A tasty car adventure

Magnus came back through the terrace door with his hands held out in front of him like a surgeon's—black to the wrists, oil worked into the creases of his knuckles, a smear of it grey across his cheekbone, another over his eyebrow where he'd pushed his hair back with the flat of his wrist.

"Fixed it," he announced, then looked at his hands with mild disgust – nothing to wipe them on. He settled for dragging them down his shorts, which achieved nothing but two long dark streaks. "Well. Temporarily. The auxiliary pump has to be replaced. The whole thing's shot."

He found a napkin on the next table, went at his fingers, and gave up.

"I want to go buy a new one—place down the coast, the yacht store; they're still open." He nodded at the empty chair, then at the parking strip beyond the terrace. "One problem though, the passenger seat is full. The old pump's on it."

Sofia didn't look up from her mojito.

"Can you both sit on the backseat?" he asked her.

"Sure," she said, flat, the way you agree to a chore.

"Sure," I said, half a second behind her, because it was a chore, because it was nothing.

"Let's go." He was already walking, the napkin balled in his fist.

She climbed in first, folded herself into the front, knees together, she smoothed her dress under her. I went round the back. The car was low and wide, the backseat a padded shelf with a headrest bolted to the bulkhead – no legroom worth the name. I got in sideways, knees splayed.

Then Magnus dropped the old pump onto the passenger seat.

It was enormous—cast iron, greasy, a squat black heart of a thing with pipes still stubbed out of it. It sat there like a passenger from another century. It ate the seat. It came up past Sofia's shoulder, tilted into the middle, it covered a third of the rearview mirror from his angle. He adjusted the mirror twice, gave up, adjusted it a third time.

"That's not going to work," he said. "You'll have to be my eyes, okay?" Then he laughed at himself, turning the key.

Sofia shifted angling her knees away from the front-seat.

"It's like a small hour," he said. "The drive. I'll take the coast road."

The engine settled into a hard, expensive hum. His hand went to the console, found the music, pushing it up loud—something with a guitar line in it, something that filled the car wall to wall.

I looked at the pump. It looked back, black, dumb. The mirror above it showed Magnus's eyes flicking, then nothing else. He'd be working off the exterior mirrors the whole way.

"Find a rock channel, mi amor," Sofia said.

He spun the dial until the guitars got dirtier, smiled, and drove.

Her hand came down on my thigh.

I checked him—the back of his head, the neat line of his neck, his ear, the hinge of his jaw working as he hummed. Two feet behind him, dead centre, in the blind spot the pump had widened into a canyon, his girlfriend’s hand caressing my upper thigh. The car wasn't built for families. It wasn't built for this. My knees were already against the back of her seat.

Her fingers walked higher up my thigh, unhurried, all the way to the seam, found the button, opened it with a practised little twist of thumb and forefinger, no fumbling. The zipper came down slow, tooth by tooth, the music swallowing the sound of it entirely.

She got her hand inside, slid it flat under the cloth with a warm palm, found me soft, sleeping, curled in the heat of my own shorts.

Her nail found my cockhead.

She trailed it with her nail over the helmet, back and forth, light as a hair, over the ridge, around the crown, then down the seam. My cock woke up under it, swelled, thickened against her palm; she made a small pleased sound in her throat that the guitar ate whole.

"Big," she said.

"What?" Magnus asked.

"The pump," she said. "Big."

"Mm." He changed gear. "Yeah, well. It's a big pump."

Her hand closed. She pumped me, slow, up the shaft and then down again, her thumb rolling over the head each time. I felt myself come up hard, straining, full to the point of ache.

"Oh yes," she said. "You need to pump a lot, right?" as she kept eye contact with me.

"Yeah. Right." He took the first bend of the coast road; his shoulder dipped with the wheel; the pump leant against his arm.

She stopped pumping, cupped me instead, weighed my balls in her palm, rolled them, working them gently with her fingers until they pulled up tight. I had to press my back flat against the seat.

"Is it overheated?" she asked.

"Yeah," Magnus said.

"Hot, right?" she asked him.

"No," she whispered to me, breath at my ear, lips almost touching it. "Just warm. Just like your swollen balls."

She squeezed them. My hips lifted a half inch off the leather.

"Full of cum," she breathed. "I'm going to suck you dry."

"What?" Magnus called back over the music.

"They need to be drained, darling," she said, louder, in her broken, sunny English.

"Right," he said.

"Completely empty," she added.

He nodded, satisfied, but gave the road his full attention—both hands high on the wheel, jaw set, taking the serpentine one after another with the neat economy of a man who has driven this road a thousand times. His eyes never came up to the mirror.

Sofia leant over.

She went down at the waist, hair falling forward, dabbed the head with her tongue—two quick dabs, three—sat back up as though nothing had happened, licking her lips.

"I needed a taste," she whispered. "A taste of your beautiful cock."

It twitched in her hand. She pumped the shaft twice, twice only; I heard myself breathe out through my nose.

"Oh, this is a great song," she shouted. "Put it louder, Magnus!"

He did. The car filled up with noise. He couldn't see her from where he sat, couldn't see anything but the road, and couldn't hear a thing that wasn't the stereo.

She bent again.

Her tongue came out flat, found the slit, licked it slowly, from root to tip. A bead of precum welled up behind it, standing shining.

"Oh," she said, delighted. "My protein shake is ready for me."

