The sweat clung to my thighs like syrup. My car’s A/C barely cut through the heavy air, and I wasn’t wearing panties. Not because I planned this—but because the heat made clothes unbearable. No bra either, just a loose tank top clinging to my skin, nipples already stiff.

I hadn’t gotten off that morning. I edged myself in the shower, touched just enough to ache, then stopped. Waiting. Hoping the day would give me a better excuse.

I didn’t know that excuse would be a car wash.

I pulled into the automated wash behind a lifted black truck. Chrome rims, big tires, cocky driver with sunglasses and a tattooed arm resting out the window. I licked my lip. Dangerous. Southern. Young enough to show off, old enough to know how to look.

The metal track grabbed my tires and the car started to roll forward. Soap nozzles hissed to life. I was surrounded in seconds. White foam slashed the windshield and windows, drowning me in wet, steamy privacy.

That’s when it hit me.

No one could see me.

No one.

Unless I wanted them to.

My heart began to pound. The foam clung to the glass, thick and swirling like clouds. The outside world faded to nothing but soap and heat and the faint throb between my legs.

I slid one hand over the wheel, the other down my bare thigh.

No panties. Just skin. Slick. Wanting.

The buzz of the machines covered the sound of my moan.

I didn’t stop.

The machine roared around me, a wall of sound masking everything else. Steam curled like fingers up the glass, licking the edges of the windshield, fogging the world into nothing. I was alone—but I wasn’t.

The moment I let my fingers slip between my legs, I felt it—that invisible weight of being watched. Maybe it was just the thrill playing tricks on my brain. Maybe it was something more.

I arched back in the seat, letting my thighs fall open wider. My tank top had ridden up, my bare breasts on full display. One hand worked between my legs, the other pinched a nipple, sending jolts through me like electricity in the rain.

That’s when I saw it.

A flicker. Movement.

At first, I thought it was just water shifting on the side glass, but no. There—between the soap streaks and steam—was a shape. A person.

I froze. My breath caught.

Someone was outside.

A man.

He wasn’t part of the staff. No uniform. No equipment. Just jeans, boots, and a hungry expression on his face. One hand rested against the wall of the wash tunnel. The other moved rhythmically over the front of his pants.

My heart thudded. I should’ve covered up. Pulled my top down. Closed my legs.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I leaned back and spread wider.

His lips parted slightly. His eyes didn’t blink. He could see everything—and I let him.

My fingers didn’t slow. I wanted him to see me stroke my clit, to see the way my back arched when I slid two fingers deep. I moaned louder this time, watching him watching me.

The wash cycle moved to rinse, and bright lights lit the inside of my car like a stage. Water cascaded over the roof and hood, and I kept going—my body trembling, needy, soaking the leather under me.

I locked eyes with him as I came.

No shame.

Just heat. Pulsing, twitching, wild heat.

My thighs trembled. My lips parted. My orgasm slammed through me like a wave against the windshield. I wanted to scream, but all I could do was ride it out, shaking and twitching and staring into the face of a stranger who didn’t look away.

The final dryer stage roared to life, shaking the car slightly.

I gasped, slowly pulling my hand back, glistening and sticky. My chest rose and fell like I’d just run a mile.

The man was gone.

Or so I thought.

The car began to roll forward again. The final doors started to lift.

And that’s when I saw him—at the exit, just a few feet away. Waiting.

Still watching.

The light at the end of the wash tunnel flickered green, signaling me to pull forward. But my hands trembled on the wheel, thighs still slick and parted, chest bare, breath shallow.

And he was still there.

Standing just beyond the threshold, one foot braced casually against the wall, arms crossed, as if this was routine for him—watching strangers fall apart in their cars.

I didn’t even think. I just let my foot off the brake.

The car rolled forward slowly, tires still wet, my body buzzing with aftershocks. As I passed him, he stepped toward the open driver’s side window, the scent of steam and sex still thick in the air.

He leaned in.

Close enough to smell me.

Close enough to touch.

