Message-ID: <14490eli$9808181759@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: bitbard@newsguy.com (BitBard) Subject: Re: {Mat Twassel} Drive Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: bitbard@newsguy.com Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <35da2077.279231812@smtp.newsguy.com> Reposted with permission. The Author's Email: mmtwassel@aol.com The Author's Website: http://members.aol.com/Mmtwassel/index.html ===================================================== Drive by MatTwassel I was about half-way home from work, thinking about how nice it was that spring was finally coming--I could drive with the window open, it was staying light longer, and maybe I'd have some time to clear the debris from some of our flower beds--when the sleek black sedan in front of me did a little swerve... for a scary second it looked like it was going into on-coming traffic, and my first thought—maybe the driver was avoiding something in the road, a hubcap, a deer, a child. My foot was on the brake, not pressing, not jamming down, but about to... as an adrenaline rush surged through me. But then the sedan tucked itself safely back into the left lane of the suburban highway, and everything was OK--no obstacle. The panic subsided. I had that slightly hollow feeling in my tummy, an emptiness, a pang not so unlike what follows disappointment in love. Was I too close? Traffic was light for a five o'clock afternoon, but this car in front of me wasn't keeping up with the flow. I looked through the sedan's rear window. A woman with dark curly hair nestled against the driver's shoulder. She was doing something. Moving slightly, regularly. Maybe she was fondling him. I drove behind them contemplating the woman's touch. Were her fingers outside his clothes? I thought back to that jerk he did in the road—was that the moment her hand went inside? At the next intersection, the sedan eased into the left-turn lane. I stayed in my lane--now I was right next to them as we waited for the light to change. Normally I'm a shy person. My husband claims there's a bold spot deep inside, but I don't believe him. In any event, I'm not one to stare. But I couldn't help but look over. Earlier I would have guessed these to be high school honeys, but they were clearly a little older than that. The woman might have been my age--young twenties, and the guy maybe 19, a tidy, stone-gray man. He wore short hair, rimless glasses and a blank expression. The bold black ringlets of the girl's hair danced on the shoulder of her leather jacket as she moved her arm. I couldn't see her hands--his lap. If I'd had a mini-van, I thought, I could see what was happening down there. The urge to see surprised me. I had both a desire and an understanding of what the woman was feeling. I could sense the heat and weight of the man's poise, the pulse of his control, and I was wondering whether its color was stone- gray, too, when the man turned slightly. He was looking right at me. His expression didn't change. We looked at each other. He must have said something to the woman, for she turned her head, regarded me for a moment, and then, an instant before turning back to her boyfriend, but without the slightest hint of insult, she pressed her lips together, and she blew me a soft, ultra-serious kiss. I was trying to make sense of the kiss, if a kiss can be made sense of, when I heard a crescendo of car horns, urgently bare noise: the left-turn traffic signal had come on, but the sedan next to me had taken no heed of it. "Oh oh," I thought, "Maybe he's stalled." I felt a tender thrill as I waited for my green. Suddenly, the sedan screeched forward, jabbed itself into my lane, and sped off straight down my road. I noticed something new: a passenger in the back seat. It was a young woman. It was me. "Nice ride, huh?" the girl said. She snuggled against the gray man, her hand still working, delving, but she turned her head so she could see me, and something about her expression made me feel what her fingers were feeling. I could smell her coat--wicked leather. "It's the seats," she said, apparently able to read my thought. "You should take off your panties. But don't leave any wet spots." She laughed, and I could feel myself open, close, open--the hot wet seep of sex. Abruptly, the car swung into a small park, a place with a single picnic table and several tall trees just beginning to bud. There were no other cars, but we were clearly visible from the highway. Anyone driving by could look over and see... The man was standing up, his head poking through the sun roof. Carefully the woman put the man's cock in my mouth. She didn't let go of it. She had her fingers around it, and she eased her hand back and forth, bringing the ruffle of penis skin against my lips, the knuckle of her slim forefinger caressing my nose, and then she stretched him out, and then she brought him back. She varied the rhythm, never hurrying, drawing out the moments. I was thinking about moving my tongue back and forth across the underside, but I stayed perfectly still, breathing through my nose, breathing the scent of the man's sex on the woman's fingers. "In a moment I'm going to make him come," she said, beginning to move her hand faster, pressing the skin firmly against my lips. "'Member what I said about wet spots-- don't drip." I was jolted by the blare of car horns behind me: I had missed my green. A man came up to my window. "Is something the trouble?" he said. I nodded. "The car," I said, "but I think it's OK now." I'm sure I was blushing furiously. My whole body tingled. The man looked like he wanted to say something, but he just nodded, tapped my mirror, and walked back to his car. When the light changed I accelerated hard, but my car's not the kind to squeal, and almost immediately I eased off, moved over to the right lane. The little park was up ahead. I thought about turning in, I was going to, but I just breezed on by. It was empty--just a bicycle propped against the picnic table--no sign of that sedan. I turned into my driveway, pulled up to the garage, but I didn't touch the door-opener--I didn't even turn off the engine; I just sat there idling with my left hand on the wheel, my right hand gripping the gear selector, my right foot pressing the brake. I stayed that way for some minutes. It was very peaceful--the car thrumming gently. I could feel it everywhere, my cunt, my fingers, my feet--not climax but the slow sweet verge of it. A few minutes later my husband pulled into the driveway behind me. He came up to my window. "Honey?" he said, "Are you all right?" I got out of the car and gave him a deep kiss. "Let's go for a drive," I said. 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