He was now privy to the secret men with sports cars kept. Not only are women thoroughly turned on by the sleekness and speed in the proper handling of a sports car, his Infiniti Q60, a simulacrum table, is perfect for bending bitches over.
Glares from the oncoming cars illuminated her smeared handprints on the rear windshield. He should have washed the car a week ago. But, the feeling he got every time his view was distorted by the glimpse of her smeared handprints in the rear view mirror, made his dick hard.
Those legs had been teasing him all night. Flirting peek-a- boo underneath the clinging mustard colored dress as she walked from the car into the restaurant. Lingering glances of toned thighs and runners calves as she stepped a few paces ahead of him to the car, he stole. It was time. An opportunity. As soon as she reached the back of the car he rushed her, wrapping his arms around her waist, grabbing up the front of her dress and without gentleness pushed two fingers inside her.
“Oh!” she giggled
Her right knee pressed against the Q & 6, arms stretched with hands on the glass, her left foot barely touching the ground. On her tippy toes actually, made her look like she was climbing one of those rock walls every time he pounded against her. A brief moment saw their hands and fingers interlocked, pressed against the wing. This part of the car didn’t just increase speed, it provided stability in handling as he loved her from behind, kissing her neck and the exposed part of her back.
He slid her dress up to bite the inside of her thighs. The left one had a sweetness to it. The right, smelled delicious. He licked it.
A slight thump against the car and the squeak of hands smearing the rear windshield echoed the secret they now shared in the deserted parking garage.
Bettye C. Fleming