“Didn’t think anyone would be watching?” he asked, voice low and full of gravel. “Or did you want to be caught?”

I couldn’t speak. My lips parted, but no words came out.

His gaze dropped to my bare chest, and a smirk crept across his face. He reached one hand through the window, fingers brushing the edge of my thigh, slick and exposed.

“You didn’t finish,” he said. “Not really.”

My skin prickled.

I should’ve pulled away. I should’ve hit the gas. But I didn’t.

Instead, I leaned toward him.

His hand slipped higher, between my legs, fingers parting me like he’d done this before. I gasped, hips lifting instinctively. My legs were still open, tank top still bunched around my ribs, and the car idled in neutral like it, too, was holding its breath.

“There’s a spot behind the wash,” he whispered. “No cameras.”

His fingers circled my clit once. Slowly. Too slowly.

“Come park. I’ll finish what you started.”

Then he stepped back, left a streak of wetness on my thigh, and disappeared around the corner without waiting for an answer.

I sat there, panting, dripping, heartbeat in my throat. The truck behind me honked twice. I blinked, realizing I was still blocking the exit. Still topless. Still spread.

I put the car in drive.

And turned left—around the back of the wash.

The back lot behind the wash bay was empty—just cracked pavement, a row of weeds, and a rusted chain-link fence that barely hid the street beyond.

I parked beside a weather-stained dumpster, engine idling. My hands clenched the wheel, knuckles white. My heart hadn’t slowed at all.

Then he appeared in my side mirror.

He moved like he belonged there. No hesitation. No nervous glances. Just quiet, assured hunger.

I didn’t roll the window down.

I opened the door.

Before I could speak, his hand was on my bare thigh again. Hot. Confident. He stepped between the open door and my seat, shutting us off from the world. I was still shirtless. Still slick and wet and shaking. And he saw all of it.

“You like being watched, don’t you?” he murmured, fingers trailing up to my soaked folds. “You wanted me to see you.”

I nodded. I didn’t trust my voice.

He pressed his thumb against my clit and I bucked. My body responded before I could think, back arching off the seat as he worked his hand like he’d known me for years. His other hand gripped my breast, squeezing, pinching the nipple until I gasped.

Then he pulled back.

I whimpered. Actually whimpered.

“Get out,” he said.

My eyes widened. “What?”

“Out of the car. Now. Stand up.”

The alley was empty. For now. But anyone could drive by. A delivery van. A staff member. A random stranger.

That was the thrill.

I stepped out.

Naked from the waist up, wet between my thighs, my shorts unzipped and clinging to my hips. He spun me around and bent me over the hood before I could protest.

The metal was hot on my skin. My nipples scraped against it. I moaned before he even touched me again.

And when he did—when his fingers pushed back inside me, deeper this time—I nearly cried out.

“You’re soaked,” he growled. “Fucking dripping.”

He fingered me hard, fast, right there in the open. My hands braced against the hood, my hair clinging to my face, my body on full display for anyone to see.

He slapped my ass once, the sound sharp and echoing off the walls.

“Say it,” he hissed. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to be caught,” I gasped. “I want someone to see us.”

He curled his fingers just right, and I came so hard I nearly collapsed onto the hood.

But I didn’t get to rest.

He wasn’t done.

I was breathless, folded over the hood of my own car, my thighs trembling and slick. His fingers withdrew slowly, leaving me empty, pulsing, raw.

“You’re not done,” he said behind me. “Not yet.”

He pressed his body against mine—his chest against my back, his jeans rough against my thighs. I could feel the heat of him through the denim. Hard. Demanding. He didn’t unzip. Not yet. He was making me wait.

The alley behind the car wash was still empty. But barely.

A passing car rumbled in the distance. A garage door opened somewhere nearby.

He reached around and cupped my breast, squeezing it in his palm while his other hand slid back between my legs. I gasped again, bucking into him, my body desperate for more.

Then I heard it.

A car door slamming.

I froze.

He didn’t.

He slid two fingers back inside me as if he hadn’t heard a thing.

