what presents can do to a girl

Nothing shows on her face when you leave the store.

She walks beside you with Jeff under one arm and a bag in the other, skirt neat, smile polite, the picture of a girl who just went shopping. She stays that way while you load the trunk. Stays that way when she slides into the passenger seat of her father’s car. You get in the driver’s side, bags at your feet, her panties still a damp wad in your pocket, and reach for the key.

Her hand gets there first.

The key comes out of the ignition and disappears somewhere behind her, out of reach. Then she is across the centre console, clawing at your jeans with zero interest in being subtle now that the doors are shut. this is just hunger. She gets your cock out and takes you into her mouth like the plush in the back seat is responsible for all of it, wet and eager, trying to suck the life out of you before anyone in the next bay looks over.

You do not stay in that position long.

Sandra climbs into your lap, knees bracketing the seat, skirt shoved up around her waist, and sinks down onto you in one slick drop. The car immediately becomes a problem. Every time she slams her hips down her ass threatens the horn. You grab her, hold her, try to control the depth so the whole parking lot does not get a rhythmic beep for a soundtrack. She does not make it easy. She rides you hard, forehead against yours, moaning into your mouth, delighted and filthy and still a little smug that a stuffed land shark did this to her.

You had no idea a gift could do this to a woman.

You are learning the lesson fast, both hands full of her ass, trying to keep her off the horn while she fucks herself on your cock in her father’s car like the grocery run was only ever the excuse.

It is not really about the shark.

You understand that somewhere between one cramped thrust and the next, when she laughs under her breath at her own body for climbing into your lap like this. The land shark was just the object. What landed was the fact that you thought about what she would like, slipped away, and tried to surprise her without being asked. That is the part that opened her up. She wants to reward her man for it, and she is amused at herself for how obvious the need is, how easily it pours her back into your arms.

The car does not give you much.

The seat, the wheel, the lack of space—there are only so many ways two people can fit before it stops being sex and starts being geometry.
You do not last long in that position. A few hard, grateful minutes, her forehead against yours, then she is sliding off you, tugging her skirt down, and reaching for your cock again before you have even found the key.

She sucks you for almost the entire drive home.

Not constantly at full speed.
Long, wet stretches broken by her resting her cheek on your thigh when a turn gets tight, then taking you back into her mouth as soon as the road straightens. She loves what it does to you.
Every red light makes you lock up, both hands on the wheel, jaw tight, while she hollows her cheeks and looks up like she is innocent. Every time you pull out to overtake, she takes you deeper, clearly enjoying how flustered and embarrassed you get with another car two metres away and her head in your lap.

Sandra does not let you forget why she is doing it.

A soft squeeze of your thigh at a stop sign. A pleased little hum around your cock when your ears go red. The quiet, satisfied knowledge that this is her thank-you, and that she can collect it all the way to her front door.