I had junk food sex with Jekyll a few nights ago. A mid-afternoon phone call fuelled by hungry libidos saw us an hour later having a quick-to-consume, tasty yet ultimately unfulfilling fuck in the passenger seat of his car.
Apparently I wanted a lot more but didn’t realise it until I was driving home and felt a twinge of the Why did I do thats? I had launched myself a little too hard at Jekyll: his seat was reclined, his pants were caught in the brake pedal and his cock was in my mouth barely after saying hello. He reciprocated with an aggressive hand down my pants spreading the damp patch in my underwear.
Between the phone call and hook-up we exchanged a few messages about progressing the fisting of my vagina, however, carnality won the war over finesse.
The removal of our shoes and pants occurred with speedy precision (we have knotted our legs together like denim snakes enough times to know that no one makes a move until all legs move freely, regardless of the need to screw at that very second. I don’t remember teenage messing with boys in cars being so tricky, but perhaps we were all shorter then and the best old cars had bench seats).
I bolstered a leg against the door into a V to steady the approaching Jekyll as we manoeuvred limbs and torsos into a workable position with him on top of me. One of my arms gripped the driver’s seat on one side and the other clung to the handle above the rear window that seems to serve no purpose except hang onto when trying to fuck like old-age teens in motor vehicles (and hang dry cleaning, I guess).
He grinded his cock into my pelvis until I wanted to kill him and he (unknown to me at the time) was close to coming. He slipped inside my flooded cunt and hit a strapping rhythm. I had a spare leg not doing much so I wrapped both of them around his legs to secure him so he didn’t hit his head on the roof.
Within 30 seconds he was close to coming and stopped while inside me for some recovery time. He was ready to finish and I was only just ramping up. My vaginal muscles tremored involuntarily – as they are prone to do when they’re excited – and he groaned in orgasm.
He laughed that I shouldn’t have flexed my muscles.
Hey, buddy, I was after a solid pounding that would make me bow-legged for a week; I hardly think I made my pussy do the rumba intentionally.
The glowing lime of the dashboard clock said there was not enough time for me to come before he had to leave. We cleaned the mating smells off ourselves, replaced the squashed piles of clothing on our bodies and kissed goodbye. He left with a smile on his face and I pondered why I did something that left me hungrier than when I started.