Carol was drunk, but she didn't care. It wasn't her fault—a bottle of Chardonnay and two rum cocktails did that to a girl. Jack and Gary promised it wouldn't turn into a business dinner—but that's what they always said. Carol usually spent dinner gossiping with Gary's wife, Tina. But the babysitter had cancelled at the last second, and Tina stayed home instead. So Carol was all alone with two would-be global tycoons. Who could blame her for drinking a bit more than usual?
"If we go for Towcester Street, we'll get a fifteen per cent yield," said Gary.
"And a whopping big mortgage," said Jack. "Whereas we can afford Cirencester Road without a mortgage."
"But it only has a ten per cent yield."
Jack breathed deeply. "It certainly is a big decision."
"Why don't you just get both?" said Carol.
Jack looked at his wife as if he'd forgotten she was there. "Sorry?"
"It's what I do when I can't decide. I get both."
"Darling, we're not talking about shoes here. Why don't I get you another cocktail? Waiter!"
Jack and Gary plotted world domination. It didn't look like they'd be leaving the restaurant any time soon, even though the meal was over and the bill had been paid. But Carol had a cunning plan. At least her Chardonnay-soaked brain told her it was cunning.
"Honey," she slurred. "I'm going out to get some air. I'll meet you back at the car." If she left, Jack would be sure to follow soon, and she could go home to bed. If Jack didn't follow, she could make him feel guilty for weeks for leaving her waiting. Who said alcohol impairs your judgement?
The restaurant was in the heart of the city's Cultural Quarter. The multi-story where they had parked was ten minutes away—easily a long enough walk to clear her head and prevent a hangover. Carol strolled. She wasn't in any real hurry. None of the clubs had closed yet, so the streets didn't seem as dangerous as they would when filled with drunken yobs taunting each other and fighting over glamour-model wannabes in fake Burberry jackets and white stilettos.
She passed a bistro—less exclusive than the restaurant she had just left. Young couples sat at small tables in its large, street-facing windows. Their faces were flushed with the happiness of early love. One couple held hands and stared into each other's eyes across the candlelit table. Another fed each other ice cream. A third couple kissed—a deep, lingering, passionate kiss. Carol caught herself watching them.
"How long has it been since Jack kissed me like that? I miss being kissed like that." Carol often talked to herself. Sometimes she felt like she was the only person who listened.
She watched the lovers until they broke their kiss, and then she set off for the car park again. It was a warm night. Had Carol been wearing an overcoat, she'd have taken it off, but she wasn't. All she wore was a powder-blue satin summer dress and her favourite lacy underwear. The white bra and French knickers set, and her tan stockings, made her feel very sexy.
"Shame Jack never notices how sexy I look. Or feel. He hardly notices me at all, the miserable git."
She neared the edge of the Cultural Quarter, where the restaurants and bistros gave way to bars and nightclubs. She came to the entrance of Swingers, a notoriously rowdy bar. An attractive young woman shot out of the door and past Carol. An equally young and attractive man chased her.
"Hey! Watch it!"
The pair took no notice of Carol. They disappeared into the alleyway at the side of the building that was even more notorious than the bar itself.
"I wonder what you're up to? You ought to get a room—you'd be much more comfortable."
Carol glanced down the narrow gap between buildings as she passed it. The young girl had pushed her partner up against the wall and knelt before him, fumbling with his trousers. Beyond them, Carol could see another couple. The woman had her hands on the wall to support herself while some young stud rammed into her from behind.
Carol speeded up. It seemed to be taking her twice as long to return to the car park as it had earlier in the evening, when she'd gone back to retrieve the handbag she'd left behind. She was getting hornier by the second. It had been over a month since Jack last climbed up and thrust his cock into her. And, even then, he'd not finished the job. He'd took his pleasure—what there was of it—rolled off, rolled over and gone to sleep. Carol had had to finish things herself.
She stopped walking and stared at the sky. "It's not much of a cock, but I do wish he'd use it more. Is that too much to ask? For my husband to make love to me once in a while?"
Carol needed sex. She needed to get laid. She needed a damn good fucking. So she made a decision. Whatever it took, she'd make sure that, when they got home, her husband would give her what she needed. She plotted her campaign and paid no attention to where she was going. Luckily, her feet knew the way and stopped when they reached the car park.
