The Open Road

by StangStar06

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Reluctant, Crime, Humor, Workplace, Cheating, Revenge, Oral Sex, Big Breasts, .

Desc: Sex Story: It all started out while having brunch with my wife Suzy.

Hi guys and gals. sorry this took so long. But my wife AK had a touch of pneumonia and I dropped EVERYTHING. it’s also flu season and that;s our busiest time at work. but it gave me time to recharge the batteries. The next two stories after this one are gonna rock. They are very dark though so be ready. As usual Kudos to the legendary Barney-R for his editing wizardry. Any mistakes you find are probably due to changes I made during the final read through while removing all of the howevers SS06.

The hum of my Mustang’s engine is fierce. It’s a snarling, growling, angry, metallic symphony of forged pistons reacting to small controlled explosions. All of that harnessed and menacing force is under the control of my right foot.

My supercharger processes enough air to fill a thousand balloons and the whine from it doing its job provides an almost harmonic counterpoint to the engine’s gruff rumble. The whole thing is music to my ears, but frightening to old ladies and small children. It also scares the shit out of environmentalists and small animals. I’m the first to admit that my car is not eco-friendly.

My car is a 2014 Boss 302 upgraded with a Paxton supercharger, forged internals, oversized Wilwood brakes, custom SVE series two rims and an all black paint scheme. Everything on the car is an extremely glossy black.

Every lens, badge and detail on the exterior of the car is black. If Ninjas drove Mustangs ... They’d look like my car.

The needle on my speedometer inches slowly past one hundred, one ten, one twenty and keeps moving. A glance at my GPS reveals that the road ahead of me is almost arrow straight. But a few twisties wouldn’t matter or slow me down.

The newest version of the legendary Boss 302 is the most nimble Mustang ever made. It was designed to be a track car and as such has to be able to handle the curves. The car is much more capable than the new Mustangs even considering their independent rear suspension.

I’d never really liked the new body style, so once I fell into the money, I built the car of my dreams and everyone else’s nightmares.

First I had to find the car. The Boss was no longer being made. It had been a limited edition from the beginning. Once I got the car, I went to work. I upgraded every component of the car’s already incredible suspension. The new air bag suspension system gave me the ability to raise or lower the car with the touch of a button.

That gave me a lower center of gravity and increased the car’s handling even more. Then I added the forged internals and the supercharger which turned an already potent motor into a just plain nasty one.

The car now produced almost nine hundred horse power. Hence the need for the giant brakes. The next thing I did was to take everything unnecessary out of the car. Back seats ... Buh bye. Carpets ... Replaced by a very thin, very durable liner that resembled the car’s leather seats. The padding and sound dampening material in the doors and body panels was replaced with strong but almost weightless aerosol foam that was made by a NASA subcontractor.

The batteries had been moved to the trunk to improve the weight distribution and put more of the weight over the rear wheels for increased traction.

And yes ... I said batteries ... plural.

I’m a sneaky bastard. The car also has two small but powerful electric motors that can drive the car for up to fifty miles without a drop of gas. They also have a regenerative braking system that helps to charge the batteries while coasting or braking.

The large, some would say ugly, wing on the car’s rear deck lid does double duty. Besides providing me with enough down force to add traction and keep the nearly nine hundred horsepower motor from simply impotently spinning the tires like the ... Uhm Hellcats ... Yep that was a snicker ... The wing is a solar panel.

The glass black paint, as much as I love it ... It sucks. I have to wash the car almost every day. Dust, dirt, finger prints ... They’re all my enemies. It sometimes seems like my car gets dirty if I look at it.

Yep, you guess it. I live alone and I obsess over my car.

I have a large beautiful house in a Michigan Suburb that would be perfect for a nice family. That was my dream once. And someday it may be again. But dreams die. Sometimes they wither on the vine and other times they’re ripped, bloody and still beating from the chest of the dreamer.

When that happens it becomes really hard to trust again.

So I find myself here ... Many miles away from my home state, driving through a desert on a stretch of freeway as barren as barren can be.

