Chapter 22: Day 6: Garage with Chris
The garage air tasted like rust and pine-sol, thick with the greasy ghost of engines past. I leaned against the makeshift bar – a sheet of plywood laid across two sawhorses – swirling cheap whiskey in a plastic cup. Laughter bounced off the concrete walls, Mark’s loud guffaw, David’s quieter chuckle. They were arguing about the game replay on the salvaged TV nearby. My own laugh felt brittle, forced. Still trying to blend in. Still failing. My skin prickled under the thin cotton shirt, the ridiculous weight of my breasts a constant anchor, pulling me down. Ella Knox’s reflection in the dusty chrome toolbox mocked me. This isn't me.
Chris moved like a shadow beside me. Quiet. Always quiet. He didn’t crowd me, just leaned his shoulder against a metal shelving unit stacked with oil cans, watching the game too. His dark skin gleamed faintly under the single bulb, muscles defined even in the dimness. Athletic grace personified. He’d barely spoken two words to me since… since the change. Unlike Mark’s crude jokes or David’s conflicted stares, Chris’s silence felt… neutral. Almost safe.
He didn’t look at me when he spoke, his voice low, gravelly. “Heard about the kitchen. David.” A statement, not a question.
My knuckles whitened on the cup. That bruising grip on my hips, the cold linoleum against my cheek, the invasion. The phantom ache between my legs flared. “Yeah.” The word scraped out.
He took a long pull from his beer bottle, condensation dripping onto his calloused hand. His gaze slid towards me, finally. Dark, unreadable. Assessing. “He ask?”
My throat closed. He asked. He fucking asked, like choosing a fucking menu item. “Yeah.” Shame burned my cheeks. “He asked.”
Chris nodded slowly, looking back at the TV where players collided. “Choice is good.” He said it flatly, like stating a fact about carburetors. Then he turned his whole body towards me. The shift was subtle, but the air suddenly felt denser, charged. The sounds of the game faded to a dull roar. His eyes held mine, intense, stripping away the pretense of casual conversation. “So. What hole?”
Jesus Christ. Again? The same fucking question. A wave of nausea washed over me, bile sharp in my throat. Choice? What fucking choice? The choice between different flavours of violation? My mind screamed, raged against this body, against the hormones making my skin hypersensitive, against the unwanted heat pooling low in my belly despite the revulsion. My gaze darted towards Mark and David, engrossed in their argument. Safe distance. My breath hitched. The word came out, barely a whisper, thick with self-loathing. “P-pussy.”
Chris didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. Just gave another slow nod. His eyes flickered past me to a half-deflated yoga ball shoved in the corner near some tires. “Over there.” It wasn’t a request. It was an instruction, delivered with calm authority. He pushed off the shelving unit.
My legs felt wooden. I set the plastic cup down, the cheap whiskey sloshing. The yoga ball was dusty, lurid purple, a relic of someone's fleeting fitness ambition. Chris grabbed it, rolled it away from the tires into a slightly clearer patch of concrete floor near the workbench, its surface scarred with decades of projects. Tools hung like skeletal reminders overhead.
He looked at me. Waited.
The walk over felt like crossing a minefield. Every step jiggled my chest, a humiliating reminder. The scent of sawdust and motor oil intensified, mingling with the acrid tang of my own fear-sweat. Chris didn’t touch me, just watched as I stopped beside the ball. His silence was heavier than any pressure.
“Bend over it,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Hold onto the bench legs.”
My pulse thundered in my ears. I could still walk away. Scream. Could I? The weight of the bet, the pills, the months of being this, crushed the thought. This was my life now. Object. Toy. I bent forward, the cool, slightly tacky vinyl of the yoga ball pressing against my lower belly. It squished, unstable. I reached down, fingers curling around the cold, greasy metal legs of the heavy workbench, anchoring myself. The position arched my back, thrusting my ass out. My loose shorts and thin panties felt suddenly inadequate, flimsy barriers. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the rough hands, the tearing fabric.
Instead, a cool touch. His fingers hooked into the waistband of my shorts and panties at the same time. He didn’t rip. Didn’t fumble. Just peeled them down my hips, over my ass, down my thighs, letting them pool around my knees in a single, efficient motion. The garage air felt clammy against my exposed skin. I heard the rustle of his own clothes. Zipper. Buckle.
“Spread your legs wider.” His command was quiet, absolute.
