The September wind slammed the rocks and sand at Dalabukta camping with a force tourists swore marked the end of the world, but Kristiansund dwellers counted as mere advent preparation. The sea roared with the wind, and the rain added a percussive layer that turned the night haunting.

But there was another roar on the gale, angrier—or maybe just hornier. The black Mustang tore past Folkeparken, then Dalen gård, and beneath her voice a heavy metal classic from 1980 set the soundtrack for the adventure.

“One-twenty!” Jonathan yelled as the old Ford howled through third, its cry ricocheting off the raw rock walls. Kristiansund was already behind them, and just inside the yawning mouth of the Atlanterhavstunnel he let the Mustang loose, hurling it down the incline without mercy, the engine snatching at breath before he slammed it into fourth.

“Oh, fuck,” Helena gasped, crushed into her seat as the gradient dragged them deeper, the air vibrating with echo and speed.

“One-forty!”

The eighteen-year-old brunette fought the urge to squeeze her eyes shut, or to clamp her fists between her thighs. Every time Jonathan flexed the car’s muscles, she turned pliant, shaky, wanting. She let the rumble flood her chest and belly, the sound rebounding from the cold walls until it was inside her, a pressure, a pulse.

When she forced her eyes open, vision blurred, it was nothing but the sensation of being hurled through blackness.

“One-fifty!”

Sally was a respectable girl at fifty-seven, born in Dearborn, Michigan. She still kept most of her two hundred seventy horses, maybe more. She had been Jonathan’s father’s, and his father’s before that. Black, with fake racing stripes and a fat rear, she carried her age with menace. The first thing Jonathan did when he got the keys on his eighteenth birthday was buy her new wheels. Fat. Like her ass.

And now, plunging into the Atlanterhavstunnel, Sally showed no sign of letting age hold her back. She loved the drop, loved the grade, loved Helena’s cunt grinding into her leather, her engine roaring with the hunger of a younger mare. The walls hurled her voice back until it filled the cabin, drowning Helena’s gasp. Jonathan had his hands on her wheel, but it was Sally who dragged them deeper, eager to prove she still had more to give.

Helena took her in with everything she had. Blood pumping, breath shallow, fists curled tight to hold herself back. Her chest pounded, nipples catching the swell that rose inside her, and still she resisted the temptation to touch. She let Sally do the work. For now.

Sally roared, and Helena giggled at the picture in her head. Who’s got the bigger ass, she wondered. Sally or me?

“One-seventy!” Jonathan shouted, not daring a glance at his girlfriend.

When Helena spotted the red taillights of a small hatchback far down the tunnel, she couldn’t hold back anymore. She planted her boots on the dash, thighs wide, skirt hiked high. Her panties were drenched, heat soaking her fingers.

“One-eighty!” Jonathan bellowed.

“Oh, fuck,” Helena moaned.

Fuck yeah, Sally groaned.

Helena tried to stall herself, but with Sally’s rumble and shake—like she might burst free of her own frame—the brunette’s fingers moved on their own. She wasn’t heavy-chested, yet her tits felt small inside her hoodie, pressed tight against lace. She wasn’t a big girl either, though Jonathan liked the soft bulge around her hips, the way her belly jiggled when he fucked her.

Perfect, he always called her.

Maybe it had nothing to do with her frame, just that she sucked cock without flinching.

And now he slipped lanes, narrowing in on the little Fiesta ahead.

Then came the lights of a semi, barreling down the slope at the bottom. Helena’s breath caught; she tore at her panties, clawing space for her fingers.

Sally coughed twice, as if unsure whether to yield or surge, then roared.

“One-ninety. Fuck!” Jonathan exhaled.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Helena cried—but whether for the oncoming truck or the fingers inside her, Jonathan couldn’t tell.

The horn of the semi split the tunnel—angry, long, menacing. Lights blazed, brakes screamed, concrete trembled. The Fiesta jerked aside, scraping air against the wall, but Sally only roared with laughter as she slid past, black paint flashing in front of her pale Spanish cousin.

