A Deer in the Headlights
Copyright© 2007 by NightShade
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A man, his car, a beautiful neighbor, a bitch of a wife and a mother-in-law from Hell. Mix well, push the guy too far and, well, here's what happens
"A deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car." That was the image that stuck in my mind like the red clay of Alabama sticks to a clean car.
Actually, Alabama clay is what started it all, now that I think of it...
We were short-handed at the office, and I had been working double shifts and then some, managing both the regional office and doing almost all of the fieldwork for a nation-wide insurance agency. One of the suspicious claims I had to investigate was way the Hell out in the Northeast corner of Alabama near the headwaters of the Cache River. That doesn't have anything to do with the rest of the story, other than the fact that it had been raining steadily up in those hills for about a week. The mud on what passed as roads into the area was thick and sticky.
Of course, it worked out that I had to take my personal car. The only functioning company car had been totaled by a herd of stampeding chickens (the honest to God's truth, I swear. But then, Headquarters didn't believe me, either... ) earlier in the week, another reason I was short handed. Worse, I could only get up there on my one day off for the entire month. Then, when I did get there and finally located the "client," the claim really was bogus, to top it all off. The guy, you guessed it, named Bubba, that had filed the claim couldn't have kept his facts straight if he had a ruler to help him. Not that he would have known what all the little numbers down the side of it were for...
Although I was not born and raised in Alabama or the south, for that matter, I did know enough about the region to know that if you left that sticky clay on your car, it would soon become a permanent part of the vehicle. So as soon as I got home, I immediately washed and waxed my 'baby, ' paying particular attention to the undercarriage and wheel wells, a dirty job even without the clay that was caked into every nook and cranny. My baby, my jewel, was a mint condition classic Jaguar. Low and sleek, a car with character. A car with a real hood ornament, not some wimpy plastic stick-on.
Perhaps now you can understand why it was so easy for me to be in a really piss-poor mood that day. Besides, as much as I love my car, washing and waxing it is not something I particularly like to do. When I spend that much time rubbing anything, I prefer it to be a certain part of my own body. Or better yet, someone else's who is also rubbing mine.
To further set the stage, when I had arrived back home from this worthless and pointless jaunt into the boondocks, I found that my wife of 25 years had left a cryptic note on the table for me to find upon my return. In it she informed me that Momma needed her, and she didn't know when she would be back. 'Momma' lived four states away in the Texas panhandle. She was the single most demanding person I had ever known in my life and was only woman I knew who made my wife seem pleasant by comparison. Oh yeah, there was not a scrap of food left in the house, either. She thought Momma might need something, so she had taken everything with her, right down to the salt shakers and the plastic dish soap we kept in the mud room. She must have needed a fucking moving van to get all that shit to Momma's house.
I never realized how much noise my wife made around the house until the silence slammed into me that evening. I was getting out of the shower, had slipped into a favorite pair of torn old boxers and an even older T-shirt, and was sitting on the edge of the bed. I had my Dockers shorts in one hand and my belt in the other, but I was so weary, I just couldn't bring myself to finish dressing. I was tired of the rat race at work, tired of the traffic, tired of the responsibilities that come with the middle-class lifestyle. A mortgage, car payments, insurance. When you think about it, all you do is work to buy things. Then you worry yourself to death that someone will take them from you. When do you ever really get a chance to enjoy them, anyway? I sure as Hell didn't know. I was still waiting for that golden time, and had been for a long time. I let the silence wash over me, comforting me in its solid embrace.
It took me a while before I realized there was something wrong. The silence wasn't silent. I was almost too tired to care, but there was a nagging alarm going off in the back of my head. I tried to listen carefully, but the sound was too faint to pin down, and besides, I was really tired. I collapsed back onto the bed and was almost asleep.
Then I heard it. Psst-psst... psst-psst. Water-sounds. They came and went, and it took me a while to identify them and then even longer to realize the potential danger they represented. There shouldn't have been any water-sounds in the house with just me there. God help me if a pipe broke. I was hoping for a stuck toilet, but it didn't sound like that was it.