I shuffled my feet apart on the gritty concrete, the yoga ball shifting slightly beneath me. Utterly exposed. Vulnerable. The shame was a physical burn. I felt him step close. The heat of his body radiated against my bare skin. Then, shockingly intimate, his fingers. Not demanding, but probing, parting my outer lips. Finding slickness I hadn't consciously generated. My body betraying me again.
A low grunt from him. “Wetter than you thought, huh?” He sounded… clinical. Observant. Not mocking, just noting a fact. The blunt, hot pressure of his cockhead nudged against my entrance, smearing through the wetness his fingers had found. “Same as David. Body knows what it wants.”
“No, it fucking doesn’t,” I choked out, my voice muffled against the ball. The denial was instinctive, desperate.
He didn’t argue. Just pushed. Hard. The thick head stretched me, a familiar, burning intrusion amplified by the unstable ball shifting under my weight. I gasped, gripping the bench legs tighter, knuckles white. He didn’t stop. A deep, relentless thrust. Inch after thick inch sank into me, pushing deep, filling me up. There was no tenderness, no preamble, just the pure, blunt force of penetration. He buried himself to the hilt with a low groan that vibrated against my spine.
“Fuck yeah,” he breathed, his hands landing heavily on my hips, fingers digging in. “Tight little cunt. Like a fucking fist.”
He pulled back almost all the way, then slammed home again. The yoga ball rocked violently. I cried out, the sound swallowed by the garage’s echo. He set a brutal pace immediately, each powerful thrust driving me forward against the ball, my tits mashed against the cool vinyl, bouncing with the impact. The slap of his hips against my ass was loud, rhythmic, punctuated by his ragged breaths and my stifled gasps. The instability of the ball made it worse – I couldn’t brace properly. Each thrust threatened to topple me, forcing my cunt to clench and spasm around his invading length just to maintain balance. It created a horrifyingly intense friction, a deep, grinding pressure that scraped nerves I didn’t want to acknowledge.
“Take it,” he grunted, his grip tightening, holding me firmly in place against the relentless piston of his hips. “Take that fucking cock. Bet your pussy loves it, doesn’t it? Bet it’s dripping all over me.” His words were filthy, matter-of-fact. True. I could feel the wetness, hear the obscene squelching sounds as he plunged in and out. The smell of sex mixed with the garage’s oil and dust, thick in the air.
It hurt. It burned. It stretched me beyond what felt possible. And beneath the revulsion, beneath the screaming protests of my mind, a traitorous coil of heat tightened deep in my gut with every deep drive. My body arched, pushed into the thrusts I hated, seeking… something. My inner muscles fluttered, clenching around his thick shaft involuntarily. A moan tore from my throat, high-pitched and desperate.
“That’s it,” he rasped, his rhythm becoming even more urgent, more punishing. The yoga ball wobbled precariously. “Fucking milk it. Come on that cock, bitch. Squeeze me dry.”
The conflicting sensations were unbearable. The physical violation, the mental horror, collided with the raw, animal response of this alien body. The slap of flesh, his grunts, the wet sounds of my cunt taking him, the creak of the workbench under my white-knuckled grip – it was a brutal symphony. The coil snapped. A shocking, devastating wave of forced pleasure ripped through me, centered deep in my cunt where he stretched and pounded me. I convulsed around him, a choked sob escaping as my vision blurred, my body betraying me utterly.
He let out a guttural roar, his thrusts becoming erratic, savage. With three final, bone-jarring slams, he buried himself deep and shuddered. I felt the hot, thick pulses inside me, flooding my depths, adding to the slick mess between my legs. He held himself there, pressed deep, his grip on my hips like vices, breathing heavily against my spine.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, he pulled out. The sudden emptiness was jarring, almost painful. Cool air hit my abused flesh. I heard him zip up.
I stayed bent over the deflated purple ball, trembling violently, staring at a dark oil stain on the concrete floor. His footsteps receded towards the bar. I heard the clink of his bottle. Mark laughed loudly about a bad call. The game droned on.
Slowly, numbly, I pushed myself up. My legs shook. I pulled my shorts and panties up over sticky thighs. The thick wetness between my legs felt cold now. I didn’t look towards the bar. Didn’t look at Chris. I just stood there, leaning against the filthy workbench, staring blankly at the grimy ceiling fan slowly turning, its blades cutting through the heavy air thick with the smell of sex and motor oil. Another choice made. Another piece of who I was chipped away. Gone. Just like that.