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Roadhead - Torrid Tales of Sex in the Front Seat by Chrissie Bentley
It’s an adult fantasy that’s built upon a youthful reality. I don’t know about you, but almost all of my earliest significant sexual experiences took place in a moving vehicle of some description, from the first hard cock I ever touched to the first (more or less) that I ever sucked, from the first time I orgasmed to someone else’s touch, to the first time I felt that touch to begin with.
It wasn’t deliberate, and it certainly wasn’t planned. It’s just... where else were we expected to go? It’s why the western world is still littered with Lovers’ Lanes, and long after the drive-ins rolled up their screens, we all have friends who lost their innocence to the splash and slash of an all night creature feature. Our parents used the car to get from A to B. We used it to learn the birds and the bees.
That is the world that this collection of short stories takes us back to, those wonderful years when parents or room mates or whoever held a curfew, and bed rooms and back rooms and bathrooms and all were out of the question for more than a cuddle.
So we took to the highway, the wide open road, with the wind in our hair and Bruce on FM, and I still say a silent prayer of thanks to the speed cop who seemed happy to believe that I was simply resting my head in my boyfriend’s lap, and who didn’t even ask him to move the jacket I’d been resting under. He’d probably seen it all before anyway and hey - he was young once as well.
Not that every story here takes place in the front seat. We begin on a Greyhound, and take a bus too, and we even get diverted to a motorcycle sidecar. What they all have in common, though, are youth and exuberance and, most of all, escape. Escape from reality, escape from authority and, most of all, escape from inexperience and ignorance.
Travel broadens the mind, they say. The travelers here have very broad minds.
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READ A FREE EXCERPT: BRICKDUST
Brick dust.
It was in my hair, in my eyes, grinding into my cheek as I pressed the side of my face flatter against the old wall, and my fingers scrabbled and loosened more. Under my nails and into my flesh, livid red streaks of crumbling masonry, a century of downtown in my nose and in my mouth, licking the wall as I screamed, cried and pleaded, and behind me, my lover kept pounding away, his cock almost splitting me as it thumped at my gut, and my entire body was lurching with every fresh blow... oh-oh-oh-oh-oh....
His hands on my waist, tight, hold me steady, his legs against mine and I coiled one around him, securing my balance as I reached down and under, deep between my legs to the flames that we were feeding, grabbing balls that dripped hot with the juices I was streaming... I gripped hard and tugged them, and he fucked me even harder, pummeling me till I could not even catch a breath.
I was cumming, I knew that and so did he, because his hands were on my breasts, under my T-shirt and twisting my nipples; hot breath on my neck alternated soft bites with soft curses, a running commentary of incoherence crashing against my senses as every nerve end in my body converged in a spot deep in my gut... paused and then pulsed, an explosion of light and white heat as well, as his cock exploded at the same time as me.
My head twisted back to meet his mouth, and we screamed deep inside one another’s throats, as our bodies shook and shuddered together, milking our frames for the last drops of pleasure, the last squirt of fluid, the last moments of ecstasy. He stepped back and I felt my cunt scream in shocked, deprived protest, but a roar from the other side of the wall called for an encore, and we clung together and laughed.
A thumb gently grazed my cheek. “You’re covered in dust,” he half laughed as he wiped it, and I seized his hand, sticky with my cunt juice, and sucked my own flavor from his thick, ringless fingers. Then I traced my own hand through the crumble on the wall, and smeared the red smudges across his cheeks and chin, livid flashes to match the ones I wore, brick dust and thick lust and the stink of musk that rose from us both, to let the whole world know what we’d just been doing.
I laughed, and took his hand. “Shall we go catch the end of the show?”
-------------------------------------
About halfway up First, across the road from the Whatever-mart, and just down from what used to be Borders. It isn’t there any longer. Progress came along and tore it down in the noughties, replaced a solid stone building that had stood for a hundred years with an “iconic” pane of glass and steel that will probably collapse within a decade. It used to be a bank, back in the days when every small town had its own; then the bank went bust, or was bought out or whatever, but the upstairs levels were never the interesting part. It was the vault where things happened, a deeply buried, wood paneled hole that hosted a speakeasy in time for Prohibition, a jazz club during the Second World War, a disco in the seventies and a rock club thereafter. All, of course, called the Vault.
I loved that place. Even when the band was crap, which usually turned out to be the case, I’d be there every Friday and Saturday, and not only because I seriously had the hots for the guy who worked the door and checked our IDs and always seemed to brush my breast with the back of his hand when he passed back my card. And I’d go home that night and float away wondering what he’d do if one night I laid my hand on his, and held it there for a minute or two, so he could feel for himself how he made my heart pound, and... well, he could feel.
