1 comments/ 16696 views/ 2 favorites Yay Feminism By: justtheone 1. M hadn't planned on doing this. It wasn't the kind of thing she enjoyed or approved of. She pretty much got bullied into it. Didn't want to be called a chicken or a prude. Her friends acted the whole time like it was no big deal, and she envied how easy it was for them, or at least their ability to fake it convincingly, if that was what they were doing, and she was pretty sure they were. No, actually in all honestly she couldn't tell one way or the other. Maybe all five other girls were bullshitting each other, and bullshitting themselves, and secretly in their hearts they were just as freaked out as she was right now—but maybe not. Maybe she really was the only one of the group having a super hard time with doing this thing. Maybe she really was a prude or a chickenshit. Or both. Maybe that was all there was to it. Well, either way, she was doing it with the rest of them. She was hating every single second of this but she was doing it anyway. 'Cause they'd made her. She was surrounded. No escape now. 2. Every year, the first weekend of August, their city had a community festival in a big park downtown, or right on the edge of it. Actually they had a couple much bigger and nicer parks that would have fit it better, further in along the river, but this one was always still used 'cause it was where the festival first happened, when it was just a little word-of-mouth neighborhood event rather than a splashy city tradition. Every year there was talk of moving it because too many people had showed up to the previous one and the whole thing got too crazy, and then there would be an outcry against that idea and it wouldn't happen. That particular park was behind a semi-isolated neighborhood called the High End, which a decade ago had been the bohemian part of this city, and it still pretended like it was, but now you had to be rich as fuck to live or shop there. The festival was known as Summer Smash; everybody usually condensed that to Smashfest or just the Smash. Originally it was intended as a very hippy kind of thing—most people thought it had got started in the sixties. Really it didn't go back nowhere near that far. The first one was in eighty three. The organizers, though, had in fact been hippies; old nostalgic hippies, striving to kindle some of their idealism in the youth of the day. Those founders would not be entirely pleased by what the Smash had evolved into since then, and their neighborhood in parallel along with it. More likely they'd be pissed. The Smash didn't really fit anymore with the High Enders. Not the High Enders of the present era. Those ritzy people currently inhabiting the pricey refurbished townhouses directly overlooking the park didn't like to attend. They just complained about the noise and the smells. And in fairness, it generated a lot of noise and a lot of smells to have to cope with. If she herself lived there, M thought she wouldn't like it any better. The festival nowadays had two different faces—neither matching the vision of the founders, though both pretended to. One face—the nicer face—was a folksy art-and-crafts market, a winding line of colorful tents and booths. This was the face the city promoted. A hell of a lot of money got made in that part. Very, very little of it ended up in the pockets of actual local artists. These were not street gypsies with handcrafted jewelry and sculptures and paintings, not like you saw on the posters. Maybe one in ten. The majority of those booths were run by retail chains. M saw a tent selling fancy ultramodern kitchen cabinets—you didn't actually buy them right inside there; you just picked the display you liked, filled in an order form on the guy's laptop, and a team of remodelers would be sent to your house a few days later. There were a whole bunch of tents that worked like that, promoting new bathrooms or expensive furniture or household air conditioners or giant fucking HD televisions ... Entire place was just a suburban mall in disguise, and a ritzy-ass one for ritzy-ass people. As far as food, it was all from those roving chef trucks that have got so popular. Good stuff, gourmet shit like you see on food channels on cable, but super-expensive. Couldn't get yourself so much as a hotdog for less than fifteen bucks. It would be a hell of a hotdog, yes, no argument. Still, didn't seem quite right. And all that was just along the outer rim of the park, on one side. All the rest, inside the perimeter, was for the other face of the Smash. And that second face—much larger than the other—was where it lived up to its name. Across the body of the park were six or seven different stages for live music, all going at once, from ten in the morning 'til midnight. Now, unlike the art market, this was all still genuinely local talent (though often that term had to be applied loosely). Very few established well-known artists played the Smash, and whenever one did, a stink was stirred up about it. Despite that fact, the current organizers were bound to give up and change the policy eventually, no doubt right at the same time they finally broke down and moved the location to a bigger park—much more money could be made if "real" musicians were brought in. But so far, just barely, the old tradition continued to hold out. The Smash was supposed to provide a venue for new community talent to try to get noticed, and thanks to that, everybody played for free. Pretty much anyone could perform if you signed up on time, no matter how good or bad you might be, and as for the audiences, anybody could wander all over listening to anything they wanted in there, as long as they wanted to explore. Each little stage had a particular genre—two country stages, a rap stage, a jazz stage, and then two or three rock stages. That last category was too general; trying to find something they liked, crowds were always streaming back and forth between the rock stages, every time the bands changed and even while they were all in the middle of playing. The rock bands were never sure how many people ended up liking them or not by the end of their shows. Also, the rock stages were too close together—but then, lots of people complained that all the stages were too close together, or that there were simply too many of them in the park, so all the different competing musical genres just blended together into a huge horrible ghastly mess, wherever you went. A counter-argument to this was that nobody cared much about the music anyway. The music was fundamentally beside the point. Most of it was shit, regardless what the genre was. These were all amateurs; you couldn't expect anything better. And to this view, the real point of the festival, deep down, wasn't to listen to music or to buy folksy art from a tent. The real point for most of the people that came year after year, if we're gonna be honest with each other, was just for everybody to get drunk off their asses on cheap beer, and to smoke a lot of weed, and maybe drop a little acid if you felt more adventurous. That sort of thing made the noise seem just fine and dandy. Also, it was supposedly getting you into the true core fundamental spirit of the Smash. Since the founders were a bunch of old hippies, right? And the whole point of starting this festival had been to open up young people's minds. To bring back the sixties. Isn't that what they'd said? Now the founders themselves might have disputed this limited interpretation of their initial guiding philosophy, at least to a degree, but the last of them had croaked of a heart attack back in ninety one. And bad as the rowdy concert scene tended to get (which was pretty damn bad), they would still have probably been much more outraged by what the so-called art market had turned into. The park always ended up getting pretty rough in there, toward the first evening. Then much worse, and much earlier, during the second day. The final day usually deadened down considerably—except if it didn't. Every few years, the Smash would end on an apocalyptic note instead. Brawls, fires, rapes. "How could this happen?" people would say when it was all over, and demand for the festival to be shut down permanently. Then others would rise to its defense: "Smashfest is a vital tradition in this city. It stands for important community values and ideals! How can we consider abandoning it after a single unfortunate incident?" As if the same appalling fiascos hadn't already happened periodically, half a dozen times before. In fact, it was like the Smash had three faces, not just two. There were the two that were real, that you could actually visit, and then a third illusionary face—this grand rosy fantasy version of what the whole silly mess was supposed to represent. Completely detached from how it actually played out, year after year, sloppy and ugly and stinking. Yet it wasn't that high-minded fantasy that kept it alive, not really. Like everything else, it was just money. The organizers didn't charge nobody to enter the park, but they did sell them a fuck of a lot of beer, through the course of those three days. They made out quite good on the deal. 3. Another fairly distinctive feature of the Smash was a lot of women going around topless at the thing. Didn't see that going on at semi-similar city events, like the Fourth of July "Big Blast" fireworks display downtown, or the half-dozen other yearly arts-and-crafts fairs that came and went in different areas, many of them much bigger and more legit than the Smash's ever turned out. Now it was never an enormous number of women doing this, despite what some people claimed, yet it was also more than just a couple or a few. Varied year to year, depending mainly on the weather. At most, though, even on the sunniest and