“Keep your eyes open,” he whispered. “Let them watch.”

I turned my head slowly—enough to see past the edge of the dumpster.

There, maybe thirty feet away, stood a man in a security uniform. Mid-40s, heavyset, walkie on his hip. He wasn’t moving. Just watching.

I couldn’t breathe.

“He’s not stopping us,” the stranger whispered. “He’s letting us finish.”

He unzipped.

I heard the rustle of denim, then the sound of skin against skin. The stranger gripped my hips and pressed the head of his cock between my legs. He was thick. Hot. So much more than I expected.

I let out a sound—part fear, part arousal—as he slowly slid into me.

I was already soaked. He filled me in one deep, relentless push.

My moan echoed down the alley.

“Look at him,” he growled in my ear, starting to thrust. “He’s got his hand on his cock.”

I did.

The guard didn’t move. Just watched us—his free hand buried in his waistband.

My stranger fucked me hard over the hood. No rhythm. Just heat and hunger and the thrill of being watched. My breasts bounced with every thrust, slapping softly against the warm metal. His hand tangled in my hair, pulling my head back, forcing me to look up.

Another sound.

A second car pulling into the lot.

I could barely register it before a younger guy stepped out—maybe early twenties. Backpack slung over one shoulder. He froze, mouth open. Just stared.

I should’ve stopped.

I didn’t.

I came again.

So fucking hard.

I screamed into the open air, eyes wide, body convulsing. The stranger didn’t even slow. He grabbed my hips tighter and buried himself deep, groaning loud, filling me as I shook beneath him.

When he was done, he pulled out slowly, a thread of wetness dripping between my thighs.

I couldn’t move.

“Don’t clean yourself up yet,” he said. “Let them see what we did.”

He zipped up and disappeared around the corner again—silent and satisfied.

I stood, trembling, exposed. My skin flushed, my thighs glistening, three strangers having watched every second of it.

I didn’t care.

I loved it.

Three days passed.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The way his fingers knew my body. The way they all watched and didn’t look away. The way I didn’t care.

I still hadn’t washed the hood of my car.

The streaks had dried there, faint but real. Like a mark. A secret only I knew.

I tried to get off in the shower. I tried alone in bed. I even tried in the office bathroom stall during my lunch break, fingers slipping past lace while I thought of the security guard's stare. But it wasn’t enough.

Not anymore.

Because once you’ve been seen—really seen—you start needing it.

So I went back.

Same time. Same day. Same humid heat pressing against my chest like a lover’s grip. I wore even less this time—no bra, no panties, just a summer dress that clung to every curve when the A/C blew through it. My thighs were bare, smooth, already slick before I even reached the gate.

The black pickup truck wasn’t there.

But I pulled in anyway.

The automated voice greeted me like an old friend. “Drive forward slowly.”

I obeyed.

As the brushes descended and the soap sprayed, I felt the ache return—low, thick, hungry. I hiked the dress up to my waist, letting it gather around my hips. My hand moved between my legs, and I was already dripping.

It wasn’t about coming anymore.

It was about performing.

For the booth. For the cameras. For whoever might be watching this time.

And someone was.

I could feel it.

I reached into my purse and pulled out something new. A small, silver toy. Smooth. Quiet. Ruthless.

I pressed it to my clit and gasped. The wash cycle roared, but I barely heard it. I rocked my hips, letting the toy do what fingers couldn’t, my eyes open—searching.

Then I saw it.

Not just one this time.

Two shadows behind the side panel of the wash. Two figures watching silently, just like before. One leaned in close, pressed to the glass. The other stayed back, hand on their belt.

My body tensed, but not from fear.

From thrill.

From ownership.

I spread my legs wider.

I didn’t finish quickly.

I let them have it—a full show. My back arched, mouth open, hair stuck to my face as I came harder than I ever had. The toy buzzed slick between my thighs. I screamed this time. Louder. Head tossed back.

When the rinse cycle ended, I stayed exposed.

I wanted them to see the aftermath.

I didn’t care who they were.

I wanted more.