Locked Up 2

"It's a 1953 Citroën," my uncle Lou barked into the phone, "I bought it in an auction. They let me bid over the phone."

"How nice for you," I said, having no clue why he was calling me. My late father's brother usually only called on Christmas.

"The thing is," here it comes, I thought, "the car is up in Jersey and I'm in Florida."

"So?"

"So why don't you go out to Jersey, pick up the car, & drive down. We never get to see each other."

"Why can't you fly up and get the car?"

"I would," he said, "but I bought the car for Grace," Grace was uncle Louis masseuse (and by masseuse I mean mistress) "and your aunt doesn't know, so I can't get away. I'll pay your airfare back."

Were my father still alive, he'd do his brother this favor. So I decided to overlook the fact that uncle Lou was an adulterer (morally reprehensible) and remember he was my only family left. "Sure, where do I pick up the car?"

"The car" was a pink '53 Citroën & it was being housed just outside Atlantic City. My friends thought I was insane.

"I've never seen you drive," Sebastian said, sipping bourbon.

"I have a license."

"You, driving through the south," Melrose said, "you haven't been outside of Manhattan in ten years."

"Don't be so dramatic," I said, "I'm driving to Florida, not going to the moon."

"But you're YOU," Lauren said.

I lit a Dunhill International & sipped my martini (gin, not vodka) while they all looked at me. "What," I said finally.

"We're going to get a frantic call," Sebastian said, "when she gets to Virginia or so, she'll be screeching that the road is dirty and dusty, gas station bathrooms are filthy, and rednecks are scary. I bet $100 on it."

"I'll take that action," Lauren said, "put me down for $200 that she doesn't make it all the way to Florida."

"Melrose," I said, "you'll bet on me, won't you?"

"I got $500 says she never gets out the parking lot," Melrose said, "I mean, when was the last time you actually DROVE A CAR?"

Stinkers, the whole lot of them. But no matter. I took the Path train from Penn Station to Atlantic City (and that was no easy feat, what with all my luggage) and from there I got a cab out to where the car was.

Outfitted for the drive in a peasant blouse and vintage red denim overalls, I was pleased to see that the car was in near-mint condition. I loaded my bags in the trunk, put sunglasses on, and had no problem getting out of the parking lot and on the road. Take that, Melrose, I thought triumphantly.

In Delaware I stopped for gas and to pee. The gas station bathroom wasn't so bad. Not filthy, but the lighting was awful when I went to fix my makeup. Moving on!

So much traffic around the D.C. area. Was starting to get dark by the time I got into Virginia. I pulled off the interstate at Fredericksburg and started looking for a place to get dinner. So many BBQ places, didn't they do fine dining in Fredericksburg? Dying of starvation, I pulled into the parking lot of the Paradise Diner. Few people stared, but I didn't know if they were looking at me or the car. Inside, I ordered calamari and lamb chops.

"Y'all not from around here," the waitress said, putting my food in front of me.

"No I'm not," I said, "and I didn't see martini on the drinks menu, but do you have a bottle of gin by any chance?"

"We got beer," she said, "So where Y'all from?"

"New York City."

"Well la-di-frickin-da," she said, walking away,"I'll see if we have any gin.". She went into the kitchen, came back five minutes later, and announced, "Earl got bottle of wild turkey, he says if you want you can have a pull."

"Tell Earl I said I'm good."

She went back in the kitchen & I heard her say, "Hey Earl, the uppity bitch from New York City think she too good to drink from your bottle.". What did I ever do to her. I finished eating without any further interactions with her, or Earl. I paid the check, left a 30% tip, and was thrilled to leave that place.

By then it was pitch dark. I knew I needed the interstate but it was the damnedest thing...I couldn't find it. Either I was going in circles or the on-ramp didn't exist. What the fuck?

I pulled over on a desolate stretch of road, lit a cigarette, looked at the map, scratched my head, turned the map right side up. Christ Almighty. I was befuddled as to how to get back on the interstate, seriously considering calling Sebastian, but he'd just say "I told you so". I attempted to dial uncle Lou but I was out of range. Damn it.

I was still sitting there when the cop car pulled up behind me, its lights on. An officer got out & presently came and knocked at my window. I rolled it down.

"Evening, Ma'am," he said, "what seems to be the trouble?"

"I'm lost," I admitted, "driving to Florida and I pulled off the interstate to get dinner & now I can't seem to get back on.". He shined a flashlight in my eyes.

"Been drinking tonight?"

"No, sir."

"Show me your license and registration.". I handed over my paperwork. "License says you live in New York City, Miss diStefano."

"That's correct, sir."

"diStefano, that's an Italian name, isn't it?"

"Well yes, but I'm an American citizen, sir."

"Care to explain why the car's not registered to you, Miss diStefano?"

"My uncle Lou, he lives in Florida, bought this car at an auction up in New Jersey. He participated in the auction by phone. So the car's registered to him, sir, and all I'm doing is driving it down to Florida for him."

"No, Ma'am. What you're doing is you're going to come with me to the station and I'm going to verify your story. If what you say checks out, you can go to Florida or wherever else. But if not..."

"Am I under arrest? Do I need a lawyer?"

"Not at this time," he said, "but you New York City Italians come through here in your slick cars, thinking you're better than us. See it all the time."

With that, he led me to his cop car & put me in the back seat. First thing I noticed was he had no partner. That was odd. He got on the radio & said, "Lennie, I'm a need you to bring the tow truck out to Sterlington Road, pick up a-"he looked at me.