sweatiest days, you wouldn't find more than twenty women out there like that, and generally no more than ten. And they tended to stick pretty much to certain corners of the park, around the rock stages. It still continued to shock certain people. No surprise. Every year there would be complaints about it, angry letters and emails written to the papers and the mayor. No action was taken. Even so, the topless women generally kept clear from the art market throughout most of the festival, except late at night, the last half hour or so just before everything closed down until the next morning. Because those were the people that liked to get offended about it, the upperclass people that only came to the Smash to shop in the booths, and never ventured further inside the park. Fussy old folks and housewives pushing huge strollers. The toplessness, like the rampant drug use, was justified as part of the founding spirit of the festival. Frequently you'd hear it claimed that lots more women used to do it during the first few, back when everyone was supposedly so much more laidback about that sort of thing—then it just fell out of favor during the eighties, until our culture finally started loosening up again. All that was another myth, sprouting off the apocryphal notion that the Smash got started all the way back in the sixties. In fact, no women ever appeared topless at the Smash until just three or four years ago. It had been a single lesbian couple, that first time, making something of a political statement. Then it had caught on—kind of. Not in a huge way, not so far. It was not a steady progression. But each Smash that followed, a fair number of other women showed up like that, with their tits hanging out. Didn't feel like this trend was going to die off. This year, M and five of her friends were going to participate. Certainly wasn't her idea. She would have backed out if they'd have let her. They just wouldn't let up on her about it, and she knew they would torment her mercilessly if she didn't give in and go along with them. M couldn't face that. Scary as the festival would be, in that state, they would only be going for one day. While if she didn't go, her punishment would continue for weeks or months. Her friends were relentless with that kind of shit. In fact it's perfectly legal for women to go around topless in public whenever they like, if that's what they wanna do, just like a man can. Of course restaurants and stuff can ban you from going in, if they want—"No shirt, no service"—but as long as you're outside, or in a public building, nobody's entitled to fuck with you over it. Not anymore. Now M was personally a little muddled about whether this was a brand new thing or not, because several different people had told her several different things. Some said the law was always like that; others told her it just recently got changed after a big court case over breast-feeding in public. A major victory for women's rights! Somebody else told her that was half-right and half-wrong; there'd been a court case but not over breast-feeding—that had nothing to do with it. Then yet another person claimed all this happened not recently but decades ago, only most women still didn't know anything about it. On account of the "current shameful state of the women's movement". And legal or not, there's obviously still a big social stigma. If you bare your boobies in public, it freaks people out. M's first response when she heard about all this was just: "Why would I wanna do that, anyway?" Sure, maybe if she had a baby, it would feel nice to know she had the right to breastfeed it out in public if she felt like doing that, or if she needed to, 'cause she was stuck somewhere for some reason. Car trouble or what have you. She could get the business taken care if the baby started crying without having to hide away behind some bushes, or do it in some smelly public toilet. But she couldn't really imagine another situation where she would want to take her shirt off outside in front of random strangers. Not her kind of game. Breasts are highly sexualized. Fetishized. It's our culture. Maybe it's ridiculous or even twisted that we've turned them into that, and you can bitch about it however much you want, but that won't alter the facts. Displaying your tits to people is provocative. It's primarily, fundamentally, a sexual display. You're saying: "Hey look at these, aren't they nice? Bet you wanna fondle them. Do I turn you on?" Only time it didn't was in the doctor's office, checking them for lumps. You could argue about that. Sure. You could say it doesn't always have to mean that. Fair enough. In M's opinion, you were just bullshitting yourself. The "sexualization" of breasts didn't bother M—she didn't see it as a social problem. Lots and lots of women feel differently, she understood that. She also knew she might share that opinion if she had a pair she wasn't proud of. Only she did—she was lucky that way. Hers happened to be a real good size and shape; they were also pretty darn responsive. Lots of women don't get much physical pleasure out of theirs, so when men touch them and squeeze or put their slobbery mouths on them, it just ends up tedious and annoying. For M, it wasn't like that. It was enjoyable, usually. If the guy wasn't a fuckhead about how he went about it. If somehow the feminist crusaders got their wish, and the whole modern world changed its mind about tits, so nobody cared what yours looked like or whether you covered them or not, that wouldn't feel like a big liberating relief for her, or any kind of grand gender victory. It would be a loss, instead. It would be sad. A basic diminishment of personal sexual power. Devaluing two precious personal treasures of hers. It sucks that not everybody's beautiful—it sucks that it makes so many people hate themselves. (This is actually a whole different issue, but it's related.) If we could erase the entire concept of beauty, is that really the best answer? It sounds like a fine idea, on the one hand. It would give people one less thing to agonize about their whole stupid lives. It would make the world happier. M knew she wouldn't do it. Not if it was up to her. Too high a price. But hey, she was biased. She had been blessed with beauty to lose. Her friends were acting delusional. That was her biggest issue with what they were all doing. They thought, or they claimed, they were doing this topless thing to make a statement about women's rights and individual expression. Or that was what they kept saying they thought. That was what they kept telling her in lecturing tones. M didn't believe them. She couldn't buy into it. They just wanted to show off their boobies outdoors in the bright summer sun in front of all those drunken rowdy boys swarming in the park, 'cause it would be a thrill. It would be sexy. A test of courage, too—also a test of their own individual attractiveness. How many heads would they turn? Which of them would the boys like best? If this whole flock of silly self-centered bitches would all just let themselves be honest and up front about that fact—she'd have felt better about joining in. But they wouldn't do that. They weren't brave enough. They had to pretend it was something else. Something more elaborate and meaningful, to give the kinky game a clean justification. It was bullshit and it was also cowardly. Also sort of sad. How could they claim they were empowering themselves, when they wouldn't even admit that this was gonna be flat-out sexy and that it was gonna turn them on? "This isn't about sex," Paula said, over and over, "That's not what this is about. This is about freedom. This is about personal ownership of our bodies. This about feminist expression. It's got nothing at all to with sex." Yeah fucking right. It wasn't like M disagreed with the idea of feminist expression, or didn't care about it—she did. But was this really the best way? Waving their tits around at a crummy local rock concert, when everybody around them was gonna be wasted or stoned or tripping? Or all three at once? What the fuck kind of statement about freedom and personal ownership was that making? Especially one that had nothing to do with sex. And why couldn't a statement of feminist expression involve sex, anyway? Why wouldn't you want it to? Why take that away from yourself? From your own womanhood, your own bare body? Let's get real. All those guys in the park—they wouldn't see a proud political non-sexual statement. That didn't even make any sense. They'd just see a bunch of jiggling sweaty tits. They'd see six silly randy college girls, breathless and red in the face, looking to get laid ... That was the message they'd be sending, true or false. Just that and nothing else. Nothing particularly empowering—beyond the basic power to give guys boners, for whatever that's worth to you. Try telling Paula that, she acted like it was a huge insult. Like, how dare you think that? And any hypothetical guys that might interpret their appearance that same way would just be a dumb bunch of assholes! Hell with them, if that's what they assumed. It wouldn't matter at all. It wasn't just unrealistic, it was nuts. Just plain nuts. And M couldn't get through to any of them. They all told her she was the crazy one. They told her she was too uptight, too paranoid. It wouldn't be like she thought, they promised. It wouldn't be anything like that. It would all just be totally cool and relaxed and spiritual. Ha. Please. They told her she needed her consciousness raised. That was her favorite. She was the only one of them that was conscious. She was the only one seeing this shit for it really was. The rest were dreaming. Completely kidding themselves. So wrapped up in their comforting self-protective candy-colored nonsense, it was like they were practically sleepwalking, or fucked up out of their minds on drugs before they'd got into the festival and taken any. More she thought it over, more she realized, that was almost exactly what had happened—except it wasn't anything they smoked or swallowed that did this to them. It was a mental drug. Their own brain chemistry. Yay Feminism Their own repressed horniness. That, at the root, was what was driving this whole business. They all just kept it buried so deep, they didn't even realize. Couldn't face it square. They were too embarrassed by it. Had to disguise the feelings with phony feminism. Yay. It was an insult to real feminists. Real feminists would smack their faces, if they heard these girls. And then they'd dragged her into it with them. No escape. They couldn't let her refuse, in order to protect their illusions. She was just as much to blame now. She'd let herself become implicated and tainted. That was the saddest and shittiest part. Too big a pussy to hold her ground. 