Gagged with Panties

Cara walked out of the store clutching her purchases for the upcoming vacation. She eschewed plastic bags, because Christ surely would have frowned on such cumulative waste year after year. It was ungodly hot outside and her flowy blonde hair bobbed with each springy step, helping to cool her neck.

She was smiling, love of the morning's service still fresh in her mind. She carefully got in her unlocked Geo Metro on the account of the floor-length dress she wore, still smiling, and cranked the engine. It would take a few minutes for the A/C to get going in the Texas humidity and she had a long drive to her small town.

Very suddenly, her smile disappeared. She looked over to her right, and a fat unshaved guy was standing by her car window, his penis hanging outside of his cargo shorts, his hand tugging it fast.

The man stared at her right in the eyes. Cara stared back and covered her mouth in shock. The man looked desperate, he kept stroking it just so. His face looked screwed up like he was in agony, and he kept inching closer toward the glass. Or at least his penis did. Her little car was rather low to the ground so the penis ended up being smack in the middle of the window. His face disappeared as he got closer, blocked by the roof.

In time, the penis made contact with her glass, and as Cara kept staring at it, the man knocked on the window with a knuckle. His penis was becoming hard. She defensively pretended that she didn't understand why he knocked and just watched, frozen in place. Within seconds his penis was now fully erect and he was beating it desperately and morbidly Cara could not peel her eyes off it. Her heart was beating so fast and her stomach felt as if it migrated to her throat. After the second knock she put the shifter in reverse and backed out of the parking spot and drove off.

At first, she told nobody about the incident. That evening she couldn't go to sleep. Instead, the moment kept coming to her mind. That unkempt penis kept pushing against the glass, head flattened against it. She kept trying to diagnose the face, that particular grimace. Was he in pain? What was that look anyway? That was so bizarre and unholy.

Cara didn't know much about sex on the account of her upbringing. She'd taken an abstinence vow since early ages and renewed her pledge every year in a public ceremony, surrounded by her parents and friends. Year after year she was encouraged by everyone to take great pride in it, and she did.

After she graduated from highschool, her parents forbade her from attending college, comparing such places to brainwashing cults, so she was just here waiting for a husband to show up at some unspecified point in the future and so she ended up somehow bypassing dating and sex entirely. There was no husband to look forward to, she thought bitterly at times, not in her small town. Slim pickings. There were no men her age. It was unfair. Raw incidents like this one triggered her in ways she'd never anticipated and brought this up to the surface under which she buried it. She felt unsettled, and she was unsettled.

Next Sunday she told a youth pastor at her church about the incident. He initially sounded disturbed, and then started asking her uncomfortable questions that made it seem as if she did something wrong. As if it was her fault. Why didn't she scream? Why didn't she call for help? How long did she watch?

The pastor shifted positions in his seat several times. Each question made her feel increasingly more uncomfortable. She was asked to describe the penis. She had to repeat her description of how hairy it was. What shape it was, how big. Was it circumcized? Was it erect? The pastor adjusted his pants a few times, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation, and she felt so dirty more he probed. He put his hand on her shoulder to reassure her, his other hand still under the table.

She should have just screamed and ran off right away, he told her and she agreed, and now she felt that guilt square on her shoulders. Hiram's hand didn't feel so comforting to her, especially while he was making her relive the experience. He started stroking her shoulder gently, still asking her disturbing questions about the incident. She wasn't so sure now whether he needed to adjust his pants so much. But then he stilled himself and her release came.

"Sometimes, God wills for one of His daughters to experience wickedness so that she will emerge stronger than ever," he said, "temptation is therefore crucial. Do you understand?"

Cara nodded. Cara did. And what Hiram said made so much sense that the thought of it was purifying. All the same, she was glad that the inquisition ended and it was time to go home. Perhaps she was too old to keep volunteering for him, she thought. She'd talk to her mom about it later.

