Sunday Drive After Church

This is how it starts.

In the back seat of a car. Windows thick with the steam of night, warm breath, and shame.

Your slick, sticky ass peeling off the leather seats as it squirms.

A barely-there caress over the front of the panties; light as a feather, yet electric shock inducing. His murmured encouragement in your ear as your eyes widen then close tightly against the battery of sensation.

“Relax. Spread your legs.”

You know you shouldn’t. It’s not what nice girls do.

Nice girls don’t let men put their callused hands up the skirt of their Sunday Bests. Or run grease-stained fingers over the crotch of their floral-print panties. Or rub that secret spot found under the blanket of night when everyone else is asleep.

Besides, what if he tells?

He might, you know.

Then everyone will know. Everyone will know what you are.

And you know what you are . . . don’t you?

But maybe you’ll just let him for a little while. What harm could it do?

Besides, it feels so good. So much better than when you’ve done it yourself. In fact, it feels like every moment up till now was just building towards this.

“Just do it over the panties,” you beg. “Not underneath!”

He laughs. Then rubs. And rubs. And rubs. Until a steady pulse begins to thrum, as the fabric saws back and forth between the plumpness of your lips creating a dirty-sweet friction.

I’m too wet. He’s gonna know that I like it too much.

You look down, watching his hand as it moves between your legs, mesmerized by the sight as if you’re watching it happen from above to someone else.

He’s watching too.

Studying every expression that flits across your face–the tiny puckered O of your mouth, that lick of the lips, the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip to stifle the groans–as he works that traitorous place between your whorish legs.

“Here.” He lifts your feet and plants them wide against the back of the front seat, making you gasp in surprise.

And suddenly there’s room for his entire palm to cup and push against your sex. And though you’re mortified, it feels instinctual and natural to push back into the hollow of his palm as it cups and pumps, providing a fullness you didn’t know was craved.

“Over the panties. Only over the panties,” you moan in a southern drawl as you feel the tip of a finger sneak beneath the fabric. “Don’t touch it direct.”

But the objection gets caught in your throat as the warmth of his finger meets the delicious warmth of bare skin.

“Shush . . .” he coaxes, creating a friction so addicting you think you might die.

And suddenly you’re tumbling over. Falling into something you can’t see, let alone stop. Thighs quivering. Pelvic muscles clenching and unclenching with a strength you didn’t know they possessed.

“Nonononono,” you hear someone stutter before you realize it’s coming from your lips. Which just causes his fingers to slip and slide quicker with barely any effort at all, they practically glide.

Your entire body lurches and then convulses into his hand. Your helpless moans stifled when they’re covered and swallowed by the hunger of his hard mouth and tongue.

Still spasming, you open your eyes and stare, wide eyed, feeling the puddle collect and drip into the crack of your ass.

His beard stubble is sandpaper against your cheek when he mumbles, “Look at my hand. Look at what you did on my hand.”

So, you do. Your face stains red.

You’re so ashamed.

Not so much from the proof that glistens on his finger tips in the red light of the dashboard clock.

But because you know, you’re going to do it again.


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