The old gas station

It was Thursday night and the February chill seeped through the sleeves of my sweatshirt. I had gone without many expectations, only with that nervous tingling that always appears when you leave your car in the rear parking lot of the old abandoned gas station on the ring road. Broken lights, smell of old gasoline and damp pine, and that silence broken only by some cars passing by on the highway. I parked in the darkest corner, far from the only working spotlight. I left the parking lights on, lowered the window a bit, and started staring at my phone without really looking at it. About fifteen minutes passed. Nothing. Only the sound of my own heartbeat and some creaking of branches. Then I saw him. A large, slow man, around sixty-something. Worn leather jacket, dark jeans, mountain boots. He wasn't in a hurry, but he didn't hesitate either. He walked straight towards my car as if he already knew I was waiting for him. When he reached the window, he stopped, looked me in the eye for a long second, and then lowered his gaze to my lap. He smiled sideways, in a way that didn't ask for permission. I rolled down the window all the way. "Cold?" he asked with a hoarse, smoker's voice. "A bit." He leaned on the door frame, put his hand inside, and touched the back of my neck with rough fingers. He smelled of tobacco, cheap cologne, and a man who hadn't showered since morning. I liked it. "I don't bite... unless you ask me to," he said, and before I could answer, he already had his other hand inside my sweatshirt, going up my abdomen, squeezing my chest with contained force. There were hardly any more words. He indicated with his head that I should open the rear door. I obeyed. He got in first, sat in the center of the back seat with his legs open, and unzipped his pants without haste. I stood between his knees, trembling a bit, not just from the cold. He pulled my pants down sharply to mid-thigh. He didn't bother to take them off completely. He turned me around, pushed me down until I was almost sitting on his lap. I felt the zipper open against my buttocks, and then, without preamble, the thick, hot head pressing. "Breathe deeply, kid," he murmured against my neck. He entered with a single slow but relentless thrust. It burned. He grabbed my hips with those large, calloused hands and started moving without giving me time to get used to it. Each thrust was deep, heavy, as if he wanted to leave a mark. I put my hands on the front seatback to avoid falling forward. I moaned softly, trying not to make too much noise, although there was no one else there. He didn't talk much, just breathed heavily through his nose and let out some "damn, you're tight" or "like that, good" between his teeth. At one point, he wrapped his arm around my chest, pressed me against his sweaty torso, and bit my neck hard while accelerating. I felt his hairy belly flattening against my back with each thrust. It didn't last too long. Maybe ten minutes, maybe less. Suddenly, he stiffene...