by Violet Blue
“Think this’ll be good luck?” I gasped, wrestling open his clothes. He kissed me and I tasted the harsh Turkish coffee he’d had after lunch.
“Oh, yes—that feels like good luck.”
“You think…” I finally managed to open his waistband and pull him out into the open. He felt as hard as the stone phallus in my hands. “Oh, god, yes.” His cock stood proud, with skin of hot velvet, as meaty as you could ask for. I explored the entire length, smoothing the ooze of moisture from the tip, then pumped him, loving his noises of tortured pleasure, loving the veined hardness beneath my hands and the fat tight pouch of his scrotum. He was full to bursting. But he never let go of my sex, never lost sight of his goal there. His hand twisted inside me and worked in and out on a slippery tide of my cream. The lamp, crushed between us, sent crazy shadows leaping as we moved. I could feel the play of the muscles in his forearm as I tossed his cock, our wrists interlinked in an arm-wrestling match in which we both sought the final throw together.
In the end I fell first, unable to resist his relentless assault, coming in helpless spasms on his hand. He inhaled my cries and came himself, his ejaculate shockingly copious, escaping through my fingers to jet in hot splashes on my belly. It mixed with the ancient dust of the oracle. Behind my eyelids dark spaces flashed and unfurled, landscapes reeled and tumbled.
Afterward, both of us breathless and drenched in sweat, he rolled me onto my back and massaged his semen into my skin, his hand heavy.
“Okay. I’ll verify your find, Alex.”
“One hell of a find,” I mumbled, stroking his cock. It didn’t seem too eager to sink back to sleep.
He laughed. “I can’t see that the professors would appreciate you taking them that one. How about we wait a bit?”
“I’m not going to them like this,” I protested mildly. “I need a shower. Now.”
He touched my nipple, circling it with the tip of his finger. “I’ll join you.”
My solar plexus did a little flip-flop. “Not much room in those shower cubicles,” I said lightly.
“So?” His smile was full of promise. “We managed fine here. Imagine what we can do where there’s room to stand up.”
FAST CAR, NOT FOR SALE
Trixie Fontaine
I don’t know why the boys thought my car was for sale, parked roadside in deep grass, undriven so long that yellow jackets had taken up residence in nests behind the side mirrors. Neglected, yes, but for sale? No.
Living three blocks from the high school, we got more than our fair share of small-town traffic, usually boys skirting the lone patrolman by taking our side road. Ogled by older friends picking up younger friends, kids skipping school, unemployed young men haunting their alma mater—my royal buttrock blue, turbo-charged sex-wedge sat hot and lonely in the sun, tempting these drive-by boys to try to claim her.
Working from home as a webmaster, I didn’t miss driving her, not much anyway. My boyfriend and I had a practical four-door to do errands around town in and the old Ford pickup for his work. It seemed wasteful to pay for insurance on the frivolity of a third car with no air bags simply for the thrill of being able to go from zero to sixty in six-point-nine seconds. My job kept me contentedly hidden at home, moving slowly in slippers from one room to the next, talking to no one but the dog while Lee was away at work. I didn’t really think about my car; it became part of the outdoor landscape I never lifted my computer room’s blackout curtains to see. I was only forty years old, and yet I spent my days shuffling around silently like my grandma in her housecoat. My mom called my shut-in lifestyle a shame, but I called it cozy.
Once I found an unzipped backpack discarded in our huckleberry bushes. I guessed it had been stolen from one high schooler by another, ransacked, and the bag with its undesirable paperwork remains thrown out of a car driving past. I was going to take it to the police in case the owner was looking for it but for some reason I never did. I just kept it for a while until the sight of it embarrassed me, making me feel like an accessory to a carelessly executed petty crime.
Another time I heard voices in our yard, but they weren’t traveling past the way they usually did when the kids walked by after school. I cracked the curtains an eyeball’s width apart and saw three carless teenaged boys investigating my derelict vehicle, one of them sticking a slab of cardboard under the windshield wiper. I waited until they were gone to retrieve the message: How much for your car? accompanied by a phone number.
