Rear-Ended: An Anal Only Punishment for a Spoiled Brat

Rear-Ended

This was exactly the last situation I could afford to be in. I balled my hands into fists and pounded the steering wheel a few times.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Where had that car even come from? I could’ve sworn I was the only one on the road a minute ago. And it had been such a beautiful day in the desert; that slab of blue sky, the open road stretching forever. I’d wanted to take one little video for my socials, and now I’d gone right into the back of this old-looking red car.

Okay. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. At least the car in front looked fine.

My Jeep looked ruined. I could see some jagged metal sticking up from in front of my windshield. Great, it probably crumpled when it hit. His car was… well, okay, the taillights were smashed. Some of the paint had scraped off. And that bumper (was that what it was called?) was cleanly dented like someone had punched a fist into the center.

Daddy was going to kill me. This was my second accident this month, and I’m beyond my last warning. I got my last warning for maxing out my credit card, and then I failed my senior year college math exam. And then I had the other accident (who the hell put a hydrant that close to a parking space?). And now I’d gone and rear-ended some guy with a fancy-looking vintage car.

No. I couldn’t have Daddy find out about this. I looked at the car in front. The guy was on his phone talking and waving his hands. Maybe I could just drive off? Yeah. I would drive off. Before I could second-guess it, I put my car into reverse and pulled out onto the road. But before I could get more than a few feet the guy appeared in front of my car with his hand up.

The guy walking toward me was... well, shit. He looked like one of Daddy’s business partners, except hotter. Dark hair gone silver at the temples, and not in that gross old-man way but in that distinguished way that made my stomach do a little flip. He had on a white button-down, sleeves rolled up, and he moved with this easy confidence that screamed grown man who had his life together. Which was basically the opposite of every guy I knew.

He was older. Like, actually older, not fake-older college senior older. His jaw was set in this hard line, and when his eyes met mine through the windshield, I felt this weird little thrill that was completely inappropriate for someone who’d just crashed into his car. Great.

He knocked on the glass once. I rolled it down halfway. “That’s a 1970 Plymouth Hemi ‘Cuda,” he said. I stared at him. “The car you hit,” he added. Like, okay. I got it. I shook my head to get back into the moment. It’s okay. I know how to handle men like this. I just need to be cute and flirt a little and tell him how sorry I am. Maybe even cry a little. I started preparing the image of my childhood bunny Harriet, who died when I left the patio door open and she got carried off by a hawk. That usually did the trick.

I fixed my mouth into a pout. I’d just applied lip gloss before this stupid crash, and now I was grateful. Strawberry Crush always made my lips look plump and shiny, surely irresistible to a rich old man who probably had a boring frigid wife at home.

“I’m so sorry, Sir. I was paying attention, I swear…” I batted my lashes. “But then, it’s the heat, you know? I’m recovering from the flu and I have a little bit of a fever.” I was thinking hard about Harriet now. One little tear and I could turn this to my favor.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t react at all. His face was set in this stony, almost bored expression that unsettled me. Was he gay? I’d never had a man not react to my distressed young woman routine before.

“Your