by J. L. White
I settle deeper into his lap. His cock hits me right between the legs. I press against him harder, curling around him more. He comes away slightly and growls, “That’s my girl.”
He removes his hands from my head and my hair falls in a curtain around us as he goes to my breasts. He massages them through the thin material of my bra as we kiss more, and I grind against him more. He rolls my nipples in his fingers, then pinches them until I gasp. He gives me a half-grin of satisfaction, and I rock on his cock again, feeling the damp material of my panties press against my slightly spread folds.
His hands go around and release the clasp on my bra, then he reaches underneath and squeezes my bare breasts. I lift my shirt impatiently, wrangling my bra off with it, and toss them both over the open side of the car. He puts his wet mouth on my nipple, licking and sucking and leaning me slightly backward. Both of his hands slide under my leggings and squeeze my ass.
I claw at his shirt to raise the hem, desperate to feel his bare back under my hands and his bare chest against mine. But he’s not letting off my breasts until he’s good and ready. He goes to the other nipple, flicking it with his hard tongue and circling it until it’s soaked.
He squeezes my ass harder, dipping his hands lower, reaching for the good stuff. Still gathering the material of his shirt in my hands, I arch my ass back to give him access. I’m dripping and he slips right in.
Head back, mouth open, I cry out. Still sucking my tit, he comes out, and goes for my clit. A zing of pleasure shoots through me as he hits the hard bundle of nerves, then he penetrates me again, this time with two fingers.
“Oh fuck,” I say, head still back, hands still clutching the bunched fabric of his shirt. “Fuck. Fuck me.”
He abruptly removes his hands and my head dips forward in protest. His eyes are dark with desire and he slaps my ass so hard the sound echoes off the concrete in garage. “Off with these.”
I shimmy off his lap and stand slightly, his hands on my ribs, supporting me. As I grab the material and push it past my hips, he starts to turn my torso. Before I realize what he has planned, I’m facing the front, leaning both hands on the back of the seat in front of me, and he’s stripping me nude.
Still fully dressed himself, he lifts my left thigh and plants my bare foot on the soft leather seat.
“I want to lick that sweet pussy of yours,” he says, putting his hands on my hips and arching my ass up and back. “I want to suck that clit until you come, then fuck you hard until we both come.”
Then his mouth is on me, and I grip the seat and arch back more in one hard movement. “What? Oh my god. Oh fuck.”
Hands on my ass, tongue working my clit, he spreads my cheeks wide and buries himself in me.
The knee of my supporting leg buckles slightly. I gasp and I lock it. And my pussy is throbbing with pleasure. My foot on the seat stretches up on tiptoe as I spread wider and press back against him.
I’m swearing over and over again, and I know I’m going to come fast and hard. Still eating the fuck out of me, still spreading my ass with his hands, he dips the tip of one thumb down into the melee to get it slick with moisture. When he comes up and presses his wet thumb just into my tight hole, my body careens into climax.
I cry out and contract violently. I sink hard onto him, hands supporting me. I reach back and grip one solid forearm, trying not to collapse. He shows no mercy. His tongue is the wicked stepson of the devil. And I’m shaking like a woman possessed.
It goes on so long, I think my heart’s going to stop, but as soon as it starts to relent he backs off and I’m already left wanting more.
I whimper in protest, but he presses one hand against my lower back, indicating I’m to stay standing as he lowers my foot to the floor.
Blood pulsing in my ears and panting hard, I stand there with my legs spread, wondering what the fuck he’s going to do next.
I hear the jangling of his belt buckle, the determined zip of his zipper, and the rustling of his jeans as he works them down his thighs and over his knees.
I tuck my chin over my shoulder, and see him sit up enough to tear off his shirt and I get a glimpse of his tattoo. He tosses his shirt over the side as he scoots down lower in the seat. I don’t know what he’s going to do, but I don’t care so long as he satisfies the fresh throbbing between my legs, which he’s never failed to do.
“Come ’ere, sexy,” he says hotly, grabbing my hips and lowering me down so I’m straddling his legs from behind. He leans me back against his chest, and now I’ve got the general idea.
“Fuck,” I whisper, watching, fascinated, as he gets us into position. He lifts first one thigh, planning my foot against the back seat, then follows with the other. His thick cock bobs lightly against my folds.
“Take it,” he commands, lifting my ass slightly. Bracing one hand on his side behind me, I grab his thick shaft and aim as he lowers me onto it.
“Oh fuck,” I breathe tightly. I’m like a marionette, obeying his lead as he settles me in exactly how he wants. He shifts slightly under me so his hips are unpinned, his cock keeping firmly inside me.
Then we start to move. I shudder with a rush of pleasure, sinking weakly against his chest. He penetrates me from underneath, curving back and forth along my channel with the most delicious friction. I can feel his every ridge against mine.
Still fucking me slowly, he rubs his hands along my thighs and over my stomach. He takes my breasts in great handfuls and massages them freely. He brings one hand up and turns my head so he can bring his mouth to mine, our tongues reaching and tasting.
