The Car Wash

“Look what you’ve done.”

Morgane thrusts her chest out to show the blobs of suds clinging to her right breast. She shakes this to remove the suds. Her breasts, unconstrained by underwear, bounce uncontrollably. The suds fly everywhere, leaving a wet patch behind. Your earlier suspicion about her clothes is now revealed to be true. When wet her t-shirt becomes transparent. You can see the pale flesh of her breast pressing through the damp cloth. You can see her nipples deforming her tight t-shirt, prominent in the damp right, but visible in the dry left.

You drag your eyes from her swaying flesh. Oh, you’ll be getting your hands on those in a minute. Your palms already itch to feel the soft flesh. Your cock stirs at the idea. Like her you’re not wearing any underwear, and you’re guessing the shape of it is now visible through the cotton shorts. A guess confirmed when Morgane glances down and her brown eyes light up.

“Let’s get this car washed,” you pronounce. Then you pick up the bucket of soapy water and carry it closer to the car. Once closer, you put it down, soak the sponge you still have, and start spreading suds and water over the car roof.

Morgane nods and bends over to dip her sponge in her bucket. She’s manoeuvred herself so as she does so, she’s thrusting her ass towards you. Her white shorts are tight against her curves. She glances back to see if you’re watching. You are. Then she wiggles her ass seductively. The motion brings back memories of the feel of her flesh, of your bodies entwined, of the pleasure that body has provided in the past. It’s hard to pull your gaze away and back to washing the car.

To quell your desires, if only for a moment, you concentrate on your sponge. Dip it into the bucket. Get it soapy and sopping wet. Smear water and suds over the roof, over the windows. Making certain every part of the car is covered. You take the opposite side of the car to Morgane.

It appears to be working until a wave of water and suds comes sweeping from the other side of the car, just as you’re leaning over. The wave catches you, soaking quickly into your t-shirt and shorts. You step back spluttering, feeling the cold water on your chest and in your groin. You glance up to Morgane.

“Sorry,” she says. “Accident.”

Now if it was some of the other girls, you might believe it was an accident. Not Morgane. Morgane is precise. She’s always in control. She would never make such a mistake. No, this was deliberate. Knowing it was deliberate helps you recognise the mischief in her eyes.

“Accident, huh?”

You pick up the bucket and slosh some of its contents onto the roof. The wave sweeps towards her. In her surprise Morgane does the opposite of any sensible person and leans into the wave. It cascades off the car and over her body. Only after its finished does she pull back. Her whole t-shirt is now soaked, clinging to her body and transparent. She might as well be naked, because you can see everything, the curves of her plump breasts, the hard points of her nipples, her camel toe.

“What have you done?” she asks with mock indignation. And to emphasise that she thrusts her chest forward. Her breasts jiggle against the sodden cloth as she does so.

“Given a naughty girl a taste of her own medicine.”

“Really? A taste of her own medicine?”

She throws her sponge into her bucket and starts storming off. For a moment you’re confused, until you realise where she’s going. She’s going towards the hose. You let out a cry of “No” and slow run to stop her, circling the car the long way round, and only halfway towards her before she’s picked it up. She stands there triumphant as you move towards her, an Amazonian goddess, all her curves emphasised by the wet clothes clinging to them. Her smile is broad as she squeezes the trigger. The spray of water engulfs you. What little was dry before is soon soaked.

You reach her. Grab for the nozzle. Together you playfully wrestle for it as the water spurts out. It points up, and the water falls on both of you like rain. She points it to you, and thunder of the cascades down your chest. You direct it towards her and the water flows round her breasts and down her thighs.

You finally wrest the hose from her grip. You toss it to one side, spin her round and press her against the car. Her arms splay across the Bentley’s roof. You press yourself against her. Your face is by her ear. Your dick rubs against her ass.

“Look at me, I’m sodden,” Morgane says all innocently.

“That’s what happens to naughty girls,” you whisper in her ear. “They get their clothes wet.”

She glances back at you, her brown eyes wide with lust. “I wasn’t talking about my t-shirt.”

“Not this?” you innocently ask, as your right hand reaches down and squeezes her right breast through her t-shirt. Water trickles out as you do so.

“No.”

Your hand slips under her t-shirt and back to her breast. This time the exquisite softness of her breast is undiluted by intervening cloth. “This?”

“No, lower.”

“Lower?” You squeeze her breast a couple more times. Each fondle hardens your cock further. Then you let go and let your hand run down her stomach to her belly button. There you let your fingers run across it and her flat stomach. “Here?”

“No, lower.” Her own hand reaches out to cup your swollen cock through your soaked shorts. She gently tugs on it.

Your hand drifts lower, to her sodden shorts. You run your hand over them, feeling the contours of her groin through them. “Here?”

“Closer.” Her lust is making her voice strained.

You push your hand beneath her shorts, running it against her wet flesh. This time you feel her pussy lips unimpeded by cloth. They are enflamed. They are sodden, not with water but with her own desires. You run your fingers over the folds. Your middle finger finds her hole and slides smoothly in.

“That’s the place.”

Her voice is almost a croak. Morgane’s sign that she’s close. Her vocal chords and her lust appear to be connected. The higher her lust, the less her vocal chords work. Meanwhile her hand releases your cock so it can find its way inside your shorts. There she resumes her ministrations without the interference of cloth.

You pull your finger out of her pussy, out of her shorts and to your mouth. You suck it and taste her arousal. Her musk reminds you of salt and smoke, like a rich whisky. Having tasted it yourself you present the finger to Morgane. She greedily sucks on it, as intoxicated by her own arousal as you are.

“You want me to deal with that?” She nods. “Here. We have spectators.”

Looking down on you from one of the windows on the 1st floor are Gloria and Belka.

“Let’s give them something to watch.”