Two Bikers Subdued Her in That Abandoned Warehouse

Marisa had lived a life of expensive table linens and cars she changed every two years. All of it evaporated the morning she and Damián signed the bankruptcy papers and discovered that, after paying the last creditor, they had nothing left. Not even each other: the money was gone, and the marriage went after it.

At forty-two, with no trade listed on any form, the only thing she found was a waitress job in a roadside inn a hundred kilometers from the city. El Cruce de los Álamos, they called it, beside the village of Las Tordas. The pay was miserable and the contract included a room. That, she told herself, was the only advantage.

The advantage fell at her feet on the first day, when she learned the room had two beds and the other one was already occupied.

—Sorry about the mess —said a girl coming out of the shower wrapped in a towel—. I’m Noa.

Noa was twenty, with impossibly dyed red hair and tattoos climbing up her ribs. The room smelled of stale smoke, there was underwear on the floor, and the inn’s neon sign came in through the window, tinting everything pink. Marisa set down her suitcase and understood, without needing words, what kind of place she had landed in.

The first shift was a slow humiliation. She dropped the tray, mixed up the orders, and the other waiters laughed at her clumsiness. At midnight, defeated, she went up to the room and fell asleep like a log, without even undressing completely.

***

The noises woke her at six-thirty in the morning. The neon glare let her see, in the bed across from hers, hips rising and falling in a brutal rhythm. Noa was underneath a burly man, a biker she had seen smoking at the bar hours earlier, with a scorpion tattooed on his back. The bed slammed against the wall. The girl’s gasps mingled with his low, guttural grunts.

Marisa closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. But she noticed something: in the middle of the thrusting, the man turned his face and looked straight at her. He wasn’t looking for Noa. He was looking for her, knowing she was awake, enjoying having an audience. He matched his thrusts to that gaze until he finished with a long snore and went still.

Then he got up, naked, lit a cigarette with all the calm in the world, and dressed without hurry, like the man of the house. Before leaving, he looked at her again. Marisa squeezed her eyelids shut and didn’t breathe until she heard the door.

***

In the following days she met Carmen, a coworker of thirty-seven, dark-haired, with strong legs and quick hands. Carmen had been there three years, lived in the village with her husband Diego and two children, and had a carefree way of talking about everything.

—Those two aren’t bad —she told her one night, chin pointed toward two surfers heading down toward the coast. Tall, in their thirties, one with a ponytail—. They asked me to get you to come.

—You? Married?

—Don’t tell me you don’t look —Carmen laughed—. Put on something light. They’ve got a caravan in the lot and I can’t be late.

Marisa had gone months without anyone touching her. She changed, put on a flowered dress, and slipped out the back door with her heart pounding in her throat.

In the caravan things were direct. The one with the ponytail kissed her with tongue while lifting her dress; in the other bunk, Carmen was already naked and tangled up with the blond one. Marisa let herself be handled, surprised by her own appetite, moaning louder than she remembered. Carmen’s phone kept ringing in her bag—her husband, the kids—so everything was fast, almost mechanical, two men used to fucking every day and two women in a hurry.

Carmen finished first, glancing at the time. Marisa, on the other hand, felt her man holding back: he didn’t want to finish with the condom on. So she knelt, took him in her mouth, and brought him to the end with a skill that surprised even her. As they dressed, the blond one asked her for her panties.

—They want them as a trophy —Carmen explained once they were outside, lighting a cigarette—. That’s normal with them. Hey, you’ve got a knack for this. You’re off tomorrow, right? Come have dinner at my place. My husband turns forty.

***

Dinner at Carmen’s place was another life: a real family, two kids, a mechanic husband talking about opening his own garage. Marisa felt a stab of envy so clean it almost hurt. On the way back to the inn, Carmen dropped her at the door.

—Look, the slut’s back —she said, pointing at the neon sign.

Under the pink light, Noa was smoking with another biker. Another scorpion jacket, another hard-eyed man. The wheel kept turning.

That night the scene repeated, identical and different. The biker lifted one of Noa’s legs so Marisa could see better from her bed, challenging her with his eyes, and when he finished he came over naked, took off the condom, and let it fall onto Marisa’s empty pillow, marking territory. She said nothing. She pretended to be asleep and, inside, felt a heat that shamed her.

***

One afternoon, during a break, Marisa went out for some air and saw Rubén, the youngest waiter—eighteen, skinny, with a sweet face—slipping behind the hedges with one of the bikers. Out of curiosity, or something she didn’t want to name, she walked closer and hid among the branches.

The biker had the boy against the wall and was speaking low, with a hunter’s smile. He ran a hand over the boy’s chest, kissed him, whispered something in his ear. Rubén hesitated, but nodded. There was no hurry: the man guided him with calculated patience, dominating him slowly, until the boy gave himself over completely right there, gasping against the brick in the dim light of the streetlamp.

Marisa stepped away. She had seen too much. But she understood one thing clearly: in that place, everyone eventually gave in to those men. The question wasn’t whether, but when and for what.

***

On her day off, the bus driver dropped her in Las Tordas. An ugly village, with dead streets and nosy people. While she waited for the return bus, she heard the unmistakable potato-potato of a Harley before she saw it. It was him: the leader, the one with the scorpion tattooed on his neck and the ponytail spilling out from under his helmet. They called him Vito.

He stopped beside her and pushed up his mirrored glasses.

—Don’t you have a car?

—As you can see —she replied—. I wouldn’t win any prize for mother of the year, either.