I was rousted out of my near-catatonic state by the possibility of having to explain any spurious water stains to my in-house inquisitor. I think she actually considered her precious wallpaper and other whatnots more valuable than national treasures. God help me if anything should happen to one of those fucking knick-knacks. A fast, but thorough search of the house revealed nothing, much to my relief.
The sounds were still there, however, coming and going with an almost recognizable rhythm. It bugged the shit out of me, not being able to place the pattern. I knew I was tired, but I prided myself on being pretty damn sharp and on being able to figure most things out faster than most other folks. This simple little noise eluded definition and it was not making my foul mood any better.
I went into the kitchen in search of a possible leak in the plumbing in that room. I seriously doubted I would find anything there as this was one of the rooms in the house that was hardly ever used for its intended purpose. My wife only seemed to use those food preparation facilities to celebrate presidential elections and lunar eclipses. I was standing at the window in front of the sink when something caught my eye.
I totally fucking lost it.
Some idiot — my neighbor idiot, specifically — had turned on a fucking lawn sprinkler and aimed it right smack dab at my freshly washed and waxed car.
A little background here might help. We, my neighbor and I, were the only two dupes unfortunate enough to have purchased houses in this particular development before the contactor went bankrupt. Actually, the builder had gambled that the nearby town would grow out in this direction, but, lucky guy that he wasn't, it didn't. So my neighbor and I were the only ones in this secluded cul-de-sac. And I mean secluded. The nearest buildings, other than the odd farmer's outhouse or hunting cabin, were over 6 miles away. It was the middle of fucking No Where.
As part of the developer's bankruptcy, I had been able to quietly pick up all the other lots in the development using a dummy corporation. That little tidbit has nothing to do with the story, either, but, hey, I got a deal on the land, and if I can't brag about it every anonymous chance I get, it would be worth less than it actually is, which is next to nothing.
We had electricity and telephone, but there were no other pubic utilities out this far. That meant we used well water to do everything, like water the lawn and wash the car. The water that came out of the ground around here may not have been toxic, but it was damn close. The shit was so laden with minerals, it could spot a leopard, not to mention what it would do to my freshly waxed car. So when I say I lost it, you can understand why. Right, guys?
I didn't even think about what I was doing. I charged over to my neighbor's front door and started pounding on it with both fists. I know now I must have been a frightful visage — half dressed, bare foot, uncombed hair still plastered down from my shower, my belt in one hand, my pants in the other, red-faced, angry, yelling and pounding on the door. I'm surprised she opened it at all.
I was so mad, I didn't even notice her then. I couldn't even speak coherently. I remember looking past her for her prick of a husband. Somehow she communicated that he wasn't home, so I grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out into the middle of their front yard. I was gesticulating wildly, waving my arms like a madman and grunting like an enraged bull elephant. Eventually she understood what had upset me. She calmly walked over to the sprinkler and reversed the setting of the sweep to properly cover their yard. Which promptly soaked me, as I was still standing in the middle of their yard, directly in the path of the spray.
It's funny now, looking back, but then, well, then I did something that changed my life — and hers. I don't remember it as clearly as she does, but if she can laugh about it now, I suppose I can, too. It would be nice to say I had stayed in control of myself, that I was calm and cool, and made a joke out of getting sprayed by the sprinkler. Big deal, right? It's just water...
Wrong. I went berserk. She told me later that I got this strange, maniacal look in my eyes. She admitted she was truly frightened for her safety, as well she should have been. I stood there for several seconds, head-cocked, staring at her with this wild look in my eyes, a bloodlust coursing through me that I had never experienced previous. I wanted some serious revenge, I wanted a serious response. I was deadly serious.
For some unknown and still unexplained reason, she took that moment to giggle. That part I remember, only to me it seemed more like a broad guffaw, a taunt. It was a big mistake on her part. It was the last straw, apparently.
I charged at her faster than my wife with a new credit card. She was totally unprepared for my on-rush, and that's the picture I remember to this day. A deer caught in the headlights of an on-coming vehicle. It knows it's dead, and it just sort of gives up and stands there. Like she did.
