Chapter 1: The First Mark: Cathryn Claims Another Stranger
The air in Benny’s Taproom tasted like stale beer and desperation, thick with the greasy scent of fried food and the underlying tang of decades-old cigarette smoke soaked into the walls. Cathryn perched on a cracked vinyl barstool, the red vinyl peeling like sunburnt skin. Her low-cut black dress clung to her slim frame, the neckline a daring plunge that announced her intentions without a word. She took a slow sip of cheap whiskey, the burn familiar and welcome, letting her gaze drift across the room like a searchlight.
Smoke caught in her throat as she swallowed, a familiar ghost of past nights in places just like this. Then she saw him. Near the pool table, a mountain of denim and worn leather. A trucker, grease etched into the lines of his thick hands gripping a beer bottle. His eyes, small and dark beneath the brim of a stained cap, met hers. Not friendly. Hungry. Predatory.
Exactly what she’d come for.
He didn’t smile. Just held her gaze, a challenge spat onto the sticky floor between them. Cathryn felt a familiar heat coil low in her belly. She traced a finger along the rim of her glass, slow, deliberate. Let him watch. Let the bastard simmer.
A few beats passed, the jukebox groaning out some bluesy lament. He pushed off the wall, abandoning his bottle. He moved with the heavy, deliberate stride of a man used to commanding space. Stopped right in front of her stool, the smell of diesel and stale sweat cutting through the bar’s usual miasma. He didn’t speak. Just looked down at the deep V of her dress, then back up to her face. His eyes were flat, assessing meat.
"Buy you a drink?" His voice was a low rasp, like gravel under tires.
Cathryn tilted her head, a slow, knowing curve touching her lips. She finished her whiskey. "Whiskey. Rocks." Her voice was low too, but smooth. Controlled.
He grunted, turned to the bartender, a thick finger jabbing toward her empty glass. While his back was turned, she let her eyes roam. Broad shoulders straining the seams of his plaid shirt. Thick neck. Hands big enough to span her waist. Rough. Yes.
He slid the fresh glass towards her. His knuckles were scarred. She picked it up, let the ice cubes clink. Didn’t thank him. Just held his stare over the rim. "Passing through?"
"Always," he said, not taking his eyes off her mouth. "Got a rig parked out back. Sleeper cab."
She took a slow sip, the cheap liquor burning a familiar trail. "Comfortable?"
A ghost of something flickered in his eyes. Not humor. Something darker. "Ain't a fuckin' Hilton. Does the job." He leaned closer, his breath hot and sour. "For sleepin'. Or other things."
The coil in her belly tightened. Heat pulsed between her legs. She shifted on the stool, the vinyl creaking. "Other things can be done anywhere. If you don’t mind an audience."
He snorted. "Got no audience in mind. Just need a hole. You lookin' to provide?"
The crude words, delivered flatly, sent a jolt straight to her core. Her nipples tightened against the thin fabric of her dress. She wanted him to talk dirty. Wanted him to take that roughness and use it. She leaned in, close enough to see the broken capillaries on his nose. "Maybe. What’s it worth?"
He didn’t hesitate. "Fifty bucks. Or I walk."
Cathryn laughed, a low, throaty sound. "Fifty? For ten minutes of your time? Honey, inflation’s a bitch." She slid off the stool, landing smoothly in her heels. She was tall, but he still loomed. She ran a finger down the faded plaid covering his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath. "Twenty. And you make it count. Make me feel it."
He grabbed her wrist, his grip crushing for a second before easing slightly. Not gentle. Possessive. "Twenty gets you the cab. Now. Or I find someone cheaper."
The pulse hammered in her throat. She could smell the cheap beer, the stale tobacco, the raw maleness of him. It was vile. It was perfect. "Cab," she agreed, her voice suddenly thick.
He didn't let go of her wrist. Just turned, dragging her behind him like a sack of grain. She followed, the eyes of the barflies boring into her back. She didn't care. Let them watch. Let them know. This was her choice. Her hunger.
The night air hit them, cooler but thick with the exhaust smell of the truck lot. His rig was a hulking shadow at the edge of the cracked asphalt. He practically shoved her towards the passenger side door. "Get in."
She climbed the high steps, the metal groaning under her weight. The sleeper cab smelled like old feet, stale coffee, and despair. A narrow bunk was shoved against the back wall, covered in a thin, stained mattress and a rumpled sleeping bag. The rest was cramped, cluttered with crumpled food wrappers and empty cans. One dim bulb cast everything in a sickly yellow light.
