Chapter Text
I clock in to work, punching in my time card groggily. I hate the late shift.
Despite not yet even being seventeen, here I am working at this hour for minimum wage. It's a good thing nobody's here to scold me for my minimal effort.
There isn't much to do anyway. The day shift employees were gracious enough to clean their own messes, and the drive through is the only thing open at this hour.
Snapping in my earpiece and pulling my visor down on my head, I amble up to the window.
I'm pretty sure it was never even meant to be a drive through. It's just a regular window with its glass pane removed, instead replaced by a flimsy, retractable shutter.
Anything for the money, I guess.
I'm already nodding off a bit by the time the first car rolls up. It's all black, a sleek and expensive design.
The window has been tinted opaque, and there's only a small gap at the top of it. It's pulled up to the window way closer than it should be. The side mirrors are practically scraping the wall's exterior.
This all freaks me out a little, but I'm too tired to truly be bothered. Maybe whoever's inside is just shy or ugly.
Whatever, I don't care. As long as they're a paying customer, I don't have a place to judge.
I greet the car with a fake cheer in my voice. I imagine it's not very convincing, but why would I care?
"Good evening, and welcome to Builder Brothers' Pizzeria. What can I get you today?"
"Hm... Plenty of choices," a voice not quite human escapes from the cracked open window. It sounds like something you'd hear from a masked sci-fi villain.
It's just a voice changer. Snap out of it, Elliot. The pizzeria isn't being attacked by aliens. I don't care enough to be suspicious of it.
"I think I'll just get a couple of plain slices," the disembodied voice finishes its order.
Since we already have some pies pre-prepared, I tell him I'll only be a second, walking slowly to pack the slices.
Once I've boxed them up, I go to hand them through the window. I don't know how he plans on getting them through that small gap, though.
I look out to deliver the boxes, but I'm met with a new sight. I'm staring straight down the hole of a pistol thats been shoved through the top of the window.
The gun is held out by an arm clothed in black. The barrel is well through the frame of the window. No wonder he had pulled up so close.
There's nothing I can do. I can't drop down, he'll just angle the gun to shoot me. I can't run to the side either. I'll be all too easy to predict if I take that route.
"Don't panic," the voice orders me. "Just hand over the food."
Suddenly, I'm wide awake. The sleepy fog that had clouded my mind moments prior is now cleared.
Everything is too vivid. Too bright. Too real to actually be real.
Yeah, that's it. I've fallen asleep somehow, and it's all just a dream. It's just a dream, so nothing bad can happen to me.
"Now."
Crap, I zoned out. Risky move. I rush to hold out the box through the window. My arm trembles as I struggle to keep a grip on it. My stomach clenches in pure fear.
I lean forward, forced to position the gun right at my forehead, just inches from contact. My legs feel like jelly beneath me. The jelly unexpectedly becomes inedible as warmth begins to trickle down them.
Much to my own shame, I've pissed myself. I feel
the crotch of my uniform pants absorb the liquid, but some streams are still left to drip down my leg.
I couldn't have stopped it. I'm utterly terrified. My breathing is ragged and my eyes are shot wide open.
The arm slides to the corner of the gap and another black gloved hand slides the box inside. My hand is momentarily suspended before I have the courage to pull it back to me.
That can't be it. He's gonna ask for something else. He's gonna rob the register. I'm so dead. There's no cameras or anything. I'll be blamed.
Bile rises, climbing up my throat. Singing it. I force it back down painfully. I'm feeling lightheaded.
Pulling me out of my spiral once more, the voice speaks again. "Why the tears, lovely? I told you not to be afraid."
I hadn't even realize those had spilled either. As it turns out, I'm not the best at keeping my liquids in check.
I raise a hand to swipe my burning tears away, lips pressed together tight.
"Good. We're not done though. Undress for me," it demands slyly.
Whatever poison I had managed to hold down before now comes clawing back up. I deflect my face to the side, clutching my stomach as it spills its contents onto the floor beside me.
It's not very much, but its scent is still putrid. I've never been this scared in my life, and my body is not taking it well.
I turn my head slowly back to the window, dreading any consequences. A small bead of drool drips onto the floor. Nothing happens yet.
"I don't have all night," the alien reminds me.
I squeak in fear, rushing to fumble with the hem of my tucked in shirt. The pistol is shoved against my forehead.
"Quickly."
No, no. This is awful. This has gone far worse than I'd imagined. I... I can't take my shirt off. He'll know. He'll see something that isn't supposed to be there.
In my eyes, I had been blessed with a relatively small chest. One that baggy shirts had done a good deal of concealing for my whole life, saving me the trouble of binding or surgery.