I'm not a big man when you compare me to some of the bubbas we have up here in the backwoods, but I hold my own. At just over 6 feet, I towered over her 5'1" stature. The adrenaline was flowing as I grabbed her, sat down on the grass, flung her across my lap, and proceeded to raise my hand. It still held my belt, and it was poised to strike, held up over my head in my clenched fist.
"Please, sir, not the belt. Please don't use your belt."
Those were the only words she spoke, and somehow, they penetrated the denseness of my bloodlust. I dropped the belt and proceeded to beat the tar out of her ass. Somewhere between when my hand was over my head and the time it landed solidly on her tight little butt, the old memory cells in my brain kicked back in. Apparently, at least, my brain had figured out that this was one of life's little episodes it wanted to be conscious of for a long time. To be able to replay it and enjoy it over and over.
I remember she struggled as best she could until that first blow landed. Between the surprise and my size I was too much for her, though. I don't know what I intended to do, but I felt as if a dam had burst within me and she was going to get the benefit of every frustration in my life up that point.
I didn't hold back on that first strike. The sound of my hand colliding with her gluteus maximus sounded like a rifle shot. In the amount of time it took for the pain from my hand to reach my brain, the fight was gone from her. She stiffened slightly, I heard an infuriatingly soft "Oooooh!" and then she just relaxed over my lap.
Well, relaxed isn't quite the word. She sort of wedged her ass up in the air, like she was begging for more. I know it's impossible, but that tight little butt of hers was looking at me with an attitude that said, "Go ahead. Give me your best shot." She swears she didn't say anything. But her pert little ass was speaking for her, loud and clear, and it really ticked me off.
I lit into her behind like there were fire-ants on a baby. I hit my target fast, hard, often and everywhere. It must have been around the fifteenth or sixteenth swat that I felt something spray me in the face when my hand connected. At first I thought it was piss, but a quick investigation of my boxers told me it wasn't mine. There was a distinctly musky metallic odor wafting up from her upended bottom. I was not totally unfamiliar with that smell nor its origins, but I was totally unprepared for her to be enjoying this. The little minx had climaxed on my lap.
As I continued to paddle her resilient cheeks with my bare hand, she shifted slightly, managing to massage the outside of my thigh with her tits. With every squirm she made as I walloped her butt, she ground her nipples into the bare skin of my leg and rubbed her upper arm against my cock. Which was, by this point, extremely hard. She continued to cum about every ten or so swats, and her shorts were by now so dripping wet that the spray was flying with each blow. This woman was cumming like a river. And the smell that filled the immediate area of their front lawn was like a fine perfume.
Pausing, I rested my hand on her warmed ass cheeks. When I pressed down a certain way, I could hear her juices make a squishing noise. I felt along the openings in the pantleg of her shorts, running my finger through the rivulets of cum trickling down onto the grass.
I wasn't totally immune to the sexual connotations of the situation, nor was I totally ignorant that this type of thing could happen on those rare occasions. However, I had always thought it was pretty well limited to the realm of the fantasy world, like the outrageous stories I read on the Internet news groups. Having something like this drop into my lap (pun intended) was completely unexpected and I really wasn't sure what to do next. Honest!
You have to understand something at this point. My wife had retired from a professional position at a large bank five years after we were married so she could raise the kids. Problem was, she seemed to forget that in order to have kids, you have to have sex. To fuck and be fucked. Somehow that small detail seems to have escaped her notice. So, it ended up that the only one getting screwed at our house was I.
For years I tried. God knows I tried. Everything. I was loving, I was tender, whatever. Hell, I was young, horny and desperate. I would have done anything to woo her and probably did. But after a while, it became clear that the pearly gates were closed forever. After five years, she was done. My constant craving for sex changed to an occasional urge and then morphed into the quiet bitterness of life that I had known the last 18 or so years.
Yes, you got that right. I hadn't had sex for going on twenty years. I knew my right hand really well and was occasionally visited by my left hand for variety, but other than that, I was celibate.