I was watching him now, as the opening band put away its gear, and a few bored looking roadie types unfolded the headliner’s back drop. He was talking with a red haired girl, and shining his torch on her driving license. She was getting pissy, too, I could see that from here, and the bitch in me smiled as he shook his head slowly and motioned for her to back out of the club. There’s under-age and there’s under-age, and I doubted whether Red was even eligible to drive, let alone drink and dance all night. Me, on the other hand... I had my brother’s old (1983 - eeeek!) Camero and I was old enough to vote. And that was good enough for me.
Talking of my car, though... shit, I left my cigarettes on the passenger seat. Thread my way back across the dance floor, smile back at the occasional slap on the ass from the guys who think that’s a smart thing to do, then back up to My Favorite Doorman. “Is it okay if I slip out for a moment?”
“The band’ll be on in a minute.”
“I’ll be quick.”
“As long as you have your ID when you get back.”
“Thanks.” And interesting. Seems like he enjoys this game as much as I do. I crossed the alley towards the patch of wasteland that doubled as a parking lot, skirted the metalheads who lurked by the trash cans, then jumped a little as a resounding crash announced the arrival of the band onstage. Thoughts of exchanging any words with my doorman went out of my mind - you can’t even hear yourself think in there once the music starts playing.
One of the metalheads was walking my way. “Who’s playing tonight?”
I told him and he sneered. “Wanna play with us?”
I shrugged. “My friends are waiting for me inside.”
“We’re waiting for you here.” I glanced over and two of his mates had drifted closer. I nodded to the taller of the pair. “Hi Darren.”
“Jen.”
“Your buddy here seems to think I want to play.”
“Well, do you?”
Darren and I had fooled around together a few times in the past, usually at those parties you wind up at where the pickings are so slim that it’s any port in a storm. That’s how I felt, anyway. He took things a little more seriously, but I think we had an understanding.
“What do you have in mind?”
He looked down at the ground. “I figured you kinda owe me,” he said, loud enough that I would hear, but softly enough that he could simply have been thinking aloud. I turned to face him. “Oh, you do, do you?” We’d played this game before as well, and sometimes I liked where it led. But the band had gone into their second song now, and I’d not dropped $25 on a ticket for the show just so I could spend the night fencing non-sequiters with Darren. Plus, I had a doorman to see - and speak of the devil....
The light in the club door blinked a little as a figure moved in to the entranceway, looking over towards us. I raised a hand and waved, and Darren looked over as well. He mumbled something and this time it was under his breath, although I have a good idea what it was (four letters, starts with S, rhymes with “glut” and isn’t complimentary); then one of his companions stepped towards me. “Sure she wants to play, Dar.” He reached for my arm and I squirmed away, as the figure in the doorway left its post and began moving... fast... towards us.
Darren shook his head; “forget it,” and the three of them bunched up again as they drifted back towards their trashcans. The doorman paused, looking towards me and then over to them, undecided who to go for first. Then he turned to them and the three did the smart thing, hurtling back up the alley in one stride, and vanishing into traffic that meandered down Second.
Now my hero stepped over to me.
“Everything okay”
“It is now.”
He asked what had happened, I... well, maybe I made it all sound a little more dramatic than it was, and I didn’t let on that I knew one of them either. “I’m okay. I just need to sit for a moment.” I stepped back to my car, unlocked it and slipped inside, then reached over and open the passenger side. “Could you stay for a moment?”
He could.
We sat in silence for a moment, me wondering just how far I should take my defenseless, shaken maiden act, and him... I don’t know, but I think he’d worked it out pretty quickly too, because the arm that went around my shoulders was definitely not simply a comforting one, and as he pulled me gently towards him and my head fell on his shoulder, he turned just enough to embrace my waist too. I raised my head a little, and kissed him.
Okay, you know the Camero, slick, smart and sporty, and blessed with a lot more front seat wriggle room than you’d expect a car that size to have. Provided, of course, your partner is not an ex-Marine with muscles that enter the room thirty seconds before he does. Not fat, not portly. Just... big. And as we kissed and he swung his body around to pin me against my seat, even with it tipped back as far as it would go, I could feel him fighting to wedge himself into the available space.
My hand traced his backbone to the dashboard; reaching around, his waist was so tight against me that his belt buckle was tattooing itself into my flesh. The top of his head pushed against the roof of the car. I broke the kiss, unwillingly but decisively. “Sit back.”
He released me and lowered himself into the passenger seat; and now I did the climbing, leaning over first to kiss him, then awkwardly to try and straddle him, my jeans caught in the gear stick, the cigarette lighter pressing into my hip. He laughed and I joined him. “I knew I should have held out for a bigger car,” I giggled. “A four by four, at least.”
