Awkward chats aren't very fun.

The car smells like sex and sweat and something else—cologne, maybe, mixed with the leather of the seats. You're acutely aware of the wet spot beneath you, the way your thighs stick together, the cooling dampness between your legs. Darrell's driving with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on your bare thigh, his thumb making lazy circles on your skin.

His cock is still out.

You can see it from the corner of your eye—thick, dark, glistening slightly with your saliva and his cum. It's softening now, but still impressive, resting against his thigh, his pants pushed down just enough to free it. He hasn't bothered to put it away. Why would he? You just had it in your mouth one minutes ago.

Your eyes keep drifting to it. You can't help it. Every time you try to focus on something else—the road, the dashboard, your hands in your lap—your gaze slides back. The weight of it. The way it moves slightly with each bump in the road. The memory of how it felt stretching your throat, filling your mouth, pulsing as he came.

Stop looking at it, you tell yourself. Stop.

But you can't.

The silence stretches out, awkward and heavy. You should say something. Anything. But what do you say to a man whose cock was just in your throat a minutes ago?

"So," Darrell says finally, breaking the silence with a low chuckle. His hand squeezes your thigh, and you jump slightly. "You said you were going to the library for school?"

You blink, tearing your eyes away from his lap. "What?"

"School," he repeats, glancing at you with an amused smile. "You said you were going to the library for school? You still in high school?"

"Oh. Yeah." You nod, your voice coming out smaller than you intended. "I'm a senior. I finish in like... four weeks."

"Damn," Darrell says, his grin widening. "A senior. That's hot."

Your face burns. You don't know what to say to that, so you just look down at your hands, trying not to let your eyes drift back to his cock. But they do anyway. Just for a second. Just long enough to see it twitch slightly, like it's responding to the conversation.

Oh god.

"You got a boyfriend?" Darrell asks, his tone casual, like he's asking about the weather.

The question catches you off guard. "I—yeah. Yes."

The lie comes out automatically. You don't even think about it. Because what else are you supposed to say? That you're a virgin? That you've never even kissed anyone before today? He'd never believe that. Not after what you just did. Not after the way you sucked his cock like you'd done it a hundred times before.

"Yeah?" Darrell's hand slides higher up your thigh, his fingers brushing the edge of your shorts. "What's he like? Let me guess—football player?"

You swallow hard. "Um. Yeah. Quarterback."

It's the most generic answer you can think of, the kind of boyfriend a girl like Joan would have. Popular. Athletic. Safe.

Darrell laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that makes your stomach flip. "Of course he is. Let me guess—some white boy who thinks he's hot shit because he can throw a ball?"

You don't answer. You don't know what to say.

"Bet he doesn't know what to do with a girl like you," Darrell continues, his voice taking on a knowing edge. "Probably fumbles around for five minutes, cums in his pants, and calls it a night. Am I right?"

Your face is on fire now. "I don't... I mean..."

"It's cool, baby. You don't have to defend him." Darrell's thumb traces a slow circle on your inner thigh, dangerously close to the hem of your shorts. "A girl like you, you need someone who knows what they're doing. Someone who can actually get you off."

Please stop talking, you think desperately, your face turning a deep red, which Darrell takes as a sign of embarrasment. Please.

But he doesn't.

"I mean, a girl like you must be fucking all the time, right?" Darrell says, his tone almost conversational. "Hot little blonde cheerleader type? Bet you got guys lining up."

"No," you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

Darrell glances at you, one eyebrow raised. "No?"

"I mean... not really." You're scrambling now, trying to backtrack without giving yourself away. "I'm not... I don't..."

"You don't fuck around?" Darrell sounds genuinely surprised. "Come on, baby. You expect me to believe that? After what we just did?"

Your heart is pounding. You can feel the panic rising in your chest, the **** need to say something, anything, that will make this conversation end.

"I don't go to places like that," you say quickly, your voice shaking slightly. "The theater. I don't... I've never been there before."

"Never?" Darrell's hand squeezes your thigh again, and you can't tell if he believes you or not. "So what, you just decided to check it out today? On a whim?"

"I was mad at my parents," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

There's a pause. Darrell's thumb is still moving in slow circles on your thigh, and you can feel the heat of his hand through the thin fabric of your shorts. Your eyes drift back to his cock—you can't help it—and you see it's starting to harden again, thickening slightly against his thigh.

Oh god, he's getting hard again.

"So you don't usually do this," Darrell says slowly, like he's working something out in his head. "Pick up strangers. Suck dick in cars."

"No," you say quickly. "No, I don't."

"But you're good at it," he says, and there's something in his voice now—something darker, more intense. "Real good. Like you've been practicing."

You don't know what to say to that. Your face is burning, your heart is racing, and all you can think about is the way his cock is getting harder, the way it's starting to stand up slightly, thick and dark and impossible to ignore.