Spread as I am, my swollen clit is throbbing in the open air. I both want it touched, and not. I both want to come, and I don’t. I want to hang here in this moment awash with heightened desire. Everywhere he touches me, my skin vibrates with pleasure. And he’s touching me everywhere. His hands are on my breasts, my stomach, my arms, my inner thighs. He brushes over my clit and I shudder. His hands keep going past and I whimper, my clit pulsing.
His cock is still pumping me, going slightly faster. His hand slides down one thigh, circles hard against my aching bud, then up my stomach to my breast. I drop my head on his shoulder, willing to let him control this. He rolls both nipples in his fingers, fucks me a little faster, and pinches them hard, his breath hot in my ear.
He continues to torment me with his hands, caressing me all over, pleasuring my nipples, and teasing my clit. He lands on it only temporarily, but longer and longer each time. Getting me a little higher, then leaving me wanting, then pushing me higher again. All the while his cock is fucking me and driving me mad.
When I think I won’t be able to stand it any longer, he grabs me firmly around the thighs and scoots us a little lower in the seat so my legs spread wider. I’m stretched hard around him now and think I might go just like this, my clit not touched at all.
His legs are spread too, and the top of his thighs slap slightly against the backs of mine as he pumps me harder and faster now. My breasts slide hard up and down my chest. My channel clamps around him greedily. His cock grows more taut, stretching me.
His fingers come to my clit, and this time I know he means business because he’s circling over it hard. I’m so wet, he’s slipping back and forth over the hard knot with ease. I’m climbing fast and my hand flies to the space between us, my fingertips feeling his hard cock rubbing against the tight ring of my entrance. I cry out and contract again and again in orgasm, keeping my fingers there and feeling it when he surges inside me. He grunts and exhales rapidly and grunts again.
My cries echo in the garage as this time, he lets me ride it out until I’ve had my fill of his fingers on my clit and his cock stretching me.
Later, after some rearranging that involved a bit of panting and giggling, I’m settled in next to him with his arm around me. Leaning against his bare chest, running my fingers over the dark lines of his tattoo and listening to the strong pulse of his heart, I feel like he’s made me into a new woman.
&
nbsp; Mason
It’s a few weeks after we showed that backseat who was boss, and Corrine just got in from her drive down from Hartman. It’s Friday afternoon, so I’m still at work, wrapping things up, but she came straight here because I promised a tour. I take her through the main garage first, a massive space with a dozen cars in various stages of restoration, then through the little offices and to the front showroom, introducing her to everyone as I go.
When we’re done, I expect her to head on home, but when I tell her I just need another half hour to finish up, she decides to wait with me. There’s a little leather couch and coffee table not far from where I’m working, so she goes through the stack of magazines, picks the latest issue of Classic Motorsports, settles in with her feet on the table, and starts to read.
I get back to work, smiling because her presence is making the job that much sweeter. After fifteen minutes or so, she says, “I wonder if the writers of these articles have to be experts about cars or if they just do research or what?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’d be cool if they just research. I bet you learn a lot, being a freelance writer. You could write about almost anything.”
I look over and there she still is, feet on the table, hair falling softly on her shoulder, her beautiful face in intense concentration. God, she’s sexy. Everything about her, inside and out. And I love seeing her start to get interested in something.
I lean one hand on the frame of the Chrysler Dart I’m working on, and give her a look. She notices, glances around to see the garage is pretty much empty, then gives me a look right back.
She stands, plops down the magazine, and saunters over. I love that we’re still so into each other. It doesn’t take much to get us going, ever.
“Are you done?” she asks, leaning in close and giving me a deep, sultry kiss. Thank god my hands are relatively clean. I use both to squeeze the tight seat of her jeans. My dick twitches in my pants. Do I really need to finish with this carburetor before we can get out of here? But I told Bob I would.
She pulls away and I exhale. “Fuck, woman.”
She grins. “So, are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Done?”
“I haven’t even started,” I say, going in for another kiss. After a few seconds that get too heated way too fast, given where we are, I bring it to an end.
“I have to finish this.”
“Then why were you looking at me like you were done?”
I have to think about what she’s talking about. It’s only been a few minutes since I was smiling at her as she drooled over the idea of freelance writing, but those few minutes have been thoroughly distracting.
“I just like to see you getting excited about something.”
She raises one eyebrow to my crotch. “I’m not the only one.”
I grin. “The writing, sexy. It’s fun to watch you get excited about writing.”
“Oh, that.” She shrugs.
“Have you given any more thought about pursuing something like that?”
“Not really.” She checks her watch. “So fifteen more minutes? Twenty? It doesn’t matter, I’m just wondering.”
“Hmmm,” I say. “Why do you always change the subject when I bring up your plans for the future?”
Her smile falters, and she actually looks a little stunned. She shakes her head slightly. “I don’t.”
“Yes, you do,” I say lightly, not wanting to make this some big serious conversation, but wanting her to start thinking about things. I nudge her lightly with my elbow. “You’re going to have to make a career decision sooner or later, you know.”
