Remember those high-school Friday nights? Sitting in the car in the driveway, the radio playing on low---the conversation faltering as you tried to prolong the pleasure of your date’s company. Remember wondering when the kiss would happen? How did those days disappear so quickly? If you’re like me, and high-school was more than half your life ago, then you might enjoy a little tale about the last time my guy and I made out after a date:
The air was chilly, and the stars were bright in the early February sky. Valentine’s Day was coming, with all its chocolate and rose petals, and black lace panties…but tonight was just an average Friday night---a date night, like so many others, that started with a movie, then dinner, and---if all went according to plan---might end up with some really great bedroom sex.
But things turned out to be a little different. Nothing drastic happened, except that his warm fingers reached for mine more often across the dinner table. His eyes sparkled when I laughed, and he talked---really talked---about something, anything, I really don’t remember what. I do remember, though, as we drove home, my chilled fingers warming themselves on his thigh, and his chatting like someone had thrown a switch after replacing his batteries.
As we pulled into the driveway, he turned off the engine, and left the 80’s station broadcasting memories over the radio. I turned to face him in my seat. While our unsupervised teenagers played video games and ordered on-demand-movies in the house, we sat outside grinning at each other like we were the adolescents and they the parents sitting up until we returned home safely. We reminisced, laughed and relaxed. Those high-school-date jitters swept over me once again, as I sat with one eye on his lips, the other on the front porch light. I realized that I was hoping it wouldn’t come on; that nobody was watching from the front of the house.
He was a little surprised when I initiated, by putting my knees in my seat and leaning across the console to kiss him. My hands pressed against his chest. My tongue slipped into his mouth to snake around and explore that sweet spot underneath. It didn’t take long for him to possessively wrap his arms around my waist and pull me into his lap. I giggled like a school-girl, and tangled my fingers in his hair as his hands slipped beneath my blouse and fingered the bottom edge of my bra. He was planning to try for second base.
I moaned softly to egg him on a little, and squirmed a bit in his lap. Sufficiently encouraged, he responded by kicking back his seat as he expertly unclipped my bra with two fingers. Turning to straddle him, I slipped my hands beneath his shirt and nibbled on that sensitive muscle tensing just below his jaw. I could taste the warmth of his flesh, and from somewhere deep in my memory the smell of Polo filled my nose. Soon we were pawing at each other, his fingers down the front of my jeans, my blouse unbuttoned, and my nipples pressed against his.
And then, there were headlights.
We gasped, ducked our heads, thankful at least for the light tint on the windows. Holding our breath, we watched the pizza delivery guy walk past the driver’s side window, and climb the steps to ring our doorbell. I could feel my lover’s heartbeat pounding in my chest. Our eyes were wide, and our bodies frozen half in fear of being discovered, half in arousal at the thrill. The front porch light temporarily blinded me, and I was glad that we’d had the foresight to recline the seat. I peeked over the bottom edge driver’s side window, and I whispered the unfolding drama in a low, excited voice.
It was my son who opened the door, his tall, lanky shadow stretching across the front walk. The expression on his face told me he was too concerned with the pizza in the box, and maybe his paused video game, to notice or question why mom and dad’s car was back in the driveway, while we were nowhere in sight. Forking over the cash and grabbing the warm pizza with a grin, he closed the door.
We dared to breathe.
Never even suspecting that we were crouched just inches away, the delivery driver passed our car, got back into his, and sped off down the road. We erupted in nervous laughter, relieved that we’d gotten away with our little escapade. But suddenly, I felt his arms clamping around me again, and his mouth smothering mine. The urgency was palpable. We were flying high on the danger and our narrow escape. There was no stopping us now.
Soon, the windows were fogged over, and a moist heat filled the small space where we lay, tangled in each others arms, mouths, and half-on-half-off clothing. I pulled away from him and repositioned my knees in the passenger seat. His groans of protest lasted only a moment, as I reached for his belt, and released his throbbing cock. It sprang out of its prison and beckoned me to come closer. I obligingly dived in.
He groaned aloud as I slipped my mouth over his engorged tip. I could tell he’d only hoped our adventure would progress so far. He fisted his hands into my long, dark hair, and arched his back as I wrapped my left hand around the base of his shaft and cupped his balls with my right. As he began to swell and grow slicker with my saliva, I tightened my grip just enough to increase his pleasure, twisting my soft fist over him as I flattened my tongue and wrapped it around the sensitive underside of his rod. I began sucking softly at first, letting my tongue flick over all the most sensitive spots I knew so well.
As his excitement grew, I began to slide him in and out of my warm, wet mouth, going a bit deeper with each stroke, and increasing the suction a fraction at a time. I imagined I was sucking a thick, creamy milkshake through a straw. He reached over with his right hand and tweaked first one nipple then the other—alternating as I moaned into his crotch. The vibrations made him shudder and I could feel his legs tensing beneath me and his balls drawing in tightly as the pressure built. I couldn’t help thinking that at any minute a neighbor, or one of our children might be tapping on the window, and the sense of urgency drove me to a frantic pace. It wasn’t long before his legs jerked and his body convulsed as my mouth filled with his tangy, thick cum. I swallowed-----swallowed, and swallowed until I felt him relax and soften in my mouth. Then I leaned back and took a shaky breath while he looked at me with utter bewilderment. I could tell he was asking himself what had gotten into me.
He grinned as I slid my pants down over my hips and guided his left hand back to my quivering, wet pussy. He knew exactly what I wanted, and quick. So he raised his seat and slipped two fingers inside of me so fast that I yelped at the sensation. In the lifetime we’ve spent together he’s learned to bring me to climax expertly with either his right or left hand. I shuddered as he flicked his left thumb over my clit, and groaned loudly as he pressed his pinky against my tight rosebud. He moved quickly, for maximum impact, my arousal providing all the lubrication he needed. His fingers jammed tightly into me, twisting, turning, flicking across my lips, my clit, against my backside. I exploded in a flash, dripping sticky, wet cream all over his hands.
He tortured me for a few moments more, watching me writhe and twitch in excruciating pleasure. Then he reached across me to the glove box, and pulled out a handful of napkins from the all-night taco place. We laughed again as we made an effort to clean ourselves up, and rearrange our clothing before facing the children. The icy night air rushed over us, as I stepped shakily from the car, and took his arm. This was a night neither of us would soon forget, and something told me as we mounted the steps, his hand squeezing the soft flesh of my ass, that the great bedroom sex I’d anticipated earlier might very well be straight ahead.
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