That Sunday evening, she couldn't fall asleep. She kept thinking about the disgusting parking lot man stroking his penis and pushing it against her window. Curiosity suppressed her guilt. What would happen if she'd rolled it down, she wondered? She still pretended she didn't know why he knocked, but for an entirely different reason now. Hers was an old car without power windows, so she would've had to lean over and would've seen it up close. So close.

Slowly, two of her fingers slipped under her nightshift and made their way into her wetness. Right into the forbidden place that made her feel guilty for every second of touching it. She sighed in anticipation. Then, the third finger was invited to the gathering. She was so wet. Fourth had an invitation but was always late to show up. The thumb never made an entrance unless he was forced to make an appearance. But she was so wet. They got to work. She contorted her hand to make her fingers fit.

Cara gasped when her knuckle cracked gently and her entire fist slipped into her pussy.

Masturbating felt guilty enough but what she needed to get off was so far beyond it and yet it made her feel excited. Long ago, she realized, her virginity became a theoretical matter.

She was limber, and this is what happened when she was that horny. It always shocked her at how nasty her little secret quirk was, despite having done this for years. It's something she could never tell anyone about, she was sure of it but she just could not get stretched enough. It started with fingers and she could not satiate herself until she felt filled up. Totally, completely, filled up. She worked herself up to this size over the years and she was naturally always so wet for it.

She kept picturing the man knocking on her window a third time and wondering what would've happened had she rolled it down. Her wrist and fingers felt uncomfortable in that position, it hurt really, but the sensation they generated made it worth the pain and she moaned softly. Her legs and clenching asscheeks were now doing all the work anyway, making her body slide up and down on it minutely. It wasn't much movement but what made it feel good was the impact of the weight. Her head rolled back and she closed her eyes and remembered the disgusting man stroking his penis. The nastiness of the thought drove her to play with herself furiously with her free hand.

She imagined herself leaning over to roll the window down, and then she almost stopped herself from taking it further in her mind.

But, she was way too curious and way too horny to stop and she definitely knew what penises were for. She fought the memory and changed him to be handsome and in shape, in her mind. Her imagination stepped over that uncrossable line and she imagined him pushing it against the missing glass and instead hitting her face with his penis, stroking it into her mouth. She needed to smooth the edges a little bit so she imagined he was promised to her. In her fantasy, they'd soon be married, it was okay. It was alright. She could go on.

She opened her mouth in bed to see what it felt like to receive an erect penis, and her braces felt uncomfortable wider she opened it. Her free hand picked up the pace and she felt herself get closer. Her memory of the event got blurry and she refreshed it out of raw need, overwhelming her imagination and the man became fat and hairy again.

With that reversion to ugliness, she started using the uglier word in her head. Cock. It was more appropriate. She wondered what his cock would taste like. She wanted to find out, ugly or not. Her fingers started helping out a bit, she tried to open her fisting hand and the fingers met with resistance that gave her just the amount of a sensation to help her get off.

In an uncontrolled flash of acceptance she stopped pretending not knowing why he knocked on the window. He was asking her to roll it down, and she remembered the ugly thrill it gave her. She was the ugly one now, and in the moment she liked it. She liked being ugly, she wanted to be ugly. Who was she lying to but herself, Hiram was totally pleasuring himself to the ugly story she told because she excited him with it. Thought of it made her hornier. She tempted him. She flaunted her vulnerability to him and he fell for it, that easily. She was the purple harlot decked out with precious stones, with a handful of filth, a real fistful of filth at this very moment, riding her own right-handed beast on her way to burning the world down.

She added him to the fantasy, picturing him standing next to the ugly man and stroking his cock as well. Two men, two cocks, one whore-of-Babylon Cara. The nastiness factor multiplied and that along with her other hand helping push her fist in deeper was enough to get her over the edge. She bit into a coverlet to quiet herself down and started bucking wildly against her fist, rocking the entire bed. Her wrist rubbed her clit broadly but forcefully and she came hard, spraying the sheet.

