The 1071Cc Mini Cooper

Disclaimer. This is an example of the genre known unofficially as Auto-porn set in England, with English dialogue so if 'F words' and talk of big ends or crank shafts offend you, don't read it.

None of the Characters or corporations are based on real people, or corporations, any similarities are unintentional.

The 1071cc Mini Cooper.

"Geoffrey," she shouted, above the roar of the engine my 1071cc classic Mini Cooper S as we howled uphill on the old A6 between Kendal and Shap "Would you prefer a spring wedding."

"What?" I demanded, "Oh, I don't know, shut up a minute, I think it's misfiring."

"Geoffrey I do believe you love your car more than you love me!" she snapped.

"There!" I exclaimed, "It misfired again, did you feel it?"

"No!" she said, "I'm bored,"

"Boring more like, just shut up a moment," I said insensitively, "I'll check the plugs," and I pulled to the side of the road, "Hop out," I said as the tool box was trapped behind her seat.

"But it's raining!" she complained as she opened the door and stepped out onto the wet roadside verge, and as she stood there in the rain so I grabbed the plug spanner and changed the NGK BPR8ES spark plugs for new set of classic Champion N3's.

"Okey dokey," I chortled as I slammed the bonnet lid down after less than ten minutes work, but she was gone, disappeared.

I looked in both directions, she was nowhere to be seen, so I decided to pick her up on the way back.

The engine sounded beautiful after that, howling up those hills where the Lakes meet the Pennines and with the windscreen wipers clacking and the straight through exhaust booming complementing the gasping sounds of the twin SU carburettors it was a great feeling.

I had a bite to eat in Penrith, they wouldn't let me in the hotel restaurant there because I had oil on my shirt, and my tie and jacket, so I made do with a hot dog from a burger van and then I went back to Kendal again, and after cleaning the car in a car wash I went back to the Hotel.

"Hi!" I said cheerily, as I saw her watching TV.

"Oh, you're back?" she said disinterestedly, "I thought I heard you, I've been having sex with the Boy Scout troop at Peglers farm."

"Good, she revs cleanly to six five now," I added.

"Anal sex, hard, thrusting, pounding!" she said.

"But now the brakes are squealing," I explained.

"One in my ass, one in my mouth, one in," she said, "Geoffrey are you listening?"

"Yes cock up," I agreed, "But I don't know if it's the cooler plugs or removing your weight that is making the difference."

"Geoffrey, I have been having rough sex with strangers all." she paused, Major General Mcnaughton had joined us, with his sweet wife Marjory a really nice couple, she was about mothers age, he maybe ten years older, her hair a mass of permed silver curls matched what was left of his silver hair though that was de minimus as they say and he stood ramrod straight, the epitome of a retired British Army Officer.

"Ah, rough sex," he said, "And how's the Min Cooper young Palmer?"

"Misfiring sir," I suggested, "And when I fitted colder plugs Caroline went off to have rough sex with the boy scouts."

"Geoffrey!" Caroline protested.

"You should be careful," Marjory confided, "Rough sex splits rubbers, I had to have an abortion in Rhyl one summer didn't I darling."

"Blacks," he said by way of explanation.

"We didn't use rubbers!" Caroline exclaimed.

"Oh, well take the morning after pill dear," Marjory advised, "You don't want to take any chances."

"The thing is," I explained, "I don't know if it was the plugs or the car being so much lighter without Caroline, but she revved right up to six thousand five up the hills in third."

"What eighty miles an hour?" the Colonel exclaimed.

"Oh no she has a 4.11 diff not a 3.44," I replied, "But sixty plus!"

"Then give her another try!" he suggested.

"No way!" Caroline insisted, "I am never going to set foot in that horrible little car again!"

"Caroline!" I exclaimed, "How are you going to get home?"

"Train!" she insisted, "Then I can have rough sex with drunken scotch-men all the way to Paddington!"

"Euston," I corrected her.

"Look, Geoffrey," Marjory Mcnaughton interjected, with a nervous little laugh, "Why don't I go for a ride with Geoffrey while you two have sex or watch TV,"

"Well, yes!" I agreed immediately, "Thank you!"

"Geoffrey," Caroline suggested, "Would you seriously prefer going for a drive in your Mini to an evening of passion with me?" I knew very well it would be an evening of TV with barely a kiss.

"Well I'm ready when you are Mrs Mcnaughton," I suggested, "Perhaps you will need to change?"

She wore a padded blue jacket over a simple print dress with a single row of pearls, bare legged with wellington boots, "Oh this will be fine," she said, "You do have a heater I presume,"

"Yes, Yes of course," I agreed, you needed one to keep the engine cool in hot weather after I threw the cooling fan away to save 0.3 bhp.