“Fuck, I’m cumming,” Helena whimpered, thighs seized tight, then fluttering helplessly, fingers frantic. Her cry tangled with the truck’s bellow and Sally’s howl, but Jonathan’s eyes stayed fixed, steady on the road, as if nothing else existed but the strip of asphalt rising hard toward Averøy.

Sally blinked twice as Jonathan let her settle into a steady climb, speed falling back to a hundred, then ninety.

But Helena wasn’t finished; she was only getting started. Or she would be, once her thighs quit trembling, her boots quit their drumming against the dash, and her cunt stopped pulsing, oozing, throbbing, leaking, and making those wet, fucking sounds.

“Oh, God, baby,” she whispered at last, her voice thick with breath.

She didn’t so much sit up as collapse, legs sliding from the dash to thump against Sally’s floor. Still coming down, her hand crept to Jonathan’s crotch, to the heat straining his jeans. She loved unzipping him, because his cock—though not the biggest she’d had—was the best fit she’d ever known. And taking him in her mouth while he whipped Sally harder up the road? Fuck, that was hot.

Helena wrestled with herself in the seat, yanking her hoodie over her head, bra straps biting at her arms, while her other hand freed Jonathan’s cock. It was graceless, awkward—hair in her eyes, tits finally loose and shivering in the air, Sally’s leather kissing her back as she fought for room.

Clumsy little slut, Sally purred through the hum of the wheel. Can you even manage both at once?

Helena snorted, half a laugh, half a gasp. She bent over Jonathan, lips parting, fingers curling, determined to prove Sally wrong.

That’s it, Sally whispered. I dare you. Deeper.

As Sally pushed her nose out of the tunnel’s mouth, Helena took Jonathan between her lips. The Averøy dark stretched ahead, rain falling in a thin drizzle, but none of it mattered.

Jonathan’s cock thudded warm and patient against her tongue, steadying her pulse as she slobbered around him. But there was nothing patient in her mouth, and when Sally’s snarl rose—sharp with irritation—Helena forced herself to stall. She didn’t want to look desperate in front of Sally.

And Sally settled, as if to say, Good girl.

The words shivered through Helena worse than the rain, a rush of pride she hadn’t asked for but couldn’t shake. She moaned low around Jonathan, cheeks wet, suddenly eager to please them both, her free hand slipping to her crotch to stir her cunt awake.

Sally kept her steady over Averøy’s wet spine of road, humming at ninety through fields and fences blurred by drizzle. Helena never lifted her head. Her tits pressed into Sally’s leather, her ass raised high, hair spilling across Jonathan’s lap as she worked him harder with every curve of the island road.

Jonathan’s jaw locked, eyes pinned to the slick asphalt. He didn’t dare look down—not with her sucking him raw, not with Sally purring like she owned them both. Every swallow made him twitch against her tongue, and every twitch made her hungrier.

By the time the lamps of Kårvåg glimmered faint ahead, Sally’s wheels were slick with rain—or lust. Helena’s face was slick with spit, and Jonathan’s knuckles bone-white on the wheel. The Atlantic Road began just beyond, its first bridge rising into the storm like a dare.

And there, Sally came to a stall. The rain thickened, the wind rose sharp, and the Norwegian Sea broke in waves that slapped the asphalt. If you didn’t know better, you’d think the ocean had swallowed the road ahead, leaving only a narrow black strip floating on water.

Sally hummed low. Wanting. Waiting.

Helena didn’t know what to do with herself. She wanted Jonathan to cum in her mouth, she wanted to get fucked, she wanted something stronger than flesh on flesh, cock in cunt, something that would throw her past herself. She let Jonathan’s cock slip wet from her lips and rolled back into her seat, legs lifting high. Her panties came down, then off, a surrender torn free with a sigh.

She swung one leg over, clumsy against Jonathan’s thigh, and braced her knee on the other seat as she tried to climb into his lap. To fuck him. To let him take her needy cunt the same way he made Sally roar.

But Sally was mischievous and cruel, and as Helena’s cunt brushed her stick, she rumbled low.

“Oh. Fuck,” Helena whimpered.

Yeah, Sally teased. You like that, don’t you?

The Mustang rattled, idling unevenly, then sent a hard jolt up through her rod, catching Helena’s clit just right. The brunette froze, clutching the seatbacks, leather groaning under her fingers.

