Parking Garage

Catherine is 43 year old divorcee, she is 6′ 0″ tall with long shapely legs, long blonde hair, and acurvy body. She is the senior vice president of the fashion and cosmatic divisons at Malone Industries. I have lusted for her since hiring her. She has rejected my romantic advances several times.
The rap of her high heels echoing off the concrete walls was the only sound as she walked down the long line of cars, looking for where she’d parked. She’d been sure this was the row—13-D—but where was her car? She shifted her bags to her left hand where the black leather glove would keep the handles from biting into her and looked back over her shoulder through her blonde hair. Perhaps she’d walked past it? But there was no red Peugeot.

She stopped. The yellowish green fluorescent lights bothered her eyes. The floor was damp—wet in places with puddles of black water—and the peeling concrete walls were crumbling in places. This underground garage was a dump, decrepit and depressing and disorienting too. It stunk of gasoline and diesel fumes and wet cement and mold, and in her good gray wool skirt and white blouse and black leather coat and gloves she felt out of place. Her good heels were already muddied. Maybe 13-D was where she’d parked before? 13 something. Maybe 13-B?

A car engine started somewhere in the distance but with the echoes in the cavernous place it was impossible to tell where. The garage went on forever. She wasn’t even sure where the exit was now, so she walked till she found a pass through and then turned right, the pace of her footsteps picking up. No cars passed her. The place seemed utterly deserted, though she could hear an occasional bang or slam in the distance.

At last, a wall. A pedestrian walkway. She skipped up on it and walked through to 13-C. Down the row—nothing, no red Peugeot. She returned to the sidewalk and pressed on and came to another blank wall with a door in it. It said “Aisles 20-A through 22-D” and had an arrow pointing down. This was absurd.

She stopped now and looked around in confusion. She put down her packages and pulled on her right glove, the one she’d taken off so she could get her car keys when she thought she knew where her car was. She had her cell phone. Would it work down here? And who would she call? The police? What would she say? I’m lost in the underground parking and I can’t find my car?

She felt fear, and then anger. She remembered when she’d left the car there’d been a tall man in a gray pinstripe suit. I looked at her approvingly as she’d passed. Moving towards the pass through again, she spotted a flashing light. She ran to intercept it, her packages bumping against her knees. “Thank God!” she breathed, waving her arm to flag it down. The car stopped opposite her and she peered inside. She looked over at the driver, though my face was in shadow.

“Listen, can you help me? I’m lost! I can’t find my car! Can you just drive me around till I find it? It’s around here somewhere.” For a moment I said nothing and she looked at my big hand on the steering wheel, the muscles in my forearm where my sleeve was rolled up. “Can’t,” I said. ” I will be late to a meeting.” I shifted into gear and the car started forward. She grabbed hold of the door. “Please!” The desperation in her voice startled her. “No one will know. I’ll pay you. I’m really lost!”

Again the silence. She ducked her head slightly, trying to see my face in the shadows. “Okay. You’ll have to get in the back.” “Thanks! Yes, of course!” She stepped to the back of the car and pulled the door open, got into the car and pulled it closed. The inside was very luxcerious leather and fine wood interior. Catherine leaned forward “It’s a red Peugeot 607. A two thousand five. It shouldn’t be hard to find. I really appreciate this.” The car rolled slowly along, and she noticed that the section numbers seemed to make no sense. 13-D, 14-C, 13-E, 14-F. I wheeled the car around several turns then killed the headlights, turning down a spiral ramp and entered a lower level that was darker and more deserted. “I really think it was up on the other level,” she said.

I said nothing. I drove through a labyrinth of deserted halls and vast empty rooms lit by dim, flickering fluorescent bulbs, some not lit at all. This seemed to be a totally unused part of the garage, probably some shortcut or way to a central office, and when I pulled the car into a dim and remote corner up against a dead end and threw it into gear, she assumed I’d taken a wrong turn and was going to back up and turn around. I turned around in my seat as if to see out the back window and so she turned around too, and so when I grabbed her by the coat it caught her totally by surprise.

“What are you—?” ” Get out of the car, stand there and don’t move.” I said. I got out of the car, grabbing her arm pushing her to an area where there was soft light. She could see a heavy dark blanket laying on the floor.
I pushed her down on her back and held her there, so I was looming over her, in complete control, my hands gripping the front of my coat. Fear surged through her body, fighting with utter disbelief. She could feel the strength in my hands and arms and feel the heat from my body but she couldn’t quite accept what was happening. “I strongly suggest you keep quiet,” I said, my voice a deep, low whisper. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She felt a thrill of horror and she automatically tried to push me away, but I quickly yanked the top of her coat halfway down her arms, efficiently trapping her in her own garment. The strength and expertise of my moves instinctively told her she was dealing with a professional, someone who had done this before. “Wait! Wait!” she cried. “Do you want money? I’ll give you money! There’s money in my purse. Just don’t hurt me!”

That seemed to give me pause and she took that as an encouraging sign. She froze, not daring to move. “Really. Take it. Take what you want. If it’s not enough I can get you more.” Another brief silence, then I said. “I don’t need money. What kind of man do you think I am?”

My answer panicked her, and she tried again to reach up and at least claw at me but I got my hand beneath her and yanked her coat from behind, making it into a tourniquet that bound her arms tight against her sides and rendered her helpless. She was deep underground, hundreds of feet from anyone. She watched as my hand went to the buttons on her blouse and opened them, and she felt the fabric give and collapse onto her skin like something defeated. There was a pause, then I slowly opened the delicate silk of her blouse like a man unveiling a meal, exposing her chest and her bra.
My entire head was still in shadow, but she could feel my eyes on her, taking her in, and then my hand reappeared and closed experimentally on her breasts, first one, then the other. She felt the strength in my fingers, the tension as I fought the urge to crush them in my hands, a kind of gentleness, and that made her bold. She summoned all her strength and tried to free her arms again but I held her now with embarrassing ease, as if I were consumed with her breasts and hardly even aware of her struggles. I wasn’t an especially large man, but I seemed terribly strong and focused, and yet she sensed through my touch that my intention wasn’t to hurt her.
My hand left her breasts and slid back up to her throat and I pushed her face gently up and to the side as if to examine her face.