4. It's a rattling, banging noise that wakes her up. Like nails shaking around in a coffee can. This is what she's picturing before she opens her eyes. Actually all it is, it's just rain. Hammering the roof and the windows of this van. Yeah, a van. Well, that's what it looks like. She's laying in the back of a big van, on the floor. There are no seats back here; they've all been removed to make lots of room. Beneath her, there's no carpet, but the metal floor has a few plaid blankets and beach towels spread out across it for cushioning. They're all pretty filthy and ragged and ugly looking, and as for cushioning, they don't work very well. The goddamn floor is still uncomfortably hard under her bottom, and her back too, and also it's baking hot, plus she can feel sharp ridges or bolts or something bulging up in a few different spots. Probably imprinting deep marks in her skin, if they don't end up making her break-out. Which more than likely they will. Her skin is sensitive that way. You stare too hard at a certain spot with a dirty look, and you can make a pimple form there. Shit. Owee. Why is the floor so damn hot? The engine isn't running and it's raining. Why hasn't that made it cool down? They should crack the windows; the air's stifling in here and doesn't smell great either. Like a locker room. Then pretty fast after that it becomes clear she has a hangover, and it's a real good whopper. All the standard symptoms down the checklist. That particular distinct headache—it throbs in a few different specific spots than other kinds of headaches she gets. There's also the queasy gurgling swamp-belly, and the worrisome itchy-sensation in her bladder like some tiny jagged thing has got itself caught in there that shouldn't be, and how the fuck is she ever gonna be able to pee it out? Then of course let's not forget the obligatory scratchy hairy cottonmouth, or the gummy, shriveled-feeling eyes that are hard to force open, like they've glued themselves shut, and harder to focus. So just looking at things makes her cheeks and nasal passages throb from the strain. The ceiling of the van has writing on it. Little scrawls of graffiti, here and there, every which way. It's all too far away and too tiny and too messy for her to be able to read any of the shit. Not without her glasses. Where are her glasses anyway? They're at home on her nightstand. She didn't wear them to the Smash. Just sunglasses. Where are they then? They're not here, wherever they are. They're gone. In addition to the illegible phrases, she spots a crude drawing up there on the ceiling of a smiling shark in a superman cape. There's also a giant green penis, spurting goo. It seems to be aiming the discharge at the super-shark. Lovely. Where the fuck is she and how did she get here? She can't remember. She has no fucking clue yet. God oh God. Nothing comes back at all. She sits up a little. Only now is when she discovers that she is not alone. Though at the same time it's not particularly surprising to find this out, is it? It's what one expects in circumstances of this kind. A man is lying next to her, still asleep, and he happens to be absolutely stark naked. Which is wonderful. He's a muscular Latino guy, much taller than her, with a shaved head and many elaborate tattoos. Barbwire and grapevines intertwined all over his arms and his legs and most of his chest, with little cute bumblebees and hummingbirds and few scantily-dressed pixies flitting around amongst them. She recognizes this guy's bearded face ... doesn't she? Yeah she's pretty sure she does. Can't recall his name. Still, she's known him a little, or at least she's known of him, and not just from yesterday. It's from before that. A good while too. He's a friend of friends that she's seen around quite a few times in bars and a few parties, but those friends that he's proper-friends of are not very close friends of hers, not any longer. People she initially got to know as part of a big church group she tried out for a while and then dropped out of when it started to feel too weird for her. So she hardly associates with any of that crowd anymore. What people call a "nodding acquaintance". That's what he is. That seems to have changed a bit, hasn't it? Judging by available evidence. Is this better than waking up next to an absolute stranger? Well, maybe. Maybe not. She isn't sure yet. Too soon to decide. Guy's snoring a little. Not too bad. He also, she just happens to casually notice, turns out to have the biggest dick she's ever laid eyes on, at least in real tangible life, not just a picture or a video. And though at the moment it lays flat, draped backward like the rest of him, it's pointing up his stomach and practically covering it; the uncircumcised head almost reaches beyond his belly button, believe it or not. It's more or less hard. Not a full erection but pretty darn close, looks to her. More than three quarters. Maybe nine-tenths. Of course she knows this tends to happen off-and-on all night with males of the human species, while they're asleep, regardless of what they're dreaming about. So she shouldn't let it freak her out. This is perfectly normal and non-threatening, meaningless, involuntary behavior. And it's not completely surged up for battle, so to speak—not enough to stand, or pulse, or leak, and the, um, turtleneck still covers most of the acorn. It's still really something, as cocks go. For a time, she can't take her eyes off it. Feels a bit like a little furry critter in one of those nature shows, mesmerized by a huge looming serpent before it strikes ... Even though the damn thing isn't really looming yet. And actually, does that shit ever happen in real life? Or is it just one of those dumb myths from cartoons or whatever, that snakes can hypnotize their prey? Probably they just gotta sneak up and pounce like every other predator, or they're SOL. She still can't stop staring at the stupid thing with butterflies in her tummy. Don't read more into that than there is ... Like a lot of girls, M has conflicted emotions when she looks at a penis, especially a more-or-less erect one. They're so horrible, aren't they? They're so completely ridiculous, too. A girl can't help thinking: "This is what I have to work with? This thing? And you're telling me it goes where?" It's asking a bit much, isn't it? Doesn't seem like the best way to go about this whole procreational business. Just plain awkward, overall. But then again, when you get used to them, and if you're honest with yourself, they're pretty awesome too, form and function, both together. If you choose to let yourself acknowledge the fact (and some girls never will, and that's their prerogative), penises have a real magnificent beauty all of their own, once a girl learns to appreciate it. Same as, for example, a crocodile does, or a water buffalo. And regardless, love 'em or hate 'em, just as objects or as organs, they're a pretty darn nifty piece of organic design, whether it was God that's responsible or Evolution, whichever idea you find more sensible and convincing ... And let's be frank and fair—pussies are the same. Initially off-putting, at first sight. Sure they are. You can call them gross or you can call them gorgeous. Both devices. You can make a fair case on either side. It's really up to the viewer, whatever attitude they want to have about it. Here is the moment when M realizes that the guy is not the only person in this van without any clothing on. The same happens to be true of M herself, stretched out here on the floor right beside him, with her hangover, and her amnesia. She hasn't got a stitch. And nothing is laying around for her to grab either. She sees the guy's clothes, scattered around. No items that belong to her. Not so much as her sunglasses. Jesus Christ. Her heart starts pounding, and soon it matches rhythm with the pounding in her skull, from her hangover-headache. Of course on some level she's been aware of her nakedness this whole time, since the first instant she woke up. But without being fully aware of the awareness, if that makes any sense. Like that one part of her mind was carefully holding the fact back from the rest. 