In the space of one week after her 'retirement' from sexual activity, my wife had changed from the beautiful woman I had married into a younger version, a spitting image of Momma. Well, almost. Momma was still uglier. I swear, the little button nose I had planted so many kisses upon before we were married actually grew longer, hooking out and down. It scared the shit out of me for months after when I woke up in the morning. Her tits — I distinctly remember she had a very nice pair when we married — now applauded when she did aerobics. When she jumped up and down while exercising you could hear them clapping and flapping as she did her workout. Otherwise, they laid flat on her chest, two empty bags thinner than my wallet the day before payday. She had somehow managed to suck the life out of them just as she had our marriage.
She had a pair of purple Lycra® bicycle shorts she loved to wear around the house. I do not exaggerate when I say that those shorts made her butt look like a giant California prune, complete with wrinkles and the crease down the middle. The loose flabby skin didn't tighten up when she bent over, either. I still shudder when I picture her in those shorts.
Like I said, I did my best for a while to please her, thinking if she were satisfied she would reciprocate. I never found out if that theory was true or not, as, try as I might, I never heard the slightest moan or even flinch from that corpse-like catatonic body that lay beside me in bed at night. Not one indication of satisfaction. I probed and stroked and tickled and prodded with fingers and tongue for months in search of her magic button, but I never did find it. I would lay odds that if she ever had one, Momma had it cut off for her.
In addition, the wonderful odor drifting up from the squirming woman on my lap was nothing like the stench I remembered emanating from my wife. What exuded from her groin was more like swamp gas when the skunks are mating, not to mention the revolting taste. It tasted like she wiped her ass the wrong direction, not that I actually knew what shit tasted like.
I was not surprised to learn later that she did wipe the wrong way. Surprisingly, she never got a vaginal infection that I can recollect. Apparently, all the noxious bacteria in her bowels had declared her cunt a hostile environment and stayed the Hell away. Eventually, I did the same, as well. Of course when I learned later of her poor hygiene, that did help explain the painful burning sensations I had had for the first five years of our wedded bliss and the bouts of projectile vomiting I would experience the day after sticking my tongue into that cesspool...
So, you may well ask, as I often did myself, why the Fuck did I stay with that horrid woman? That's an easy question to answer and in only one word.
Total abject fear that came from knowing with certainty the horrible consequences of divorcing or even separating from her.
You see, Momma had three children: Two sons and my wife. Momma had made her fortune early and often by gutting and filleting a series of foolish, rich husbands. Two died paupers, one died mysteriously, and the other three were still in the loony bin. At the state's expense, of course. Momma had cleaned them all out and then dumped them, if they were still alive.
My wife had learned her lessons well; she had just picked the wrong horse. For all practical appearances, I was in no hurry to get rich, dead or go insane. It was just about the only means of revenge I had. Not to mention survival.
Her two brothers were the only men I knew who considered the institution of marriage a legitimate profit center for their businesses. Well, other than the Catholic Church. They were divorce lawyers. Figures, right? More pain and suffering only meant higher fees for them, and Heaven help the other side. They were vicious, cutthroat amoral assholes. But I already told you they were lawyers, didn't I. Sorry to repeat myself.
With those two and Momma backing her, my wife, in her oh-so-delicate manner, informed me on the day after our wedding night that any attempt to divorce her would result in my instantaneous transportation to the state of abject poverty. The same went for philandering and debauchery. Now, while I was in no apparent hurry to get rich, I was in even less of a hurry to be poor. That sucks, big time! Been there, done that, so to speak.
There were too many raucous tales of their vicious courtroom battles that had been re-told in gruesome detail around the table at the annual Christmas dinner for me to doubt the outcome of any proceedings I might undertake against her and them. Those haunting images of eviscerated marriages were just too real to afford me any hope for a way out of this marriage prior to death doing us part. So I took the small revenges I could. I refused promotions at my job and carefully hid my investments in dummy corporations. These were formed mostly out of state or off shore. Like the land I mentioned earlier. Shit, I'm not stupid, just trapped!
