Chapter 13: Day 4. Garage with Chris
The metallic tang of oil and dust hung thick in the garage air, a stark contrast to the lingering phantom scent of stale pizza and Mark’s cheap cologne still clinging to my senses from yesterday. My scalp prickled where his fingers had gripped my hair, forcing my head down after I’d… failed to keep the bargain cleanly. Shame burned low in my gut, acidic and familiar. One down, two to go. The eviction threat, the stupid bet I’d lost… it felt like barbed wire tightening around my ribs with every breath. Survival mode. Pure fucking survival.
Chris stood near the cluttered workbench, his back to me, a study in coiled tension. Shirtless, sweat sheening his dark skin under the single bare bulb, muscles shifting rhythmically as he pushed through reps with a heavy dumbbell. The soft grunts of exertion, the clank of metal on concrete when he reracked the weight – it was the only sound in the humid space besides the frantic hammering of my own heart. He hadn’t even acknowledged my presence at the doorway. Typical Chris. Quiet, intense. Unlike Mark’s leering appraisal or Dave’s awkward fumbling last week, Chris’s indifference was its own kind of unsettling pressure. He knew why I was here. They all did.
"Chris?" My voice sounded thin, swallowed by the cavernous space. Too high. Still fucking weird to hear.
He paused mid-rep, the dumbbell hanging at his side. He didn’t turn. Just wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm. "Yeah?"
"The… the deal." My throat clicked. "Today’s… mine and yours." Saying it aloud made it real, made the garage walls feel like they were closing in. The makeshift bed in the corner, just a mattress on concrete blocks covered by a faded sheet, seemed monstrously prominent.
He finally turned. His expression was unreadable, dark eyes sweeping over me in my worn t-shirt and sweatpants – my pathetic armor. No disarming grin like Mark, no nervous energy like Dave. Just cool assessment. "Right." He set the weight down with a final clang that made me flinch. "Pick. What’re you offering?"
The options were a constant, humiliating refrain. Mouth. Pussy. My ass still ached dully from Dave’s clumsy, overeager thrusting two nights ago. My jaw felt bruised from yesterday’s… incident with Mark. That left… "Pussy," I managed, the word tasting like ash. "I pick my pussy."
A flicker passed over his face. Not a smile, just… acknowledgment. Interest? It was hard to tell. "Okay." He took a step closer. "Strip. Down to just your leggings. The white ones."
My protest died before it formed. The threat – couch surfing, homelessness – was a physical weight. Hands trembling, I peeled off my t-shirt, the cool air raising goosebumps on my exposed skin. My E-cup tits felt obscenely heavy, swaying slightly. I avoided the small, grimy mirror propped against a stack of tires, not needing the visual confirmation of Ella Knox’s reflection staring back, trapped inside her. Sweatpants followed, pooling around my ankles. Standing there in just the thin, white cotton leggings felt infinitely more exposed than being naked. They clung, leaving nothing to the imagination, the dark shadow of my pubic hair visible, the full curve of my hips and ass outlined starkly.
"Better," Chris murmured, his gaze travelling down my body with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. "Now. Dance."
"Dance?" The absurdity of it hit me. "Here?"
"Here. Now." His voice held no room for argument. "Move."
Humiliation warred with a prickle of unwanted, traitorous heat low in my belly. Stupid fucking hormones. I closed my eyes for a second, trying to find some rhythm, some shred of dignity. I swayed my hips hesitantly, a clumsy approximation of something seductive. My long hair brushed my bare shoulders. I felt ridiculous. Exposed. Like meat on display.
"Put some feeling into it, Taylor," Chris said, his voice a low rumble. He hadn’t moved, just watched. "You look like you’re waiting for a bus."
Anger sparked, brief and useless. I forced my hips to roll more deliberately, arching my back slightly, letting my hands trail down my own sides over the swell of my hips. The leggings pulled taut. I saw his eyes fixate there, saw the bulge in his grey sweatpants thicken noticeably. The power shift was dizzying, sickening. This body… it did things.
"Good," he breathed. He pointed to the worn yoga mat unrolled beside the makeshift bed. "On your back. Legs spread."
The rough texture of the mat scraped against my bare skin as I lay down. I stared at the cobwebbed rafters, the harsh light of the bulb blinding. He knelt between my legs, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my leggings. In one smooth motion, he yanked them down to my knees. Cool air hit my naked pussy, making me gasp. He pushed my knees apart, wide, exposing me completely in the dim garage light. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the invasion.
It didn’t come. Instead, I felt warm breath. Then the soft, wet pressure of his mouth.
"Fuck!" The curse tore out of me, surprise overriding shame. His tongue was hot, broad, tracing the outer lips with deliberate slowness. It wasn't tender. It was exploratory, almost clinical at first, mapping the unfamiliar territory. Then he found my clit. A jolt of pure, electric sensation shot through me, arching my spine off the mat. "Oh god!"