'Cause it was too much to deal with right off the bat on top of everything else. Until she sat up on her elbows and looked down at herself and it became impossible to put off the acknowledgment any longer. The big pink-and-purple glittery dragonfly that was painted across her torso yesterday ... It is smeared, and not slightly. Smeared all to hell, ruined. Looks halfway melted, or dissolved, with sad sick dribbles and splotches oozed down from the original shape across her belly and her crotch and one of her thighs. Where they seem to have dried out and solidified again on her skin. God, she's got a few little globs stuck in the curls of her bush! What the Hell! It's like someone tried to hose the butterfly off her but gave up the job after a couple minutes, leaving it half done. One of her tits, the right one, is almost completely clean, except for the underside. Not the other one, though. It's still totally painted over, despite how much of the original pretty pattern of the butterfly wing has been stirred around and uglified. She's got other dark smeared smudges from the body-paint, including a few almost-complete handprints, printed up across both of her shoulders and her upper arms, and more on both her hips, and a little bit in places around her calves and her ankles, too. Altogether, she's a real mess. Somebody messed her up real good. She checks the guy's hands, his fingers. Oh yeah. Stained pink and purple and glittery. Those hands have been all over her, no question. Moving her every which way like a puppet or a poseable action-figure. He must have been having a whole lot of fun. She notices how filthy her feet are. Thinks for a second it's more of the paint covering them, but it's not. It's just a lot of mud and bits of yellow grass, stuck all over them. The guy's big hairy Hobbit feet are the same. Then finally she looks at her vagina. Leans over to give it a good close inspection. It's sore, is the thing. Not dreadfully, but it is. It's had some strenuous exercise, wearing it out inside. And of course, same as her state of undress, she's been vaguely aware of that feeling this entire time, the instant the rain woke her up, without letting herself focus on it or think about it until she felt ready to. Or at least 'til she got to the point where it couldn't be delayed any more. Yeah, she sees what she's expected, and what she feared. It's exactly what it feels like, down there. Not just sore—there was another accompanying sensation. Moisture, seeping, and chilly. White goo is trickling out of her pussy. Not a gigantic amount, only a tiny little rivulet. Enough has come out already, over a long enough period, to form a pretty good size dark splotch where it reached the blanket she's lying on. Bigger around than a quarter. When she widens her thighs a tiny bit and lifts her knees, more of the stuff emerges. The trickle thickens, with bubbles in it. She doesn't even have to push inside to make the flow increase; it does that all on its own. She couldn't hold it inside if she wanted to. Her pussy can't close itself enough. Watching it, and recognizing what it signifies, it triggers a strong physical reaction in her. A hot buzzing current of electricity races through her entire body. A jolt of pure shock, in the most literal sense. It makes her jerk her legs and her stomach clenches, and she clamps and grinds her teeth, plus she almost pees herself. She feels a tiny scalding-hot squirt nearly escape her, but somehow (Thank Christ!) she tightens and inhales and stops it getting out at the last instant. And finally she makes a strange, funny-sounding exclamation. A sort of yelp, like a kicked puppy might make. It's kind of embarrassing. More than kind of. But then, that's true of this entire scenario. It wakes up the guy, when she cries out. He smiles at her and says something incomprehensible in Spanish. Reaches up to stroke her bangs away from her eyes. She wasn't raped. She's pretty sure that wasn't what happened. She's pretty sure she walked into this situation willingly and knowingly, at the time. She's pretty sure she was a conscious and active participant, while everything that must have followed occurred. She can tell all this from the way the fucking guy looks at her. Not just happy, not just satisfied. It's not the typical smug HurHur-I-Just-Got-Laid expression. The look on his face is grateful, more than anything else, and radiant. It's a Jesus Loves Me, This I Know look. Because of her. And not just that he evidently got to fuck her—it seems to be the fact of her presence itself. The fact that she's still right here with him in the back of this van, waking up snuggled next to him. God, he's giving her a happily-ever-after look. While she doesn't remember any of this. 5. So what does she remember? What's the last thing? Where does the narrative cut off? Like always happens in these cases, that cut-off point turns out real tough to pin down. Next half hour or so, bits and pieces start coming back, or she thinks they do. Flashes of vivid images. She's never sure then or later how much of them really happened, and how much her imagination fills in for her. It's not like there's all that much mystery to what must have went down, after all. Real easy to extrapolate the basics. And from those basics, her brain dredges up more and more detail. What it can't recover, it invents. Soon she has herself a narrative. Yet most of it's got the feel of a story she's only read or that somebody told her secondhand, not like something that actually happened to her herself. And it's going to stay like that. Possibly this sense-of-distance is a good thing. Makes it easier to process, and to bear. Here's how it ends up going: There'd been a sudden storm. Blew up superfast out of nowhere, like an ambush, like a mean magic trick. She got caught in it. Got drenched. Well, her and everybody else. Not her friends, though. She'd already got separated from her so-called friends by the time that happened. Had they ditched her deliberately or had it been just an accident? She had no idea. The crowds had been crazy. Riotous. Much scarier than any of them expected. They'd thought they were prepared for the worst, but they weren't. This year's Smash had definitely lived up to its name, in that particular sense. And yeah, in pretty much the all other nastier senses, too. She knew she'd been totally wasted, when the storm hit. Completely trashed and blasted out of her mind. Just with beer. No other substances. But it doesn't take anything else. Beer does the job just fine by itself, if you guzzle enough of the shit, and she had. Made a pig of herself. Why had she done that? Why had she gone so far overboard? Well, 'cause she had to. Or she felt like she had to. It was the only way to stop herself freaking out, after her group abandoned her. All alone in the middle of that vast blazing hot field—but not actually alone, not at all, no siree. Friendless and forsaken, mos def, but not alone. 'Cause the whole huge treeless park was full from edge to edge. A bajillion crazy sweaty people jammed-packed around her, all right up in her face, all right up in her business, all right up in every other imaginable description. Proverbial sardines in a can, everybody breathing each other's air and each other's stink, zero personal space available for any single helpless desperate soul, not for a second ... And the whole fucking crowd was looking at her, in the middle of them. All at once. Everybody looking at her exposed bobbing sweaty tits. Except looking wasn't the right word, oh no. "Staring" didn't cut it either. Not really. Try gawping, or ogling. Except those aren't violent enough. The looks she got, they were looks that felt like they were clawing at her body and tearing pieces off her—trying to eat her, in fact, just by looking. And almost accomplishing it. All these countless wolf-eyed shaggy-haired men, huffing and puffing, muttering and giggling, reeking of beer and pot and b.o. And lust, more than anything else. Hordes and hordes of them. It was dreadful. Petrifying. And there didn't seem to be any way to escape. Not by herself. All the exits were too far away, with no clear paths to get to them. Just people, wicked-looking men, blocking every direction she turned. Grinning at her and licking their lips. Everybody seemed twice as tall as her, and twice as thick. Everybody looked like a monster out of a fairy tale. Trolls and ogres and goblins. Not a single regular looking guy to be seen. They'd all transformed. And it was her bare tits that had did it, like an evil enchantment or a curse. There had been some other women around, but not near as many as the men. One in twenty, it felt like. And none of them were topless like M was—not a single other woman was doing what she was doing, after her friends vanished. Most of the women looked much older than her, and mean—leathery-faced, lowclass hardcase-looking women. Like biker chicks. She didn't know how many actually had been biker chicks for real, but they'd all sure looked like they were, the whole bunch. They all had that go-fuck-yourself-and-eat-my-shit-while-you're-at-it biker-chick aura and attitude. The looks on all those women's faces, when they stared at her, were nastier than the nastiest of the men's. Looks of total disgust and hatred. The men all wanted to bang the hell out of her; the women seemed to want her dead, and mutilated too. Yeah, it probably wasn't really as bad as it seemed. Not from everybody. Probably most of this shit was just in her head, exaggerated by her fears, by her panic. But it was what she had to deal with, real or imagined, and the only way she could come up with to handle these feelings without going nuts and collapsing to the ground and bawling like a baby was to get herself totally trashed, as fast as possible. So that was what she did. Soon as she struggled her way to the closest of the beer tents. An agonizing epic journey in itself. Let's skip right over that ... Got herself the biggest plastic cup they were offering—damn near a bucket. Kind you had to hold in both hands. She drained it dry in about thirty seconds and bought herself a second. Hadn't brought much cash with her. Those two mammoth beers—and possibly there'd been a third one—cleaned out her pockets almost completely. Beer at the Smash was supposed to be cheap. Another myth. Tasted cheap, yeah, but it sure