Speaker 1: The diesel fumes made my eyes water as I shuffled
between the pumps, my thumb out, my backpack cutting into
my shoulder like a dead weight. No one looked at me.
No one ever did, not the families in their mini vans,
not the business men in their least sedans. I was
invisible ghost girl with the hollow cheeks and the tremor
in her hands that had nothing to do with the cold.
Then the semi rumbled to a stop ten feet away,
air brakes hissing. The door swung open. A woman leaned
across the passenger seat, one thick forearm draped over the
steering wheel, short, gray streaked hair, eyes the color of denim,
worn soft at the knees. She didn't smile, just jerked
her chin toward the cab. You need a ride or
you just practicing? Looking pathetic, I climbed in the first
hundred miles. Neither of us spoke. The cab smelled like
coffee and cigarette ash and something sharper underneath sweat maybe,
or just the ghost of a thousand halls. I pressed
myself against the door, watching the Arizona scrubland blur past,
my fingers knotted in my lap. She drove with one hand,
the other hung loose at her side, thick knuckled a
mechanic's hand, a hand that knew how to grip. Name's Greta,
she said eventually, Valeria. Pretty name for a girl who
looks like she's running from something. I didn't answer. The
sun was bleeding out, turning the horizon into a bruise.
My pack was between my feet. I needed a cigarette,
needed something to do with my hands that wasn't just
sitting there feeling the weight of her attention every time
she glanced my way. I reached down, fumbling for the
crumpled pack in the side pocket. The zipper caught, the
whole thing tipped, Metal clinked, silicone thumped against the floor mat.
The handcuff skittered under the dashboard, the paddle god. The
paddle landed face up on the rubber, its leather surface
catching the dashboard lights. The flogger spilled out last its falls,
draping over my shoe like a lover's fingers. I froze.
This was it, the moment she'd pull over, the moment
she'd tell me to get the fuck out of her truck.
You sick, little, she laughed, not a nervous laugh, not
a disgusted laugh, a deep, genuine, shoulder shaken laugh that
filled the cat like thunder. Well, hell girl, you travel prepared.
My face burned. I scrambled to shove everything back, my
hands shaking so bad I could barely grip. But she
just watched the road, still chuckling, still utterly unbothered. Relax,
She said, I've seen weirder. You think you're the first
runaway with a kink bag. The word kink in her mouth,
That low smoke, rasped drawl did something to my stomach,
something hot and tight and deeply inconvenient. The confession came
spilling out before I could stop it. Jose the Master,
the bruises I'd left behind in a Phoenix apartment that
smelled like his cheap cologne, and my fear, the escort work,
the dungeons, the men who paid me to let them
pretend they owned me. I braced for judgment. Gretaj just
nodded slowly, her eyes on the road. And you're good
at it, the work. The question landed differently than I expected,
not prurient, appraising. Yes, I said, I'm good at it.
At the rest stop, I spotted the brake line clamp.
It was loose, maybe a few hundred miles from catastrophic failure.
My papa's voice echoed in my head. A truckle tell
you what's wrong, if you know how to listen. Miha,
I pointed it out, my mechanic's instinct overriding my exhaustion.
Greta crouched beside me, our shoulders almost touching, and examined
the line. Huh, she said, you're full of surprises. When
we got back in the cab, she made the offer
a ride all the way to Kentucky, no strings, no expectations,
just company. And that was when I made my offer.
I got the toys, you've got the truck. My voice
came out steadier than I felt. I'm good with my hands,
but I'm better on my back or my knees. Let
me repay you, Let me be your thing for the night.
She looked at me for a long, silent moment, those
denim blue eyes missing nothing. We'll stop at the next
pull off, she said. Now. Now, I was blindfolded in
the sleeper cab, wrists bound above my head, the hemp
rope from my own bag biting into my skin. In
a way that made me feel more present than I'd
felt in months. The bandana over my eyes turned everything
into a velvet black. I could hear her breathing, could
smell her sweat and diesel and something muskier underneath. Fuck me, Greta, please,
I need it. Use me. The word scrape out of
my throat, raw and desperate. I didn't recognize my own voice.
Her chuckle rumbled through the thin mattress. You're a greedy
little thing, aren't you spilling your secrets back in that
truck stop diner? And now you're begging for my attention.
Her thumb traced my jaw down the column of my throat.
The callous was rough, deliberate. It caught on my skin.
You offered to let me play. You didn't say you'd
be so fucking eager for it. I am. My hips
shifted restlessly on the sheets. She'd already stripped me. My
work pants, my plaid shirt, folded neatly on the passenger seat,
like this was some kind of ritual. I was naked
except for my socks, my body exposed to the cool
cab air, and what I imagined was her heavy, appraising gaze.
I need to repay you, properly repay me. The mattress dipped.
As she settled on the edge of the bunk. I
heard the soft slide of her belt buckle coming undone,
the whisper of denim pushed down thick thighs. You think
a quick fuck is proper payment for a cross state ride?