I had briefly considered having it anyway though, but decided against it. It was a waste of money. At least, I figured it would've been. Now though, it'd have come in very handy.
Despite having nothing left in my organs to choke up, my body wants to vomit again. My fingers shake worse as I pull off my shirt fearfully.
I drop it on the floor beside me. I don't want to look down. Especially not now. I hear a quiet chuckle and a little bit of shifting around inside of the car.
I shiver, even in the warm air. I feel so exposed. Violated. Disgusted. This wasn't supposed to happen. My stomach twists into knots.
"All of it," the gun shoves at my forehead again.
Right. It just keeps getting worse.
I drop my pants, my underwear falling with them. I still don't look down. I already know what's there. A stark lack of what should be. At least he probably can't see much of it.
To my horror, the window rolls down. The only comfort I had left was my attacker not being visible to me. Now, I'm forced to look him dead in the face while he smirks at me.
He wears a black suit and hat, his eyes partially shaded by it. I'm brought to focus on something besides his aforementioned face, though.
The man's dick is in his hand, standing straight up demandingly. He strokes and rubs it with rigor. It's a vile sight. I'd rather not have known what I'm being forced to do this for.
The gun has its aim removed from me, being used instead to gesture downwards. "Place yourself on the window."
Tears stream down my face once again. I try to blink them away as I lean down to the windowsill, resting my chest on it. It's definitely extremely noticeable now if it wasn't already.
Something else extremely noticeable, although I wish it weren’t, is his throbbing tip. His thumb rubs circles around it as he examines me.
He then reaches out his free hand for me as he laughs, speeding up work with the other. His fingers wrap around me. For a second, I wish he'd dig his nails in and rip it away.
He doesn't though, instead groping and kneading me. I weep and shake quietly, now watching his hand on me. It hurts more than it should.
Momentary grunts and shaky breaths escape his vile, villainous mouth as he beats himself.
He still keeps his gun on hand, holding it below my tit with only his pinky finger. It’s still a very real threat. Not safe to try to escape.
His hand moves on his shaft like he’s milking himself. I want to throw up so, so badly. I don’t want to watch, but every other place my eyes could land is equally as bad.
The man in the suit shifts a little to angle his body at me. I don’t think anything of his actions, their significance not fully sinking in yet.
I’m forced to realize them though as something sprays at me without warning. I flinch violently and scrunch up my face. My reflexes are too slow, though. Some of it gets in my mouth and eye, burning and stinging intensely.
I reach up to rub it out, but my fingers are met with something warm and sticky. No. No. That’s…
I suppress a gag as an overpowering salty taste assaults my mouth. My eye starts to water in response to its own attack.
I pull my two fingers away from my face slowly, and a number of strings still connect the mess on them to the mess on my face.
“You know where that’s supposed to go.” I barely hear what he says to me, overstimulated and drowning in my disgust and fear.
I stare at him with my clean eye, riddled with confusion. My nose is running profusely thanks to thd tears. I try my best not to think about what I'm covered in.
“Come on, girl,” I’m punched by his choice of word. “Just wipe yourself with it. It’s a simple request.”
…Oh.
I swipe at the slime with the same two fingers I had earlier. I don’t want it anywhere it doesn’t have to be. There’s no need to dirty even more of myself.
Hesitantly, I reach down below. This is sick.
I only swipe myself with it. I won’t push my fingers in, and he won’t know the difference. I pull away from my own contact.
I linger for a bit, wanting to satisfy him so he leaves. My fingers stay frozen between my flaps.
“Good girl,” he sneers. Once again, his voice hits me like a slap in the face.
I’m done. It’s done. My arm drops limply at my side. I make no effort to cover myself. It’s too late. I’m too far gone.
The gun is pulled back inside as the car window rolls back up, one again concealing the beast within. It drives away peacefully, as if it had only came for the pizza.
Feeling mild relief, I slide down against the wall beneath the drive through window, mind blank. I'm in shock.
After a few seconds or maybe minutes of my unfocused eyes staring at nothing, I snap out of my daze. That happened. That was real.
I break down in tears and sobs, bawling and struggling to breathe.
I cry and cry, unable to achieve a full inhale. My breath catches in my throat over and over again as I gasp loudly.
I look over myself cautiously. It's all still there. The white, sticky splatter that had dripped down onto me. My bare chest and privates.
I mindlessly reclothe myself, not bothering to fix my sloppy job or clean up my skin.
I then drag myself up off the floor and walk like a zombie toward the front door, struggling to ease it open.
I’m not staying here. I can’t. I won’t. Screw this place. I know I’ll get in serious trouble for leaving it like this. Unlocked, doors open… puke on the floor.
Scratch that, I’ll get fired. I hope I do. I need to be rid of this far more than I need the pay.