Her mouth closed over the head taking me inside; she moaned around it, low, feeling the bead come loose on her tongue, then took me deeper, past the ridge, into the wet heat behind her teeth.

She kept me there—just the head, buried in her caved-in mouth, her cheeks hollowed hard around it, suction pulling at the crown, her tongue working underneath in small, precise circles over the most sensitive spot below the slit. No deeper, no relief, just that maddening pressure on the one place that made my thighs shake. She knew exactly what she was doing. She was not going to let me come yet. She was building it, brick by brick, patient as a woman all afternoon.

Her other hand went back to my balls, lifted them, rolled them, then thumbed the seam.

"Here we are," Magnus said.

She came up off me fast, wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, sat straight, pushing her hair off her face. He swung the car into a lot behind the yacht store, then killing the engine.

"Right," he said, opening his door. "I need like an hour. You want to come inside?"

She shook her head, no.

He went round the back, hauled the old pump off the seat with a grunt, dragged it onto a trolley from the loading bay, wheeling it towards the doors. Grease on his shorts, grease on the trolley handle. He turned once, raised a hand, and he was gone.

"You will come inside me," she purred to me.

She was over the console before the doors closed—down, hair swinging forward. This time she took her time with it, one hand at the base holding me steady, mouth working up and down the first two inches, tongue flat, dragging.

Then she came up to breathe, cheek against my hip.

"Are your balls big enough for Sofia?" she asked. "Mm? All that cum in there. How much have you got left?"

She took them in her hand again weighting them; I could feel the weight of them myself – heavy, aching, drawn up tight.

"Because I'm really thirsty," she cooed, licking the cockhead one long, slow lap. "Very thirsty."

Down again—sucking, then licking, then sucking, alternating without warning, never letting the rhythm settle, my hips lifting to find her mouth, losing it, lifting again. Her hand cupped my balls, squeezed softly, she felt them go hard and tight in her palm. She hummed approval around the shaft.

I gave up waiting, got a hand on the back of her head, fucking her up into her mouth, shallow and steady. She took it, jaw slack, letting me use it, tongue still working under the head. The pressure gathered at the root, pulled.

"Mm-hm," she said, mouth full. "Mm-hm."

I came.

The first rope went off hard and hit the back of her tongue. She groaned around me, a long-muffled sound, swallowed. The second came on her heels; she swallowed that too. The third, the fourth, thick, hot. She was trying, really trying, but her mouth was already full of my baby seed, the fifth shot pushing past her tongue, out of the corner of her lips, down her chin.

She stayed on me, sucked gently, drawing the rest out in slow pulses. A fresh line of white cum slid down her chin, dripping slowly. She moaned, swallowing what she had.

When she came off, she was breathing hard, with swollen lips and chin in a mess.

"Good," she purred. Her mouth was empty. Her voice was wrecked. "I felt it in my stomach. That was a lot."

She looked up at me, admiring. There was cum on her chin, a pearly streak of it. Two drops had fallen onto the brown skin above her dress.

"Oh," she said, noticing. "Some on my chin."

She scooped it up with her index finger, brought it to her lips, put it in her mouth to the second knuckle, and licked the finger clean. Swallowed the last of it.

"Mmhhh," she said, satisfied, pressing her palm flat to my stomach.

"You will stay the night."

The store doors slid open across the lot, Magnus coming through the doors backwards, dragging the trolley, talking over his shoulder at the kid who held the door. The new pump sat on it in a box, strapped down, cardboard still bright.

He opened the passengers' door, heaved it in onto the blanket, slammed the door shut and wiped his palms down his shorts for the second time that afternoon.

Sofia got out. Slowly. She didn't put herself back together first, didn't check the mirror, but didn't do the small repairs women do. She stood up onto the tarmac into the full sun with her chin lifted, letting it come down on her face.

The lipstick was gone from her mouth. Smudged up past the corner, a red drag of it along the edge of her cheek, and another faint print near her jaw where she'd pressed her wrist. Her hair sat half out of the rubber band, tangled at the back where my hand had been, with strands stuck to her neck. Her chin was tacky, drying in the heat, still shining at the edge.

The cum drops were on her blouse. Two of them, white against the blue cotton, one above her left breast, one lower, near the seam. She made no move towards them. She wore them the way you wear a pin.

Magnus squinted at her across the roof of the car. "You look like you've been in a fight."

"The heat," she said, breezy, got in.

He looked at me, one hand on his door, eyebrows up. I shrugged. He shrugged back, the shrug of a man who has decided not to think about a thing, dropped into his seat.

Sofia stayed out of the car a beat longer. She looked at me over the roof, then down at her own chest, at the two white spots, touched one with her fingertip, and pressed it deeper into the cotton.

Then she pointed at it. Then at me.

"É meu," she said. Mine. Then, in broken English, quieter, for me only: "I leave it. Everybody can see."

She got in, settled, crossing her legs.

Nobody said anything about it. Magnus started the car, fiddled with the mirror, the new, smaller pump no longer blocked his view and pulled out onto the coast road with his wrist on the wheel, entirely happy.

She turned her head against the window, sunglasses off, cheek to the glass, and watched me in the side mirror the whole way home. She had a lovely smeared mouth, the wrecked hair, two white stains on her blouse in the sunlight.

Claiming me. Claiming what she'd taken out of me, keeping it where anyone could see it.

To be continued.