Ron Taylor - Stepdaughter in bondage

I jumped, a scream fluttering on my lips. I'd been dreaming about Tony. "Hey, little girl," he said, wrinkles creasing his high forehead. "I didn't mean you no wrong. But this is the end of the line. St. Louie."

And now we stood on the asphalt outside his rig, me shivering in the early morning chill despite the coat buttoned snugly around me. "If you won't take no money, at least let me see about gettin' you a ride. Bound to be somebody on his way to Denver."

I shook my head. I wasn't sure I was heading for Denver. It had been a quick, spur of the moment story, just an excuse for my being on the Interstate hitching a ride at a little after midnight. Right now I had no idea where I was going to go, what I'd do when I got there. A cup of coffee might help me straighten out my head, but I didn't want to get Rolling Rock into any more trouble. If he was seen in the company of a fugitive from justice it might go bad for him. "I'll be okay. Honest to God. And thanks again, Rolling Rock."

"Sure, little lady," and he kissed me on the forehead, the way a father might kiss his almost grown up daughter. It had been so long since I'd had a daddy I wasn't sure how long I could keep from crying. I turned away from him, mumbled a goodbye, and hurried into the restaurant. When I looked over my shoulder from inside the door he was still there by his truck, watching me.

The coffee was almost unbearably strong. I put in so much milk and sugar it could have served for breakfast. I only had twenty dollars and I didn't know how long it would have to last me. St. Louis was still too close to home. I'd have to put a lot more miles between me and Athens County before I took time out to rest up. Maybe I could land a waitressing job in some truck stop like this one – only it would have to be a long way from here. Somewhere on the west coast, maybe and keep on using an alias.

How long before they found Tony's body? What if some neighbor came over this morning with a bit of food for the bereaved, family? Oh, God, I didn't even lock the door behind me when I cleared out! I could see it right now. Mrs. Swanson from next door, maybe. She'd knock a few times. No answer. She'd probably try the door. She'd go inside. And…

"Is this seat taken?"

I turned around. For one incredible moment I thought I was looking up at Jesus Christ.

It was a guy, about six feet tail, rather lean-framed, with long hair parted in the middle just like mine. His hair fell onto his shoulders, framing a long angular face with heavy-browed eyes and a most impressive nose. He was bearded, and the overhead light played up reddish highlights in his brown hair. He looked exactly like the painting of Jesus that hangs in the Reckardsville Baptist Church, except that he wasn't wearing robes of white. And he was pointing at the empty stool beside me at the counter. I shook my head and he sat down, unzipping his blue flight jacket, reaching inside for cigarettes. I breathed a lift le easier. Jesus didn't smoke.

An hour later we were sitting in the cab of his VW van, riding the by-pass around St. Louis. My stomach was warm from coffee and the pancakes he'd insisted on buying me and I lounged happily in my bucket seat. His name was Jerry Cornelius and he was an his way west.

The sun came up behind us, but we were driving into pay cloudy skies. Rain began to spatter down in big cold drops and the further we drove, the wetter it seemed to get. Jerry had his windshield wipers on high speed but they weren't moving fast enough to keep the rain off.

"I don't know," Jerry said in his thin, nasal-toned voice. "I think we'd better pull ant and sit this rain out."

"Good idea," I agreed, because I was a little scared. I couldn't see anything ahead of us and I wondered how he'd managed to cover the last few miles. There was a side road up ahead. Jerry swung hard and we did a little wiggle as we turned onto it. He drove a few hundred yards up the road, pulled off onto the side, and shut down the engine. He turned around in his seat and looked at me.

"We might as well be comfortable," he said. "Let's go in the back."

It wasn't one of your truly great vans. There was a small bed at the very back, and an ice chest, and the floor was covered in a patchwork of unmatching textures and patterns of carpet. Like an old quilt, I thought, and very soft under my feet. I kicked off my shoes and wiggled my toes around. The bed was the only place to sit, except for the floor, so I eased my butt onto the edge of the mattress and took a deep breath.

Jerry opened the ice chest and brought forth a dripping cold jug of cheap red wine. We sipped at the paper cups of wine, neither of us saying much.

In the right light, red wine looked a lot like blood and I kept seeing the blood that oozed out of the wound I'd made in Tony's forehead with the heavy glass ashtray. None of that was doing much good for my psyche.

"I think I've had enough," I said, finishing my wine. "Listen. The rain seems to have died down." I couldn't hear it spattering on the top of the van, the way it had when we first crawled back here.

"Fuck the rain," Jerry said. He put down his wine and rose from the floor in a quick fluid motion. His arms went around me and he pushed me back onto the bed. As I went back, he came up, mounting me. "Mmmmmmmm, baby," he said, sliding his hands under the tail of my sweatshirt. They ranged upward and found the undersides of my tits.

"No," I complained, "let go of me!" I fought under him, and, skinny though he looked, his skinniness was nearly all muscle. Wiry and strong and, above all else, determined! His hands moved over the crests of my tits and he was holding me in a tight, fierce grip. It felt as if he were choking me, even though I knew I didn't breathe through my breasts. My head felt cold but my armpits were warm with frightened sweat. Warm and wet.

"Stop it, Goddamn you," I told him. "I didn't get into this van to fuck you."

"Nobody mentioned fuck except you," Jerry said, breathing wine into my face, "but since you've brought up the idea, I think I could dig it. Mmmmmmmmm." He leaned in close, nuzzling my neck and ear with his wine-wet mouth. His tongue played across my skin, into my ear, up and down my neck. His teeth closed on me and he gave me two or three sharp little nips. I squealed and fought but I couldn't seem to throw him off me. It was just like last night, all over again.

His cock began to harden in his pants where he lay on me. I could feel each spurt of blood that tooled into Jerry's prick and made it stiff, stiffer. He rubbed his crotch into my body, made me feel him, and his fingers pinched mercilessly at my breasts. "Come on," he said. "You knew what you were asking for. Girl with tits like these – you know I've been around. You know what it's all used for. You fight, it's only gonna make it harder. For you. And it's plenty hard already. Get a feel."

With his fingers guiding mine, fitting them to the outline of his stiff dick. I felt numb. But my fingers didn't. They felt every single pulsation of his thumping dick, moved up and down its length as he guided them, I had been raped once in the last twenty-four hours, and I should have been a, little more used to the sensation. But I wasn't. I felt sick in the pit of my tummy and my head was swimming in terror.

He got me jammed up against the wall, holding me in place with a knee planted firmly on my thigh. I huffed and puffed, but that was about it. "Look at this, Penny," he said, unzipping his pants. I'd almost forgotten that I was Penny today. I hoped the real Penny Porter, a girl in my class at school, didn't mind that I was using her name. I wished to hell that she were here right now instead of me, about to be assaulted by a guy who looked like Jesus Christ in the back of a VW van on a side road. Off a not-too-busy highway. My sins were catching up with me. Maybe God didn't care for the fact that I had murdered my stepfather. Maybe this was only the beginning of my trials and tribulations and punishments.