I then considered my car from a new perspective, as something desirable. For the past year she’d just been something I worried our wealthier neighbors would view as an eyesore. My car from the eighties was like a declaration of our low class and status on the block: just renting, with a collection of beater cars the only thing we owned. She gave everyone who looked at her a tasteless wink, one headlight shut tight and the other busted pop-up permanently open. My car was no prize, but I felt sentimentally attached to her. I’d been proud of paying cash even though it hadn’t been much, since I got her used.
Since I owned her completely and had no intention of selling her, I’d decorated her bumper early on with a few stickers: a Southern Culture on the Skids band promo, a topless cartoon woman astride a CRT monitor with keyboard in the foreground, and the words WHITE TRASH proudly emblazoned against a field of holographic silver. MY car. It irritated me the way these boys assumed she was up for grabs, the way they thought they could possess her when I’d never even indicated she was for sale. I told myself it was typical male thinking, to look at everything that caught their eyes as something they could own.
I didn’t call the boy’s number. Anyway, it would be irresponsible to sell such a fast car to such young men, hell-bent on driving with inexperienced recklessness. It was safer for everyone if she just sat there with two wheels sinking into the yard.
The warm weather and the boys looking longingly at my car motivated me to get it fixed up and in driving condition again so I could enjoy her as much as they wanted to. We got rid of the bees, rolled her out of the weeds, and gave her a jump. We didn’t give her a proper drive because she was still uninsured, but I liked knowing I could if I really wanted to. I remembered how often I used to get honked at and hit on when I was driving her. One time a girl who looked just like a young Sissy Spacek leaned her small-breasted torso out of the passenger window of a car that was pacing me and made the crotch-licking hand gesture at me, her tongue lashing the V between two of her fingers before she stopped to scream, “You’re beautiful!” Her strawberry blonde hair whipped her face when the driver zoomed ahead and away from me. It had been a long time since a stranger gave me such an obscenely generous compliment.
I decided to work harder than before to make enough money to justify insuring the car. I spent hours inside at my machine, designing and building websites, blogging, and daydreaming about making a new cherry air-freshener spin in my car while I zipped around corners, windows down. I would work for ten hours without talking to anyone or going outside except to check the mail or maybe pick some berries for my oatmeal in the morning. No one came over, and on good days no one called so I didn’t have to bother swearing at the phone while I waited for it to stop ringing before going on with work.
Nobody ever knocked on our door either, unless it was the mailman delivering a package, so when I heard four business-like knocks I expected to open up and see a box on the stoop and the rear of my mailman as he climbed back into his van.
It’s astonishing how much space two teenaged boys can take up in a doorway. It was like a wall of boy in front of me, blocking out the sun. Suddenly I became aware of my heavy boobs hanging braless under my white T-shirt.
“Hi there, ma’am—is that your car out there? The blue one?” The older boy did the asking. His white T-shirt was identical to mine and he looked completely covered so I don’t know why I felt so exposed wearing the exact same thing. Oh yeah, my big old knockers stretched out the front of my shirt making it noticeably different from his stre
tched out at the shoulders.
“Yes, that’s my car,” I anticipated him, “…but it’s not for sale.”
“Is something wrong with it? Because I’m good with cars and maybe I could fix it.” I couldn’t tell if he was offering to repair it so I could drive it myself or to convince me that he would buy it even if it weren’t running. His friend looked away from us both.
“Nothing’s really wrong with it I don’t think…I mean, it probably needs some work at this point, but it’s not for sale.”
“Oh.”
He just stood there, fingertips in his pockets and knuckles curved out, looking down at an overgrown shrub by the steps. His dark eyebrows slanted down over eyes squinted into slits of concentration, his lips pursed into a determined V while he apparently tried to think of another angle. He had a couple days’ worth of stubble along his jaw and arching over his mouth, and the humble muscles of a kid who played baseball at one point but now might just buss tables or mow lawns. Young, fresh, yard-work muscles; the kind you don’t see in gyms.
