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Back Seat Driver

The designated driver doesn’t always sit in the front…

“I’m not wearing panties… ”

Heard it. Sure did.

“… and kitty, she’s… she’s drooling.”

No mistaking that one.

“Fuuuck. Me so horrr-ny.”

Or that.

The rule’s simple. We’re realists, not Puritans. Kids party hardy. We all did. If she drank too much, or felt unsafe to drive, she’d call. No questions asked. I’d pick her up. Her friends knew the drill. The offer also extended to them. No goddamned funerals on my watch. We had an understanding which even applied to me. She’d provide the same and so would her friends. However tonight, my SAT-cramming daughter pulled unexpected double designated driver duty.

“Wanna feel kitty purr?”

After a shitty day that capped yet another worst of motherfucking weeks, I'd stopped for a few. Clearly too long; a few became far too many. I called. She came, but had company. The off-duty cheerleader had already stumbled into the Mazda's back seat. Drunks ride in back. Always. Apparently, my daughter’s BFF, Cecily, got punted by the kicker prior to kickoff. She then proceeded to get stoned and shitfaced during and after the game. She then called for a lift.

Next on her agenda: rebound sex. For me, right place, right time.

“Sorry Dad. Cecily called first. Rough night for her too.”

As I melted into the leather head seats, I incoherently slurred something that caused my daughter to nod. Still not cheery Cecily shuffled over and made room. We fumbled buckling each other’s belt, and then my daughter drove away. That’s when the sweetest tart of sixteen feigned her consciousness’s demise, rested her bleached blonde pigtailed head on my shoulder, and whispered her naughty something’s. Shortly thereafter, her tongue plunged into my ear and she grabbed my unassuming cock through my tented pants. Being the intoxicated gentleman that I was, and knowing we were in full rear mirror view, I too orchestrated a slow-in-the-making passing out. Didn’t slow her. Not one bit.

Resistance was futile.

“How 'bout some travelin' music, you sorry-ass drunks?” my daughter rhetorically asked, giggling as she saw us fake sleeping buffoons while activating her iPod.

With some crappy rappy filling the sedan's cockpit, Cecily pulled my hand under her cheer team pleats while slipping her little digits through my recently unsealed fly. It had been a while since anyone other than righty or lefty had played with my dick; even longer since one of the two had accessed the warmth and slickness of aroused female companionship. Abandonment and divorce, followed by the requisite failure-reflecting depression, and too much consoling comfort from Ben and Jerry, will weaken a fellow. Everything tanked. It all blurred my outlook. But in an American Graffiti instant, I’d regained my focus.

Sis-Boom-Bah.

With her hand having slithered inside my briefs, unapologetically gripping my erect reality, Cecily’s other wanton paw guided my fingers inside her steamy pot of spring flower honey. When I found her magic button, I did what God intended, and I repeatedly pressed it like a frustrated runner trying to force the walk sign at a busy intersection. However, I didn’t need to wait for the little white man to proceed. Thank goodness for the boisterous, off-key vocal embarrassment in the front seat, or sloshy finger fuck sounds and gushy moans might've been overheard.

I blame Guinness for my misguided priorities.

Not until the car had stopped at a red, and our chauffeur editorialized on her unconscious, drunken fares, did I even consider this back seat rumble to be an inappropriate activity. This was my daughter’s best friend whose bald pussy I was diddling. Maybe prohibition was a good thing. My inhibitions certainly wouldn’t have been compromised by Grape Nehi.

My daughter returned to her Eminem/Dr. Dre duet, and didn’t take notice of the twin pigtails falling forward when she negotiated a curve too swiftly. Prior to centrifugal force’s assist, Cecily forewarned me that she had an unrelenting desire to suck my dick. Within seconds of that too-fast, ninety-degree right turn, Cecily had popped out my pogo stick and pounced, wrapping her ruby lips around the base while holding my stationary stiffy in the back of her throat.

Oh, Lordy, Lordy.

Impressive, but scary as fuck.

Fortunately, the height of the console and the restricted angle of the mirror prevented a front seat viewing. Through my eyelashes, I observed no suspicion from my daughter, who continued to joyfully drop a few n-words and f-bombs with the profanity twins. I then felt something I’d never before – a tongue stud massage along the underside of Mr. Woody. That nasty cheerleader knew what to do, and did it. Around the world and then traveled its length. She even tried to plug the North Pole. Damn good thing she didn’t because under the cover of song and darkness, I came in that nasty girl’s lovely little mouth. Nothing before had ever felt so good.

“Maybe we should continue this another time?” Cecily whispered as she pretended to wake when we stopped in front of her home.

With soiled trousers and fingers I craved to taste, I patiently waited for my daughter to extricate her friend from the seatbelt. When the door closed, it fanned my way the scent of our play, so I too pretended to wake and quickly re-opened the door. While I licked my delicious pussy pops, Cecily smiled and waved as she stumbled away. I returned the farewell gesture while savoring my finger-licking-good treat, and watched but couldn’t hear the girls converse as my selfless daughter assisted her selfish friend along the front walkway.

“I owe you - thank you. Dad really needed cheering up. He’s pretty drunk so he’ll probably think that he dreamed it, but we never, ever speak of this again.”

Then, just like Verbal in, The Usual Suspects, I watched my cunning concubine's drunken stagger morph into an upright, steady swagger as she bounded her veranda stairs two-steps-at-a-time, and then casually walked into her home.

Maybe we should continue this another time?

Indeed we should.

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