"How did you know?" I bleated, impressed by his insight as I wriggled my buns atop his totally penetrating prick.
"I left a family behind, too," he confessed. "Back in New Jersey."
"Did you love them?"
"Of course," he said. "But not as much as being on my own – doing what I wanted to. I realized I couldn't have both. One had to go – and I couldn't let it be my freedom."
"And you call this freedom…" I challenged his reasoning, "being chased? Running for our lives?"
"Fucking in the ass all the way up to the balls in the back seat of a stolen Camaro," he cut off my protest by flipping the discussion to the other side of the coin.
"Freedom is fucking me in the ass?"
"Why not? Can you think of anything better to do?"
"Not at the moment," I assured him.
"Then let's stop jiving and start fucking. I want to come in your ass some time before the sun goes down."
"You won't hear another peep out of me until I scream," I guaranteed him.
Since Chinga's hard-on was now buried in my rectal tunnel to the squashiness of his balls and the scratchiness of his pubic bush, the fucking movement we made had to be generated by the central muscles of our bodies. And not only was his cock in my ass a tight fit, so were he and I in the back seat of the Camaro.
On top, Chinga could move around a little bit with his hips. However, awkwardly kneeling, I found the best way to get my pelvis to actively twitch was to think dirty. Slamming shut the family album that had made my anus pliant, I delved into the sewer of my mind to get things going down there again.
In my mind I imagined what Chinga's big cock must look like as it rammed endlessly into my butt. I wished I were double – jointed so I could twist around and lick it while it fucked my ass.
I got so hot that I automatically went in search of some added stimulation. When my wandering hand found my dripping pussy and began tweaking my clit, it was like pouring gasoline on an already raging fire.
I hadn't played with myself like this since I was back home in the suburbs. It seemed so long ago that I had to masturbate to come. How much better to have it as the frosting on top of the damage a great big cock could do.
While Chinga kept cornholing me, I slipped my fingers into my gushing twat and began manipulating them in the goo. Finger-fucking my cunt in places that only I as its owner could know about, I made myself come in a second hole while I was stilt orgasming in the first.
By the time Chinga finally shot his wad up my ass, I had so much juice in my pussy that it felt like the jizz was leaking through the thin membrane separating the two love-chutes. I could swear there was no difference at all between my ass and cunt as my outlaw lover engorged the former with his huge cock, and I now used the cudgel of my clenched fist within the other.
As I fist-fucked my twat, time and again my knuckles came in collision with the head of Chinga's cock. He was still ejaculating, and there was a lump in the dividing tissue every time he squeezed off a new glob of fresh jism.
It seemed like Chinga would keep coming in my ass forever. He only stopped his spurting when my tearing anal tissue reminded me of the scream I'd promised to him, and I delivered it with blood-curdling fury.
By the time his squirting had ended, my bowels seemed taut with the burden of his sperm. The constant sloshing when I moved made my equilibrium uncertain.
"Quick!" I finally blurted. "You've got to get off me – I've got to get out of the car!"
My voice was too frantic for him to question my intent. Reaching over the seat in the first place to get a hold of the front door, the recoil from Chinga's cock popping from my ass sent me smacking face first into it.
Contrary to my original plan, my crashing chin rather than my hand succeeding in depressing the handle enough to open the door. With its latch no longer sustaining my weight, the metal panel sprang open, momentum depositing me in a heap on the ground.
Shaking my head, I got my wits just in time to squat and avoid making a mess. I had just balanced myself on my spread haunches when the pressure which had been building in my colon unleashed itself.
The gruel spewed out of my asshole just like the results of an enema. The only difference was that this enema had been done with male cum – the discharge was like defecating liquid velvet. With joy I watched the pool of lumpy whiteness spread on the ground before me, proud as a woman that I had been able to take so much.
"So what do we do for an encore?" I said a few moments later, arising from the now-muddy ground.
"Rob a bank," he grinned as he handed me my clothes from the car. "We've got to get some money for gas so we don't have to keep holding up filling station attendants."
Seized by a desperate need for adventure, his convoluted logic appealed to me. "Rob a bank…" I repeated his proposal. "Why not?"
CHAPTER SEVEN
I guess I can confess at this point in the story that my perception of Chinga was almost entirely determined by my sexual and romantic attraction to him. Not being an experienced law-breaker, it took me perhaps longer than it would have a more objective person to realize that Chinga was not exactly a master criminal.
His intentions, of course, were always appropriately antisocial; however, his execution frequently left a lot to be desired. He was a hell of a stud, but a clumsy crook.
The main problem was that, whenever anything went wrong, Chinga put all his faith in his gun. This, needless to say, led to the most extreme kinds of situations.
All of which is by way of explaining how I crossed over the line from being a hostage to being a kidnapper myself. It happened as soon in my career of crime as my first bank job.
For the heist Chinga had suggested after our roadside ass-fuck, he selected a small branch office in a shopping center he found after miles of driving. We were in the suburbs somewhere it looked depressingly familiar to me, but what city we were on the outskirts of I did not know.
Chinga assured me that a shopping center bank was exactly what we wanted for our first job. "The only time it'll be crowded is on Friday when people get paid," he explained. "This is Wednesday."
It sounded like a good enough plan to me. Even though I now realize that, crime-wise, Chinga was closer to Billy the Kid than Willie Sutton, even a master-criminal could not have anticipated the misfortune we ran into.
I mean, who could have possibly anticipated that the Goddamn bank would be full of a bunch of school kids on a field trip? The little bastards were all over the place.
"What are we going to do now?" I hissed to Chinga as we stood incredulously at the front of the bank.
Immediately I wished I hadn't asked. Knowing Chinga's propensity for resorting to violence in times of stress, I shouldn't have applied any verbal pressure.
"All right, you little mother fuckers, up against the wall!" he suddenly shouted. In his twitching hand was the big gun he'd pulled from under his leather jacket. "No fucking class of dumb kids is gonna stop me from robbing this bank!"
At this point, there was nothing to do but go along with him. Any resistance I made would only cause further trouble. My lover had turned into a murderous beast right before my eyes.
Meanwhile, the kids were milling around all over the place, too frightened to follow Chinga's orders. Realizing that if I didn't do something quickly there was going to be terrible bloodshed, I took a chance and intervened.
"Come on, kids," I said gently, taking over for their teacher who was cowering over in the corner, "let's do what the nice man says. He loves children – it's just adults he has a little trouble getting along with."
Fortunately, that did it. Drawing on my experience mothering my own two, pretty soon I had all the kids rounded up and leaning with their palms against the wall, having turned the whole thing into a game for them. Some of them were actually giggling.