Miha for getting you away from that piece of shit Jose.
The name hit me like a slap, but the fear
evaporated fast, replaced by something hotter, sharper. It's not a
quick fuck, My voice cracked. It's me. You can have
all of me however you want, however I want. I
could hear the smile in her words, dark and pleased.
I saw your toy box. You're used to being told
what to do, used to being a hole for some
man's pleasure. Shame flooded me, hot and immediate, but as
it receded, it left behind something slick and shocking. She
knew she'd seen the evidence of what I was, and
she wasn't throwing me out. She was here in the
dark with me, her weight on the mattress, her voice
low and dangerous. The humiliation was a key turning in
a lock deep in my gut. My pussy clenched around nothing. Yes,
I breathed good. Her hand landed on my inner thigh,
not a caress, a claim. Fingers dug in possessive, spreading
my legs wider, my breath caught in my throat. Then
let's see what you're really made of, hitchhiker. Her touch
was not gentle, It was an inventory. Her hands mapped
my body with the dispassion of someone assessing purchased goods.
The slight swell of my belly, the sharp jut of
my hip bones, my small breasts, with nipples that tightened
into aching points. Under the rough stroke of her thumb.
She pinched one, rolled it between her fingers. The sound
that came out of me was sharp and involuntary. You
like that, not a question? She did it again, harder
on the other side, and my back arched off the mattress,
A silent scream trapped behind my teeth. My pussy wept.
I could feel the hot trickle sliding down my inner thigh.
Evidence I couldn't hide. Your body tells me everything. You're
a desperate, dripping little slut. Aren't you all this fuss
just to be used? Yes? The word was a sob.
The confirmation, the degrading label, sent another vicious bolt of
heat straight to my core. I was floating in the dark,
tethered only by the bite of the rope and the
punishing grip on my nipple. Good girl. Then her touch
was gone. I whimpered at the loss, straining against the ropes,
and the weight was agony. Powerlessness was terrifying. It was
also the most electric a live feeling I'd had in years.
I heard a soft, slick sound lube, A cold dollop
landed on my lower belly. I jerked. Then a finger
dragged the gel downward, not to where I was aching,
an empty and desperate but lower to the tight, forbidden
pucker of my ass. Oh god, uh uh. Her other
hand pressed flat against my abdomen, holding me still. This
is what you offered your holes for my pleasure. This
one looks lonely. She didn't tease, didn't circle, She pressed
the muscle resisted a tight ring of panic. She didn't stop.
She leaned her weight into it, her breath hot against
my ear. Relax, you stupid bitch, take it. The command
short circuited something in my brain. My body obeyed before
I could think. The tight ring yielding suddenly, and her
finger sank into my ass to the knuckle in one brutal,
uncompromising thrust. I screamed. The sound ripped out of me,
raw and animal. And it wasn't just pain, though there
was plenty of that, a sharp, stretching, burning fullness that
felt like being split in two. It was the violation
of it, the total loss of control. I was a thing,
a hole, and she was claiming it. Fuck, Greta groaned,
her voice thick. She began to move, a shallow pistoning
of that single finger, so fucking tight, like a virgin.
You're clenching around me, you greedy ass. You love that,
you love being my little anal wore. I couldn't speak.
Tears soaked the bandana. My body was chaos, the searing
stretch in my ass, the throbbing ache in my empty cunt,
the hemp on my wrists. My hips started moving of
their own accord, trying to fuck myself back onto her finger.
She laughed, dark and triumphant. That's it, work for it,
a second finger. The stretch was obscene, white flared behind
my blindfold. A keening noise came from my throat, and
she scissored her fingers, stretching the ring wider, and then
she crooked them. A jolt of pure electricity shot up
my spine. My body convulsed. There it is, she purred.
She ground her fingertips against that spot, relentless. Come on,
come on, my fingers, you anal slush, Let me feel you.
I couldn't fight it. The orgasm hit like a truck,
brutal wrenching, stealing the air from my lungs. My ass
clamped down on her fingers, My pussy gushed hot release
onto the sheets, and a broken, sobbing wail tore from
my throat. It was the most devastating climax of my life,
borne entirely from being used, from having my most private
place invaded for another woman's amusement. She fucked me through it,
her fingers never slowing, and I was trembling, oversensitive, whimpering
with every movement. By the time she finally pulled out
with a wet, obscene pop, my asshole gaped loose and throbbing.
I heard her moving, the rustle of clothing, a harness
being tightened. Then her weight settled between my splayed legs
and something much large than fingers, thick, realistic silicone nudged
against my soaked, swollen pussy lips. My turn, she growled.
She didn't guide herself in, didn't ask. She grabbed my
hips in a grip that would leave bruises, lifted me,
and slammed forward forward. If you want to hear more
of this sexy story, come back tomorrow for part two.
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