"Then lead on Mr Palmer!" she exclaimed.

The Mini lurked in the shadows of the pub car park, red with a white roof and white number panels on doors and bonnet, and the three round lights along the front of the bonnet, and fifty years more or less had elapsed since she was built at BMC's Longbridge Birmingham plant.

I held the door for Marjory, she climbed into the bucket seat with surprising agility, and she fastened the four point rally style seat belts unaided which surprised me.

"Daddy had one of these," Gladys said shockingly, "The 1275,"

"Oh," I said.

"The Major and I had our first sex in the back seat," she said, "I learned to drive in it you see."

"Right?" I said as I started the engine, and headed out of Kendal.

"It always ran rough at 30 mph." she added.

"They had higher gearing than this, this has a Morris 1100 final drive," I assured her, "But the gearbox casing is MG Metro and the extension."

"Yes," she agreed, "The poor Major once got his bottom impaled on the gear lever in mid bonk," she remembered, "The standard models with no extension housing were much better for sex."

"Yes," I agreed but I was listening to the engine note, and as we came to the first of those big hills I floored the accelerator pedal in third gear and watched the rev counter needle like a hawk slowly it wound round from four thousand all the way to six thousand five hundred, "Sounds good!" I assured her.

And then suddenly she grabbed the gear lever, she twisted it and it flopped uselessly across the carpet towards her feet, "Oh sorry!" she giggled, and I had to pull over and stop.

It was getting dark, I knew the problem, the silly pressed steel retaining cap had pulled over the roll pins when she grabbed the lever, six screws held the leather cover on, three minutes work and then as I peeled back the metal ring holding the leather cover and so Marjory grabbed the gear lever off me, "Just a moment young man," she insisted, and quite suddenly my polished walnut gear knob with a BMC crossed motif was slipping up under Gladys' dress, "Ah, that's better," she said.

"Mrs Mcnaughton, may I have my gear lever back?" I asked.

"When I'm satisfied, young man." she said, "After all this rampant testosterone a girl needs relief."

"Will you hurry up then please?" I asked.

"Certainly," she agreed, "You could always help me," she suggested.

"How?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm sure you can think of something!" she said and smiled, "And you are going nowhere until you get the gear lever back are you?

"Right," I agreed, "Shall I kiss you or something?"

"Well actually Geoffrey," she said, "The gear knob is rather cold and unyielding, and, I'd much rather have a nice warm stiff cock inside me."

"But Mrs Mcnaughton," I protested, "Your old enough to!"

"Not have to worry about getting pregnant?" she asked, and laughed, "Absolutely, but the windows have misted up, shall we retire to the back seat?"

"If it means I get my gear lever back," I agreed, "Then yes!"

It wasn't easy, we had to get out tip the seats forward and climb back in and even then we were cramped, thank heaven there was no gear lever as the knob would have vied for space with my own knob, but with her sitting on the edge of the back seat and myself kneeling over the handbrake I eased my trousers down and released my surprisingly firm erection.

"Oh, my word Mr Palmer, quite a boner!" Mrs Mcnaughton exclaimed, as she pulled up her dress to show her silver pubic hair, and a surprisingly neat taut set of cunt lips, glistening with moisture.

"You're, ah." I exclaimed.

"Leaking, yes like all old bangers I'm afraid I do drip the odd spot," she admitted, "Now shall you plug the leak or shall we discuss the 1964 Monte Carlo Rally.

"Oh god yes the 64 Monte," I agreed and as I tried to get comfortable so she guided my penis up between her well lubricated cunt lips.

"Perhaps afterwards Mr Palmer," she said, "Now how about some reciprocation,"

"Absolutely," I agreed, "I do so wish Caroline would talk dirty."

"Harder, faster," Marjory requested, "Lengthen the stroke bore me out plus twenty thou!" she said, "Come on what sort of crankshaft are you, a 970 or a 1275."

I imagined I was driving on the 1964 Monte Carlo Rally, hurtling down into Monaco in Paddy Hopkirks 1275 cc Cooper S, the pistons pistoning like my pounding pulsing penis.

"The ten ninety eight has the longest stroke of all BMC A series cranks," I explained eventually, but then quite suddenly there was a massive explosion from my big end and hot fluids gushed out uncontrollaby, my engine had blown! "Ohhh sorry." I apologised profusely as I realised I had shot my load inside her.

"Oh Mr Palmer there is certainly nothing wrong with your oil pump," she said, "Nothing at all."

"Gosh!" I exclaimed, "That was marvellous, absolutely marvellous!"

"Yes Mr Palmer, its the smell of hot exhaust pipes, hot oil and," she grinned, "Petrol!"

