We didn’t go make out in a park. After a little more dawdling around, he pulled the car (a little SUV, I guess) onto a quiet side street. He left on the air and the radio. (Top 40. Making out to One Direction is probably the dirtiest thing I’ve ever done.) I told him that I love being spanked in cars. I snuggled up to him and he pulled up my skirt and obliged. He still felt abstracted and I wasn’t sure he wanted me, so I goaded him into hitting harder and harder.
We kissed and he pulled me to him by the hair. My legs were already splayed open and his hand went between them, stroking the already-damp crotch of my panties and then going inside, pushing his fingers up into me.
He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled open his pants, pulled a condom on and grabbed the back of my head, pushing me down towards his cock. I was happy to have him in my mouth, even as he thrust all the way into my throat and I gagged and fought for breath. He pushed my head down so hard that it hurt, hands in my hair, kneeling down in front of him behind the driver’s seat. This is the good kind of humiliating, filthy in just the right way. Writing this makes me want his dick in my mouth even more, in a fantasy world where I could taste it.
Hands still tangled into the back of my hair, he pulled me up to kiss me. I straddled him and put my arms around him, wanting to be as close as physics would allow. He moved aside my panties to put himself inside me. This is a move I’ve fantasized about for as long as I can remember, and it did not disappoint. He has a way of pulling my fantasies out into the real world, and I hope he’d proud of that.
I pushed into him and felt a rush of both relief and hunger. I wanted all of him. I wanted to eat him alive. I held on as tightly as I could as we thrust into each other, and, forgetting that we were parked on a quiet suburban street in front of people’s well-manicured lawns, I let out wails of pleasure.
The bad thing happened so fast—his hand over my mouth, a limit broken. And I was PISSED.
“Fuck you.” I huffed, pulling the hand away and hoisting myself off him and onto the other seat in one swift flutter of movement.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I forgot.” I could tell that it was a genuine mistake, not something he’d done to hurt me. “It’s just, you can’t be that loud…”
I sat and cried, aware of how squishy my bare ass was on the seat, having teacherly thoughts about Clorox wipes. Sobs of panic came out and I felt defeated, like every guy-story has to end this way.
He was being apologetic and asking me if I was okay, but he has also still stroking his cock. I wanted to be the one stroking it, I wanted to be all over it, but I felt like all I could do was go home. “Thrift Shop” came on the radio and made me laugh at the not-awesomeness of the situation.
I asked him to hook my bra for me and when he did, something shifted. Something about the heat and softness of his hand on my back made the story change for me. I pulled him toward me and disappeared into kissing him, ran my hand down his belly to what I really wanted. I could decide where the story went next, and it was going to heat and decadence and not tears. I didn’t have to be afraid of a hand over my mouth any more. In fact (not to reward bad behavior, but I have to tell the truth) I’m kind of attracted to it.
Next: Long live the summer of my ass.