Joyride

Holy crap, Cara was wearing naughty, barely concealing underwear underneath all that. Your dick popped and thrummed as you rode shotgun in the car, the image of her pulling her outer fabrics aside for your viewing convenience still fresh in your mind.

"What'd you expect, huh?" she said, shoveling her breasts back under her top as you wiped off your drool.

Where in the world did she get tho... you know what, you backpedaled, never mind.

"So, where to, baby?"

"Did you," you swung your head from the window, half-reeling. "Did you just call me 'baby', Cara?" A plastic heart dangled from the rearview mirror.

Her eyes never strayed from the road. "All part of the routine." She made a crisp left. "Unless you want me to exhibit my normal self, which I'do do just for you, since we're already acquainted at that level anyway."

"No," you waved the concerns away,"keep it coming. I like it."

Flick.

Like a switch. "Then I hope you're ready for a good time, big boy." She swept you over with an eye, curled a lip, and winked. "Because I know I am."

Holy shit! What the gotdamn mackerel! Bruce almighty, it was weirdly erotic seeing Cara like this!

Weirdly, awesomely, impossibly erotic.

"Okay. Seeing you switch back and forth like that," you fessed, "now that's hot."

"Like it, do you?" Cara snorted condescendingly.

"Aw-ha-ha shit!" You clutched a heart.

"Hey, sister," chided a voice from the back, "there's hasn't been any money put down yet!"

"Don't worry," assured Cara, with her typically even-toned gentleness, motioning to me with a shoulder. "He's good for it. This is already semi-professional at best at this point, anyway."

Frowning, the woman mulled. "If you say so. I wouldn't even start the foreplay if I didn't see the monetary end of the bargain myself, in front of me, though," the lady, the same one who had blown you about 15 minutes ago, opined.

You sat up, suddenly, "I want my dick to be massaged by a heel."

Gabrielle, in the middle of adjusting her hair, lent you her foot as she swung her calf onto your lap and pressed her heel onto your glaring hard-on. "Perfect timing, John, I needed somewhere to put my leg on after all that standing."

"My pleasure." You grabbed her foot and pressed it onto your sequestered shaft, squeezing its back half between your thighs, which felt nice.

Tipping your chin at Ms. Davenport, "Mind if I feel you up, Cara?" you inquired next.

Busy narrowing her eyes at an indecisive pedestrian hogging the street corner, Cara distractedly mumbled, "No," before finally turning to look at you. "That's such a coincidence. I was -- it's okay if I talk to you normally, right?"

"Flip the coin at your discretion," you grinned, "baby."

A roll of the eyes was her reaponse, but Cara otherwise continued unperturbed. "I was reading about a local superstition that insists getting groped on a weekend fends off rapists for the rest of the month. I thought, what better a way to disprove baseless bullshi--ahn!"

Plomp.

All good; you understood the general jist. Non-chivalrously, you slapped your hand onto her collar bone and down to her perky right breast, squeezing it between your fingers. You could easily feel her cute nipple through the textile of both her shirt and lacy, open-nip brassiere. With a crinkle, you sank said hand into her right bosomly orb and felt your cock pulse like an atomizer.

And Cara -- well, she simply let you. If it weren't for the fact that she was a hooker, now, apparently, and revealed it to you de facto, you would've still been in the denial phase.

Pendulous melons like Gabrielle's were great, of course -- but when a breast fit into your hand like an old glove, there was some kind of magic at work you couldn't quite describe.

In any case, the sensation turned you faint. Combined with Gabrielle's ministrations on your dick, you were unsure if you could resist.

I could just... cum right, effing, now....

You gritted your teeth. Gabrielle's nicely curved heel at your straining penis. The feeling of Cara's breast like plucky dough in your hand. The squeeze, squeeze, chuffle chuffle, of both their female anatomy grinding up against yours with airy, willing abandon, in Cara's own car.

Pant.

The heel of Gabrielle's foot dug against the underside of your cockhead. Her fleshy calf tremored under the grip of your fingers.

Pant.

Each breath from Cara made her boob feel like a moving pillow in your palm, as you aptly pinched it proper, and the fact you were doing this to a real, live person you called your friend waa becoming murkier and murkier with each skip of the breath.

Pant. Pant pant.

So close, you thought, and your heartbeat thought, and your damn dick thought. So close, and it hasn't even begun!

"Like what you feel?" hung Cara's words, with marked, slightly breathy intimation. When you returned your attention to the physical world, it wasn't cookie-cutter Cara in the driver's seat. No, a deliberative gleam stroke her eyes. You were fondling the breast of Cara the sex worker. Cara, the prostitute. The professional.

And Cara -- just to make it clear -- always excelled in her choice of profession.

Amazing. Astounding. Someone throw another adjective in here.

Breaking into a lousy grin, you came up with the smartest line a man in your position could spin. "Cara. Your boobs are adorable."

"I'm a kitten on top, you know. But below..." She looked at you, sharply. "...is a fiery, primal Bengal tiger."

"Oh, really?" You bit. "Well, then I--"

"ROAUURGWH!"

Practically throwing you off your center of gravity, she followed with a surprisingly decent impression of a feral feline and clawed her nails (softly) down your forearm until petering away with a stroke of your backhand, eventually pressing it harder onto her perfectly contoured tit.

"What in the--" you took a few centimeters worth of refuge.

Meanwhile, Gabrielle was cracking up from the backseat as the car reached a red light and earned a few stray looks from the family in the four-door beside them. It was at this time that you had the brilliant idea of assaulting Cara's side -- after all, you knew her tickle spot.

It was an innocuous game of tag, a long time ago, alright.

"AH," Cara instantly broke into laughter as your fingers descended and pricked her waist. Fruitlessly she tried to stifle it. "Ah, ah, haha, John, John, nononono, ahahahahaha, stop, phahahaha..!!"

"Take this, 'tiger'," you growled playfully as you even slid a hand under shirt and began taking a few more raucous pinches of her smooth skin. "And that! Aaand--"

Vrooo-THUmPpP!

In a second, the three of you were pulled back, and then jolted sharply forward. When the shock faded out, you looked at each other, and then to the dashboard.

"Fuck," one of you uttered. At this point it didn't matter who.

You had just rammed the car into the fender of a minivan.

Dangle, silently tittered Cara's plastic heart accessory as its corresponding thread wildly swung in wide circles under the mirror. You watched a slender, decently fit-looking brunette in business-casual clothes and heels, probably in her late 30's, and with a round face currently engraved with severe eyes, climb out the car, check the site of collision, and turn them your way. She was not amused.

Gabrielle, and especially Cara, appeared ready to disappear into the black hole that was apparently the sedan's carpet. Meanwhile, you had a plan.