You, however, are probably thinking about now that I sure the fuck am too stupid. OK, I'll admit, I was stupid enough to marry the crazy bitch, but she was at least fucking me occasionally at that time and I wasn't thinking with my bigger head. Not only that, you say, but here I am, in a sex-charged situation the likes of which will probably never happen to me again and I'm telling you about how my wife's ass reminds me of California prunes. So why the Hell didn't I just fuck this luscious piece of ass right then and there on the front lawn, huh? I hear what you're thinking.
Well, two reasons, asshole. One, it would make a really short, predictable story. You can get that somewhere else on another website. And two, I really was serious when I said I didn't know what to do next. I was scared to continue with what I was doing and petrified not to.
She felt me feeling her wetness and became a little shy, I guess. She put her hands back to push mine away from her, but I would have none of that. For one, I wasn't quite done wailing on her butt, yet. Secondly, her upper arm moved away from my cock, and I missed the warm fuzzy feelings it had been giving me. That pissed me off all over again, but as you have probably figured out by now, it was just that kind of a day for me. Everything pissed me off.
I snagged my belt from where it had fallen when I dropped it and looped it around both her forearms. I cinched it tight, looped it twice more and tied off the end. It was a pretty thick belt so it wasn't a great tie job. She could have been loose in three seconds if she wanted. It's hard to tie a knot in a good belt, so the end of it was just sort of tucked under and folded over. It would hold, but only for as long as she cooperated.
Tying her arms like that moved her biceps back into contact with my own hard muscle. When she realized I had tied her arms behind her back, it was as if a switch had been thrown. I thought she had been sexually aroused before. Shit, now I could literally feel her quivering with sexual energy as she lay across my legs. It was as if, by tying her up, she could let it all loose. She had no option left to resist, and I was free to do to her and with her whatever I chose. I don't think she consciously understood what was going on that at the time. I sure as Hell didn't, but that didn't stop me from taking advantage of the situation.
I started spanking her again, this time with slow deliberation. My frenzy was passed. When my hand would get tired, I would rub her thighs, feeling and marveling at the silky smoothness of her skin and the continued wetness of her sex. At first she resisted the insertion of my hand in between her legs, but soon she allowed me to feel her freely, wherever I wanted. And I wanted a lot!
When I couldn't lift my hand anymore, I stopped her punishment. We were both breathing hard, and I sat there for a while getting my breath back. My anger was sated and my hand throbbed. So did my cock. I can only imagine what her ass felt like. It must have been hotter than a two-dollar pistol. The color of the skin I could see below the bottoms of her shorts was a deep red and it radiated heat when I put my hand over it. Her breathing made her tits, still hard-pressed against my thigh massage her erect nipples into my skin. I could feel their pebble-like hardness through her thin shirt.
I don't recall her crying out or screaming throughout the entire spanking. I do remember hearing groaning and panting and the tiny little gasps of 'Oh-Oh-Oh!' I had read on-line in the erotic stories about those sounds women make as signifying an orgasm in progress. What I do remember, and I find this the most amazing part, was that I had not ejaculated during all of this. Maybe it was that fact that pushed me to do what I did next. I truly don't know why I did something so out of character. But I did, and it turned out to be the most memorable thing I had ever witnessed in my life.
Leaving her arms tied behind her back, I leveraged her backwards so she was on her knees. Standing up, I helped her up onto her own feet. I started leading her over to my property. When she realized where I was taking her, she suddenly stiffened in fear. Somehow being tied up in the open on the front lawn with a strange man paddling your ass was OK, but going over to his house scared her? Huh? I don't even pretend to understand them. Women confuse the Hell out of me...
I turned and glared at her, not saying a word. The wild look came back to me easily as I still did not have a firm grip on my sanity. She lowered her gaze in resignation and sighed. I led her like a lamb to the slaughter over to the door to my garage. In the cupboard just inside the door, I located a large beach towel and held it up to her mouth.
She opened her mouth with a startled look and took the towel. I think she was expecting to get fucked.
I pointed to the car. "Dry it off!"
She protested. With her mouth full, however, it was difficult for her to talk. That was something I would have to remember in the future! When I continued to glare at her and point at the car, she finally turned around and made motions for me to release her hands. I wasn't quite ready to do that yet.