As a beautiful moon rises high in the sky, the furnace hot temperatures refuse to decline. The breeze blowing in through my open window is warm enough to cook with. I still can’t bring myself to turn on the AC, but I do turn on some music.

Using the steering wheel mounted controls, I press a button and the car’s synch system plays a song.

A raspy and rich voice booms from the stereo as a perfect background for my drive.

“As I ride this lonesome highway, the desert wind across my face

My mind slowly wanders to another time ... another place

When the world was so much younger, with no reason to hold back

And we weren’t so afraid of losing all the things we’d never had.”

The music washes through my mind bringing back memories. I turn up the volume and settle in for a ride.

“Those days are gone forever; it’s time to kiss the past goodbye.

Meet me out tonight on the open road.

Baby we belong together. If I had you by my side.

Meet me out tonight on the open road.”

My name is Eric Johnson and this is the story of how I ended up driving through the fucking desert in the middle of the night based on a tip from the uncle of a woman who’d left me twice. For some reason I just can’t seem to get over her. This all started about five months ago, when I was a completely different person.

Back then my name was Barney Gravel and I was your typical married forty year old guy. I was still crazy about my Mustang but it was a different car.

That one was a grabber orange 2012 Mustang GT. That one had the Roush phase two supercharger and body kit. God I loved that car.

Anyway ... My wife Suzy and I were having a Sunday morning brunch at one of those little sidewalk restaurants that along with the micro-breweries had seemingly popped up all over Ferndale over night.

Just last fall that area had nothing but dusty, old book stores and empty buildings and now it was festooned with trendy little places that hipsters loved.

Suzy ... in one of her, “let’s make our marriage better by doing shit together,” moods had insisted on us having brunch right out on Woodward Avenue as soon as I got done with my Sunday morning run.

It was stupid on sooo many levels. And there were sooo many things I’d rather have been doing.

I mean why would I want to sit right out there in the sun, only inches from the busiest avenue in town, breathing in car and truck exhaust while my legs slowly stiffened up from running?

There were also all kinds of kids doing that thing where they were too busy taking photos with their phones so they could post them to instagram or face book and show all of their fake internet friends how cool they were to actually have a good time.

Years from now they’d have all of the photos to prove that they were here, but they wouldn’t remember anything about it because they never really experienced it. They were too busy taking photos to actually see anything.

And me ... I might as well have been invisible. All of those hot young twenty somethings had eyes only for their beard sporting, pipe smoking boyfriends who themselves were too busy looking cool to notice the incredibly hot young women with them.

At forty and nearly twice the age of most of those young cupcakes, I was next to invisible. None of them even knew I was on the planet, let alone in the next booth. They did notice my car of course. Most of them frowned and commented on how impractical it was and how they hated to drive.

A few of them mentioned that it looked like the kind of car that Uber drivers who were rapists probably drove.

I didn’t give a quarter of an eighth of a fuck about what any of those inbred, Kardashian worshipping morons thought. Every time I saw that car I smiled.

I was also not paying Suzy any attention at all. While she was going on and on about whatever the hell she was blathering about, I was imagining what my car would look like with Piano black SVE series two rims.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved my wife. But we’d been married for more than twenty years. We’d reached that point where we were comfortable with each other and no longer felt the need to go overboard trying to be attractive for each other.

I ran and lifted weights, but it wasn’t for Suzie anymore. It was for two reasons. The first was because I loved the way I felt after a good run or workout. And the second was because I had to stay in shape to look good next to my car.

Suzy ... Not so much. It wasn’t that she wasn’t attractive. But she’d just let herself go.

I guess she thought that she didn’t need to work at her looks. She still had the same haircut she’d had when we met. It was probably my fault.

Suzy is short and built like a fireplug. She has a haircut like ... Okay folks we’re bringin’ back the eighties ... Dorothy Hamil. But yep, Suzy has THAT haircut. At the time I thought it was sexy as hell the way she could shake her head and it would fall right back into place.

.... There is more of this story ...

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