wasn't cheap to purchase. At least not the sizes she picked. She remembered she hadn't brought her wallet—just a little folded bundle of cash. Didn't want to risk losing all her cards and things, so she'd left her wallet at home with her glasses. That turned out to have been a smart choice. She'd had her phone with her, and her spare house key—didn't bring her full ring, with her car keys and stuff. They didn't fit comfortably in her pockets, at least not when she was wearing skimpy cut-off jean shorts. Its side pockets were too tiny and tight, you could barely dig your fingers into them. Pockets on girl clothes are usually pretty worthless. One single key on one side, and the folded wad of cash in the other—that was all they could take. And she hadn't wanted to carry a purse with her. The phone was flat enough to fit in one of her buttpockets; she'd got fairly used to carrying her phone around that way, regardless what kind of pants she had on. Just had to watch you didn't sit down on it. Now she didn't have any of those things no more. Her phone was gone, her spare key was gone, and the remainder of the cash, if there'd been any remainder (probably just a few coins). Because she'd lost her shorts. Yay Feminism She'd got sharked, was what happened. Just before the storm hit. Sharked, if you haven't heard of it, is when a mean shithead sneaks up behind you in public and pulls your shorts down, or your pants if you're wearing pants, though it's easier to do to somebody in shorts than in pants, unless they're real loose and baggy. Depantsing, obviously, or just plain "pantsing" is the other thing it's called. Sharking is the newer cooler name for it. Usually when it happens to a guy, like a nerd in a school hallway, then it's referred to as pantsing. When it's done to a girl like her, it gets the slightly sexier, more predatory name of sharking. Well, she got sharked. And it wasn't a guy that did it to her. It was a woman. One of the evil-looking biker broads. Definitely a biker broad, too—this one was all decked out in studded leather, despite the heat, with a black cowboy hat. Cackling like a Halloween witch, after she did it. Got her shorts all the way down around M's ankles in one savage yank. M had tripped and fallen right over on her face. Which allowed the evil biker broad to swoop down again and snatch the shorts from around her feet. Pulled them off her completely! Then, worst of all, the bitch twirled the shorts around in the air over her head, and flung them far as she could across the crowd. And guess what? M wasn't wearing any panties, either. Because it was so hot a day, she hadn't put on underwear. Tended to make her ass get itchy and break out, when it got too sweaty, if she wore too many tight layers during the summer. So all she'd had on was the skimpy cut-off jean shorts, which didn't cling too close, and then they were gone, just like that. And she was stark naked in the middle of the festival. She didn't have shoes on either, not by then. She lost those a little bit before she lost her shorts. She'd been wearing sandals—not cheap crummy flipflops but a nice sturdy pair of the gladiator style that fit securely around your ankles and keep snug on your heels, when you walk around. But somehow by dumb luck one of the straps busted loose, and the sandal wouldn't stay on her foot after that. She threw the damn thing in a trash can. Tried walking around with just the other one still on, but it felt too strange. The sole was too thick, with a raised heel, so that leg stood higher off the ground than the other and it had made her feel crooked. Especially since she was so drunk—if she kept trying to walk about like that, pretty soon she would have puked all over herself. So finally she gave up and discarded the other sandal too. Tons of other people were running around the place barefoot. She might have been the only topless person at the festival that year, it seemed, but being barefoot wasn't unusual or noticeable at all. Being completely butt-ass naked was of course a different story. Bad enough when she was just topless. Losing her bottoms too, people started to go wild. And this time, there was no question about it—it wasn't just a matter of paranoid perception, like it might have been before. Everybody was pointing at her and laughing their heads off. She couldn't tell herself she was only imagining this—that shit had really happened, on all sides. Every direction she turned. (These terrible images came back to her the strongest, inevitably, in the van). She burst into tears, but nobody offered her any help or sympathy. Just mockery. They pointed and they jeered and they scorned her, the whole awful merciless crowd. It was the worst moment of her life. And then that storm hit. Wonderful timing. Like God cranked a faucet on. Where had all the clouds come from? She hadn't noticed them moving in ... Well, while that must have been happening, she'd been too busy dancing, and too damn drunk. Lost in her own imaginary world. She'd been bopping around with her arms waving over her head and her eyes tight shut, right in front of a huge speaker stack next to one of the rock stages. The speaker pile was taller than she was, and she'd been pressed up against it, with her back turned to everybody else. Standing that close, the music was deafening. And it made her whole body vibrate, every note hitting her all over head to toe like violent slapping blasts of hot wind. Made her hair fly back, beat by beat, but the impacts never hurt her, harsh as they were. More like an intense deep-tissue massage, all over her nearly-naked body at once. Felt pretty awesome. She'd completely lost herself in the noise, the feeling, the power ... Which was exactly what she wanted—it let her pretend there was nobody else there. Just her and the music and her pleasure in moving with it and against it and through it. She couldn't even think. Only dance on that one fixed spot. No name, no memory, no fears. There was nothing else in the entire universe. It was all dead and gone and meaningless. Must have made it ridiculously easy for that biker bitch to sneak up on her like she did. After this point, she has to rely on the guy to tell her the rest of what happened to her. Almost no more pieces come back. At least not until he'd brought her to this van ... she has a few more flashes from that part of the story. They're the most dubious pictures, though. The guy speaks English as well as Spanish. That's a blessing. She'd been scared he wouldn't but he does. His English isn't real great, but hey now, it's better than her Spanish. Took four years of it in high school and it doesn't make any difference. All gone, pretty much. He says he tripped over her, crawling around in the mud between people's legs while the rain was pelting down. Trying to find her shorts, and failing. No joy down there at all. The shorts have disappeared forever, and her phone and spare house key with them. Also she was trying to keep hunkered low like that just to hide herself, as much as possible. Lucky she didn't end up trampled to death. Moment he spotted her, he recognized her and he rescued her. Didn't hesitate. (Claims he didn't see her earlier. Didn't see her dancing or when she got sharked. Didn't know she was there at the festival 'til he physically tripped over her—he'd been at a different stage before the storm started and the park started to clear out.) Took off his shirt to give her, and then when she had trouble standing up, 'cause someone had accidentally kicked one of her ankles, he picked her up and carried her out of there like a fireman, to this van of his, which was parked in an alley a couple blocks away. They'd been inside here ever since, rest of that day and all night. During the little five or ten minute hike from the park to the van, while he was still carrying her in his arms, he told her she'd started to kiss him along the way, and to nibble at his shoulder and his neck and his earlobe. And that as soon as they were inside the van, while he was examining her leg—and it didn't turn out to have been hurt as much as they first thought—she had taken off the shirt he gave her. "I don't need this no more, thanks," was what he said she said. And things had pretty rapidly progressed further from there ... So. If the man was to be believed, it was M that initiated the sex, not him. Even if he might have had semi-sinister selfish motives when he started to help her, she never gave him a chance to act on them, because she acted first. And M knew herself and her nature well enough to recognize the fact that his version of events was perfectly plausible. Not at all out of character for herself, when she was drunk or even when she wasn't, if she was feeling highly emotional. Which she had been. And more than that, physically, she knew she must have been in a, shall we say, highly-energized state. A state of strong sexual excitement. The public nudity alone would have done that to her. Lit her up inside like a firecracker. It had been a horrifying humiliation, but that would not have prevented it from arousing her at the same time. Actually the horror and humiliation of the experience would have increased her arousal. She'd already been keyed-up pretty bad from practically the first moment they arrived at the festival. Before anything else happened, she started getting dangerously horny. Well, sure—it was what she'd been expecting. What she kept trying to warn her friends about. Showing off your tits in a public park at a summer festival is a blatantly sexual act. The longer she stayed out there, the worse it got. It wasn't something a girl just got used to and forgot about—at least not a girl like her. The horniness only continued to build and build inside her; she felt it surging and