After she orgasmed and extricated herself from the position, the wrist pain became noticeable and reminded her of shameful behavior and even more blasphemous thinking. She felt such level of shame that she'd have to work hard to bury it and it took her hours to be able to sleep. She couldn't believe how brazenly she'd tempted Hiram. He was a good man, and it was all her fault. She should've kept her mouth shut and not told him anything, she felt guilty about it. She prayed and having cleansed her thoughts, she finally drifted off to sleep.

Days later, she found herself shopping at that same store more often, her mind willfully blanked out each time. There was something wrong with her behavior, she felt, but she ignored her own warnings.

She parked far away from the entrance, just like that one time and fought all her thoughts pertaining to reason. Without thinking it, she knew what she was doing. She was reliving the experience. She wanted a repeat, she wanted a thrill but it wouldn't come. She prayed to stop herself and each time she prayed, she felt an even stronger urge to revisit the place.

She felt torn. This must've been such a rare occurrence for a single person to come across, she realized after a time. She was sure that the man was parked next to her and she tried to remember the man's car, but couldn't. Maybe it was an older minivan. She felt frustrated that she didn't know and couldn't recognize it.

Coming back to the same old spot yielded nothing but a measure of relief. Reasoning out how rarely this happened, she felt lucky that it hadn't happened to her before. The flashing was a surprise test and until it happened she didn't know how she'd act in such a situation. And now she wanted a do-over. Maybe she would've screamed right away, she thought and sat in silence for a minute.

She then felt perversely flattered thinking about how rarely this happened. The run-in made her feel a tiny bit special, she felt. In a very twisted and bizarre way, she felt lucky that it happened to her. Coming back to the same old spot would yield nothing but disappointment, if she was being honest. She felt ugly for wanting to have it happen to her again. She wanted a do-over of the surprise test.

Today she wore a skirt and it was more accessible than her long dresses. She sat in the airconditioned car and started breathing loudly, overwhelmingly and suddenly excited, because the beast within her had arrived suddenly. A finger showed up touching a place it shouldn't over her panties. Then another. Then another. She was really turned on now, beyond being rational. Redo of the test. Her entire hand cupped her crotch and she started sliding it around her pussy lips, working herself up, tugging her panties when it felt right. She kept staring at the window where weeks ago a man had flashed her and she moaned softly.

Then a knock on the window behind her startled her and made her scream. Some woman was yelling at her.

"What's a matter with you? This is a public place," she yelled, "people shop here!"

Cara panicked and tried to start the car again, making the starter grind loudly. It scared her more. She nearly cried but came to her senses enough to drive off without hitting anyone or anything. What was she thinking? She was so mad at herself.

Getting caught touching herself in a parking lot was the worst thing that she'd ever done, and she rightfully felt it deep in her soul. It scared her straight. She spent the next weeks contemplating quietly and avoiding ugly thoughts. It was working, she felt.

Her parents noticed she seemed depressed and thought their imminent vacation would bring her spirits up so they decided to take it early. One fine day they all drove down to Galveston and hotel prices were cheaper mid-week anyhow so that worked out better. They wanted her mood improved, besides, her mother had an idea of what was truly the matter. It was time Cara met someone. She and a church friend of hers were in talks about introducing a certain young man to Cara.

Several nice beachy days went by, filled with building sandcastles and napping and ice cream, but one day Cara got tired of the sun and the heat and cut her day short, leaving her parents behind. She needed some privacy, she felt, and they all gave each other time and space to use the shared bathroom. Their shared room was out of the way, one of the cheaper ones, tucked away behind a maze of walls. Today was almost the first day she didn't get lost trying to find their room.

What she thought was their door was partly open and she got worried. Was the maid there? They couldn't have forgotten to lock the door, they all closed themselves. Was someone holding the door? Was someone breaking in? She almost touched the door handle to check but then a sense of self-preservation kicked in and she decided to call the front desk.

Before she worked out how to do that in any detail, she came to her senses and then felt really silly and greatly relieved. She realized the hallway was mirrored. That wasn't their room. And there was a shirt jammed under the door keeping it partly open, no one was holding the door. And that's when she heard a voice.

"Hello? Is someone there? Please, can you help?"

