So, this was supposed to be up a while ago, but what with the crazy that the last few weeks have been, it's taken a while to get it to a (semi-reasonably) readable place.
Also, the problem with writing porn is... well, it's porn. I end up quitting halfway through, masturbating, and losing interest.
It's a slow editing process.
Without further adieu: the first installation of totally-no-risk-herpes-inspired-porn!
*
We're riding home in the truck. I'm sitting on the bench seat, heels on the dashboard, body jackknifed and bare legs catching streetlights as we pass them. My skirt slips slowly up my thighs with each turn, each acceleration, higher by the inches, by the minutes. He can see the tops of the stockings, black lace. They pinch just a little, a good pinch, a reminder every time I move that I'm wearing them, and nothing else, underneath.
He looks over, making a point of it. I notice that he's noticed. He takes a turn down a street not ours, not so far away, but not the way home either. My breath catches in my throat, and he pulls over, parks the truck under a low tree, leaves heavy in the rain. The drip over the windsheild, shadows from the steetlight down the block. Just enough for us to see each other. The windows fog.
"Take off your coat." He says.
"What are..."
"I said, take off your coat." He cracks the window, just an inch, lights a cigarette, raises his eyebrows at me and stares. He does this when he's waiting, and I know that, and still, it takes me a second to understand.
I shimmy out of the coat, draping it over the seat behind me. We've had the heat on, so it's warm, but the air drafts through the window. I shiver a little.
He reaches out, touches my face, cupping it, like I'm something precious. His hands drift back towards my hair, fingers finding the curls at the bottom of my neck, rooting and pulling, not gently, enough to hurt. My breath comes fast.
He pulls me up, and I'm kneeling in the middle of the seat, facing him, leaf shadows across my eyes, the world in shadow and then light and then shadow. He sit forward still, looking over whenever he cares to, and taps the cigarettes out the window, hot breath and smoke fogging the glass.
Facing him, I wait, a prize on a shelf, almost ignored. An item of service, something utilitarian, and it's the most delicious kind of uncomfortable.
"Undo your buttons. All of them."
My head bent back, neck exposed as prey for the biting, I hold the back of the seat with one hand, and clumsy, shaking, pop the snaps on my blouse with the other. It hangs, open, white skin underneath. My chest rises and falls, pushing the goose pimpled skin over the edge my bra, swelling, warm against the cold air up and over the cups, and receding on the exhale.
"Very good. That's a very good girl." He says it carefully, quietly. There's not rush, and no urgency, but a calculation, because that's what it is. He knows exactly what that will do, electric down the length of me, just a word, just a phrase, but it's magnetic, good medicine.
"Yes Sir."
He lets go of my hair, tossing my head to the side. I'm not to move unless he says so; this is something we've discussed, at length, beforehand. This is something I know, and it's a test, every passing moment, a task evident in stillness, proved by the absence of evidence, nothing shifting that he can see, but I'm getting wetter by the second. My breath gets quieter, shallower, concentrating, the very concentration it requires building an ever-distracting heat between my legs.
"It's a very nice skirt you have on, there."
"Thank you Sir."
"And very nice stockings." He's running a hand gently over my knee.
"Yes Sir."
"Did you pick those out yourself?"
I hesitate, as if one answer or another would change what happens next.
"Yes."
A quick slap across the face, before I can think, it catches my cheek in a hot sting and I'm looking suddenly out the window.
"Yes what?"
A stupid mistake.
"Yes Sir. Sir yes Sir."
"That's right."
He trails his fingers over my thighs, nudges them apart, ever so slightly, with gentle taps on the inside, like training an animal, teaching an innocent. I move them in increments, one towards the back of the seat, one towards the edge. The grey wool skirt hangs in the middle, whole inches of modesty.
"Oh that's a very good girl." He reaches up, pushes the blouse back from my shoulders. His fingers run the down my front, and I breathe and rise to meet him as he presses a flat hand between my breasts, reaching to pull the cups down and my nipples up, resting them on the folds of the bra, displayed. They pucker in the draft, and I shiver.
"Are you cold?"
"A little Sir."
He slaps me lightly again, across the jaw.
"Good." He says, cupping my face.
He sits back for a moment, not touching me. He tosses the cigarette out the window, and exhales long smoke. He stares, looking up and down, considering, a puzzle to solve.
"Pull it up."
"What?"
"Pull up your skirt. Show me."
I reach down, and push the hem neatly up, bunching it along the tops of my thighs. The stockings end, bare leg above them, bare between them, and looking down at myself it is stockings and then nothing, my thighs and lips in the open air. He pushes a strand of hair back from my face, and his other hand, I notice, lays between his legs, stroking gently up and down.
"Are you wet?"
"Yes Sir."
