Roadside Reckoning

The morning sun roasted the highway, a flat glare scorching the cracked asphalt as I eased my sedan back toward town. Dust hazed the shoulders, scrub brush clawing up from the parched dirt, tires humming a low growl against the road’s scars. Two days back, Willow Creek’s picnic blonde had been under my thumbs while Jess’ barstool twitch from last night still stoked my inner glow—The week’s **** of cubicle walls and clock ticks felt miles off now, finally easing—at least until Monday sank its teeth in again. That gnawing need to chase, to move, to take, had settled for now. I wasn’t hunting—until she roared up behind me.

Her engine snarled through the rearview—a silver high-end convertible, sleek and loud, chewing the gap like I was roadkill. Mid-40s, a sharp Latina silhouette: brown curly mane whipping wild, dark shades glinting, tan arm flashing as she swerved out. Tires screeched—she cut me off so close my bumper tasted her dust, a heartbeat from a crunch. I tapped the brake, dodging it, but she leaned out, voice a whip over the roar:

“¡Fuera, pendejo!” A middle finger stabbed high, her smirk slicing through the haze as she gunned it, dust **** my windshield.

My knuckles whitened on the wheel, pulse kicking—not the words, just the sheer brass, unprovoked and loud. Her taillights vanished around a bend, and I could’ve let it slide since roads breed assholes, after all. But karma’s got a sense of humor. A mile on, at a dusty railroad crossing, her silver beast idled ahead, **** to wait as the slow grind of freight cars clattered past. She sipped a latte, smirking like she owned the blacktop, and I rolled up beside her—window-to-window, itch blazing hot. Too ripe to pass. Stop.

The world slammed still—engine hum snuffed, dust locked mid-swirl, her latte halted mid-sip. She sat there, head tilted, lips parted in a half-sneer, shades concealing whatever challenge burned beneath. Heat shimmered off the asphalt, the highway holding its breath. I stepped out—boots grinding gravel, air thick with exhaust and sunbaked scrub. She was mine now, a roadside mark begging to be taught a lesson.

Up close, she was stunning—tan skin slick with perspiration, full breasts straining a floral sundress, tight and bright, brown curly mane spilling wild over her shoulders. Makeup bold—red lips, smoky eyes—gladiator sandals kicked loose on the floor, rich-bitch hotness dripping from every curve. That sneer, that finger, still burned.

I popped her door, hinge creaking sharp as I leaned in, her scent hitting me: floral perfume, latte’s burnt sugar, a leather whiff from the seats.

My Jeans went off fast, buckle thudding gravel, my cock stiff with the rush—raw, no waiting.

I straddled her lap—knees braced on her seat, her head tilted mid-sip, lips parted—and grinned, hands diving for her tits. Through the sundress, they were heavy, warm, spilling under my palms—fabric taut as I squeezed, thumbs brushing where her nipples poked faint. She stayed frozen, oblivious, and I kneaded harder—fingers digging in, feeling the soft give, the heft of her curves against my grip. I plunged a hand into her cleavage, stretching her sundress, skin hot and slick—groping deep, rolling a tit in my palm. “Fuck, you’re loaded,” I muttered, smirking—her rude yap was next, but these were too good to skip.

I shifted—cock brushing her lips, still fondling her tits through the dress—then pushed in slow, wet heat clamping tight as I slid deep, a grunt ripping out. One hand stayed on her chest—squeezing, kneading, thumbing her nipple through the fabric—while the other tangled in her curls, pinning her head. I rocked steady—thrusts smooth, her tongue flat beneath me, teeth grazing faint—watching my shaft vanish past that red pout, her full tits bouncing faint under my grip. The car creaked—the thrill of her venom flipped raw.

Sweat beaded my brow, highway heat thick in my throat, and I savored it all—her sharp perfume, the latte’s sugar sting, her silenced scorn. I paused deep—breath ragged, heat coiling—one hand plunging back into her cleavage to roughly grope and feel her bare skin under my fingers, the other tugging at her curls. “Fuck, I love your big mouth,” I muttered, holding still—her pinned pout and packed tits mine, silence stretching the buzz. The rush built slowly and I rocked again—deeper, steady, her throat teasingly slick.

It hit sharp—a hot, thick spill flooding her mouth, pooling on her tongue in a pulse that left me grinning. “Eat that, Amiga,” I chuckled, pulling out slow—no drip, just a hidden load—still groping her tits one last time, my thumb digging in through the sundress. I wiped her lips with its floral hem—smearing payback on her rich-ass pride—tilted her head back to the latte, fixed her pose, dressed myself back as I closed her door and went back to my seat. Go.

The crossing lights flickered off, the barrier arms rattling up as the world roared back to life—dust swirling, her engine purring, Stones fading in. She jolted, a cough barking out—_'latte' _spilling as she choked, grimacing, swiping her mouth with a manicured hand. “What the fuck’s this?” she muttered—probably blaming bad brew and upending the rest out her window with a splash on the asphalt. “Fuck this shit!”—her voice sharp, entitled.

I watched innocent from my car as I sipped on my water bottle—blank stare—catching her eye as she shook her head, flustered. She locked on me mid-cough, her tan cheeks flushing under her makeup, embarrassed, “Tch, whatever,” she scoffed as she abruptly adjusted her shades and, just like that, she peeled out, tires spitting gravel as she bolted from the crossing.

She was clearly rattled—latte the fall guy, her bitchy guess clear in that toss—and I smirked, sipping slow from my bottle. “No need to thank me, Señora,” I muttered, rolling on—town ahead, my itch eased, her **** a quiet win searing the morning haze.