boiling and boiling hotter and hotter in her belly and inside both her breasts, in both her jutting rock-hard nipples, and of course deeper down too, inside her swollen dribbling pussy ... Add to that the blatant stimulation from the giant speaker stack when she was dancing right in front of it, practically pressing against it that whole period. Intense vibrations pulsing all through her, doing what they were bound to do ... Earlier, when her group first got to the Smash ... First thing, they'd gone to a little booth right next to one of the park entrances to have their chests painted, before they ventured into the heart of the festival. They all got large colorful butterflies painted over their breasts. The woman that had painted M's looked just like Halle Berry. It had been difficult to sit still for it—the brushes tickled a lot. Worked her up pretty seriously. Had to bite her bottom lip real hard 'til it was finished to keep from making embarrassing whimpers. And the way the woman kept smiling at her, and the way her eyes twinkled—might have been her imagination getting carried away, but M was pretty sure the woman was really into her. Like she wanted to take her off in a corner of the booth after the painting was done and make out with her. If she'd gone ahead and suggested it, M would probably have agreed. Just for the experience, why not? In a way, it had felt like cheating, those big butterflies. When the paintings were done, they weren't actually truly topless anymore, their tits were covered just about as well as they would be if they were wearing bikini tops. Bikini tops don't hide the juicy details of what you're carrying around any better than a thin layer of rubbery body paint does. All the guys can still see exactly how big you are, and they can see your nipples popping through. It doesn't feel much different, for the girl herself. Except your tits sway around more than they would, when you move. M had found that fact kept taking her by surprise. Like when one of her friends would say something to her and she'd turn around, and then feel her tits swing when she did—and of course it would be a bigger swing than if she'd had a proper top on. Not a huge difference—but she'd be able to feel it. And every time it would send a little zing of electricity through her body. Almost like somebody goosing her. Thinking: Oh God ... Oh God ... I can't believe I'm doing this ... I can't believe I'm letting all these people look at me this way ... Oh God ... I can't believe what it's doing to me ... And I can't believe how frigging good it feels ... It's making me hot, so hot ... It's making me so hot I can barely breathe properly ... Oh God ... Oh God this is crazy ... Oh God ... And all that was just the first five minutes. Before all the rest of the really crazy craziness started. She hadn't had a single drink yet, when she was thinking those thoughts. Then she lost all her friends, and got scared, and surrendered her sobriety ... only to have all the rest of her clothes and possessions stripped away, and every scrap of dignity remaining to her ... So this big muscular man pops out of nowhere, in the role of a heroic rescuer when things have got as bad as they can be, and she's crawling helpless and naked and utterly disgraced in the mud like a beast, bawling her eyes out ... He provides her the perfect outlet for all of these feelings, once he carries her away from there to someplace private and sheltered and safe. This van. It seemed she had taken the opportunity. Well, yes. She would have. M could understand the impulse, and she knew she would not have been able to resist it if she tried. Which she probably hadn't. She could get pretty far out of hand when she got turned on. Especially if that occurred while she was intoxicated. It had got her into trouble in the past. She turned wild. And that's what must have happened yesterday. She let her wildness loose and it had consumed her, and in the end she'd gone all out and spread her legs for this guy—not quite a complete stranger but pretty near—and let him have his way with her. And after thinking through all of this stuff, carefully piecing the chain of events back together, M came to another conclusion. Her wildness had reawoken. Oh God. Strong as before. Stronger. She felt it kindle inside her. Like tiny sizzling sparks flaring up and whirling around and bouncing off each other inside her stomach and her crotch. She felt her breathing quicken, and her heartrate right along with it, turning her giddy and flushed and a little flustered. The muscles in her legs kept twitching and tightened, and the muscles in her pussy. It wasn't only semen that was leaking out from it now. She was going to give herself to this man again, before she made him drive her home. After all, if she'd let a guy like this fuck her—with a dick like that, too—she should at least be able to remember it. And she didn't. No fair. If he'd been an ordinary-looking guy, with an ordinary-looking dick, then she could have let this go. She could fill in the blanks for herself. But that wasn't the case. She'd done this, dammit. She wanted to know what the fuck it was like. Good or bad. She was going to have to put herself through it again. 6. "Go real slow, okay?" she told him, as he took position atop her. Her tone of voice when she said it was firm and authoritative, much as she could manage, but that was a hard stance to hold on, underneath him. Especially at the feel of the head of it starting to press against her and divide the crease. Self-consciousness flooded her. She pushed defensively at his hips with both her hands. Couldn't help herself. "Please do it slow." Her voice wasn't commanding anymore, that time. It sounded pitiful, a scared little girl's voice. She wanted him to do this—she really did—but it was still terrifying, feeling him begin. It reasserted the vulnerability of her own smallness and softness, in contrast to his huge rigidity, poised at her threshold, and pulsing. Turned her timid in a flash. Just that first exploratory nudge. He kissed her forehead and the tip of her nose, and whispered reassuring nonsense. He'd fallen into Spanish again but that didn't make much difference. She could tell the gist of it from his manner. And he did, indeed, do as she had asked him. He went in slow. Real slow. For a while, anyway. It still didn't slide in easy. Not like any other cock she'd let in there. It took some steady determined pushing and squeezing and stretching to get that bastard started into the hole, just the head. Oh man oh man. She held her legs as wide apart as she could pull them—so wide the joints actually hurt worse than his cock did when it finally properly penetrated her. She concentrated on her breathing, timing her exhalations to his forward motions. Each inch further was a whole new ordeal ... Made her grunt, and then made her moan. "Uhhoohh." God, it started the old Madonna song in her head. No escaping the connection. It really was just like that shit, like she'd never been fucked before, or like every other time had been a joke, a con, a fake-out. And to think, they already did this once yesterday? Why was it still so difficult? Well, there was an obvious answer to that one. Intoxication. Her dad (a pretty nerdy guy) used to call alcohol "social lubricant". This added another level of meaning to that definition, didn't it? Jesus Christ ... Oh sweet dear Jesus ... Jesus Christ! If only they had some more alcohol in here she could have guzzled before they started. She should have sent him out to get some. Maybe she still should. Oh Christ. Oh Jesus. Oh oh oh. Why had she wanted to do this again? Was it too late to back out? How much more to go? Half? Little less than half? Holy shit. Fuck was she thinking? Why had this felt like an appealing idea? He was pushing in more now ... and now a little more ... Oh man. Oh Jesus. No more, please. She couldn't stand much more ... How much more? One last inch? Just one? Could she take one more? God, she didn't know. Maybe, maybe not. Either way, she was about to find out. 'Cause here ... he ... went ... "Ahuhh! Ohhoohh! Dear God! Gaahhuuh!" M was not usually a very vocal individual, during sex. In fact her last boyfriend complained about that, and it was one of the reasons he broke up with her. He didn't think she enjoyed sex with him. He was wrong, actually. She enjoyed sex a great deal. She enjoyed it with him and with everybody else she's been with in that way—a little shy of ten guys, by this time. Which at her age (28) she considers a pretty decent number, neither too big nor too small. She just wasn't the sort of person that made a lot of noise when she was feeling pleasure, sexual or otherwise. Didn't feel that impulse. If her last boyfriend would have looked her in the eyes during the sex, he would've been able to see her enjoyment, rather than hear it—that was where she best expressed those kinds of feelings. In her gaze. Ideally, when she was making love, her and the guy stared into each other's eyes the whole time. That was how she liked to do it. That was the way it felt best for her. Real soulful stuff. But the last boyfriend never did that with her. He always only wanted to be behind her with his nose buried in her hair. She was glad when he dumped her; saved her the hassle of being the one to initiate the break-up. She'd kept putting off the chore for weeks ... A bad habit of hers in that situation. Just about the only time she'd made a lot of outcry during sex was her second time. Yeah, not the first, the second. And those hadn't been cries of ecstasy. Losing her virginity had gone surprisingly easy for her, painwise. Then the second time it was like she'd had to pay for that. It was the idiot guy she was with—he did a real good job taking