“OnStar, What Is Your Emergency?” by xtx

The OnStar commercial plays on my laptop speakers and the lady sounds like she’s being fucked; I stop typing.

There are hollowed female moans and for a moment I’m with her; the room is dark and humid, heavy with the heat that frenzied sex brings. Her hands are above her head bracing herself against the headboard. Her breasts are bouncing rhythmically, her eyes are closed — all of her focus on the place where he is thrusting inside of her. Then the OnStar emergency operator comes on and almost ruins my growing erection. I try to block him out. I try to stay with her.

The OnStar operator asks what her emergency is and she moans, “My legs…” I try to make that sexual as well. It’s easy. I envision her lover, so intent with his fucking he doesn’t notice he has bent her legs in an almost reverse frog position and is sort of kneeling on one of them. She has endured the painful protests from her muscles, bone and ligaments for as long as she could, enjoying how their contradiction intensified her building orgasm before finally groaning, “My legs…” I ignore the possibility that, in reality, they could be crushed beneath her dashboard, bone splinters and blood decorating her floor mats. Yet, even the thought of her injuries don’t deter my dick’s resolve for release. I’m harder than ever.

She moans again. I think about women masturbating to rape fantasies. I think about how sometimes you can push through the no’s with a confident mouth and strong hands. I think of how sometimes crying sounds a lot like laughter.

The commercial ends and I hastily make my way to the company restroom where I jerk myself off into the sink. It takes about 33 seconds.

I rinse the sink and wash my hands without looking in the mirror.

I go back to my typing. I never wonder about what happened to the girl.

More fiction at Used Furniture.


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