“Again,” Helena whispered, still bracing the seatbacks.

And Sally answered, sending a steady, hard pulse into the place Helena was softest.

Jonathan’s breath caught. Sally idled beneath them, daring him to stir her pulse. Nothing left to steer, nothing to fix his eyes on but Helena. Her leg brushed his, bare and open, spread across Sally’s stick, rocking like a forbidden lover. Helena was beautiful, wild—some called her crazy—and now, with her tits trembling free in the pale glow of the dash, she was irresistible. Irresistible and untouchable.

His cock throbbed, still wet from her mouth, and watching her like that only made him harder.

“God, baby,” he whispered. “That’s so fucking hot.”

Sally thudded unevenly, tired from her chase. Helena whimpered.

Do it, Sally whispered.

Jonathan tapped the accelerator—just a tease.

Sally hummed, and Helena buckled.

“Jesus fucking fuck!” she gasped as the stick rubbed her swollen clit.

Jonathan tapped the pedal again, and Sally purred, her hum running up through the shaft into Helena’s body. The girl cried out, hips jerking, then froze when Sally eased off, left trembling and undone.

Too eager, Sally teased, her voice curling low. Show me you can wait.

Helena bit her lip, fingers clawing at the seat. “Please,” she breathed.

Jonathan’s cock strained, chest heaving, but he let Sally lead. A feather press, a shallow growl—then silence. Helena folded forward, clutching the seatbacks, desperate for the rhythm to return.

Sally stalled again, her engine ticking. Beg, she whispered.

Helena sobbed, shaking her head, but her body betrayed her, grinding helplessly against the dead stick. “I’m begging, I’m begging—just don’t stop!”

The stick throbbed beneath her, tall enough to threaten more than she dared. Every grind of her clit against the smooth knob risked a slip, risked the hard shaft sliding between her wet lips. She fought it, thighs quaking, trying to hold herself just right, and the strain only drove her crazier.

Go on, Sally whispered, smug. Take me all the way.

Helena shook her head, whimpering, hips circling anyway—caught between resisting and needing more.

Sally laughed, a deep mechanical rumble, and Jonathan felt it shiver through his bones.

Rev me hard, she hissed.

Jonathan’s foot came down heavy, and Sally roared into the night—into the rain, into the sea.

Helena shattered. The scream tore raw from her throat, her body convulsing as the stick ground against her clit. Her back arched, thighs clamped, boots drumming the floorboards as if she could drive the climax deeper. She clawed at the seatbacks, nails raking leather, spit slicking her chin as her breath broke apart.

Her thighs threatened to give, her hips bucked helplessly against the stick, and all she could do was cling to leather, to upholstery, to anything that kept her from breaking apart completely—

Her orgasm came in waves, relentless, drowning her until she collapsed forward, trembling and soaked, her cunt still pulsing against the stick even as she tried to pull away.

Sally growled beneath her, smug, satisfied, humming in aftershocks as though she’d taken the girl for herself.

Jonathan sat frozen, chest heaving, cock throbbing painfully, untouched. Helena’s screams had drowned out everything—the rain, the sea, even Sally’s roar—but now, in the silence after, all he could hear was her ragged breathing and the faint tick of the idling engine.

The road lay slick before them, waves still crashing in, Sally’s spotlights cutting into the dark, daring them to push on.

Helena’s thighs were useless, but she could either pull herself together or give in—sink down on the stick and let the Mustang fuck her the way she needed.

Instead, she pushed herself up and over, landing in Jonathan’s lap, her knees braced against the door and the steel of his seat. She felt his pulse in his cock and still marveled at the ease with which he slipped inside her, slick and ready, as she sank down.

“Go,” she whispered.

Fuck, yeah, Sally roared as Jonathan slammed her into first. Her ass wiggled, wheels spinning slick on the wet blacktop, then she lunged into the first steep corner, headlights carving through spray.

Helena clung to her man, thighs spread wide across his lap, her cunt gripping him as the Mustang hurled them sideways. Every shift of Sally’s gears shoved him deeper inside her, each slam of clutch and throttle buckling her body against his chest.