He slammed the door shut behind them, the sound echoing in the small space. The rumble of the truck’s idling engine vibrated through the floor. He shoved her hard. Cathryn stumbled back, her ass hitting the edge of the bunk, her legs flying up. Before she could right herself, he was on her.
No preamble. No kiss. His big hands shoved her dress up around her waist, bunching it at her hips. He grunted, a sound like rocks grinding together, as he fumbled with his belt buckle. Cathryn gasped, more from the suddenness than fear. Adrenaline and lust roared through her, drowning out any flicker of distaste. This was the edge. This was the point.
His belt clattered to the floor. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was thick, uncut, already fully hard and glistening at the tip. He didn't touch her beyond the shove. Didn't explore. Just used one hand to roughly nudge her thighs wider apart.
He spat into his palm. Once. A thick glob that landed on her dark curls. Then he rubbed it messily into her, his fingers pushing past her folds, finding her entrance. She was already wet, the crude spit mixing with her own slickness. He grunted again, seeming satisfied.
"Hold still," he growled, not looking at her face. He lined himself up. The thick, blunt head pressed against her. He didn't ease in. Didn't ask.
He just shoved. Hard.
Cathryn cried out, a sharp sound swallowed by the engine's drone. He was huge, stretching her open with a brutal invasion. He bottomed out in one rough thrust, his balls slapping against her ass. He didn't pause. Didn't let her adjust. Just started fucking her with hard, deep, piston-like strokes. His hips slammed into her with each thrust, forcing her body back against the thin mattress. The cheap springs squealed in protest, matching the rhythm of his grunts.
"Fuck," he panted, gripping her hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Tight little cunt. Yeah."
Cathryn grabbed fistfuls of the scratchy sleeping bag, her head thrown back. It hurt. A deep, stretching ache with every brutal plunge. The burn was intense. But beneath the pain, the sheer violence of his possession, her own excitement flared hotter. This was raw. This was anonymous. This was a man using her exactly how she wanted to be used tonight. A tool. A hole.
She met his thrusts, rocking her hips up, taking him deeper, making him grunt louder. "That's it," she gasped, the words ripped from her. "Fuck me. Harder. Use that cock, you bastard!"
He snarled, his pace increasing. The cab filled with the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, his harsh breathing, her own ragged gasps. The smell of sex and sweat and diesel became overwhelming. He reached down, his calloused thumb finding her clit and rubbing hard, almost cruelly. Sparks of sharp pleasure detonated amidst the ache, making her cry out again.
"Yeah, you like that, you dirty slut?" he grunted, his thumb circling relentlessly. "Gonna fill this cunt up. Mark it."
The combination of the relentless pounding, the rough thumb, the crude words – it pushed her over. Cathryn's back arched off the bunk as a climax tore through her, violent and shattering. She screamed, her body clenching around his invading cock like a vice.
Her tightening seemed to be his undoing. He roared, a guttural animal sound, and slammed deep, burying himself to the hilt. She felt the hot, thick pulse of his release inside her, jet after jet, flooding her. He held himself there, shuddering, grinding into her as he emptied himself.
He collapsed forward for a second, his sweaty forehead resting against her collarbone, his breath gusting hot and harsh on her skin. The cab smelled like sex, salt, and satisfaction. Cathryn lay still beneath him, feeling the throb between her legs, the wetness leaking out around his still-hard cock. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
It took him a minute. Then, without a word, he pulled out. Wet, obscene. He stood, tucking his softening cock back into his jeans, zipping up. He picked up his belt.
Cathryn slowly pushed herself up on her elbows. Her dress was rucked up around her waist, her thighs slick. She watched him, a slow, feline smile spreading across her face. She reached between her legs, dipped two fingers into the mess of their combined fluids – his come, her wetness – and pulled them out, glistening.
She held his gaze as she slowly, deliberately, sucked her fingers clean. His eyes followed the movement, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. Disgust? Arousal? She didn't care.
She’d gotten exactly what she came for. She slid off the bunk, her legs trembling slightly, and smoothed her dress down, the silk clinging, damp. She didn't look at the stain spreading on the mattress. She dug into her small clutch, pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.
She tossed it onto the filthy floor beside his boots. "For the cab," she said, her voice steady now, almost bored. She turned and opened the heavy door. The cooler night air hit her sweat-slicked skin like a benediction. She didn't look back as she climbed down, her heels clicking on the asphalt. She walked away from the grumbling truck, the wetness between her legs a warm, sticky trophy. Andrew would appreciate the story. He always did. The dive bar’s neon sign cast a sickly glow on the wet pavement ahead.