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From: zanna@whoever.com (Joyce Melton & Morgan Preece)
Subject: Repost: Mercedes 2: Out of the Garage {Morgan Preece} /C*R* 10/10/10/
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This story is intended for the entertainment of adults only. 
If you are under 18, please stop reading immediately. If you 
are offended by strong adult-oriented themes, explicit sex, 
erotic fantasy or vulgar language, what are you doing here?




Mercedes


by Morgan Preece


Chapter II




	Just as things got really hot she wanted to leave. 

	"The place is a mess, you haven't done the dishes or the
laundry and the bed is too small," she complained. "Why do you live
here? Let's go to my place where Concepcion will fix a snack, the
sheets are clean satin and my stereo can levitate us while we fuck."

	I agreed quickly. She had gotten me ready, what with her
mystery and her sexiness and her obvious money that I would probably
have agreed to anything but I wanted to see her place. I wanted to
find out what she wore under that little cocktail number. I wanted to
taste her pussy and make her cum again and again. I wanted her to buy
me a car like the one she drove and I thought she might be rich enough
that she would do it just for fun. 

	Just before we left she said something like, "Be sure to take
anything you can't live without." I had a pack of condoms and couldn't
think of anything else I might need so I left with nothing in my hands
except the sweet curve of her ass.

	She insisted on driving again and we went down Pacific Coast
Highway out of control and flying low. I began to wonder how much she
had drunk before I saw her and what had happened to her cool
competence. Perhaps she had gotten really hot during our brief clench
in my too dingy apartment also. Maybe she couldn't wait, either. She
drove like Dirty Harry down California One in the cool, humid onshore
flow. 

	KROQ rocked us into the night on the German-built stereo. I
sat beside her alternately worrying about her killing both of us and
imagining life with a permanent sugarmama. The Pacific Ocean foamed
against the rocks and sand cliffs to my right as we sped through
Newport Coast toward Laguna Beach.

	She ran the red lights in Laguna and made a left up one of the
side streets well south of Main Beach, the turn so sudden the seat
belt had to save me from being thrown against the passenger door. A
few more quick turns on narrow, crooked lanes and the little red
Mercedes slipped into a garage under an enormous hillside mansion.
This was a few years before the fires but the place is still there.

	We sat in the car for a moment, long enough that the automatic
lights shut off as the garage door closed behind us. I didn't notice
much about the inside of the garage at first because Sylvia had
reached over and slipped her hand into my pants again as soon as the
car had stopped. The scary ride had caused my penis and balls to
shrivel up but she soon had me hot again. I tasted her lips in the
darkened garage but when I tried to pull up her skirt she pushed me
away. Sensitive to this sort of thing, I backed off quickly.

	She got out of the car and so did I. In the light from the car
doors she negotiated a flight of steps and disappeared through a door,
with me calling all the while, "Sylvia? Sylvia?" I wondered if I had
gotten her name wrong. Embarrassing but I had recovered from such
gaffes before. Automatically, without thinking, I closed the car door
in the middle of a syllable then yelped when I realized that 
the garage was now completely dark.

	The car had locked itself and the car alarm went off when I
tried to open it. In the small garage the noise threatened to deafen
me, I stumbled around with my hands over my ears, tripped on something
and fell into an oily patch on the floor. The impact seemed to have
set off a second car alarm in the confined space. The agony in my ears
caused me to flail along the floor trying to get up, naturally
smearing the oily mess into my clothes, my hair and my skin. I felt
like the fourth stooge.

	I found it hard to believe that no one from inside the house
had come out to stop the racket. Getting to my knees, I realized that
I needed my hands free to negotiate the darkness but if I did not
cover my ears I might go deaf or insane from the noise. I had an
inkling of how the survivors of some great disasters must feel.
Sylvia, I decided, was a bitch and I would have to be careful.

	When I finally found the stairs and reached the door at the
top, I screamed because it turned out to be locked. Dazed by the
continuing alarms and my previous fall, the locked door seemed a last
straw. Trying to turn around, I tripped on the top step of the short,
steep stairway and fell to the pavement. Suddenly, the noise ceased,
the lights came on and the door opened. 

	A woman glared out at me from the bright room beyond. At least
as beautiful as Sylvia, this woman seemed years younger, nearer my own
age. Her hair and eyes were black, her skin olive and her mouth
outlined in the reddest lipstick imaginable. She wore a black dress
with a white apron over it, both cut low enough to reveal enormous
well-tanned breasts, with just a hint of the aureole showing at the
edge of the encircling cloth. Twin hoop earrings large enough to touch
her shoulders dangled from each ear, six or seven bracelets on each
wrist and another pair of matching anklets on her right leg. A very
aggressive expression and an extensive, if profane Spanish vocabulary
completed her ensemble.

	I don't speak much Spanish, mostly just a few profane
endearments and she ran through my vocabulary and beyond in very short
order. I made up my mind that this must be Concepcion, the maid. She
seemed oddly dressed for a maid, except for the apron, but it being
Friday night perhaps she had had a date. I took a chance, interrupting
her tirade, "Concepcion, what happened to Sylvia?" I yelped.

	Her beautifully made-up eyes narrowed and she came part way
down the stairs, carrying, I saw now, a small, cast-iron frying pan.
Another big lady, her bare arms seemed almost as muscular as mine and
I knew if she hit me with that I would definitely be hurt. "You no
call her that, cochon. You must call her Mrs. Femina, hey?" She waved
the skillet threateningly. "And doan call me Concepcion, you call me
Miss Marquez, hey? Now, take off you clothes."