I shook my head. "No hands. Now get busy!" I barked the words like I was giving instructions on a noisy construction site.
She turned and looked at me. Again with those eyes! I almost gave in but I held firm. She made her way slowly over to my car. She looked back a couple of times to see if I would give in, but I just stood there, glaring.
Suddenly I gasped, short of breath, but this time not from exertion. My neighbor's wife looked better the farther away she got from me. That had nothing to do with her beauty, but rather with my eyesight at my age. She had just moved far enough away to come into clear focus. I had recently hit that age where my arms were no longer long enough to read the newspaper. I had glasses, but detested wearing them for around the house stuff. It wasn't vanity. I could never keep them clean. Now I wished I had them on.
She stood about 5'1", like I said before. She was a brunette, with wavy shoulder length hair. Even after all she had been through being over my lap, her hair just seemed to be perfectly in place, only slightly tousled. If she weighed 105 lbs., she would have to have been holding a sack of groceries while standing on the scale. It was no wonder I could manhandle her so easily. I began to worry if I had hurt her when I hauled her around so roughly.
Her breasts were pushed forward by the position of her arms, but what I could see would have been ample for a woman with a larger frame. With them jutting out like they were, young, firm and high on her chest, it looked almost cartoonish. Each was a good hand's full and then some, and she had great nipples. That I could see clearly. Her hips flared slightly in a girlish fashion, as if she had not yet fully matured. But her magnificent ass, the one I had just pulverized, was exactly that. Magnificent. High, firm, nicely rounded and it had a great jiggle as she walked. The kind of ass that could get a man fired for pinching it if it were on a co-worker. Or rubbing it. Or just having to worship it. Truly, a great ass.
I had already spent a great deal of time caressing the smooth skin of her thighs, but seeing them under her, supporting her, put them in a whole new perspective. They really did go from here to there. The proverbial never-ending legs. And each one ended in what the Victorians would have called a 'well-turned ankle.' (That's not a sports medicine term for an injury, by the way.) Even her toes looked suckable, and I had never, ever understood that particular fetish. Then again, you've never seen what grew in between my wife's toes...
She must have heard me gasp, as she had stopped and was watching me stare at her. She seemed pleased with my reaction, or perhaps that I had finally noticed her at all. I motioned for her stop where she was and to wait. I dashed into the house and grabbed my glasses and one of the pieces of office equipment I have to keep with me at all times when I travel.
She blushed when she saw me coming back out of the house with my glasses on. It was very becoming. I moved closer — now that I could see her clearly! — and noticed she had beautiful expressive brown eyes. I motioned for her to go ahead and start drying off my car. She pleaded with me with those eyes... Damn those eyes. I almost gave in.
When I didn't, she carefully laid the towel down on the hood (the bonnet, for our UK readers) of the car. At first she used her forehead to rub the towel over the surface of the metal, but the folds in the large towel thwarted her efforts. However, I wasn't paying much attention to how good a job she was doing on the car. My attention was riveted to her luscious body. When she bent over to press her forehead to the towel, gravity exerted its own forces on her tits, making them hang down to the full extent of their magnificence. They were each a hand full, but only if you could palm a basketball. Well, maybe a volleyball. OK, OK. Croquet ball. But that's the absolute truth. Nice tits and a great firm jello-like action when she tried to rub the car.
My own reaction was painfully evident as it was sticking out of the fly of the torn boxers. I still had not cum, and I knew the slightest touch would make me erupt. My terrible mood had evaporated in the heat of my burning lust. I hadn't noticed her looking back at me from her bent over position, but I did notice she suddenly got very involved with rubbing the car, using her whole body to try to move that towel. It was at that point that I guessed she had decided to get a little back at me. She really started to put on a show for me.
She started by grasping an edge of the towel and standing up straight, so that the cloth fell down and unfolded along her body in a single thickness. That old towel had never looked so good.