He looked her up and down as if appraising her.

—Get on. It’s a shitty town. I’ll take you there.

—I don’t have a helmet.

—There’s hardly any police.

Marisa got on. She felt the air on her face and the engine vibrating beneath her body, a sensation of freedom she didn’t remember. But Vito didn’t take the road to the inn: he turned onto a side road. Soon a second Harley drew up alongside them. The other rider, skinny, with a pocked face, known as Cuervo, spat to one side.

—Taking your aunt somewhere, Vito? We could show her our mansion.

Marisa understood everything. They wanted meat. And, to her own surprise, instead of asking them to let her off, she slid her hand down to Vito’s crotch and felt him go hard under the leather. They’ll have her, she thought. But on my terms.

***

The warehouse was on the outskirts, full of motorcycles, tools, and stained sofas. Vito took off his helmet; he had cold blue eyes. He kissed her hard, squeezing her butt over her dress, and when Cuervo came in with two beers, he lifted her skirt so the other man could see the string thong.

—Look at the lady —Cuervo said, voice tense—. Maybe she needs a good going-over, since there aren’t many opportunities around here.

—Or maybe you’re the ones who don’t have them —she replied, unshaken.

Vito liked that. He liked having someone stand up to him so he could break her down afterward; it showed in the crooked smile on his face. He pulled down her dress, unhooked her bra, and her breasts came bare. He made her bend over and brace her hands on the sofa while Cuervo, on his knees, parted her legs.

—Just imagine how many people have been through here —Vito murmured, opening her with his thumbs.

Cuervo’s tongue moved up and down without hurry and Marisa, against her will, began to purr. Vito kept time with his hand, quietly ordering her when to open her legs wider, when to arch her back. It was that calm domination, without violence but without any choice, that lit her up. When they turned her over and she knelt, she had both cocks in front of her face.

—Slowly —said Vito, burying his fingers in her nape—. You set the pace. But I count.

And he counted. Marisa serviced both of them, alternating, feeling that each time she yielded a little more, she also gained something: control over her fear, proof that she could still command something, even if it was on her knees. When she needed air, she was the one who took Vito back into her mouth, as a demonstration.

—Good girl —he panted.

***

They pulled a mattress onto the frame of a sofa bed. Vito held a condom in his closed hand.

—Raw —she said before they could ask, taking a tube of Vaseline from her bag—. I’m not on anything.

—The lady came prepared —Cuervo laughed.

Marisa straddled Vito and sank onto him slowly, feeling him all the way inside. He held her hips, setting the rhythm, while Cuervo positioned himself behind her and, after smearing himself with lube, began opening her little by little. It hurt and burned at first, but both men knew what they were doing: they alternated thrusts with the coordination of men who had done it a thousand times, first gentle, then all the way, until the pain turned into a current running through her entire body.

—Five —Vito ordered, and the rhythm turned into a dry staccato.

Cuervo was the first to give in, with a hoarse cry, gripping her buttocks. Vito took over without pause, taking her from behind with brutal strokes while she touched herself and went delirious.

—Yes! I’m coming! —Marisa moaned, and a shiver ran through her from head to toe.

Vito came with a roar that echoed through the whole warehouse and went still, emptied out. Marisa lay stretched out on the damp mattress, exhausted, feeling strangely in command of herself. They had fucked to the end, but the trophy—her thong, which Vito later hung from the rearview mirror to show it off as he rode off—was the only thing he took with him. She kept everything else.

***

When Vito dropped her at the inn and revved off, honking his horn, Carmen was waiting for her, smoking in the back.

—Blessed be the eyes. Has the bastard already put on his show?

—As always —said Marisa, her legs still trembling.

—They were born for this. To give orders and be obeyed. —Carmen took a long drag—. Honestly, I didn’t think you were that daring. But treating yourself once in a while does you good.

What Marisa didn’t tell her was the other thing: that her contract was hanging by a thread. Marcial, the dining-room manager, a bitter fifty-something with a wife in the kitchen, had been whispering for days that when the owner, Don Aurelio, arrived, he’d ask not to renew her. “She doesn’t know how to do anything,” he and his wife said, “she smells like a place that shouldn’t exist.”

Noa, who found out everything, was the one who gave her the idea that night.

—I’ve got Marcial figured out —she told her, turning on the laptop—. He’s a pervert. With a couple of blowjobs he eats out of your hand. And look. —She turned the screen: it was Marcial himself, recorded without knowing it, masturbating in that very room—. Just in case.

Marisa looked at the screen and then at her own reflection in the window, cut out against the pink neon. There had been a time when that would have horrified her. Now she was calculating.

***

Marcial arrived in the room freshly showered, stinking of cheap cologne, with that rooster-in-the-henhouse swagger. Marisa received him in a robe, with nothing underneath, and let the fabric fall slowly while he stood speechless. There was no need even to turn on the laptop recording in the background.

—Lie down —she told him, and for once it was Marisa who was in charge.

She worked him patiently, slowly, bringing him to the edge over and over until the man was pure begging, panting that no one had ever done that to him. When she finally let him finish, Marcial went rigid, trembling, defeated by his own swagger.

A week later, Marisa was section supervisor, with her contract renewed and her pay raised. Marcial’s wife, furious, cornered him in the kitchen:

—Weren’t you going to talk to the owner so they’d fire her? It’s obvious that woman doesn’t know how to do anything.

Marisa, passing by with a tray, couldn’t help smiling.

—I do know how to do something —she said without stopping—. Survive.