Cara hesitated, but then stepped inside and saw that the man calling after her was sitting in a chair. He was wearing shorts, or long underwear, and a tank top. And it appeared that he was tied up to the chair.

"This is a long story, but can you please call for help or untie me?" he pleaded, "I've been stuck here for hours."

"What happened to you?" Cara asked, shocked.

The man hesitated but didn't want to scare her, so he gave her a sanitized version of a truth. "I was robbed," he confessed.

Cara looked around for potential robbers, and asked with a degree of detectable worry, "did they tie you up at gunpoint?" She did not look like she wanted to help him quietly, he thought, given a possibility of such danger so he needed to defuse it.

The man decided to put her at ease, "no, there was no gun, nothing to worry about. Just one person and they left." He didn't know how to filter any of this to her so that it didn't look shady.

Cara sounded skeptical and it looked to him as if she was about to flee. Something didn't add up here, they both realized. The man looked large and someone who could overwhelm him sounded very dangerous to her, and she looked it.

"How did-" she started asking, but then decided no answer was good, and she took a step back. She wanted no part of this, not of this trickery, not of these lies.

He realized that his chance of getting out of here quietly were fading, especially if she just ran off, so he leveled with her in a fit of panic. He'd rather prefer she helped him get out instead of involving the front desk and awkward questions and the police.

"Look, this is really embarrassing. It was a woman who did this to me. Okay? I paid her to tie me up, but she ended up just taking my phone and wallet and work laptop and left with them."

Cara still looked skeptical. The look on her face was unreadable and her crucifix she was clutching made him feel judged. The man almost broke into a sweat, "yes, look, it was a prostitute, I'm ashamed of it. But nothing happened. The temptation was strong but it went away." He wanted to sound like a good Christian to her. It was the wrong thing to say.

She stepped inside the room.

"Thank you," the man said, relieved, "thank you so much."

His mention of temptation resonated with Cara, but not in the way he imagined. Weeks of buried feelings came out gushing. Shadow of a returning beast came over her face. This room wasn't a hotel room, it was anonymity. It was a place where no one knew her, where no one could therefore judge her. Such a room promised enormous excitement, the kind that suddenly showed no bounds. It excited her to a point of being terrifying.

Cara kicked the shirt out of the way and closed the door behind her, her hands shaking. He looked at her funny but beggars couldn't be choosers, he thought.

"There is a shaving kit in the bathroom with scissors," he volunteered helpfully, "on the sink counter." When she didn't move, he explained himself, "they can cut through this rope, I'm sure of it."

He was confused when she didn't even so much as glance toward the bathroom. He motioned the direction with his head in case she didn't get it, "over there," he said. The girl looked like she was almost perceptibly shaking now. For a moment he thought she was afraid of him.

"So you're staying here alone," she said, her voice cracking like a teenager's.

It wasn't a question. It wasn't a confirmation, it was a certainty he was here alone. She just wanted to hear it said out loud. She slowly walked closer to him, staring at his crotch. He was wearing underwear, not shorts. The man started to think maybe she wasn't afraid of him at all because her line sounded more like a threat to him.

"Or you can just use the room phone and call the front desk for help, that would be so good of you, thank you," the man asked again, reevaluating the situation. Maybe a few awkward questions weren't so bad. "Please," he added.

Cara walked closer to him and avoided eye contact. Her eyes were glued to a bulge in his underwear. Her intent was unclear to him and he got more worried. When her hand went under her skirt and she started rubbing herself in front of him, he really did not understand.

"Look, there's nothing left. All my money is gone," he pleaded, "all I have is my travel clothes." Was she here robbing him? Did she know that other whore, he wondered? When Cara said nothing but walked closer to him, close enough to touch him, he craned his neck to the side around her and yelled.

"Help, please help! Someone help!" he yelled desperately. This nightmare was not ending. His previous hours of yelling with the accidentally open door didn't do anything but he felt he had to try again.

"Mister, you're ruining it," Cara whispered; she wanted him to be quiet. He was ruining this room, this anonymity, this seductive lack of oversight.