Then she moved to the driver's side window. Keeping the edge of the towel in her mouth, she pressed forward, forcing her tits against the window, with that lucky towel trapped between her body and the window. She then moved them over and over and around and around the glass, again using her whole body in a writhing motion. I noticed that she spent a long time on the edges of the window, where they seated into the weather-stripping. At first I thought she was being careful, but then I noticed she was using her nipples and brushing them over and over the uneven surfaces, using the edge to flip them back and forth. She was really getting into — and off on — the job of drying my car. Well, two could play that game.
I lifted the piece of office equipment I had brought out with me and aimed it at her. I fired five shots at her point-blank before she looked up and noticed. Those little digital cameras don't make much noise, but I was getting into it now. Anyway, the shots I got of her were hot. She came across through the lens like the sexiest vixen imaginable. I only hoped the jpegs would be as hot. She saw the camera in my hand when she looked back at me. I saw a brief flash of what could have been fear, quickly replaced by one of defiance in those deep brown eyes of hers.
She spied a pool of water that had collected in the side mirror. She bent down and used the surface tension of the cloth of her shirt to draw the water onto her own body. The part of her shirt she used to soak up the water was that part which was directly over her left breast. As any red-blooded Southern boy knows, thin cotton T-shirts, water and boobs were one of God's greatest combinations. I could see her breast as clearly as if she were naked. Only this was somehow sexier. She walked, hell, she sashayed, to the other side of the car and soaked up the pooled water in the other side mirror with her other tit. She came back and did a shimmy-shimmy for me that nearly made me loose my load right then and there.
As the windows on the driver's side were done, she used her toes of one foot to grasp the towel by one edge and lift it over the rear side panel. I thought she would set it up there and then use her body again. I was actually looking forward to seeing that one more time. But she surprised me.
She kept her foot up and slid with the towel under her leg up onto the car until she was kind of straddling the rear fender, one foot on the ground, the other leg on the trunk lid of the car, her leg folded back a bit. She then proceeded to use her inner thighs to rub the towel over the rear quarter-panel of the car and about half of the trunk. I think she surprised herself a little, when she raised her foot that was next to the tire and tried to use it to dry the chrome wheel. When her foot came up off the ground, her cunt came into very close personal contact with the slight ridge that ran from the back window to the taillight. The look on her face was priceless, and I captured it with the camera for posterity.
When she stopped cumming from that sudden assault on her privates, she scooted her hot little body up and down that fender like she was trying to sand it smooth. I think it was at that point she completely forgot about the camera and me and just began making love to my car. She did remember to do the other side, and it was rubbed equally smooth. Her face looked relaxed and satisfied when she finally opened her eyes and remembered where she was. Looking at me with a Mona Lisa grin, she got on with the rest of the job.
She propped her bare heels on the back bumper and used her rubbery ass to rub out any imperfections in the finish of that area. She breast-rubbed the passenger windows and then, using her teeth, dragged the towel to the roof of the auto by climbing up on the back bumper and over the lid of the trunk. I held my breath, hoping she wouldn't fall off with her arms tied behind her like that.
She was very careful. Careful not to fall off the precarious perch and careful to get every last drop of moisture on that roof. You wouldn't believe it if I told you what she did up there to move that towel around, but suffice it to say, I was ready to die a poor man. My wife could have everything. This woman was phenomenal. I have never seen a woman writhe and twist and squirm quite like that before or since. The camera captured a lot of it, but the stills, while stupendous, just didn't do justice to the motions she went through.
Then came the grand finale. Flushed and breathless, she ended up sitting at the front of the roof, just over the windshield. I was still snapping shots like crazy, swapping disks as needed. I saw when the idea came to her. It was those damned eyes, again. A mischievous gleam lit off inside of them that was noticeable even in the pictures. I saw her rearrange the towel a bit and then she looked at the camera, licking her lips as sensuously as possible.
She did the splits, spreading her long legs almost straight out on each side of her body. Then, with a little scootch, she launched her body off the edge of the roof of the car and slid down the windshield. Her widespread legs pressed the towel against the window and dried it, but by that time, I couldn't have given a shit about the fucking car or the water spots. By using some more little scootches with her hips that made my cock ache with jealousy, she maneuvered her widespread legs and her tight little ass all the way down to the front of the car. There she stopped, propped her heels on the front bumper and leveraged herself off the hood of the car.
