What's A Girl To Do?

Tale as old as time, but not a fairy tale. Not if it happens like this. With a man like him.

Hitchhikers do it, or did it before the seventies ended and took hitchhiking with it. Because no one hitchhikes anymore.

Too many serial killers, I figure.

But there was the phrase about it, "Ass, Gas, or Grass." You gotta play to get a ride. Get along to get along. Ride to Ride.

Insert additional euphemism.

This wasn't hitchhiking, though. It was a ride in a cab and I didn't know the rules but I was pretty sure that they didn't involve this kind of offer.

Besides, in my mind that kind of offer always sort of happened out in the country side. Lonely roads where one car came along an hour. Long and quiet stretches where you could pull to one side and have a bit of privacy off the road, off the beaten path.

You don't hitchhike in the city, and in the city someone is always watching.

No, this was crazy. I had to try to figure out some kind of alternative payment that didn't involve my body. I mean there had to be another option, because even if it meant getting into trouble that didn't mean that giving that much of myself was worth it, right?

It was crazy that I'd jumped to this so quickly.

But there was a problem here. The scenery was quickly becoming familiar to me and I knew that we were rapidly approaching my destination and frankly my options were running short.

More than just that there was something I couldn't deny. A truth that I couldn't ignore and that was the fact that the first thought of giving myself to him, well it made my body respond.

My body wanted it. So on some level so did I.

With a sideways glance I take in the man in the driver's seat. Old, old enough to be my dad, and not remotely attractive in the way that Lucas was. He was fat, bordering on obese. He was sweaty and smelly and he probably wouldn't be kind, wouldn't be gentle.

He would fucking use me. His anger at the loss of a fare making it so that he would take it out on me. Gripping my head and gripping my body so tight that he left bruises. Taking me without hesitation, without reservation.

Without care or concern.

And why does that fucking excite me? Why does giving myself to someone who disgusts me tickle some small part of me, the same kind of place that is active when I'm with someone I hate?

Why does it feel, a little, like I can't really help myself?

Even last night, in my dreams, I didn't swear off sex entirely. The Baba Yaga didn't even want me to, opting instead to point out that sex and pleasure was only one part of sustaining, of finding yourself and true satisfaction.

But I don't think anyone was anticipating this. I certainly wasn't.

"Almost there," he says, "Any place in particular you want me to drop you?"

My body goes a little numb, my fingers twitching as I bite my bottom lip and close my eyes and steel myself. He speaks again but I don't hear it because all I can hear is the roaring of blood in my ears as I tense for an instant at the thought of it and god it's already happening.

I can't fucking stop it.

"Somewhere quiet," I break in to his question, the second or maybe even third time he asks.

I point up at a street coming up, "Turn here. I think there is an alley off there and I... I need you to pull in there."

Join my Patreon for only $3 a month and get early access to new chapters and nearly a years worth of exclusive content. https://www.patreon.com/SophiePert