things nice-and-easy with her the first time, so he thought that meant he could cut loose and go hog-wild after that. He did not get a third opportunity. That was what now, like a decade ago? Almost. This time ... that giant cock ... she got vocal again, real quick. It made her, for a change, feel the need. And it wasn't only at the beginning, as she got used to him. Oh no. She didn't quiet down again until the deed was done. In fairness, he didn't hurt her. Not really. It wasn't like she was afraid it might be. It wasn't anything like that bad second time from her past. He was very careful with her. Not exactly gentle, but very much in control of what he was doing. Even after he started speeding up substantially. He knew what he could get away with and what wouldn't work. No doubt this guy had got a lot of practice using that thing on lots and lots of other girls. He'd learned the right ways to use it. Good for him. It was still quite a strain. And the strain never exactly eased off like she hoped it would. She expected to adjust inside—and she did, probably, but not as much and not in the way she expected. She thought the strain would gradually fade off, like once his cock got done stretching her out enough inside, and her channel got used to accommodating him, he would start to feel the same as other guys had in there. That didn't happen. The strain never faded, and she never got used to it, she just learned to live with it. And to enjoy it, too, admittedly. But it certainly never got comfortable, or easy. It wasn't a relaxing experience. Sex usually was, for her. Mostly with guys she'd hooked up with, they would take things as slow as possible. She tended to prefer long lazy fucks ... most of the sex she had was in the early morning, the we-just-woke-up kind. Well, so was this—except it wasn't. Nothing sleepy or dreamy about this stuff. This guy was giving her the opposite kind of rundown. Workout sex or rollercoaster sex. It wasn't bad, it wasn't destructive, but it put her through her paces, and pushed her to her limits. Yay Feminism And yeah, she made a lot of noise. She moaned and cussed and screeched. He got a big kick out of hearing all this shit, she could tell from the look on his face. It humiliated her and she wished she could shut up, and she kept trying to, and never could. Not for more than ten seconds at a time. Then she couldn't hold herself back anymore. Off she'd go again, carrying on fit to wake the dead, howling and wailing. "Oh God! Christ! Holy shit! Holy shit! You're so huge! You're so fucking huge! Uhuuhuuhuuuhh!" Girls need to be real careful about that—telling a guy he's big. It's a major button-pusher. And it's obvious that it would be, and why, when you think about it for two seconds. Still, they should probably warn young girls about this in school, or at the very least put it in the magazines. You gotta be prepared for what it does. You gotta know what you're gonna set off, if you say that shit. Guys are sensitive about that matter. Cry out how big he feels inside you, and they get super excited. They go wild after hearing that. 'Cause they always take it as a compliment—maybe the ultimate compliment—and as encouragement for harder fucking, unless you've the presence of mind to specify otherwise, which in the heat of such a barrage can be difficult for a woman to articulate. A lot of those times, harder fucking is the exact opposite of what's wanted. "Oh God you're so big!" may often actually mean "You're too big, you're going too deep, you're hurting me, ease the hell up on me please." But guys in the heat of the moment don't tend to consider that interpretation. What they hear is what they wanna hear, which of course is: "You're a Sex God! More! More! Harder! Harder!" Let's not be too hard on them. M knew if she had a penis herself, and somebody was letting her fuck them with it, and the person suddenly screamed out "Oh holy shit you're so huge!" she would most likely react in the exact same way. It's a power trip. It would rev her up like a racecar. And there are times, thankfully, when in fact "Harder! Harder!" turns out to be exactly what a girl wants and/or needs. This time, lucky for her, in light of her exclamations, had become one of those occasions. "Jesus! Oh Jesus! Ahhaahhhuuhh shit! Shit! Haaahhuuuhhoohh!" They made the whole van shake around them. It was a good thing the rain was still coming down so hard. Made it less likely for people to be passing by out there. Anybody that did, seeing the vehicle jostle on its tires like it was doing, they'd be able to tell exactly what was going on inside, even if they couldn't hear the racket she was making. But hell, they'd probably be able to, regardless of the rain. She was screaming her head off like he was murdering her. Except that wouldn't have gone on and on so long. She didn't think she'd be able to come. Wasn't to say that she was hating this, but it was too out-of-the-ordinary. Her nervous system was too overwhelmed; her pussy wouldn't be able to make sense of what it was being given, or subjected to. But no, turned out she was wrong about that. Her system coped pretty well. Her pussy answered the challenge, and in a reasonably timely manner, it delivered all the appropriate physiological responses. Only dialed up quite a bit. She would have screamed his name, if she'd known what it was. Instead she contented herself with the fallback of calling out to the savior: "Jesus!Jesus!JesusCHRIST! Ohooh haahuuhh ahh Jesus ... Jesus ... Jesus!" Probably better that she did that. Hearing her scream his name in that tone, it just couldn't be good for a man, in the long run. Bound to turn him into an insufferable asshole. She'd inflated his ego too much today already. It was an orgasm that nearly knocked her out, and in the violence of her spasms, she came close to catapulting the guy off of her like a rodeo bull. He bumped his head pretty nasty on the side wall of the van. Took it in good spirit, though. And then when it was through and she was recovering, that slow-falling sensation of spiraling downward through the twitchy aftershocks, gasping for breath, he slipped his cock out of her and rolled her over real quick on her front. She barely noticed, still too frazzled to realize what he was going for 'til he'd hauled her hips up off the floor and shoved her knees forward underneath to support her. "Hold on a sec," she mumbled, "Just wait." He did, though he was lined up behind her to push inside again. Rarin' to go. Doggy is supposed to be the favorite position of most women. Everyone was always telling her that fun fact. M had never much cared for it. The fact it was called "doggy style"—that right there pretty much highlighted her issue with it. She could never get past the fundamental subservience and objectivity of the pose. Way worse than with the guy on top of her in missionary—other women argued with her sometimes about that opinion, but for M there was no question. You couldn't see the guy's face—he wasn't interested in it. You were just sticking your butt up for him with your nose in the dirt. It was your ass he was fucking, not you—even if he wasn't actually jamming up your butt, he just about might as well be. It was all about your hiney. She'd still do it now and again but only grudgingly, for short periods, if she felt her partner had earned the favor. Well, maybe this guy had just qualified, considering the level of the orgasm he had given her. Still, she felt compelled to voice a half-hearted protest, if for no other reason than the fact he should know and appreciate that this was a special thing for her, and not something she'd allow most guys: "I don't usually take it this way. I don't usually like doggy." He laughed. Really it was more of a chortle, or a snort. "Well," he said, "I sure do." Then he plunged into her. Talk about a dick line. Literally. Oh yeah. "Bastard! Oh shit you bastard! Shit! Oh! Ohhuuhh!" Worst part was it felt real good this time. Much better than it normally did when she took it like this. The fucker had got her worked up to the state where he could just about do anything he liked to her and she wouldn't mind. She was all his for the duration—he'd established utter control over her. Been years since a guy had got this strong a hold on her. It was both delicious and rather obnoxious. Like: "Ah yes, this is how good sex can be, I'd sort of forgotten ..." And also: "Dammit this is how good sex can be? It's way too much to deal with! Shit!Shit!Shit!" He grabbed her elbows and pulled her arms behind her, forcing her torso upright. And then made her cross her forearms behind her back, wrists to elbows, and kept them pinned horizontal like that, using her trapped forearms as his handle as he pounded her. It was a painful stretch—yet at the time, she liked it. Hurt like hell, but it was hot how bad it hurt. His pounding too. Same way. "Oh you fucker! Oh shit you're fucking me so hard! You're fucking the shit out of me with your huge cock! Oh Christ! You bastard! God fucking dammit!" "I wanna you come again," he said, in his thick accent, "Come for me! Come for me! Come on dis cock!" And she did, almost immediately. It made her curl all her mud-caked toes, tight as she could. "Holy shit! Haahhhaaahhuuuuhh!" "You all mine now," he said, "All mine." She was powerless to refute it. "I'm yours! All yours! Fuck me! Fuck me! God! Gaahhuuhh!" "So lucky I find you," he said, "I must be luckiest guy at dis Smash. I find hottest and horniest chick dere, all alone, all naked and desperate. Now I fuck her! We fuck and fuck! Haahh!" And "right dere" he managed to incredibly flatter her and enormously insult her at the exact same time. She felt glorious and radiant, like the ultimate goddess of sex, and she also felt like absolute dogpoo, the world's stupidest most worthless slut and pushover. Did he realize or didn't he? Did he care or didn't it matter? "You like dat dick? You do! I know you do! Take it! Take it! Take it! Yes!" "Ohhuuh! Huuhhuuhh! Huuhhaahhuuuhh! God dammit! Ahhuuuhhaahh!" Pretty soon she gave up another orgasm for him, still taking it on her knees from behind like a bitch. It was gonna take her a long time to forgive herself for that last one. She shouldn't have let him do it to her again after he just offended her so bad, whether he meant to or not. But she still couldn't stop it happening, curling her toes again as it shattered her, same as the last one. She really was his bitch at that stage. 