	I must have goggled at her because she grinned. "You not
coming inna my clean house, you filthy theeng. Besides, what you need
clothes for, what you gonna do. Hey?" When I started to stand up, she
drew back with the frying pan again. "You stay down till you get you
clothes off, hey?"

	I thought she must be afraid of me and I intended to protest
my harmlessness. "Ah, Concepcion," I began. She stepped forward and
shifted to a two handed grip, swinging for my head like Raul Mondesi
going for one low and outside. I ducked but the edge of the pan
clipped me on the wrist I put up to block the blow, shattering my
watch, and the bounce hit me a stunner above the left ear. I collapsed
again, the side of my face flat against the oily concrete. I
considered my options and decided to lay very still.

	"I tole you, hey?" She said almost amiably. "You say 'Miss
Marquez' before you speak to me and 'Miss Marquez' when you finish.
Show proper respect. Now get undress or I break you other arm." In
trying to convey the flavor of Concepcion's speech, I do not mean to
imply that she was less than loquent, she had a great and colorful
fluency in the local variety of 'Spanglish.'

	My arm was not broken but my head throbbed like it might be. I
licked my lips and tried to think. The woman was obviously insane, I'd
better do as she said. For now. She made comments as I stripped, some
of them in Spanish. Somehow, bruised, frightened, humiliated, still,
something 
erotic remained about undressing in front of a beautiful woman. 

	First my shirt came off and I remembered all the times I had
done private strip shows for my clientele. Concepcion was a woman and
I knew what to do to please a woman. Pleasing women had become my
profession, my livelihood, my existence. Maybe if I pleased this
lunatic domestic, well, maybe she wouldn't hit me with the frying pan
again.

	I watched her while I peeled the shirt. About thirty-five, I
judged but a very fine thirty-five. Skin, hair and eyes in the warm
tones of a Mexican summer, with a full, oval face and cheekbones that
hinted at the conquest of native peoples. Her posture was erect, with
a graceful curve to her back. Her well-formed arms tapered to shapely
hands that looked surprisingly soft. Her oval-cut red nails matched
the shade of her lipstick. I kicked off my shoes and turned up my feet
to peel off the expensive socks one of my lovers had given me.

	Concepcion nodded pleasantly. A large woman, she carried her
weight very well. I knew something of women's sizes and I guessed her
at an 18 top and a 14 bottom. The extra two sizes in the top being
mostly for her one figure "flaw," those massive, tawny breasts that
bulged from whatever cruel undergarment she wore under her
scoop-necked dress. She must have tailored the dress herself, a
domestic should be able to sew shouldn't she? It fit beautifully under
the lacy apron that seemed so incongruously attached to such evening
finery.

	Wriggling out of my pants, I began to get hard. "Soch an ogly
theeng," she observed. "You not wearing unnerwear, that what you mean
to tell me?" I nodded, not trusting myself to remember her bizarre
formula for permission to speak to her.

	She noticed. "You not gonna talk at all, you gotta call me
Miss Marquez, hey?" She spattered me with a few more Spanish curses.
Then she waved the frying pan again, menacingly, "Stuff you shirt in
you mout'. Do it, puta!" 

	I goggled at her. She took a half step toward me, reaching
across herself to take another two-handed grip on the frying pan. I
felt my own naked helplessness acutely, for I had no doubt that she
would strike me again. The muscles at the corner of her jaw worked.
Hurriedly, I complied, stifling my own protest. The oil-stained rag
had a taste that made me want to throw up. 

	She reviled me again in her mixture of bad grammar and
obscenity. "You got no respect, you just a slut, a whore, even if you
got a dick. Now you can't talk, puta!" She went on in that vein. No
one had ever called me a whore before, but considering what I did for
my living since dropping out of college, it was not unjust.

	Mysteriously, with the gag in my mouth and the verbal abuse,
abasing myself naked on the dirty floor of a garage, my hard-on had
not gone away. Concepcion, or Miss Marquez, whatever, had released
something within me. Or had Sylvia earlier? Guilty pleasure washed
over me. My whoredom, revealed, humiliated me and exalted me at once.
She knew. I knew! I could not protest, plead innocence, extenuating
circumstances, or outside manipulation. 

	For the past two years I had whored for older women after the
money from my parents ran out. Done it willingly, licked dried-out old
pussy, played with shriveled dugs, stuck my cock between the nether
lips of crones old enough to be my grandmother and all because I got
paid for it! Seldom in direct cash but always with a payoff. 

	And now a beautiful woman had confronted me on it. With
physical threats and a Spanish word that sent a thrill through me
every time she said it. "Puta!" It means a woman who whores herself
for men. In Spanish, every word has gender and "puta" definitely means
a woman. The male word, "puto" means a man who whores himself for men
and I had never done that. There may be a Spanish word for what I had
done, there's an Italian one, but if she used it I did not know or
hear it. 

	The English "whore" cut my conscience like a whip, a thrill
like reaching the top of a roller coaster. But "puta" went through me
like a knife, a scary, frightening thrill-ride I had never
experienced. 

	I moaned behind the gag, my eyes closed. My left hand reached
for release. I had no thought of Sylvia or my original intention of
coming here. My body, my mind, my soul -- my hand -- wanted release. I
pumped once, twice; excruciatingly intense sensation flooded my being.
I knew that I would cum soon.

(to be continued)

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