Chapter 7: Public Use
The following week passed in a brittle parody of domestic life. Kathryn moved through the rooms of her house like a curator in a museum of her own past. David’s shame had congealed into a persistent, needy solicitude. He made her tea she didn’t drink, asked about her day in a voice frayed with caution. The memory of the backyard, of his horrified eyes meeting hers over Richard’s shoulder, was a pane of dirty glass between them. She could see him, but he was blurred, untouchable.
The act had carved something out of her and filled it with a festering energy. It buzzed in her veins at night, keeping her awake. She craved the brutal honesty of Richard’s use of her. It was a clarifying violence. There were no lies in the grip of his hands, only a frank assessment of desire and power.
Thursday was grocery day. The supermarket was her sanctuary of mundane routine. She pushed the cart through the fluorescent-lit aisles, focusing on the tangible decisions: organic versus regular, paper versus plastic. She bought spinach, chicken breasts, the kind of yogurt David liked. Each item dropped into the cart felt like a small stone laid on the grave of her old self.
She was loading bags into the back of her silver minivan when the passenger door opened. The vehicle dipped slightly with a new weight. Her breath caught.
Richard slid into the seat as if he owned it. He was wearing charcoal slacks and a dark polo shirt, casual wealth. He closed the door with a solid, quiet thunk. The sounds of the parking lot—rolling carts, distant traffic—muffled instantly.
“Afternoon, Kathryn,” he said. He wasn’t smiling. His gaze was appraising, direct.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice was tighter than she intended. She stayed by the open tailgate, one hand on a bag of groceries.
“Saw your car.” He shrugged, looking out the windshield at the brick wall of the supermarket. “Thought I’d say hello. You’ve been quiet.”
She said nothing. The silence stretched, thick and charged. He finally turned his head, his eyes tracing her body in her leggings and loose tank top. “Get in the car.”
It wasn’t a request. It was the calm, assured tone of a man used to obedience. A flush—part fear, part immediate, traitorous heat—spread up her neck. She closed the tailgate, the latch clicking loud in the quiet space between them. She walked to the driver’s side, opened the door, slid behind the wheel. The familiar scent of her car—cleaning wipes, old coffee cups—was now underscored by his cologne, something expensive and woody.
She didn’t start the engine. They sat in the dim interior, the sun visors casting a twilight gloom. A shopping cart rattled by two rows over.
“Did you think about it?” he asked, his voice low. “What we did? While your husband made you breakfast?”
She stared straight ahead, her fingers tight on the steering wheel. “Yes.”
“What did you think?”
“That you’re a bastard.” The words came out flat, true.
He chuckled, a dry, pleased sound. “Good.” He reached over, not for her, but for the keys she’d placed in the cupholder. He turned the ignition to ‘accessory.’ The radio flickered on, low, a classical station. Then he hit the automatic door locks. The solid chunk echoed in the cabin. “And you’re a slut who comes when she’s being fucked next to a barbecue. Own it.”
His hand then moved to her neck, not caressing, but gripping, his thumb pressing into the pulse point at her jaw. He pulled her roughly toward him, across the center console. The seatbelt bit into her shoulder. He kissed her, but it wasn’t a kiss. It was an occupation. His tongue forced its way past her lips, tasting of mint and authority. She yielded, a small sound trapped in her throat. When he pulled back, her lipstick was smeared.
“Over the console,” he commanded, releasing her neck.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. They were in a public parking lot in the middle of the day.
Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the seatbelt clasp, the release sounding obscenely loud. The gearshift dug into her ribs as she complied, pushing herself up and awkwardly straddling the center console. Her back was to the windshield, her face pressed against the headrest of the passenger seat. The cheap fabric smelled of stale air and him.
"Good girl," he murmured, his voice devoid of warmth. He didn't touch her with tenderness. His hands went to the waistband of her yoga pants and the thin cotton of her thong beneath, yanking both down to her knees in one brutal jerk. The cool air of the air-conditioned van hit her exposed skin, raising goosebumps.
She heard his zipper, the rustle of fabric. He spat into his palm again, a wet, dismissive sound. He guided himself, the blunt head nudging against her. She was already wet, a humiliating, involuntary betrayal by her own body. He shoved in, not waiting, not easing. The stretch was immediate and unforgiving.
"Christ, you're always so fucking ready," he grunted, his hands clamping on her hips, fingers biting into her flesh. He set a relentless, driving pace from the first stroke, using the leverage of the console to piston into her deeper. Each thrust slammed her forward, smearing her lipstick in a bloody streak across the steering wheel's leather cover.
The van rocked slightly on its suspension. A cart collector passed by the rear bumper, whistling, oblivious. Kathryn stuffed her fist into her mouth, biting down on her knuckles to silence the choked cries his depth forced from her lungs. The classical music from the radio swelled, a dramatic, orchestral piece completely at odds with the crude, slapping rhythm of skin on skin.
"That's it," he rasped, his breath hot against the back of her neck. "Take it all, you greedy cunt. You love this, don't you? Love being used in a parking lot like a common hooker." His words were arrows, each one finding its mark, weaving shame directly into the fabric of her pleasure.
She couldn't answer. Her world had narrowed to the burning friction inside her, the pressure of his grip, the dangerous public exposure just beyond the fogging glass. Her orgasm built not as a wave but as a sudden, seismic fault line giving way. It ripped through her without permission, a violent, shuddering capitulation that clenched around his invading cock.
He felt her convulse and let out a low, triumphant curse. "There it is. Your husband ever make you come in a grocery store parking lot?" He fucked her through it, his pace becoming ragged, desperate. "He ever fill your pussy in the goddamn minivan?"
His climax followed, a harsh, guttural expulsion of breath. He plunged deep and held, his body rigid against her back. She felt the hot, sudden jet of his release flooding her, a claiming more definitive than any kiss. He pulsed inside her, grinding his hips in small, possessive circles until he was spent.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the staticky violins from the radio. He softened inside her and withdrew. The aftermath was a lewd, wet trickle down her thigh. He tucked himself away, zipped his slacks with a casual finality.
Kathryn remained slumped over the console, her pants around her knees, her cheek against the streaked steering wheel. She felt hollowed out, a vessel used and discarded. The groceries in the back, the normalcy they represented, seemed like artifacts from another lifetime.
Richard leaned over, pulled a tissue from the box she kept between the seats, and wiped his hands. He dabbed at the smeared lipstick on the wheel with a detached curiosity, as if cleaning up a minor spill. "You should get that," he said, nodding toward her purse on the floor, where her phone was buzzing. "Probably David, wondering where his dinner is."
He unlocked the doors, opened the passenger side, and stepped out into the bland afternoon light. He adjusted his polo shirt, a man who had just concluded a minor piece of business. Before closing the door, he leaned back in. His expression was unreadable.
"Next time," he said, his voice conversational, "the country club locker room. Wednesday. One o'clock."
The door shut with a solid, expensive click. He walked away without looking back, merging seamlessly with the other shoppers returning to their cars. Kathryn slowly, painfully, pulled her yoga pants up over her sticky skin. She stared at the lipstick stain on the steering wheel, a bright, vulgar Rorschach blot she couldn’t decipher. Her phone buzzed again, insistent, a tether to a life that no longer fit.