It had been raining all day. The pavement was still wet, traffic lights reflecting in watery primary colors. The night sky was clouded, a uniform dark gray above the polluting orange glow of the city. It was just starting to get cold.
She zipped up her jacket, silently congratulating herself for leaving the bar alone. She wasn’t trying to meet anybody. Not really. It was just another weeknight out. Someplace to be after work that wasn’t home. Familiar voices and old arguments and cheap, shitty beer.
She first noticed him when he walked in, hours earlier. He was tall, wearing a long coat, collar turned up against what was then a steady rainfall. A hand running through wet, dirty blonde hair. A nod to Carol behind the bar. A lingering glance in her direction as he strode towards the back of the narrow room. The faintest whiff of some expensive cologne, burnt citrus and something woodsy. Her heartbeat quickened.
“Who’s that?” she whispered, as he settled himself at the far end of the bar.
“Dunno his name. Comes in every once in a while. Keeps to himself,” replied Carol before sauntering towards the newcomer for a drink order.
Just some guy. Nobody that required her attention, or even a second thought. She ordered another beer when Carol returned. The idle, comforting tide of bar banter resumed, washing through her mind.
On her way home now, enjoying the crisp bite of the waning autumn air against her skin. She automatically extracts a cigarette from her purse, hand thrust into her jeans pocket for her lighter. Missing. Then she remembered, hours earlier, standing outside the bar.
“Hey, sorry. Pardon me,” he had mumbled, unlit cigarette bobbing as he spoke. “Can I get a light?”
There it was again. That cologne. Intoxicating. Or was it the half dozen beers? She wordlessly passed him her lighter and returned to her phone, only glancing up again as the flame briefly illuminated his face, revealing pale blue eyes looking back. She immediately dropped her gaze, abashed.
Another lighter gone. Fuck. She returned the cigarette to its pack in her purse and quickened her pace. She knew the area well, having lived in the neighborhood for the better part of a decade. Her route automatic, she turned down the first of several alleys that would significantly shorten the journey to her back door.
She had no reason to be afraid. This was a safe neighborhood, as city neighborhoods went. She didn’t even carry pepper spray any more, despite her mother’s nagging. This was her home, after all. What was there to fear from home?
It happened all at once. An insistent, aggressive force throwing her across the dumpster to her left. Impossibly strong hands pressing her face against the wet black plastic of the hinged lid, her body bent double, feet barely touching the ground. Her purse clattered to the asphalt of the alley, illuminating her phone within. The pale blue glow of salvation, now far out of reach.
“No. Wait. Please…” she muttered. She should be screaming. Why wasn’t she screaming?
Rough hands pulling down her jeans and panties in one jarring motion. Cold night air against the exposed skin of her ass and thighs. She shivers.
“Don’t. Please don’t.”
Hot breath against her neck as he leans into her, one of his hands still pressing her head into the dumpster top, the other between her legs.
“Oh god.”
She shudders, first at the sensation of touch and then in shame at her body’s reaction. He shoves thick fingers inside her. Two, three, more? She can’t tell. She wants this impossible thing to end. He pushes deeper now, painfully, aggressively forcing her open. An involuntary moan escapes, and the world flips upside down.
This is happening because it must, because the infinite possibilities of existence collided in just the right way, creating this singular moment- the two of them in this rain-slick alley, action and reaction, cause and effect. This is happening because it must.
He is inside her entirely, now. His fingers, still slick with her wetness, are filling her mouth, muffling her persistent and rhythmic moans as he fucks her. His body slams into hers, pushing the dumpster into the brick wall behind with a thud. His free hand is under her jacket now, beneath her blouse, wrenching her breasts free of her bra. Calloused hands grabbing, pulling and squeezing hard. A gasp of pain is quickly turned into a wet gag as the hand in her mouth is forced deeper.
Bridled by his fingers and iron grip upon her breast, she is ridden. Helix of red agony and white bliss wind tighter until they are indistinguishable. Her orgasm is constant, uninterrupted. He finishes explosively, overwhelming her with additional sensation, her head held back in brutal ecstasy, his hand down her throat. She pushes herself further onto him as pulse after overflowing pulse fills her utterly.
Then it was over. She lies, sprawled and used, against the dumpster, her lungs greedily drinking the frigid night air. She hears a rustling of hurried movement, something is picked up from the ground and set atop the dumpster lid, next to her head. The sounds of heavy footsteps moving away from her splayed form, her blurred vision slowly returning to focus.
With panting breath, she finally stands, pulling up her panties and jeans just as she begins to feel the river of cum slide out of her. In spite of everything, she smiles. Then, vision finally clear, she sees her lighter standing upright on the lid of the dumpster in front of her purse.
Her laugh echoes down the alley as she renews her journey home, surrounded by the aromas of burnt citrus and something woodsy.
(Thanks for reading.)
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/qqdtyj/walking_home_mf_noncon