When he did look at me again, he looked at my eyes. “Well, my name’s Jesse, and I work down at the Olympic Inn Eatery if you change your mind. I could really use something to get back and forth to work.”
A week later I found a note written on a guest check ripped off of an order pad tucked into our screen door:
Hey this is Jesse the guy interested in your car. I have no car and I need one so if you don’t want to sell call me and let me know so that I can find something else! Thanks—Jesse (368-5830)
What a persistent little fucker! Didn’t I already say it wasn’t for sale? But I was happy; the thought of calling him excited me. In fact, I’d been excited all week long just imagining the different pornographic scenarios that could have played out if I’d invited him and his friend inside instead of dismissing them as I had. Why don’t you boys come on in and see if we can nail down an agreement! Of course I’d allowed myself to imagine these things only because I thought the opportunity had safely passed.
Looking at Jesse’s phone number sitting right next to where he’d signed his name in awkward cursive brought a new introduction to my fantasies into reality. I, a grown woman, could call this fresh-out-of-high-school boy.
What if he still lived with his parents and one of them answered? Is Jesse home? What if they could tell I was grown-up; wouldn’t they wonder why I was calling him? I’m calling because he wanted to buy my car. Of course. I would be calling about the car, not because I wanted to fuck their son. Not because my boyfriend and I had an open relationship that I’d never taken advantage of. Not because I’d gotten off with my eyes shut, one hand between my legs strumming my clit furiously and the other groping my own boobs through my T-shirt, imagining his boy-paws all over me, ripping my shirt up over them to suck them into his mouth. I squeezed my tit like I’d never touched it before in my life.
Hearing Jesse’s voice on the phone was like going back in time, hearing the voices of boys I’d dated when I was a teenager and others I’d slept with when I was in my twenties and already considered to be an “older woman” by nineteen-year-olds. So much dead air between his sandpaper-voiced, “Hello,” and awkward, “Oh…hi…hehe,” after I told him who I was: the lady with the car.
“I’m still not one hundred percent sure, but I might be interested in selling you my car. Do you want to come over and give it a test drive?”
“Uhh…yeah! Yeah, definitely! Like in ten minutes? I can come over right now, that’s perfect!”
His eagerness and ready availability made me laugh at the same time it made me feel like he was so close…like I was so close to having him. I reminded myself that while I was thinking about fucking him, he was only thinking about my car. I had no idea what was actually going to happen, if I could even interest him in something else. If I even should.
“Actually, noon tomorrow would be better…that way we’ll have the roads to ourselves. We’ll have to drive out of town if you really want to see how it runs.”
“Yeah! Definitely! Okay, I’ll come over at noon then, okay?”
I put on a simple sleeveless dress and cowboy boots and heard a knock five minutes early. Why did I feel so nervous? I opened the door and there he was, freshly shaven, his cheeks ruddy and lashes dark.
“Hi, Jesse! Thanks for being on time.” I stepped toward him briskly, all ready to go with my purse slung over my shoulder. He stepped aside just in time to get out of my way as I locked the door behind us, then led the way to the car while he followed behind me. I wondered if he was watching my ass or looking past me toward the real object of his desire: my car. With every step I took I was aware of my thighs brushing against each other and my lips feeling swollen and puffy above them. I wondered what Jesse’s face would look like if I turned around and asked him if he wanted to drive my car or fuck my cunt.
I did turn around when I got to the car, a lewd grin on my face with the thought of the ridiculous proposition in my head and the awareness of how easy it would be to say it. All I had to do was open my mouth and possibly mortify both of us.
“Are you ready?” I asked as Jesse pulled something out of his pocket. He held his driver’s license out to me in a formal manner, saying, “I just want you to know that I’m legal.”