The road ahead rose and fell, bridge after bridge breaking through the surf. Waves smashed the guardrails, spray lashed the windshield, but Sally only laughed, snarling through her exhaust, ravenous for more.

Jonathan gritted his teeth, one hand fighting the wheel, the other switching between Helena’s hip—dragging her down hard onto his cock—and Sally’s stick, slick and slippery with her wetness.

“Oh, God!” the brunette cried, her voice swallowed by the roar of engine, storm, and sea. “My cunt! My cunt! My cunt!”

Sally dove down the steep drop from the bridge as a massive wave exploded across the slick black surface. Jonathan couldn’t tell sea from road, rain from wind, or cock from cunt.

Helena rode him hard, lost to everything but the orgasm rising inside her. At the sharp bend, Sally swung her ass wide, flirting with the crash barrier, daring the sea to take them. But just before the impact, she caught traction, laughing wildly as she clawed up the incline, squeezing Helena’s knees between steel and console, dragging her down hard on Jonathan.

The surge in Helena’s belly could have been her climax, or Sally’s furious rumble, or just the sudden heave of the Mustang climbing. She didn’t care. She only wanted Jonathan deeper. Harder. Faster.

Her scream tore loose as the crest hit. Her cunt clenched around him, tight and trembling, her whole body jerking in time with the Mustang’s skid. She came hard, thighs shaking, nails biting into Jonathan’s shoulders, her voice shattering against the roar of sea and storm.

But Sally wasn’t done. She hurled them across the next span, wheels spinning, engine howling—each jolt not driving Jonathan deeper, but filling Helena fuller, fucking her from the inside out. Her first orgasm bled into the next, her hips grinding frantically, chasing the heat that refused to let her go. The road dipped, the car slammed down, and she shattered again—louder, longer, her body bucking against Jonathan until she collapsed into his chest, sobbing his name into the dark.

Sally only laughed, wild and merciless, eyes on the sharp incline and drop ahead.

I’m gonna make you cum harder than you ever thought possible, she grinned, aiming for the perfect apex.

And whether it was Jonathan’s heavy foot or Sally’s savage lust, none of the three would ever know.

She let her wheels slip—front first, ass after—into a perfectly arched jump. Helena caught Jonathan’s eyes, his gaping mouth—then came the rush of weightlessness. She lifted off his lap, almost torn free of him, when Sally slammed back down.

The old Mustang creaked, groaned, then slammed back onto the slick road, ramming Helena down onto Jonathan’s cock with merciless force. Deeper than she’d ever thought he could reach. Fuller than she’d ever thought she could stretch. Harder than she’d ever been pounded.

“J…Jonathan…” she gasped, before everything inside her detonated.

Jonathan let go with her. The pulse in his cock was all there was, Helena’s cunt spasming around him, milking him with a violence that hit like a gut punch. As if everything he was, everything he’d ever been, had been reduced to this release—pouring into her as she collapsed against his chest, lips trembling against his skin.

Sally heaved, whipped a perfect three-sixty, then another, before spinning into the viewpoint at the side of the road and sliding to a halt, trembling on the edge.

The waves crashed below, the rain hammered from above, but Sally only sighed, then coughed twice before she, too, let go. A last rattle, and her engine faded into a quiet tick.

“Fuck,” Helena moaned.

“Jesus,” Jonathan agreed.

They watched the sea break and waited for the rain to ease, the clouds to thin. The moon pressed through in fits, dragging a scatter of stars behind it.

Sally sighed again.

Helena slid off Jonathan’s cock, let the stick kiss the cleft of her ass, then collapsed into her seat. Jonathan only stared upward, tracing the stars, listening to the sea settle against the rocks.

A postal truck sighed past, its lights dim in the wet, steadying itself for the steep climb of the bridge ahead.

Jonathan dropped Sally into neutral and turned the key. The old lady coughed, then snarled awake, her dash lights flaring red and orange.

“Home?” he asked.

Helena grinned, planting her boots on the dash.

“Yeah, babe,” she said. “Only faster.”

Sally purred low, her dash lights winking, then roared as she kicked her ass sideways in a playful shimmy before biting into the wet blacktop once more.

Brace yourself, Helena, she smirked. Next time, I’m fucking you.

***

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