"There is always something missing when I have sex with Caroline," I agreed.

"Well the Major sniffs a pair of my panties soaked in a mixture of Castrol R motorcycle racing oil and aviation petrol," Marjory admitted, "When he forgets to pick up his Viagra!"

"Oh right," I agreed.

"But the poor dear has shrunk over the decades," she agreed, "You must be nearly six and a half inches, he is barely five these days."

"May I have my gear lever back?" I asked.

"In a moment," she agreed, "But it was so awkward to get settled that we ought to take full advantage."

"Yes," I agreed, although I was sure there was a 1/2" UNF bolt sticking in my left knee, "May I rise up," I meant to take the weight off the knee with the bolt digging into it.

"Yes, oh yes," she said, as in my endeavours to remove the bolt, I rose up and with her guidance my freshly swelling penis slid back inside her .

"Thats it gently," she said, "It's not a sprint, you only need to average thirty on road sections remember!"

"Yes!" I agreed, "Mustn't arrive too early,"

I just jogged along gently, gently fucking her, thrusting gently, making the car rock it's short travel almost rock hard rubber suspension as Marjory slipped on the slippery leather effect vinyl back seat, "Geoffrey," she said, "Ah my breasts feel somewhat, constrained, would you mind?"

"Constrained?" I enquired, "Oh!" so I carefully worked my hand up her jacket un-zipped her dress and flipped her bra catch open, nearly as awkward as changing the right hand rear engine mounting bracket on an MG Metro Turbo.

"That's better, they shrank sadly, and gravity has taken it's toll." she said.

"They are lovely," I agreed, although I was actually looking at a couple of mist shrouded lake-land mountains through the misty rear window at the time.

"Geoffrey," she said, "There's a control ahead, we need to speed up!" she said, "We are slightly behind time on the Halda!"

I should have remembered my Halda rally time and distance meter hadn't been properly calibrated and advised her, but I was too engrossed in the moment so as required I floored the throttle and increased my thrusting went from a steady chug chug chug, to a desperate crescendo of blurred pulsing thrusting over revving reciprocation that made her scream with ecstacy before the inevitable "Bang" and all the fluids escaped in a series of gushing pulsing ejaculatory gouts as if my bottom hose had burst.

I had to stop, in my mind, you can't continue with no coolant, can you?

"Oh Geoffrey," Marjory gasped as she beamed at me, "That was lovely!"

I disentanged myself from her, wiped myself on a piece of rag, and asked reasonably enough, "May I have the gear-lever please."

She handed it to me and set about re arranging her clothing while I pulled my trousers up and then we stepped out of the car pulled the tip up seats back into place and I set about straightening the gear lever retaining cup and putting the lever back in place, in about five minutes it was done, all the screws tightened again and nothing left to show of the problem, except some oily fingers and a suspicious mark on the back seat.

The gear lever problem resolved I headed north again, the temperature was down and she was sluggish to begin with but eventually she started singing and u the last stretch she peaked in third gear and I slammed her into fourth (top) and she just hung on, just balancing, not accelerating or slowing, "That proves it!" I exclaimed, "It's the plugs!"

She smiled at me, "So it seems that women are interchangeable yet plugs are different."

"As long as they weigh about the same, yes." I agreed, "Girls I mean."

She ran her fingers along my thigh, "Men are much the same!" she said, "Inter-changeable, shall we get back, have a late dinner?"

I agreed and we hurtled back to Kendal, well not really hurtled, she 's only geared for just over eighty so we coasted down most of the hills, and the car wash was closed so I just borrowed a bucket of water from the Hotel kitchen to wash the mini off before I went in to dinner.

"Geoffrey!" Caroline gasped, "What have you been doing!"

"Rough sex in a Layby on the A6," Marjory said sweetly.

"Your shirt!" she gasped, I saw I had oil stains on the cuffs again, graphite grease marks to be precise.

"I'll change," I promised.

"Really?" Caroline huffed, "You keep saying that."

"He means the shirt dear," Marjory explained, "And you two, break any bed springs did you?"

"No went for a drive in the Aston," the Major replied, "DB5 you know."

"Like James Bond!" Marjory explained, "I wish!"

"Is that the twin cam straight six?" I asked, "With triple Stromberg carburetors?"

"Change your shirt, Geoffrey," Caroline insisted.

So I left them discussing cars and sex.

"She's certainly a goer," the Major admitted, ambiguously.

"More suited to the M6 than A6 I suppose," I said as I returned to the table wearing my pink shirt.

"Geoffrey you look like a poofter," Caroline complained.

"Surely not!" Marjory replied.

