First time hand runover 6 min read

Hello everyone. Long time reader; first time writer. This is a true experience. Enjoy!

My mom and I moved to Madrid when I was a teenager. We lived in a fairly affluent neighbourhood in the city centre, where the streets were lined with elegant apartment buildings, small cafés, and tightly packed rows of parked cars. Finding a space on the street was almost impossible, so my mom rented a parking spot in an underground garage nearby.

The entrance of the garage was built into the ground floor of one of the residential buildings. A wide metal door opened onto a steep, straight concrete ramp leading down to the first basement level. Like many garages in central Madrid, it had clearly been designed for smaller cars: the ramp was narrow enough to only let one car pass. Inside, the garage was cool and dim. Fluorescent lights ran along the ceiling, casting a pale glow over concrete pillars marked with scratches from years of cars squeezing past them. The air smelled faintly of petrol, dust, and warm rubber. The ground was full of filth and dust brought in by the cars that had driven all over the city.

Parked beside us was a grey Mercedes saloon that only had 2 doors. I had been watching the drivers for weeks. She was in her early thirties, a striking woman with dark brunette hair, warm olive-toned skin, and the kind of effortless elegance that suggested she had grown up around money. Her hair was usually worn loose and neatly styled, and she carried herself with quiet confidence. She favoured fitted skirts, fine blouses or tailored coats, often paired with sheer black stockings and polished ankle boots with a sturdy block heel.

I was young, small, and possessed by a hunger that felt too big for my chest. I always wanted to get my hand or feet run over by her. Sadly, she usually comes back from work half an hour earlier than when my school finishes. When my mom drives me home from school, I remember putting me hand above her wheels, feeling the heat emitted from the engine inside. Running my finger along the tires and fascinated by the dirt and filth my hand had picked up.

However, this day, things were different.

The rain in Madrid didn’t fall; it assaulted the city, a relentless, silver curtain that turned the underground garage into a cavern of echoes and shadows. I finished school early and saw the grey Mercedes parked beside us.

But then, she walked into the garage. Her usual pair of black ankle boots click-clacked on the cold, dirty concrete.

I begged my mom to let me go buy McDonald’s and let her go home by herself, which she agreed. But little did she know, after I made sure she was gone, I sprinted back to our garage, opened the metal gate, hoping that I would catch the grey Mercedes driving up the ramp – a golden opportunity to get run over by her.

Suddenly, from the base of the ramp, a pair of headlights turned around the corner and blinded me temporarily. She drove up towards me with a languid boredom, her hands barely touching the wheel.

I walked half-way down the ramp. I wasn’t hiding. I wasn’t crouching in the shadows. I walked with a casual, almost defiant stride, my eyes fixed on her back wheels, waiting for perfect position to crouch down and put my hand in the path of the tire.

I could see her through the windshield, her face a mask of serene indifference. She smoothed a strand of hair from her forehead, her engine growling.

My heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, but my face remained calm. I wanted her to see me but did not want her to suspect a thing.

As the front wheels drove beside me, I dropped into a crouch, extending my right hand, palm down, fingers splayed.

The tire rolled over my hand.

The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. The weight of the car, the width of the tire, the sheer mechanical indifference of it all. It pinned my hand to the asphalt, the rubber tread pressing deep into my skin, flattening my fingers, spreading my palm. For a heartbeat, time suspended. I could see the intricate pattern of the tire imprinting itself onto my skin, the dark rubber contrasting with my pale flesh. The pressure was immense, a crushing force that threatened to shatter my bones. However, at this moment, the car’s momentum had faltered; the tire was stuck, resting heavily on my hand, lacking the power to climb fully over it in one smooth motion.

I looked up, meeting her eyes through the rear-view mirror. She saw me half-crouched beside her car. She looked a bit surprised, her brow furrowing slightly. But she didn’t panic. She didn’t slam on the brakes or scream. She simply adjusted her grip on the wheel, her expression shifting to a mild, almost amused curiosity. And she made a decision.

Her foot pressed down the accelerator.

It was such a simple, effortless motion. I could almost hear the soft click of her ankle adjusting, her foot pressing down on the pedal with a casual flick of her toes. There was no struggle, no hesitation. Just a gentle, decisive push. The engine roared, the tires gripped my skin, and the car surged forward. The friction burning, the pressure increasing as the wheel lifted off and rolled completely over me, leaving me gasping, clutching my throbbing hand to my chest.

She drove on without looking back. She didn’t even check her mirrors. She simply drove up the ramp, the grey Mercedes disappearing into the rainy afternoon. I was left in the echo of her engine and the sharp, pulsating pain in my hand.

I went into the garage, letting the sting settle into a warm, throbbing ache. Then, slowly, I brought my hand to my face. The rainwater on her tires had mixed with grime, acting like paint, imprinting a dark, intricate pattern of rubber onto my pale skin. Underneath, I could no longer feel my joints, and any movements felt like hell.

I lowered my head and licked the mark. The taste was metallic, salty from the rain, and perhaps faintly floral from her perfume that had drifted down from the car. It was bitter and sweet. The mark was a physical reminder of her effortless power. She sat comfortably in her luxury leathered seat, bathed in the warm flow of the Air-con. Whereas I was shivering and battered by the heavy raindrops outside. She had crushed me with a flick of her foot, and she didn’t care. That was the true beauty of it—the candid, unbothered dominance. She flexed her calf, contracting her gastrocnemius muscle, pushing her boot down the accelerator pad. I was just another piece of scenery she had to roll over in her path. Perhaps if my hand were an empty water bottle on the ramp she would have crushed it with no difference. I had offered myself to her, and she had accepted, not with a smile or a wave, but with a simple, effortless motion of her foot. And that was enough. That was everything.

I walked to buy McDonald’s for dinner in the rain. I felt a strange sense of peace. The pain in my hand was a constant, throbbing reminder of the encounter, a secret pleasure that I needed to hide for the next 2 weeks.