"And would you like to do something about that?"
"Yes Sir." I say. I'm trembling.
"Are you worried someone will see?" He asks, as if he could know that, as if he's aware of how hard it is not to look behind, not to look at the windshield, not the check how covered we are by the tree or how much light, exactly, mists in from the outside.
"Yes Sir."
"Good. Touch yourself."
A hand, tentative, I press up my thigh, between my legs, pushing the skirt up and out of the way, full view now. It's hot and wet, almost dripping to the seat below. The palms of my finger tips find an easy rythym, pressing in between my lips and to either side of my clit, slipping slowly, at first, and then faster. I let out a breath, and bit my mouth to keep from smiling.
"Oh that's such a good girl. Such a good girl." His hand is moving fast too now, over his jeans.
He unzips his jeans, pulling himself out. I keep my eyes down, as instructed, but I know that he's looking, watching my fingers flicking between my legs, tits heaving up and down as I start to grind with my hips, nipples tight and peaked with the cold. I keep my eyes down, no eye contact, I know this, and watch his grip on his dick get tighter, the rhythm get faster, pulsing blood under the skin. I want to climb on top of him and ride it, can feel the head of him pressing into me, slipping into me, can feel the warm inside skin of my thighs rubbing on his jeans, can feel the rhythm of me, filthy, desperate, right there in the car.
But he slows, just then, and lifts my chin with his other hand, looking me in the face.
"Would you like to taste it?"
I nod, mouth already open.
"And what do you do when you want something?"
"I..."
"You know the answer. It's okay." He's almost gentle.
"I ask for it, Sir."
"That's right."
"May I... May I suck your cock please, Sir?" And even as the words are out of my mouth, I can taste it on my tongue, feel it hard and pulsing against the insides of my cheeks.
"Very good. Go ahead."
He lets go, and his dick stands up straight from his jeans, hard and pink. I lower myself down, pausing my hand on myself to adjust. He taps me light on the ass.
"Did I tell you to stop?"
"No Sir."
"Good. Now taste it."
I kiss him up and down the shaft, thin skin over the swell. My lips run up and down the sides, to the top. I open my mouth and lower, slowly. Like a favorite food I haven't ever tasted before, the moment of satisfaction when I take him in, and I'm full, I'm full of him.
He rests a hand across my back, fingers trailing lightly over my ass, which is up in the air, my hand still going fast between my legs. I suck, running my tongue along the ridge of the head, rising and then pushing back down, building a rhythm. My clit is on fire, and I flick faster, in time with my own sucking, and every stroke is hot and biting and any minute, any damn minute, it'll fall over the edge. His searches with his other hand, finding a cigarette and a lighter, smoking again out the open window as I work his dick deeper and deeper down my throat.
"Good girl. Deeper now." His voice is gentle, patient, instructional, his hand running slowly past my lower back, patting my ass, slapping a little, finger pressing gently between the cheeks and against the outside of the pucker there.
I suck harder, push the head of him against the back of my mouth, into my throat, gagging and spitting, coughing as I come up, gasping for breath and then down again, a little push to get to the base, his balls pressing into my cheek.
"Oh, that's my girl." He sighs, takes his finger away, and grabs a handful of my ass cheek, holding on, dragging from his cigarette with the other hand.
"That' my very, very good girl." His voice begins to falter, just a little, the pleasure in his body a waver in the measured tone. He starts thrusting back, and I can barely breath, and between my legs there's a clenching starting, the beginning of a fall. He flicks the cigarette out the window and puts a hand on my head, pulsing my whole body up and down over him.
"Oh yes good girl. You like that, don't you? You like my cock down your throat?" I can't answer, but he knows that.
"Good slut... That's a very... very good little... slut." It's real praise, heightened, his voice a little higher, but he means it.
"You take that cock. That's... that's my good..." Hands wrapped in my hair, he holds my head down, a pulsed throbbing in my mouth, shooting striaght down the back of my throat, hot and salty, so far back I can barely taste it.
He pauses a moment, lets out a breath. He lifts my head from his lap. I'm still slick against myself, still going, so close to coming but knowing that I need permission.
"May I, Sir?"
I'm kneeling, desperate, flushed, still facing him, a drip of his come across my chin. He looks me up and down, tucks his cock back in his pants. He run a finger over my chin, wiping the drip, holding the finger out for me.
"No." He says. I lean forward, licking it from his fingertip, "You may not. Buckle up."
He pushes me gently, almost playful, back to the passengers side, and my legs are shaking and my pussy is throbbing and my fingers fall, wet and still, to clench in my skirt.
"You wait until we get home." He says.
And he buckles, and puts the key in the ignition, and turns it, and the engine roars us home.
*
More soon, on life, the universe, and everything (and man, are there a lot of things!)