'Til it was finally all over. When it was his turn to get off, she asked him not to come inside her again. Damage was already done from before, of course, from yesterday or last night or whenever it was exactly. Still, no sense giving all his little soldiers a second run. She'd probably be okay. Her mother and her grandmother both had trouble with fertility and doctors had told her she'd probably have difficulty too. The eggs in their family didn't often come out of the box, when they were supposed to. And she'd taken shots inside without protection five or six other times from other guys and got away with it, each time. Hopefully her luck would once again hold out. Please God. He pulled out to unload on her tummy, having her roll on her back again to receive it. Jesus, what a sight. Seeing that whopper measured out at full stretch on her outside, lined up against her skin, it let you see how far up it must have reached when it was stuffed inside. Didn't look like that should have been possible, not without killing her. But babies come out of there, is the thing. That's what you have to remind yourself. Hugest horrible horsedong in the world still ain't nothing compared to the body-mass of a newborn. He asked her to take hold of it and pump him, to bring him off. Only she didn't crank it fast enough for him, 'cause he grabbed her hand to speed it up. That was actually the only time he really hurt her a bit, not in an enjoyable way—he wrenched on her wrist too hard, as he got off. But she could understand. She wouldn't hold it against him. The jizz didn't end up on her tummy, it blasted out with too much force. Flew straight between her breasts and splatted on her chin. It had been a long time since she allowed a guy the privilege of coming on or near her face. Marking her, claiming her, with a jizz signature. At least none went in her eyes or up his nose, like the other asshole had done. And there wasn't very much, thankfully, just that one dollop, with a few tiny weak clear trickles that only seeped out on her hand where she was holding him. She was afraid there'd be a ton more out of those huge hairy balls. But the bastards must not have managed to refill themselves since the last time they got emptied inside her. She took pleasure in making him come that way. Yeah, in spite of the fact he hit her face with the spray like that. She was fine with how it happened. In fact it had thrilled her, more than usual. Sometimes with guys this last part felt like an unfortunate obligation—you had to do it to get done, and to balance the score if the guy had succeeded in bringing you to orgasm, but nine times out of ten she'd have skipped his end of the business if she could have got away with it, fairness be damned, wherever/however he ended up unloading. Even when it was just into a condom, no mess, no fuss. This time was different; she liked the look on his face, when it happened—it was a look she'd remember—and she enjoyed watching his jizz burst out. In fact she felt ridiculous pride in the fact it had flown as far as it did when it fired—all because of her. Sort of thing a porn star must feel, or pretends to. Where you learn to love the mess he pours out on you instead of just putting up with it, and taking yourself further that direction, you try to make the mess as big and messy as you can. For the first time, she could understand that mentality, goofy as it was. Owning the ownership it signified. It was just gonna be this one time, though, for this one guy. This wasn't gonna alter her regular ordinary policy—no more money shots. Sorry, fellahs. Them's the rules. 7. They exchanged numbers after he brought her home. She made a show of memorizing his in front of him, since neither of them had anything on hand to write with, making him repeat it carefully for her a few times and repeating it back ... though in fact the whole time she had no intention of programming it into her phone, let alone using it. Not the slightest tiniest desire to. Even if she still had a phone to plug it into, which she didn't, since it had got lost. She'd have to buy a new one. Been planning on upgrading soon again anyway. After she did get it replaced, she still had the same number as before—they were able to transfer everything over real easy for her. And the guy kept calling her several times through the next two or three weeks. Left her tons of messages and sent her tons of texts, some of them real long. She just chose not to reply. Deleted all his messages without listening or reading any of them. Totally stonewalled him, and eventually he got the point and stopped trying. Would hate her guts now for the rest of his life, more than likely. M just couldn't get her head around the idea of trying to date a guy like him, not even on the most casual level. Didn't feel realistic or appealing. She couldn't picture hanging out with him in the places she liked to hang out, or even having ordinary conversations with him. It would just come down to the sex. It would probably continue being really good sex, yet even so, she hoped she'd reached a phase of her life where she wouldn't start any more potentially-ongoing relationships with no other basis to them than that. It was a fundamental mistake, and she knew that from personal experience. She'd let herself make that error too many times already, the last couple years. Finally found out the guy's name. It just happened to come up one day ages later in casual conversation with a bunch of people. They were talking about different crummy local bands—the guy had just joined one of them as a drummer, only he wasn't supposed to be any good at it, from what these other people were telling her. (His phone number was restricted, so his name never popped up on her phone whenever he called or texted. In fact she'd started thinking of him as Mr. Restricted. And that also fit with her decision to cut him off.) His name turned out to be Raoul, of all things. Kind of name you don't expect anybody to have in real life. Now in her case the unusualness went further; she'd not only met a real life Raoul, she'd fucked a real life Raoul. And it had been ... well, what exactly had it been? What did she want to call it? Not her best fuck, not really, not quite. Mind-blowing as the orgasms had been, and she wouldn't pretend they hadn't, that description—the word "best"—still didn't fit. She was reluctant to classify it as a great fuck, either. Again, "great" was too complimentary. The orgasms themselves might have been great, but that left out how plain stressful and nerve-wracking and embarrassing the rest of the experience had been, despite the fact she got off real strong like that when he did all he'd done with her. It had certainly been one of her most memorable sexual encounters, that was for sure. Also one of the sleaziest and most shameful. This was a story she wouldn't wanna tell anybody. Wouldn't in fact be physically capable of talking about it unless she got very, very drunk again. So drunk to the point she probably wouldn't remember telling the story, the next day. Ha ha. As far as the rest of her friends, that had been there that day ... she later found out none of the set had any notable adventures or misadventures of their own, together or apart. They all just ended up going home not much more than half an hour after M got separated from them. They missed out completely on that wild storm. Nothing crazy or slightly memorable happened to any of the bitches, just her, left behind. They hadn't even spent any time looking around for her; they'd immediately assumed she ditched them to scamper home by herself. They all said the same things: that the festival had been pretty boring and disappointing overall, too crowded and too hot and too smelly, and none of the music had been appealing, just loud and obnoxious and bad, and none of the guys there were good-looking, and probably they would never wanna go to another Smash unless the venue got changed and the organizers revamped the whole setup, like they kept claiming they planned to do. And as to their big important so-called freedom-statement and what it had felt like for them to be topless out there, at least for the pretty brief time they did it before they all gave up like pussies and quit and skedaddled their asses home, M could never get any of them to talk about it. Neither as a group nor individually. Like they forgot it had happened. Looked at her like she was crazy whenever she brought it up. For a time she felt a mean compulsion to keep after them about it, asking over and over whether they had enjoyed it or hated it, and of course whether or not they felt empowered by it, and whether or not they'd ever wanna go do that sort of thing again, someplace else ... And none of the girls would give her any kind of straight answer to any of those questions, positive or negative. Not a one. It was like they had a goddamn Code of Silence about it, like they all took a solemn blood-oath when she wasn't there. Maybe they really had. They'd just coldly ignore her badgering, and change the subject, fast as possible.