She bites her bottom lip the way she does, and glances away. She hitches a smile back on her face and shrugs, looking at me. “Yeah, well, not everybody has something they’re passionate about like you do.”
I grab her around the waist and pull her toward me, bringing my fingers up into the soft hair at the base of her scalp. “I’m passionate about you.”
She grins fully now. “You have a one-track mind. Thank God.”
I laugh, then give her another kiss before letting her go. “You’re not getting out of it that easy. Why not think about it?”
She sighs. “I don’t know what to tell you, Mason. I don’t know what I want to do.”
“Why can’t you write for magazines? You seem interested.” More than interested.
“Because I need a communications degree.”
“Are you sure? That doesn’t seem like the kind of thing they’re going to be checking your credentials about. Doesn’t it just depend on how good you are?”
“Okay, maybe I wouldn’t have to have one, but it would be helpful. It would make me more qualified. I just… not qualified.”
“So, if you really think you need it, then get a communications degree.”
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Are you crazy?”
I laugh. “You’re so cute.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m graduating in two months.”
“Yeah, with a degree in counseling. Something you’ve decided you definitely are not going to do.”
She shakes her head. “Definitely not.”
“Well, then, how many more credits would you need to graduate with a communication degree? You’ve told me about all the English classes you’ve taken. You obviously like it. Maybe you don’t need that many more. Maybe it would only be another semester or two. Then you’d have the degree you actually care about, and you could get into a field that interests you. It’d just be a little bit longer,” I say pulling her into my arms.
“You don’t know that.”
“Who would you have to talk to in order to find out?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop being such a chicken,” I say resting my forehead on hers and holding her eyes.
Her face gets very serious. “I’m not,” she says quietly.
Still holding my forehead against hers, I slowly tighten my arms around her. “You are, but you don’t have to be. Just talk to someone at the school. You don’t have to make a decision, just find out what your options are. I can tell you want this.”
“We don’t always get what we want,” she whispers in a small voice.
“Hey,” I say pulling back and keeping my arms around her. “What’s this about? Why does this freak you out so much?”
She blinks rapidly, pulling out of my arms and turning away. “It doesn’t. Nothing. I mean, I’ll find out. It’s not a big deal.”
She grabs the magazine and sits back down, kicking her feet on the coffee table and making a valiant effort to look like what just happened didn’t bother her. “You said you’re almost done, right?” she asks, but she’s not looking at me. She’s concentrating very hard on the page she opened to completely randomly, even though I can tell she’s not even reading it.
“Yep.” I grin and go back to the engine. Yeah, I could apologize for pushing her so hard, but sometimes we just need a kick in the ass, whether we want it or not.
Chapter 24
Corrine
“Well, Corrine, let’s see what we can do for you.”
I’m sitting in Dean Jennings’ office, watching as he pulls my information up on his computer. My hands are in my lap, and I’m fiddling with my fingertips. It’s been six days since I told Mason I would find out what it would take to get a communications degree. I put off stopping by the Dean’s office as long as I could, but Mason says we need a break from unpacking and he wants to see my school, so he’s driving up here this afternoon. I want to be able to tell him I did this.
The whole thing makes me uneasy. I like the idea of having a degree in Communications instead of Psychology. It was something I chose because of my parents’ divorce. I wanted to help other people go through tough things. But it wasn’t what I thought, and not at all what I would want to do.
I wish I’d just chosen Communications to start with. Or maybe figured this out after my first treatment, when I still
had time to make a change. But I’ve just been so focused on getting my degree. I didn’t think I’d live long enough to do it, and now I’m only two and a half months away and sitting here in the Dean’s office talking about something that could delay things even further. As if things haven’t been delayed enough!
Dean Jennings is a nice man with snowy white hair. He has a reputation for being a hard-ass when he needs to be, but he’s been great about helping me come back after such long absences. Especially that second time.
“Okay,” he says grabbing a pen and the sheet of paper that just popped out of his printer. “These are the courses you need for a communications degree,” he says, showing me the list. “You already have the lit courses,” he says, going between the paper in front of us and his computer screen, which has my transcript pulled up, and checking off the ones I’ve taken. “You took Introduction to Creative Writing sophomore year. But since you withdrew early, you don’t get credit for that, unfortunately. I’m sorry about that.”
I shrug. “It’s okay.” I remember enjoying that class. I was working on a short story about a gypsy woman who abducts a little girl at a circus when I received my diagnosis. I never finished it.
“So, let’s see. The classes you would still need…” He starts highlighting the classes I lack, and as the list grows, I get a sinking sensation in my body all the way down my legs. I don’t think I had my hopes up about anything, but I still feel like a door’s being closed on me anyway. This isn’t something I can do. It just isn’t.
“So,” he turns the paper around and reads off each highlighted class, bouncing the tip of his pen next to each one as he goes. Tap-tap-tap. “Not quite three full semesters. What I would recommend, would be spreading this out and taking a light load each semester instead of as many as you could the first two and then lighter the third. There’s a lot of writing in these classes, and you wouldn’t normally take so many writing classes at once. Spreading things out will make your workload more manageable.”