“Legal? For what?” I was still grinning and waited for him to answer before checking out his ID. Tell me you’re old enough to know how to use your nice big cock.
“Uhh…legal to drive?” He blushed furiously, as though he could read my mind. Or maybe I’d read his. I think I was blushing too.
I opened the passenger door and held it open for him, explaining that I’d drive on our way out of town so I could tell him about some of the car’s quirks, then he could drive on the way back. I didn’t tell him that I’d picked out the exact spot where we could switch off or that I’d selected it for the privacy it provided. I told myself nothing was going to happen, but it would be fun to drive right up to the edge of what could happen so it would be even easier to fantasize “what if” later when it didn’t.
Jesse hunkered down to get into the small, low-riding car. Standing above him gave me the perfect vantage point to check out his crotch in jeans, and the denim almost completely filled out around his muscular thighs. I loved the darker-blue wrinkles in the creases where his legs met his body. The moment was over too soon to gauge the size of his package properly, but just seeing the stiff ripples of bunched-up denim at his fly was enough to suggest promise.
I interrupted him when he fumbled for the shoulder belt, “It’s automatic—you’ll see it when I start up the car; just fasten your lap belt.” He lifted his arms, looking down and all around, confused. I took the opportunity to bend and reach down beside him, pulling out the lap belt, and doing something a mother does for her child but with an entirely different intent; I inserted my upper body into the car to buckle him in, pulling the strap across his lap, making sure my knuckles didn’t brush his pants, but allowing my hair to barely brush his face as I twisted my body in, holding onto the seat with my left hand, the heel resting on his bicep. My left breast grazed his chest briefly as I knew it would and my nipples pointed.
Click. “There you go!” I pretended to be in a motherly hurry while I inhaled his soap and sweat smell and imagined leaning closer toward him to feel his breath on my neck or losing my balance and somehow sitting in his lap; I wanted to, but didn’t. Instead I put my right hand down on his knee for support. I estimated that I touched him for less than a second, then wondered how fast my car would be going if accelerated for just that amount of time. Ten miles per hour? Fifteen or twenty for the entire seatbelt performance?
I wanted to go faster.
While I started up the car I looked over at Jesse and the shoulder belt mechanically droning into place, trapping him. His hands sat like spiders on his thighs, resting on his fingertips like they were about to jump up and grab something. I put my hand on the stick shift and gave it a squeeze, imagining gripping his
cock in the same way, wishing he’d move his hand to cover mine and add more pressure to the shaft inside our hands. He didn’t, of course, so I pulled conservatively out on the road for some town driving. Like a safe ride in the car with Mommy down to the grocery store, only that’s not where we were going. And I was no one’s mommy.
Outside of town on a straight stretch, I decided to make sure the turbo still worked. The sudden rush of speed always made me laugh maniacally, especially after going such a long time without it. God, why didn’t I drive that car every day? Climbing through the gears I felt shit dropping off behind me, leaving mundane crap all over the pavement like rubberized road apples shooting off in my wake. In fourth I got that buzzing feeling as we went faster, and faster, and faster, that I was about to meet the verge of something or crest and break completely free. It was like a flying dream. No, it was even better than a flying dream. I almost forgot about the kid next to me or maybe my inhibitions were part of the junk that second and third stroked away and I still felt him there, but wasn’t afraid of being old next to him. I imagined my shiny rims flashing in the sun as I hovered between them, guiding the wheels and pushing things into place. I could move greased metal, I could turn things on; I could make things happen. I could even move myself from one place to another, fast. I left home behind and breathed speed straight through me.
I spilt into fifth and realized Jesse was clutching hard at the center console storage between us with his left hand while he wiped sweat from his other palm on his pant leg. I continued speeding for a few more seconds, enjoying the sound of passing obstacles, and placed my hand on his, yelling and squeezing for emphasis, “I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN SELL YOU MY CAR, JESSE!” Then I released my grip to slow and shift down to a more reasonable speed before turning onto a narrow, winding road.