I thought she was done. I was wrong. She had other plans. She used her ass and tits to dry the grill and headlamps. The collected water kept the cotton of her tight shirt translucent. I was breathing in short ragged gasps, as if I had just gone five rounds with the WWF champions. Licking her lips again, she bent over in the front of my car and gave the fucking hood ornament a blow-job. That fucking lucky chrome Jag ornament. I swear I heard the damn thing purring, but then again, that may have been her.
After several minutes of mouthing the chrome ornament, she stood up. I again thought she was done, but she did one more thing. With her eyes firmly locked on mine, she stood with her back to the car she had just so charmingly dried off. With slow deliberation, she backed up, until her ass touched the hood ornament. There she paused briefly, sort of shifting her weight. Then she eased back further. As she settled her ass on to the hood, her eyes closed and I heard her groan.
I looked down at the juncture of her thighs, expecting to see the tip of the Jag hood ornament protruding from between them. I did a double-take. No Jag! The slow rhythmic motions of her hips left no doubt as to what was happening. My baby, my pride and joy, my Jag had just bagged his first piece of ass! My baby became a man that day— so to speak.
I continued to capture the entire event on disk after disk, through her gut-wrenching climax to her using her dainty tongue to clean all of her fluids from the no longer virgin hood ornament. When she was finished with the car, we both just kind of stood there staring at each other. I don't think either one of us could believe what had just happened. Neither one of us wanted to do or say anything to ruin that special moment, either.
Finally, after what seemed like decades, she came over to where I was standing.
"I'm sorry about the sprinkler. Will there be anything else, sir?" Her gaze was directed not at my face, but at my crotch — and my exposed cock — just so there would be no misunderstanding what 'else' she was referring to.
"No, I don't think we'd better do anything else." It came out as a cross between a croak and a groan. It was one of the most painful sentences I have ever had to utter. Like I said earlier, abject fear and total certainty of the consequences. A man does strange and perverted things to avoid pain and poverty. Her eyes whipped up to meet mine in surprise.
"Don't I please you, sir?"
"Oh, God, yes. Very, very, very, very much. But, well, it's complicated. I, well, I just can't."
"It sure looks like you can!" she quipped, with a nod of her head at my crotch.
"No, not like that. It's my wife... Damnit all! I just can't. Not now."
She misunderstood what I had been babbling about and got a horrified look on her face.
"She's HERE?" she said in a panicked whisper. I'm sure she pictured the old bat peering at her erotic performance through the upstairs window and that she would be critiquing her technique later. That thought made me shiver, too.
"No, she's out of town for a while. But if she ever found out, and believe me, she would, I stand to lose everything."
"Oh." That concept she understood. Figures. "So there's nothing I can do for you?"
I thought about that for a moment. Then I grinned. "Yes there is. Two things, in fact."
Her face lit up and so did my heart. Her innocent joy was so pure it was infectious.
"You can tell me your name..." her face fell "... and you can make breakfast in the morning." Her eyes turned into saucers at that. I had just told her I couldn't mess around, and now I was talking about staying over for breakfast.
"Come over and knock on the door at 7:30. That is, if your husband is out of the house." I knew he was. He was almost always gone on weekends.
The play of emotions across her face was delightful to watch as she put the pieces together. She blushed at the trick I had pulled on her then burst out laughing.
When she calmed down, she grinned up at me. "It's a deal," was all she said. She then stretched up and kissed my cheek, turned and walked across my driveway and into her yard. Just as she stepped off the paved driveway, she wiggled her arms and the belt came undone. She pulled her arms free, and rubbed them to get the circulation going again. With her hands free, she gave my belt a little cowgirl whirl over her head and turned towards her house.
About halfway to her door she looked back over her shoulder to see if I was still watching. I was. There was nothing in the world I would ever want to look at again. It was quite a distance, but I swear, when she saw me watching her she stuck her tongue out at me, then turned and pulled her shorts down and mooned me as she scurried the rest of the way to her door. Bare-assed and laughing.
Just as the door closed I heard her call out, "Oh, yeah, my name. It's Janet."