It's only past seven in the evening and still already pitch dark outside the car. The headlights illuminate the fat raindrops that hurl themselves horizontally at the windshield. He is on the autobahn going barely 50 mph in the middle lane and it still looks like Chewie just punched it. Fall season in Germany is goddamn dreary.
The streets are packed today. It's rush hour, but no one's literally rushing anywhere. Wise decision in this weather.
He changes the radio channel and catches the tail end of the traffic news just as he clears a little crest and the view before him makes him curse. The road flows down the hill, snakes around a copse of trees and then up another hill, vanishing there - and as far as his eye can see, it's a chain of red tail lights. Bumper to bumper gridlock.
Predictably, the truck in front of him slows down. He eases onto the brakes as well and swerves toward the right hand side as far as he can to allow rescue vehicles through on the left. Soon, he is sandwiched between the truck and the SUV behind him. With a sigh, he puts the car in idle, sinks into his seat, leans his head back and closes his eyes.
He's not really in a hurry. There's no one waiting for him at home except his bed. Thinking about that empty bed makes him sigh a little.
A slow, sensual guitar comes through the loudspeakers. He recognizes Chris Isaak's 'Wicked Game' and slightly turns up the volume. He remembers the video clip, remembers watching it on loop back in the VHS days. Helena Christensen artfully strip-teasing herself out of her lacey underwear at the beach, damp, stringy hair falling across her glistening lips, pale, kohl-rimmed come-fuck-me-eyes hypnotically staring at the viewer, is not something anyone could ever forget.
He looks around himself - truck in front, SUV behind, dark van to his right. The truck's tail lights, the reflection from his own headlights and the shine from the headlights of the cars in the leftmost lane do brighten the interior of his car a little, but there is more than sufficient shade and darkness, too. It's public, but also private. No one is going to see. And even if they did... so what? The faint possibility is actually the thing that gives him the last little nudge.
He reaches down and unzips, wriggles his jeans down just a bit, reaches into his underwear and touches himself. He is half-hard already. He blames Helena Christensen and her pouty lips.
Leaning his head back against the headrest, he slowly and steadily tugs and strokes his meat into full hardness. As he pulls it out of his briefs, he imagines Helena and her sun-kissed skin, her perky tits, the nipples she never actually showed in the video. He imagines her video lover latching onto and sucking on them as she straddles him and rubs her panty-clad pussy against his crotch. Her lover's big hands come around and cup her shapely ass, and the tips of his fingers slide under the seams of the lacey fabric to tease and tickle her cleft. He can almost hear her panting and moaning, can almost see her throwing her head back with her eyes closed in ecstasy.
Suddenly, someone honks and an ambulance howls past out of nowhere. Torn from his fantasy, he opens his eyes and looks around once.
Then he does a double take.
The van that was next to him is gone. It crept forward a couple of meters on the rightmost lane and the next car pulled up into its spot. It's an English car, its front window lining up with his exactly, the driver behind the wheel that's installed on the far right side instead of the left. The van's tail lights are high and bright. That's how he can see all of her.
She, in turn, can see all of him.
The woman in the other car is watching him - watching his cock, to be precise - with one hand on the steering wheel, the other in her own pants, burrowed into her crotch.
It takes a long, magical moment for her to realize that she has been spotted. She freezes like a startled rabbit as their eyes meet. Even in the bright red glow of the taillight, he can see how she blushes furiously. She pulls her hand from between her legs, acting like she had merely adjusted her underwear or her sanitary pad or whatever, and bows her head so that her dark hair falls between them like a curtain.
He chuckles to himself. It would almost be endearing, if only he wasn't painfully hard and any thoughts of Helena Christensen hadn't dispersed like clouds at the idea of jerking off with an eager, participating live audience instead. He keeps staring at the woman, wishing so hard she would look over at him again that he grits his teeth.
After a small eternity, she risks a sideways glance - just a glance - then turns away once more. He curses.
Oh,
now
you're shy?! Fuck that.
You
started this.
He reaches up to switch on the interior light and then leans on his car horn. The blare goes on for full five seconds until she looks over again and he lets up.
Her eyes go wide. He knows she can see him properly now. She looks away again and he honks again - eventually, she gets it, gives in, bites her lip and holds the eye contact.
That is, until he grabs his cock again and gives it a good pump. Throwing down the gauntlet.
He sees her gaze snapping down, sees her staring, scandalized and mesmerized simultaneously, mouth slightly open. He even switches hands for her so that she can better see what he's doing. He knows he has a nice cock, with the right length and girth, and a pleasant curve and shape. No wonder she got stuck watching him. He smirks to himself.
The smirk falls right out of his face when he sees her hands reaching up to her chest and cupping her tits - big ones, C-cups at least - through her white blouse and underwear. Her fingers knead and pinch. Not in the porn star
Look at these
kind of way, but in the
I'm so horny that my tits are heavy and my nipples are achy
kind of way. He groans to himself and slows his hand down to match his strokes to her rhythm, imagining his cock wedged between those tits, pumping upwards, his angry red mushroom head reaching for the tip of her tongue. She would be sticking it out to lick his pre-cum off the little slit, he just knows it.
His groan fills the car when she decides to make a goddamn commitment and take his challenge, and unbuttons her blouse hastily. Her breasts are confined by a very sensible-looking flesh-colored bra, and as if she can hear his thoughts, she folds down the cups immediately. Her glorious tits spill out, jutting forward. Her nipples are dark and pointed and he longs to suck on them. Instead, he watches her pinch, roll and tug them between her thumb and index finger, much harder than he thought women liked it.
Her other hand slides down her body and back underneath the belt of her black office slacks. She doesn't unbutton or unzip them. With the fabric still so tight and tense, her hand shows up as a moving bulge, which is somehow even hotter than seeing exactly where her fingers are going and what they are doing. Again he matches his rhythm to hers.
They lock eyes across the two cars and it's like they are locked in a strange sort of embrace.
Faster,
he mouths, and she speeds up right alongside him, pressing her lips together to stifle her moans. He imagines that she is used to keeping quiet. Maybe that's how she's also an expert on masturbating without even opening her pants first. He imagines her in her cubicle, her co-workers all around her and her hands busy with her cunt without anyone the wiser. Or maybe she's one of those women who like to keep it inside, the ones who implode instead of bursting outward when they cum, screaming silently instead. Or does she like to be
told
to keep quiet? To be threatened a little?
One peep, my slut, and I'll give you proper reason to scream this house down.
Shit,
he curses. Her hand and arm are working so furiously and have almost sunk so deep past the waistline now he knows she has at least one finger inside her pussy. He imagines the smell filling the car, imagines the squishy noises.
I'm gonna cum,
he tells her.
She shakes her head once.
Not yet.
With another, heftier curse, he clutches his cock at the base and squeezes to stall the orgasm just a little longer. His balls feel achingly full. His cock and his fingers and palm are slick with his pre-cum.
He watches her flying solo for a moment, and she watches him watching her, her eyes flicking down to his cock every time it twitches. He can't help but think how beautifully desperate she looks with her tits bare, her fingers clamped around one nipple and her hand between her legs.
With his empty right hand, he points and gestures for her to pull her hand out of her panties, and she does - with her lips pressed together again, this time to stifle a groan of frustration, he imagines. In the taillights' glow, he can see the wet glisten on her skin. Fuck.
He sticks his own middle finger into his own mouth and licks it.
Her eyes go wide, but she complies and licks her juice from her fingers, never breaking eye contact, never stopping to fondle her tit.
Delicious?
he asks, and she blushes again and momentarily hides her face in her palm. He huffs a laugh. So dirty and so innocent.