"It's a '53 Citroën."

"-a pink '53 Citroën. The hell if I know what a Citroën is, but some New York City Italian woman said she was on 'er way to Florida in it & you KNOW those eye-ties always up to no good."

He started the car & drove me to the cop shop. Get arrested in New York City & you go to the precinct first (to be fingerprinted) then to central booking. In Virginia, the officer took me to what appeared to be a cabin, a Lodge...the sort of place you might go on your camping vacation. There was a holding cell, with a shirtless gentleman inside it. There was a common room, and some other officers milling about. He led me through the common room, down a flight of stairs, and put me in a cell in the basement.

"Why am I in a cell when you're just going to verify my story?"

"You will wait here," he said, "for your own protection."

"I believe I'm entitled to a phone call."

"And you'll get that phone call when I say you'll get it," he grinned. "Welcome to the American south."

With that he strutted away. I saw no one for...well I don't know how long. I sat on the floor of my cell. All I had to do was stay on the goddamn interstate and I wouldn't be in a cell. Or all I had to do was say no to uncle Lou & I could be in my Manhattan apartment right now.

Another officer, younger and burlier than the first, came into the basement. "Stand up," he said. I need to make sure you have no weapons on your person."

"Weapons," I stood up, "you've gotta be kidding me."

"Strip your clothes. Pass each article of clothing through the cell bars to me."

"It's my right to be searched by a female officer," I said, "this is harassment."

"And this," he fingered his nightstick, "is a Billy club. Once again, strip your clothes."

The nerve of him. I removed my shoes, overalls, blouse, and bra. "The outfit is vintage, you prick."

"How come you're not wearin panties?"

"Well I'm naked, are you happy, are you satisfied that I have no weapons?"

"Still have to do the cavity search," he said.

He took his nightstick off his belt and put it on a table outside the cell. Then he said, "Put both hands behind your back and stand with your back to the bars so I can cuff you."

Once he had me cuffed, he let himself in the cell. He pushed me face first into a cinder block wall, roughly spreading me open from behind. His fingers were inside me, both places. "You ain't no virgin," he said, "oh, you've been with a man before."

I felt his right arm around my neck, squeezing, as I heard him say, "I bet you like it. Tell me you like it."

"i'm not tellin' you shit, Bubba. I want my phone call."

"Who you gonna call," he hissed into my ear, "your Yankee boyfriend? He gonna come down here & get you?". His big left hand spanked my ass, hard.

"No you ass, I'm gonna call Mario Romano, attorney at Law, & sue the pants off you."

"You want my pants off, you ain't gotta sue me girl, just say so."

He let go long enough to undo his belt and unzip. Rough hands on my shoulders as he turned me around and tilted my head so I was looking down at his member. It was thick, veiny. "On your knees," he said, drawing his pistol, "and if you bite me," he pointed the pistol at my temple as I knelt, "I will shoot."

I didn't bite him, he didn't put a bullet in me, but he did shoot...a load in my mouth. Was the first blow job I did in I don't know how long and it felt dirty, but also exciting. If Lauren & Melrose could see me now! Would they recognize he woman who shopped at Barneys and had manicures twice a week? He slapped me across the face, HARD, after he zipped up. Then he exited the cell & said, "You wait here."

So I waited, naked. I guess I dozed off because I awoke to footsteps coming down the steps. Officer thick, veiny cock was coming back, I soon saw.

"So we're still waiting on a report from Florida as to whether or not the car we picked you up in is registered to your uncle," he said, "now if you have anything to confess, now is the time."

"I confess that your breath smells like ass," I said, "and let me outta here, I need to pee."

"You can pee right where you are," he said, with a wolfish grin, "just squat down and go on."

I was outraged, but I had to pee, so I squatted and Officer Bubba watched with delight while I peed.

"Now," he said, sounding all official, "I'll let you make a phone call. Law says you're entitled to one phone call. 'course you can only make local calls."

"I don't KNOW anyone locally," I laughed, "Everybody I know is in Manhattan."

He shrugged. "Long distance calls, gonna cost you."

"Fine, bring me my handbag, I'll pay."

"Don't want your money. No, I want something else."

He opened the cell & let himself in again. "You gonna play nice?"

I sidestepped him and he grabbed me by the wrist, hard. He pulled me to him, lifted me up by the ass cheeks. "There's nowhere to go," he growled, thrusting himself into me, "You're mine all mine. I lied, we didn't ask any Florida if the car's really registered to your uncle," he went in deeper, "nobody knows you're here, NOBODY!"

Just then I screamed.

"Keep screaming, bitch, this basement is fucking soundproof". By now we were up against a wall, he was fucking me good and hard and it was exciting. Dangerous because I'd clearly been kidnapped by a bunch of small-town cops, but also the best sex I'd had in a really long time.

____________________

I don't know how long I've been locked in this basement cell. I pee here, I sleep here. The Bubba cops take turns fucking me here. Well, they haven't done that for a Lil while because I'm pretty pregnant, showing and everything. They feed me, a doctor (well, I think he's a doctor) comes and looks at me. But nobody tells me how far along I am.

Sometimes when I'm alone in here, I think back to Manhattan...drinking martinis, smoking imported cigarettes, wearing vintage outfits. Was that ever my life or did I just dream it while I've been in this cell? I don't know.