"Did we park on five or six?" she asked the moon. "It was five wasn't it? I'm sure it was five." She climbed the stairs and stumbled out onto the fifth level. Through her drunken haze, she searched for Jack's car. The car park was cold, damp and dimly lit. Several of the fluorescent strip-lights overhead were smashed. It reminded Carol of a set from one of the slasher movies she'd watched in her youth. She half-expected a masked axe man to jump from the shadows and start chasing her. There were only a handful of cars left—a shabby blue Ford, a new BMW and a sleek, black Aston Martin Vanquish, crouched in a corner, like an exotic predator trapped in a concrete cage. "Well, look at you. Aren't you a beauty? All sleek and sexy. I understand why those models in Jack's calendar drape themselves over you like that."
She ambled over. The closer she got, the better the Aston Martin looked. The pristine paintwork shone, even in the poor light. Carol admired every curve and every line of the machine. It was perfect.
"I know plenty of boys who'd kill to drive you. But the closest they'll ever get is watching thingy-me-wotsit off the telly. Dickless wonders, that's what they are. I mean, who'd buy you, huh? Some knob-head with no knob who couldn't fuck a girl right in a million years, that's who. You're just a big, shiny replacement penis."
She ran her hand along the front wing and was surprised by the lack of an ear-shattering alarm. She put both hands on the car and pushed down, bouncing the suspension. Still no alarm. "Someone's gonna be really pissed off when they find out your alarm's not set. Mind you ... Gives me an idea. You'd prefer me draped over you to some skinny, no-tits, bikini-girl, wouldn't you?"
In Carol's mind, the car's grill widened into a smile and it flashed one of its headlights as if winking at her. She slipped off her shoes and clambered onto the bonnet. She imagined a photographer directing her like he would the models. She posed for him and blew kisses at the camera. She lay on her stomach and propped herself up on her elbows. Her dress gaped. The make-believe photographer was mesmerised by her breasts. She caught him staring and smiled. She sat up and pushed her breasts together, offering them to the photographer.
That's nice, baby. That's nice. Work it. Work it. The photographer reeled off snap after snap.
Carol lay back on the cold metal, stretched her arms above her head and kicked her legs in the air. The hem of her flimsy dress fell and revealed her slender thighs and lacy stocking-tops. She put her feet back on the bonnet and let her legs fall apart. She pushed her breasts together again.
The photographer loved it. Work it, baby. That's it. Give it to me. You look great.
Carol squeezed one breast hard. She slipped her other hand down her belly and into her knickers. She rubbed her clit. Gently. Gently. A bit harder. Harder. Almost there. Almost there.
Carol was so caught up in her fantasy she hadn't heard anyone approach. She almost fell off the car. She sat up and looked towards the sound. A middle-aged man, with a wicked gleam in his eyes, grinned at her. She slid onto the cement floor, feeling foolish. She adjusted her dress, trying to regain a small amount of respectability.
"It didn't have a hood-ornament when I left," said the stranger. "Not that I'm complaining. As hood-ornaments go, you're one of the best I've ever seen. Certainly better than a three-pointed star or a leaping cat."
Carol smiled weakly, but didn't know what to say. She looked at the floor.
"I do hope you haven't scratched it." He bent down to examine the paintwork.
"I can't have," she said. "I took my shoes off. I can't have. I didn't mean to. I just couldn't resist." Carol held her hands in front of her and twisted her wedding ring around her finger. She screwed the ball of her foot into the floor.
"I understand," said the stranger. "It's a beauty, isn't it? I doubt I'd be able to resist either, if I were you. Oh, no ... look at this"."
She looked at the bonnet where he was pointing. An inch-long, silver gash in the black paint stared back at her. "H ... How?"
The stranger pointed to her head. "What's that?"
Carol felt the back of her head. She'd forgotten all about her hairgrip.
"Don't look so worried," he said. "It'll be easy to fix."
"Do you really think so?"
"Yeah. It's just a tiny little scratch. Isn't even worth bothering the insurance company with. I'm sure we could settle it just between us."
"Settle? You want me to pay for it?"
"Something like that. Let's call it compensation, of sorts."
Her jaw dropped.
"I've had a really shitty day," he said. "And this ... Well, this just tops it off. So, how about I relieve a little tension and fuck you right here on the bonnet? Then we'll call it even. Forget all about the damage? Although, you'll have to take your hairgrip out—we wouldn't want to make it worse."
"What? Are you mad? Anyone could see us."