"I was mad at my parents," you repeat, because it's the only explanation you have. "We had this huge fight and I just... I needed to get out. Do something they'd hate."

The words sound ridiculous even as you say them, but Darrell just laughs, shaking his head.

"Damn," he says, his hand sliding higher up your thigh. "That's cold. I like it."

You **** a nervous laugh, trying to ignore the way your body responds to his touch, the way your legs part slightly without your permission. Your eyes are still on his cock—you can't stop looking at it—and you watch as it continues to swell, growing thicker, harder, until it's standing almost fully erect again.

He's hard.

"You know what's funny?" Darrell continues, his voice taking on a knowing tone. "I see this shit all the time now. Every time some little white girl gets pissed at mommy and daddy, what do they do? Run off and fuck a black man. Like it's the ultimate **** or something."

Your stomach twists. Is that what he thinks I am?

"It's like clockwork," he goes on, clearly amused. "Parents ground them, take away their phone, tell them they can't see their boyfriend—boom. Next thing you know, they're on their knees in front of a brother, trying to make daddy mad."

You don't know what to say. Part of you wants to correct him, to tell him that's not what this is, but... what else can you say? You've already committed to the lie. And besides, your attention is split—half on his words, half on the sight of his cock, now fully hard again and impossible to ignore.

"I guess," you mumble, looking down at your hands. But even as you do, your eyes betray you, drifting back to his lap.

"Don't get me wrong," Darrell says, his thumb still tracing patterns on your thigh. "I'm not complaining. Their loss is my gain, right?"

You manage a weak smile, nodding. Your mouth feels dry. You can still taste him on your tongue.

"So what'd they do?" he asks. "Your parents. What pissed you off so bad you decided to go slumming?"

Think. Think. You scramble for something believable, trying to focus on the conversation instead of the thick, hard cock just inches from your hand.

"They... they said I couldn't go to this party," you say, the lie forming as you speak. "This big end-of-senior year thing. All my friends were going and they just... they said no. For no reason. Just to be controlling."

Darrell nods slowly, like this makes perfect sense. "And you thought, 'Fuck them, I'll show them'?"

"Something like that," you mutter.

He laughs again, louder this time. "Damn, baby. That's harsh. I love it." His hand squeezes your thigh again, possessive, and you feel his fingers brush against the damp fabric of your shorts. "Their loss is definitely my gain."

There's a pause, and then he adds, almost casually, "You got any other friends like you? Other hot little blonde high school girls who want to piss off daddy? 'Cause I'd be more than happy to serve."

The words make your skin crawl and your pussy clench at the same time. What the fuck is wrong with me?

"I... I don't know," you say quietly, your voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

Darrell just grins, his attention back on the road. His hand stays on your thigh, warm and heavy and possessive. His cock is still hard, still out, still right there in your peripheral vision no matter where you try to look.

The silence returns, but it's different now. Heavier. You're suddenly, painfully aware of the situation you're in. You're in a stranger's car. A man you met in a sex theater. A man whose cock is out, hard again, like he's expecting round two. You have no money and no way to get home. And even if you did, you can't go home. Not for another—you glance at the dashboard clock—forty-five hours.

Fuck.

You need a place to stay. And Darrell is right here, already interested, already willing. The thought makes you feel sick and **** at the same time.

Your eyes drift back to his cock one more time. It's still hard, thick and dark, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. You watch it for a moment, mesmerized, before forcing yourself to look away.

I need him, you think, the realization settling over you like a weight. I need him to let me stay. I need him to help me.

"Hey," you say, your voice small and shaky. "Can I... can I ask you something?"

"Sure, baby."

You take a breath, trying to steady yourself. "Can I stay with you? Just for a couple days. I can't... I can't go home right now."

Darrell glances at you, and for a moment you're terrified he's going to say no, that he's going to pull over and kick you out right here. Your eyes flick to his cock again—still hard, still waiting—and you wonder if you'd have to do something to convince him. If you'd have to reach over and touch it, stroke it, put your mouth on it again.

Would I even hesitate?

But then he smiles. "Yeah, sure. You can crash at my place."

Relief floods through you, so intense it's almost dizzying. "Really?"

"Yeah." His hand slides even higher, his fingers brushing the edge of your shorts, teasing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. "I always got room at my place for someone like you"

"Thank you," you breathe, and you mean it. You're grateful. Desperately, pathetically grateful.

"Don't mention it," Darrell says, his grin widening. His hand gives your thigh one more squeeze before he finally, finally, reaches down and tucks his cock back into his pants, zipping up with a casual ease that makes your face burn all over again.

The car slows, turning into a spot, and you realize you've arrived. You look up, taking in the building in front of you.