Chapter 4

I needed something more than fingering myself while teetering between the fear of getting caught and the terror of being caught. What else could I do?

Get fucked, I thought. That must have been what I wanted. Why else would I be there half-naked, washing my car with fingers in my pussy? I wanted to have someone take me right there in public. They could bend me over the back of the car and fuck me while I watched and listened for any signs that we might get caught.

Ah, just thinking about public sex pushed me closer to an orgasm. It was going to be one of those climaxes that took everything away except pleasure. I wouldn’t be able to hear, see or care about anything. Was that what I had been trying to find ever since my first orgasm?

The sound of rushing blood roared in my ears. There was no doubt I would cry out, but would I be able to collect my senses and cover my pussy before somebody came to check on me? Who cares, I thought. I wanted to scream, fuck me, fuck me, somebody fuck me!

The hands that grabbed my shoulders shocked me so bad that I saw bright white with black spots racing through it. I gasped and tried to get up but was pushed down instead. The wet concrete was cold on my bare ass.

My legs were splayed. A huge black man stepped in front of me. I slammed my legs and tried to scoot backward but crashed into a pair of tree trunk-like legs. I twisted my head around and saw the thick fingers on my shoulder. They were dry and tan like someone who worked outside a lot. I became weightless.

On the way to my feet, I yanked at my skirt and told myself to stay calm. “I, ah, ah, this is so embarrassing. I’m so embarrassed.” A twinge of fear prickled, but I didn’t want to overreact.

Neither of the men responded, and the fear twirled my stomach. I had this fantasy countless times, but it always involved several seniors on the football team taking turns with me. The man in front of me was wearing a wife-beater that displayed the excessive bulk of his muscles.

He was well over six feet, bald and black as coal, but his expression wasn’t threatening. I searched for something to say, but nothing seemed appropriate. The guy at my back was taller. I could see him in my peripheral vision when I turned my head. He was white, but that was all I could tell about him.

Say something and try and walk away, I told myself. But I didn’t. I looked at the black Mr. Clean’s crotch instead. There was a cucumber-sized bulge in his jeans that ran diagonally across his groin.