He grunted, low and satisfied, and focused there. His tongue circled the swollen nub, flicked it rapidly, then sucked it hard into his mouth. Pleasure, sharp and shocking, ripped through my core. My hands scrabbled at the mat, fingertips digging into the rubber. No, no, no, screamed the male identity still rattling around my skull. This isn’t me! But the body… Ella’s body… responded with savage, humiliating urgency. A low moan escaped my throat, unbidden, as he slid two fingers inside me, curling them upwards. He fucked me with his fingers slowly, relentlessly, while his mouth tormented my clit. Wetness gushed, the slick sound obscene in the quiet garage. I was panting, hips lifting off the mat, trying to grind against his mouth, seeking more of that devastating friction even as my mind recoiled.
"Tastes desperate," he muttered against me, the vibration making me cry out again. He withdrew his fingers, then his mouth. I whimpered at the sudden loss. Looking down, I saw him wiping his glistening chin with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and focused as he shoved his sweatpants down. His cock sprang free, thick, uncut, already glistening at the tip and straining angrily upwards. "Legs up. Hold 'em." His voice was rough, commandeering.
Trembling, I hooked my hands behind my knees, pulling my legs back and wide, opening myself completely. The position was vulnerable, degrading. He spat into his palm, gave his cock a few rough strokes, slicking it with saliva and my own wetness glistening on his hand. No condom. Of course not. Why would they bother? I was just the house novelty. The fleshlight with a pulse.
He positioned the swollen head at my entrance. I braced, remembering Dave’s painful entry. Chris didn’t hesitate. He shoved forward in one brutal, deep thrust.
"AH! FUCK! CHRIS!" I screamed, the stretch intense, burning briefly. But the overwhelming wetness from his mouth did its job; the pain was sharp, then buried under a wave of shocking, unwelcome fullness. He was deep. Deeper than Dave. Thicker than Mark. He held himself there for a second, buried to the hilt, his gaze locked on where he disappeared inside me. Then he pulled back almost all the way, the thick ridge of his cockhead stretching my opening obscenely, before slamming home again with a wet slap of skin on skin.
"Fuck yeah," he groaned, his voice tight. "Tight little fuckhole. Made for this."
He set a punishing pace immediately. No slow build. Just deep, hard, piston-like thrusts that hammered into my core, driving the breath from my lungs with every impact. My tits bounced violently with each slam. The garage echoed with the rhythmic slap of flesh, my choked gasps, his guttural grunts. The smell of sex, sweat, and oil mixed into a thick, cloying perfume. He fucked me like he was punishing the weights, with focused, brutal strength. My body, the traitorous thing, responded. Each deep drive sent shocks of sensation through me, coiling the tension tighter in my belly. It wasn’t love, it wasn’t affection. It was raw, animal friction, and against all will, my hips began to rise to meet his thrusts, my inner muscles clenching around his invading length.
"Shit," he hissed, feeling it. "You like this dick, huh? Like getting pounded out in the garage?" He shifted his weight, grabbing my hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He pulled me sharply onto him with each downward thrust, the angle changing. Now he was hitting something deep, something that made white lights explode behind my eyelids. "Oh GOD! There! FUCK!" I screamed, my back arching wildly. I was losing control, the pleasure a riptide pulling me under, drowning the screaming man inside. My orgasm was building, terrifying and inevitable, built on a foundation of shame and violation.
"Gonna fill this cunt," Chris growled, his rhythm becoming erratic, frantic. He leaned forward, still driving deep, and hooked his hands under my ass, lifting my hips off the mat entirely. The angle became almost vertical, his cock spearing down into me with brutal force, my ass in the air, my legs splayed helplessly over his shoulders. "Take it! Take this fucking cum!"
The pile-driving thrusts were savage, pounding my cervix. The sheer force, the utter helplessness, the relentless assault on that deep, forbidden spot… it snapped the last thread. My vision whited out. A raw, guttural scream tore from my throat, completely unlike any sound I’d ever made as a man, as my body convulsed in a violent, shattering orgasm. Wave after wave of intense, shameful pleasure wracked me, my inner walls clamping down on his invading cock like a vise.
He roared, a sound of pure animal release, and slammed home one final, brutal time. I felt the hot, thick jets of his cum erupting deep inside me, pulsing against my spasming walls. He held himself there, buried to the root, grinding, as he emptied himself. The wet heat flooding me, the sheer finality of his possession, coupled with the aftershocks of my own unwanted climax, left me gasping, shaking, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.
He collapsed forward slightly, his weight pressing me down onto the mat, his softening cock still plugging me, dripping his release. His breath was hot and ragged against my neck. The garage smelled like sweat, sex, and defeat. I could feel his cum starting to leak out around the base of his cock, warm and sticky against my ass. Two down. Only David remained. The thought brought no relief. Just a hollow, shuddering ache where my self-respect used to be. The bulb above flickered, casting long, monstrous shadows.