The RAC Man

9.15 p.m. A cold, rainy Sunday evening in October. You are returning from a friend’s house in the country and your car breaks down. Your mobile phone has run out of juice. You walk one mile in one direction looking for a phone, then two miles back in the other direction, but you find no phone box. You sit in your car, tired, wet and miserable, unsure of whether to hitch of lift or bed in for the night. My car pulls up behind you. You nervously look around. You see my reflection in the mirror as I walk towards you. I knock on your window.
“Need any help?”
You look at me, trying to gauge what kind of person I am. Am I a murderer? Am I a friendly, local farmer? Or am I just an opportunist?
You do not wind your window down but nod your head.
“I can give you a lift to wherever you want.”
“Have you got a mobile phone?” you say.
“Sure,” I say. “Call whoever you want.”
You decide I’m a nice guy and wind down your window.
“I need a mechanic to fix my car.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out my RAC card.
A few minutes later, the call is made.
“He says he’ll be here in an hour,” I say.
“Thanks.”
“You’re wet. You need to get out of those clothes.”
“That’s a cute line,” you say.
“Maybe,” I say, “but you still need to get out of those clothes. I live nearby.”
Again, you look at me sternly, trying to work out whether I’m decent or not.
“Sure, let’s go,” you say.
We get into my car and drive a mile to my cottage.
Once inside, you look around. I’m clearly well-to-do. The rooms are warm and there are expensive flowers in the vases.
“Wait here a moment,” I say, and I disappear to another room.
You survey the living room. There is a thick Persian rug in the middle of the floor, and a thick-set, glass coffee table covered with art books.
I return with a clutch of clothes. Boxers, t-shirt, track bottoms, a sweat shirt and sweat socks, and a pair of battered trainers.
“Sorry,” I say. “You’re going to look like a marathon runner.”
“No problems,” you say.
You retire to the bathroom and put on all the dry clothing. When you come out, there is a glass of red wine waiting for you.
“Take a seat,” I say. You relax into an armchair and sip on the wine. A good year.
“Of course, I had my doubts,” you say. “You just never know what kind of person it’s going to be. It’s scary, as you can imagine.”
“I understand,” I say. “Who knows if a stranger will be decent or not.”
“Thank you for your help,” you say.
“My pleasure.”
“I was lucky. You are decent.”
I smile.
“No, I’m not.”
“You seem to be,” you say.
“I assure you I’m not.”
“What does that mean?” you say.
“You’re here for the night.”
“What! What about the RAC man?” you say.
“God knows who I spoke to,” I say, “but it definitely wasn’t the RAC man.”
“So, what now?”
“Just co-operate and everything will be fine,” I say.
You take a deep breath and sip at your wine.
“You’ve got a fucking nerve,” you say.
I smile.
“Follow me.”
You follow me into my playroom. There is a bench with restraints on it.
“No way!” you say, but you realise there is no room for negotiation.
You lay across the bench and I fasten your wrists. The leather restraints are tight and you realise you are completely powerless.
I wander behind you and pull down your clothing. An idle finger prods between your buttocks.
I walk round to your head and undo my trousers.
“Look at me,” I say.
You look up as I pull down my trousers. My semi-erect penis falls out. There is a drip of clear fluid on the tip.
A shudder of excitement runs through your body.
“You bastard!”
“Don’t make it worse,” I say. “I only want to fuck you.”
I wander back to your arse and squirt a large amount of KY between your cheeks. My finger slips down and into your anal passage. You feel it intruding and pushing in, deeper and deeper. You muscles clench.
“What you fuck are you doing?”
“Just relax,” I say. “Then it won’t be so painful.”
I feel your anal passage relax around my finger, and I venture a second finger in. Two fingers feels weird but you like it. I move the fingers round and feel the opening becoming wider and more receptive.
Finally, you feel me climb on top and push my penis into your back passage. It feels as though you’re about to split as I forced myself deeper and deeper inside. I hold your cheeks apart in an effort to get further inside and you groan in pain.
You can feel I’m about to come and you think about the sticky mixture of spunk and shit that’s about to drip out of you.
I thrust violently and hold on to the sides of the bench to push harder. Suddenly, you feel the spunk up inside your arse. I growl with pleasure and you shiver with a mixture of disgust and delight.
I am slumped on your body and you feel my dick soften inside you.
“Get off me!” you snarl.
“Don’t aggravate me,” I say, “or this will get worse.”
“Can’t get much worse!” you say.
Suddenly, I reach under the bench and pull out a short, headmaster’s cane.
“Please, no!”
“Didn’t you say it couldn’t get worse.”
I swish the cane above your buttocks and lay it to rest on a cheek.
“Are you sure it can’t get worse?”
“I’m sorry,” you say. “Please, not the cane.”
“Better get back to the car,” I say. “RAC man will be there soon.”

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