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Middle-aged wife gets home delivery.

That was it. I got up, grabbed you by the wrist and practically dragged you out of the bar. The guy you felt up started to protest; with my free hand, I grabbed his neck and slammed his head to the bar. "She's mine. Do you understand?" The guy nodded weakly, a little woozy. I released his neck and continued to pull you out to the parking lot. My breathing was ragged at this point, because I was afraid that either some other bar patron would chase after us (a fight really wasn't what I needed) or worse yet, call the cops. I looked back at Joe with an indication that I was in control of things and I could hear him calming people down in the background as we left.

"What the fuck did you think you were doing?" I was still dragging you along, not looking back, but hearing you stumble slightly every few steps. You didn't say a word, but I heard you giggle. "Well?"

After a few moments, you just mocked my question, saying, "Well?" in a shrill, irritating voice that I hate. I had to park at the back of the parking lot due to it being full earlier, but the lot was nearly vacant now. I swung you around, practically slamming your backside into the car so that you're facing me.

"What the fuck is your problem tonight?"

"We're strangers, remember? I can't help it that you couldn't pick up a ten dollar hooker with those sad excuses for lines."

I stare at you incredulously, not able to tell at this point if you're just playing your part that well or whether the drinks you've had have loosened your tongue and how you really feel.

"OK, little girl. I'm tired of your bullshit and I'm tired of your games. We're heading home."

You start to head back to the bar. "Fuck that. I came out to get laid tonight. If you're not up to it, I'm sure one of those guys back in the bar can handle me."

Grabbing your arm, I wheel you around and slap your face with my open hand. We both stare at each other for what seems like an eternity, but couldn't be more than a few seconds. We've never done this in public and I think we're both shocked by the instinctual, primal reaction.

"You want to act like a common whore?"

Suddenly, the look in your eyes changes as quickly as my tone has. You've been trying to one-up me all evening, keeping control by showing how sexy you are and showing how so many guys want you. This is different.

"What? Come on, this was part of the game." The confidence you had, so full in your voice less than a minute ago, is almost completely gone. You can tell my patience has reached its limit and there's almost a twinge of fear in your mannerisms.

I can't say anything at this point. Instead, I throw you up against the car, face and tits pressed against the cool glass on the door. My hands slip up your shirt and unhook your strapless bra with ease.

"Hey! This wasn't part of the..."

I ignore you and flip you around so that you're facing me, kiss you roughly, then flip you back around so that you're pressed against the car, facing it again. You can feel the hem of your skirt raised over your hips, your bare ass visible to anyone who might walk by. Your breathing becomes fast and heavy, voice slightly higher in pitch as the cool night air washes over your lower body.

"Look, this was supposed to be a date night where you picked me up. I just didn't want it to be too easy for you."

The only response you get is four smacks against your ass with my hand, leading to you wince.

"Do you want to act like a whore? Feeling up strange guys in bars, letting your tits get mauled in public?" Four more smacks and I hear a small whimper. My voice is just a menacing whisper by your ear. "Come on!" *smack* "Answer me!"

The crack of my hand on your ass rings through the parking lot again. "You were awfully chatty inside. What's the problem now?" You feel me grab you and flip you around again so you're facing me. "Well, if you're not going to talk, I need to keep your mouth busy somehow, don't I?"

Without waiting for a response, I grab your hair with one hand, a shoulder with the other and push you to your knees.

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