"I'm getting a bit short of clean shirts," I explained, "I'll try to find a launder-o-mat tomorrow," I promised.

"He might as well be for all the interest he takes in me," Caroline complained, "A poofter I mean."

"Wooly woofter, shirtlifter, you're not are you young Palmer?" the Major asked.

"No sir definitely not!" I replied.

"Good good, pleased to hear it," he agreed, "Knew a chap used to wear a skirt once."

"That was a Kilt!" Marjory explained, "Jock McLeish, he found it very handy for quickies behind the mess, he was most definitely not a poofter!"

"But where did you go in the Aston?" I asked.

"Carnforth," they replied together.

"Did you open her up?" I asked.

"No he just slammed his meat straight into me," Caroline snapped, "No warning, one moment he was talking Mike Hailwood versus Agostini at the 1967 Senior TT and the next, wham, six inches of solid meat jammed up my chuff!"

"Wow," I exclaimed, "That lap record stood for years, 108 MPH I believe."

"Yes, not bad for a five hundred four stroke," the Major agreed.

"Peter Williams was the one though, 102 on the Arter Matchless in 1973." I added.

"Before you were born Geoffrey," Marjory exclaimed.

"Bloody hell, he spent the afternoon screwing me Geoffrey," Caroline snapped.

"Sorry darling, but we're discussing the Isle of Man TT races." I apologised, "Shall you have wine darling, I think I'll stick to sparking water."

I noticed Caroline's mascara was smeared but didn't realise it was from tears of frustration.

The dinner was expensive more than papatable and then after a leisurely cigar sitting by the little river, I had tried to get Caroline to give up but she insisted, we bade the McNaughtons good night and retired to our bedrooms.

I'm afraid Caroline disgraced herself, I went through the door connecting our rooms to find Manuel, the porter in his underpants climbing into Caroline's bed.

"I say!" I exclaimed, "Have a heart, the poor girl's screwed the entire Venture Scout troop this morning and old Mcnaughton this afternoon, give her some rest can't you?"

Poor chap, his jaw just about hit the ground, and he gathered up his clothes threw them on his little trolley and bolted from the room.

"This wedding thingy," I said.

"Forget it!" she said.

"Oh, ok," I agreed, "I thought perhaps the Silverstone Grand Prix weekend, say three thirty, watch the qualifying first?"

"The wedding, forget the wedding!" she snapped, "Better still marry the bloody car!"

"Damn, Mother will be livid!" I snapped, "She says."

"She says far too sodding much!" Caroline complained, "Separate bedrooms! what ever next!"

"Well, when we're married." I explained.

"We, not getting married, we're not living together we're over!" she snapped, "Now get out!"

I did as she said and I lay in my bed tossing and turning, who had beaten Mike Hailwood's 1967 500cc TT lap record? I couldn't remember, just couldn't remember.

I went downstairs in my pyjama's, the owners daughter Penny was in the lounge watching the Electric blue channel on TV, she had her feet dangling over the arms of a leather armchair her skirt pulled way up under her ample breasts which hung freely with her brassiere dangling on its straps and her shirt unbuttoned.

"Oh," she gasped as I walked in and she tried to hide her sticky vibrator under a cushion.

"Sorry, couldn't sleep," I apologised.

"Can I help," she said as she smiled at me, I took in her curves, her DD breasts, the left maybe a tad larger than the right maybe, her hazel eyes her brown hair, she looked eighteen, tops.

"Who beat Mike Hailwood's 1967 Senior TT lap record?" I asked.

"Joey Dunlop," she replied, "Do you want to fuck?"

"No, you're underage!" I exclaimed.

"No. look I have my driving license here somewhere." it was in her hand bag, among the condoms.

"Oh, right, well yes." I agreed.

"It's fifty pounds," she said, "For straight, well I have my tuition fees to pay you know."

"I don't have my wallet with me," I apologised.

"I'll put it on the bill," she whispered and she resumed her legs spread position on the arm chair.

"It wasn't Joey Dunlop, it was Mick Grant on the Kr 750 Kawasaki triple!" I blurted out, "1975, that's not funny!"

"I'm still putting it on the bill," she announced, all puppy fat and voluptuousness, and it didn't seem fair to the girl to turn down what she was offering, so I took a condom from her bag and slipped it onto my now straining erection.

She had a mass of curly brown pubic hair, and an ugly cunt, not the pretty sort you see in top-shelf magazines but the ugly ones they airbrush out, unusually large lips, uneven lop sided even but that said after her session with the vibrator she was hot and gloriously wet and it must be said eager, and she sat in that leather arm chair, and it smelled just like the upholstery in Horace Branksworth's pre war Rolls Royce.