His lips were on my breast through my t-shirt, teasing the nipple that shoved through the fabric; reaching down, I tugged up my top and his mouth widen, engulfing my tit, sucking me into his jaws. Sharp teeth nipped and I yelped; he did it again and I pushed myself forward, filling his mouth as he sucked me in, released me and devoured my other breast as my hands clawed at his buzzcut scalp, nails raking through the stubble to his thick neck.
My eyes had adjusted to the half light now, could make out the dark patterns of the tattoos that decorated his throat. Suddenly I needed to see how far down his torso they extended, and I struggled to pull up his own tee. He growled, released me, and did the job himself, filling that cramped interior with the warm scent of the evening’s perspiration, and I scooted back a little to lick at his flesh, tasting the soft tang as my tongue traced the patterns... too dark to clearly see that they were... that extended down his chest.
I reached a nipple and it was my turn to nip; he cuffed the back of my head with the flat of his hand, so I did it again, harder this time, and then tugged with my teeth, as hands explored down his chest, his abdomen, his waistline, his belt... I gripped the buckle and pulled, the leather spooling out between my fingers, and he was still for a moment, holding in his tummy as I battled with the button and thrust fingertips inside.
His cock was already waiting, its tip mere millimeters from his waist band, already hard, already hot. Squeezing, wriggling, my fingertips explored, teasing it in its confinement and its owner exhaled noisily. “Fuck.”
I giggled. “No room,” but my other hand was there now, easing down the zip, releasing him and gripping him in one smooth movement, feeling his thickness dwarfing my fist, and his heat almost scalding the palm of my hand. I shifted a little, pressing my pussy against his leg, feeling it flood in response to the touch and he felt that too, because one hand left my waist and slipped to my crotch, not really moving but a knuckle knocked regardless, just enough to let me know he was there, and enough to send my pulse racing skywards.
I twisted myself backwards and sideways, my ass bumping the gear stick again as I settled half back into my own seat, but my eyes focused firmly on the shadowed cock in my hand. The tattooist hadn’t reached that far, but the veins and ridges conjured patterns in my mind and I leaned in to tap its silhouette with my tongue. His breath released a whispered, soft sibillant “yeah,” and I tilted him back and started to lick, long sweeps that began in the hairs of his balls then traced slowly, patiently, up the underside of his cock.
He was growing harder, every long, lingering lick make him stronger and prouder and greedier. His cock bucked in my hand, muscular spasms that threatened to pull him out of my grip, so I tightened my fist at the base of his shaft and dealt butterfly flickers at the spot behind the crown,as his hands clutched my hair, twisting and tugging, a pain that I rode with rougher licks and nibbles; then, angling him forward I slipped over the tip.
My jaw seemed locked for a moment of madness, protesting - “you’ll never fit that thing in here.” But of course I could and I pushed through the sudden discomfort until the muscles relaxed with an almost audible sigh. He was too big to suck on, in any conventional sense, but my bobbing head knew that that didn’t matter. Slick with saliva and fast pooling pre-cum, his cock and my jaw were locked to one another and, with the pounding of the band the soundtrack to his groans, I matched my rhythm to the thump of the bass and his hips began grinding a back beat of their own. Even when he jolted suddenly forward and his arm or his elbow jabbed into the horn, splitting the night with a deafening blare, the beat didn’t quit and the rhythm didn’t falter.
He raised my head... “stop for a moment,” and I looked into his eyes, flashing and wide, while my tastebuds screamed out for the rest of their prize. “I want to fuck you... come on!”
His pants were buckled and he was out of the door before I’d even pulled my top back on. I scampered, half scrambling, across the parking lot behind him, back to the alley that reached up behind the club, where the music was loud enough to rattle the bins, and a fitful street light half flickered, half failed.
He grabbed my hand and pulled me close, kissed me roughly. His other hand was already tugging his belt and unleashing his cock, then he spun me around, with my face to the wall, my hands out in front to brace me as I bent. My jeans were round my knees and I pulled one foot out of their grasp, spread my legs and reached between them, gripped his prick and guided him into my hole.
My wetness sucked him, almost too tight, almost too big, but only for a moment... only for a thrust or two. Then I lost myself to his mad, manic thrusting, the full weight of his military-built body slamming into me, the full length of that glorious cock stretching and pushing me, deeper and deeper, till my face was pressed against the wall, against the crumbling red bricks of a bank that is no longer there, and I felt brick dust on my skin, brick dust in my mouth, old and sandy, gritty hard grains, and my tongue snaked out of my mouth as I cried out, licking the wall like I was licking his cock, tasting it... tasting him... and I knew when I came, that taste would stay with me forever.
Brick dust.
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1 comments:
Sounds fantastic!
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