Fantasy Car Ride

She gets into the car. She is 35 and has the body of a much younger athlete. She has jet black hair and generous breasts. Her thighs keep me up at night, just thinking of them. She is wearing a very tight, very short black skirt with towering high heels. Her light blue blouse is tight and strains against her delectable breasts.

She rarely smiles. It is her way. But when she does, it gets me more excited than when she wraps her lovely red lips around my cock. She is not a happy person, at least not with me. I am here for a reason. She asked if she could trust me. I tell her she can. She tells me to pick her up at her townhouse at 11:00 PM.

She has informed me that she is a college girl. She has informed me that I am a middle-aged man (which very soon, I would be). She tells me that I am forcing her to take this ride. Why? She never says. She just wants me to occasionally answer her rhetorical questions. Other than that, I am to do exactly what she is accusing me of doing.

This is what she says:

I'm here, asshole. Just like you wanted. Are you happy? Do you like that I actually graced you with my presence?

Oh, you like this shit, don't you? You like the skirt and the tits and the heels. I even put on perfume. Can you smell it? I put it all over my hot fucking body, you pervert.

You probably like that, don't you. That I rubbed some perfume around the lips of my cunt.

You know how lucky you are? You know how many guys wish I would even make eye contact with them, let alone get in their car? You know how many guys eye-fuck me every fucking day? Hot guys, not just professors and nerds. They all jerk off to me.

What? You think you can just stare at my tits like that? Here, let me unbutton this blouse so you can get a better look.

You like that, don't you? Asshole.

Think you can pull over here in this restaurant parking lot to get a better view? You like that?

Fuck, you think you can just touch my inner thighs? Who the fuck do you think you are? You know how many men would fucking kill to rub my thighs like that, you fucking-

Fuck, you went straight for my cunt, you asshole. You're fucking stroking my cunt, right here in the parking lot of this restaurant, with all these people just walking by? You're the fucking luckiest guy ever. You think any other hot girl would just let you keep stroking her cunt.

So what if I'm wet? Fuck you. Has nothing to do with your hands rubbing deeper into my pussy. You fucking-

Fuck, so what if I'm spreading my legs? You think that means I like it, you asshole? You think just because I'm leaning back and letting you stroke that pussy for a few minutes that I'm actually ENJOYING this shit?

Fuck you. I can rub my tits and pull at the nipples if I want to. I can do whatever the fuck I want.

No, I don't want you to pull down my panties. What if that hot fucking bitch walking with her boyfriend sees me? What is she comes over, and leans into the window, so that those huge fucking breasts were in my face, and she sees that you've been rubbing my pussy and I'm feeling my tits? What if her boyfriend decides to fuck her from behind?

(Note: No woman came over and did this; but a hot older woman and her slightly younger boyfriend did walk by; that caused the statement above)

Fuck you, you're touching my clit. You're touching my fucking clit. You want me to just fucking cum, right here, in public? Sure, the windows are up and no one would hear me that much. But I am not going to give you the satisfaction of thinking an old pervert like you can just make me cum whenever he wants to. I'm not your fucking-

Fuck. Oh fuck. The clit. You're making me cum...

(at this point, she is almost completely silent; I think it was because she was usually very loud and this was more intense than anything previous; speculating; she never told me; we are silent for a few minutes; her eyes are closed; she wakes from her reverie; I think she cried a little because she wiped her face, including her eyes)

Great, fucking great. You made me fucking cum like a whore in public. Surprised a crowd of hot bitches didn't come over to watch and get off with their boyfriends.

What? You think I'm going to reciprocate? Jerk you off right here?

Fuck you. You can take that cock out all you like, doesn't mean I'm going to jerk it or suck it.

Look, just because I want to see if it feels hot to the touch doesn't mean I'm enjoying this shit. You're an old fucking pervert who got to finger fuck the hottest girl around. And you just happen to have a nice, hard, hot cock.

If I suck this cock, it's only because you'd probably shoot a load and it might get on my dress. So, fine, I'll do what I want to do.

But if you call me a slut or a whore, I'll fucking stop right then and there.

(she proceeds to suck, using tongue and moaning loudly; she looks up for a moment and I say: "Keep sucking, you fucking slut." She then start going up and down on it with more ferocity than any woman I have ever experienced; I make her work for several minutes, calling her names like Slut, Whore, Bitch, Hot Fuck; telling her that she really likes it; when I cum, I feel like I might be having a heart attack; it is pure ecstasy; when I am done, she sits up, looks at herself in the sun visor mirror and starts talking again)

Well, fine, you fucking pervert. You see I got exactly what I wanted. Now, take me home.

(We drive home; not a word; she steps out of the car, tottering on her heels like a drunk; she leans into the open door and gives me the finger; not sure what to do, other than drive home; mission accomplished; I watch to make sure she enters her third floor unit; I pull the car out of the space and my phone rings; it is she)

Hi, while you're in the neighborhood, I thought we could get a bite to eat? What do you say?

(she sounds completely different; she sounds like the 35 year old woman I met a month and a half ago; she is no longer The College Girl; I say ok; she asks for a few minutes to get changed; she'll be right down; she comes downstairs in jeans and a sweatshirt, with white deck shoes; her hair is now in a ponytail; she is comfortably casual; she speaks)

I feel like pizza. You ok with that? There's a nice Italian place down the street.

(and that was it; we had a normal date, as if nothing in the past 45 minutes had occurred; and we never discussed it in the three additional months I knew her)