lay in the engine cover like a half-naked rag doll

With her panties out of the way the intimacy of his touch was even more intense, flesh on flesh, all her secrets revealed, and she felt as though she were in the hands of a relentless master who played her like a fine violin, bringing forth high trills of thrilling pleasure and low, rich tones of soul-shuddering desire. This dark, shadowy man in coveralls was the maestro and she was the instrument, and she had no more control or responsibility than a violin has in the hands of a virtuoso. He played her and she soared with sexual music, and meanwhile the hot, animal throbbing of his hard cock against her hip was like wild obscene metronome, setting the tempo, urging her on, higher and higher

Her hips began to move. She couldn't stop them and what did she care anyhow? She was being raped by a stranger and who would ever know or give a damn? Why shouldn't she milk it for all the pleasure she could? She didn't care what he thought of her, and he already seemed to be able to read her mind and wasn't going to stop till he drove her over the brink, so why not? Why not join in?

Why not fuck his hand since he wanted it so much and she did too? Raise her knees and open her legs? Let him push her skirt up so he could see her naked pussy humping up at his plunging finger as his thumb slid over her clit. Why not let him see her pant and gasp through her teeth as her orgasm rumbled down upon her, as it bore down upon her like big, fiery, incandescent, blinding wave, something selfish and glorious and all for her?

"Oh! Oh! Ohhhh! OHHHHH!"

She arched her back, thrusting her cunt up and opening her legs obscenely, knees up, her toes curling up in her boots as pleasure gushed inside her like an obliterating fountain. She felt it in waves like an internal ejaculation, as if she were coming into herself, and she let herself wallow in a pure selfishness she'd never allowed herself with any other lover, entirely her own, not giving a damn about pleasing the man who lay upon her.

He never stopped but stayed with her right through her orgasm, somehow knowing when to ease up, when to back off and slow down so that the insistent stimulation became the soothing caresses of comfort, and when Ellen had calmed down sufficiently, when her shuddering and spasming had stopped and she at last opened her eyes, half afraid of what she might see, he was on his knees, his face bisected by a sharp diagonal shadow, pulling down the zipper of his jumpsuit.

She couldn't say anything. In some weird, perverse way, she knew she owed him—he'd just seen her come, made her come, and she could hardly claim rape now.

And there was something else. She wanted him now. She wanted to know him, wanted to know who he was, why he'd done this to her, how he knew her so well.

But still, she'd just climaxed. She was too sensitive to take him now, surely he knew that. She'd always been that way. She needed at least a few minutes.