Chapter 5: Parking Enforcement
The grainy light from the laptop screen was the only illumination in the hotel room, painting Justin’s stunned face in shades of blue and gray as the video continued.
Justin’s hand, resting on his now-soft cock, felt clammy. The orgasm he’d wrung from himself minutes before felt like a relic from another lifetime, a pathetic response to a truth he hadn’t understood. He stared.
On screen, Hunter spun around, his younger face slack with panic, his dick—still slick and hard—dripping onto the concrete floor. Ashley scrambled, trying to pull down her cheer skirt, a high, thin sound of fear escaping her.
“The fuck, Hunter?” The voice was a graveled baritone, devoid of surprise, tinged with something else. Amusement? Interest? The camera, apparently knocked or set on the workbench, tilted at a drunken angle, but it kept recording, a silent witness.
Hunter’s dad, Frank, stepped fully into the frame. He was a bigger, older, harder version of his son, wearing oil-stained work pants and a tight t-shirt stretched over a thick chest. His eyes weren’t on his son. They were on Ashley, who had backed against a tool cabinet, her skirt tangled at her thighs, her face pale.
“Dad, shit, it’s not— we were just—” Hunter stammered, fumbling for his pants.
“Just what?” Frank interrupted, his voice calm. He walked closer, his boots heavy on the concrete. He stopped in front of Ashley. His gaze traveled from her tear-streaked face, down her trembling body, to the gleam of wetness on her inner thighs. “Looks like you were just breaking in the neighbor’s girl.”
“Sir, I’m sorry,” Ashley whispered, her voice barely audible.
Frank reached out, not roughly. He used a thick finger to hook the waistband of her ruined panties, which were still around one ankle. He looked at the crotch, saw the slickness there. “Little late for sorry, sweetheart.” He glanced back at Hunter, who was frozen, pants in hand. “You finish?”
Hunter, shamed and dismissed, mumbled, “Yeah.”
“In her ass?” Frank asked, clinical.
Hunter nodded, a jerky motion.
Frank’s attention returned to Ashley. A slow, unsettling smile spread across his face. “Always were an overachiever, son.” He let go of her underwear. “Get out. Go wash up. You’re done.”
“But—” Hunter started.
“Out,” Frank said, the word a door slamming shut.
Hunter fled, the camera catching his shuffling, retreating back. The garage door closed, leaving Ashley alone with Frank. The angle was low, cutting him off at the chest, making him loom even larger. Ashley hugged herself, looking like a cornered animal.
“He treat you right?” Frank asked, stepping closer. He didn’t wait for an answer. His hand came up and cupped her breast over her uniform top, his thumb rubbing the stiff peak of her nipple. Ashley flinched but didn’t pull away. She seemed incapable of movement. “Seems like he got what he wanted. Guess that makes you the garage slut now.”
“Please,” she breathed.
“Please what?” He leaned in, his mouth near her ear. The microphone picked up his whisper, coarse and clear. “You let my boy plow your shitter raw, you’re standing here dripping his come, and you think ‘please’ means anything? You’re just a used-up little cunt now.”
His other hand went to his belt. The rasp of leather through loops, the click of the buckle, were obscenely loud. He pushed his pants and boxers down just enough to free his erection. It was thick, veined, ruddy. Not as long as Hunter’s, but heavier. A working man’s cock.
Justin watched, numb. He felt disembodied. This was his wife.
“Turn around,” Frank commanded. “Bend over the bench. Same as you did for him.”
Ashley’s stared into the camera lens for a second, then she obeyed. She turned, her movements robotic, and bent forward, her upper body pressed against the cold metal of the workbench. Her cheer skirt rode up, fully exposing her now. Her ass, smeared with traces of blood and lube, and below it, her pussy, glistening and swollen.
Frank spat into his palm, rubbed it over his cock. He didn’t prepare her. He didn’t speak. He just positioned the broad head at her entrance and pushed.
Ashley cried out, a sharp, pained sound that was cut off as he seated himself fully inside her with one ruthless, deep thrust. Her back arched violently.
“Tighter’n a goddamn fist,” Frank grunted, his hands grabbing her hips, his fingers digging into her skin. “Guess my boy didn’t stretch this one out yet.”
Then he started to fuck her. It was nothing like Hunter’s frenetic, youthful pounding. This was slower, more brutal, a deep, grinding piston motion that shoved her whole body forward with each impact. The bench scraped against the floor. Tools rattled. Frank’s breathing was a steady, wet rasp.
“That’s it,” he muttered. “Take it. You’re just a warm hole now. A fucking garage slut. Remember that.”
Ashley’s face was turned toward the camera. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Her face was flushed, nipples perkier. her mouth was open, and small, involuntary sounds spilled out with each driving thrust—not words, just choked gasps and moans. Her hands scrabbled for purchase on the smooth metal, finding none. Was she enjoying the way he was treating her?
Justin’s own breathing had stopped. He was hard again, a vile, automatic response that filled him with self-loathing. He couldn’t look away. This was the secret. The real secret. Not just that she’d done anal with Hunter. But this. The submission was absolute. It wasn’t playful or explorative. It was consumption.
Frank’s pace increased, his balls slapping against her flesh. “Gonna fill this cunt up,” he snarled. “Mark what my boy started. You’ll feel me in you all week.”
His thrusts became jagged, erratic. He gave one final, brutal slam, burying himself to the hilt, and held there. A raw, animal groan erupted from him. Justin could see the man’s back and shoulders tensing, the pulse of his release. Ashley whimpered, a sound of pure, abject acceptance.
For a long moment, Frank stayed inside her, his weight pressing her down. Then he pulled out with a wet, sucking sound. The camera’s low angle captured the viscous, pearl-white drip of his semen as it seeped from her reddened, used pussy, mixing with the remnants of his son’s anal penetration already on her thighs.
He tucked himself away, buckled his belt. He looked down at Ashley, who remained bent over, shaking.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, his voice back to its casual gravel. “And keep your mouth shut. Unless you want everyone to know what a little whore you are.” He turned and walked out of frame. The garage door opened and closed again.
Ashley didn’t move for a full minute. Then, slowly, she pushed herself upright. Her movements were stiff, pained. She didn’t look at the camera. She tugged her skirt down, her motions clumsy. She found her panties, looked at them, and just shoved them into her purse.
The video ended.
Justin sat in the silent, dark hotel room. The images burned on his retinas: the arousal, the brutal penetration, the dripping proof of her use, the submissive look on her young face throughout. His phone, which had been silent, suddenly lit up with a new text.