Baby you can buy my car

Info Amalova
16 Jul. '17
Baby you can buy my car

As his front wheel grazed the kerb and came to a halt, I was kissing him. Upon opening the door and sliding from his seat, I was stripping him. By the time he had pulled himself fully upright, I was fucking him, riding him, bouncing up and down on his firm, bulging body, his phallus embedded deep in my clenching innards, the thick, stiff shaft splitting my dripping lips.
'Hi,' the voice so deep my slender chest resonated with it, my tiny tits vibrated with it. Tingling nipples grated gently against my crisp white cotton blouse. Could he tell I was braless? Could he see the shadowy areolae and their ripe rising teats? I sincerely hoped so.
'Hi. You've come about the car?'
I batted heavy lashes towards the little red Fiat, a hint of an incredulous smile on my similarly tinted lips: his impressive frame would surely destroy my tiny machine. A sudden smile dazzled me, momentarily eclipsed the personalised porn movie spooling behind my eyes, in which I was now sitting on his face, his tongue lapping at my clitoris, while I shaved his well-gelled groin with a gleaming cut-throat razor.
'It's not for me. It's for my...'
Frames flickered and froze the blade's glinting edge to his dangling scrotum. His next word was fatal to my fantasy, poison to the probable possibilities. I simply could not allow it. Whetted words cut him off in his prime.
'Hope you're not another time-waster! Look, she's perfect for you. For anyone...'
He was already beside her, testing her cute waxed curves with a huge hand. I was jealous as fuck. Again the voice; again my quivering tits.
'A few scratches...'
On buttocks and between shoulder blades, the scabbed-over evidence of my most recent sexual seeing-to were a single body scrub away from total erasure. I objected.
'Nah. Bodywork's virtually perfect.'
He licked his thumb, massaged away a stubborn mote and tilted his head.
'Why are you selling?'
Because I need the money, for food, warmth, and a roof over my head.
'Going abroad.'
'Oh. Okay.'
With nonchalant incredulity, he kicked a tyre.
'Plenty of tread.'
My hip-hugging hand eased a pound of flesh under my denim skirt's waistband.
'Exactly as advertised.'
'Serviced regularly?'
The film rolled on. I towelled off his pristine privates then took his full length down my throat. Writhing beneath my sleek, throbbing, well-tuned bodywork, my mechanic groaned his intense approval into my sumptuous sump. In total contrast to the movie mayhem, my response remained calm and detached.
'Of course. I'm very... pedantic about regularity.'
He nodded knowingly.
'Enough room in the back?'
After tickling my sphincter, his tongue slipped up my arse.
'Depends what you're putting up there.' I believe I actually blushed. 'Er, in there. No room for golf clubs, obviously.'
Was he smirking? And was the bulge in his jeans really growing? Or was it my fuel-injected imagination?
'How many...'
I immediately clocked his meaning.
'Twenty K, give or take a mile.'
'Cool. I like 'em well run-in, all those niggly little faults ironed out. Still under warranty?'
I should think so: I'm only twenty-three.
'I should think so: I've only had her two or three years.'
He circled her.
'I'd like a test-drive, if that's okay?'
'Er, yes, of course. I'd expect nothing less.'
Never mind driving, these boots weren't even made for walking. I tossed him the keys.
'Ease yourself into the cockpit and fire her up.'
His look was classically quizzical, like I'd lost my marbles. And I actually had, though knew exactly where they were: clacking around within the well-lubricated cylinder that was my 10cc pussy.
The seat slid back. He adjusted the wheel then actually eased himself into the cockpit and fired her up. No words could have described it better. He glanced at me and smiled, as though he had independently reached the same conclusion. I crossed my legs and let the short skirt ride even further up my bare thighs. The seatbelt pressed blouse to breasts till my poking teats could have made eyes water. And lo! Indeed they had, though he chose a more prosaic explanation.
'Touch of hay fever. Pollen count high today.'
The nipple count too was high, an observation that transcended verbalisation.
'I also suffer, so have special filters in the A/C.'
He confirmed my belief that approving nods are excellent silent retorts.
His handling was masterful. He drove her to the limit, to the edge of space and back again, taking his time, milking the moment, reviewing her responses, masterfully manipulating her mechanics. Decisive yet thoughtful. Aggressive yet careful. Senses flaring. Body responding. As much as a car is capable of cumming, she was continually on the brink, roaring and purring, twisting and turning. When he finally opened her up on the M69, both myself and my car were at the point of no return. I ran my index finger across the central console, searching for the off-switch for the heated seat, then remembered she wasn't blessed with such luxuries. Oh, dear. Note to self: on egress, remain facing him at all times.
She sat at the kerb-side looking as winsomely innocent as she ever had, though I knew she was forever tainted, spoiled, subverted, by his buff rough handling. My vanilla clit-tickling antics would no longer be enough for her. He'd broken her in; bled her; desecrated her. She was already lost to me, whether I sold her today or not.
'So,' we were walking up the drive to my door, 'you are having her?'
I am nothing if not blunt. He twisted his lovely mouth into an expression of thoughtful doubt.
'The ride was a little soft and she lacks a bit of poke...'
My sexual fantasy had long since reached its inevitable conclusion, his mouth-filling, cum-squirting cock having erupted at the exact moment his arse-tonguing, pussy-fingering, clit-thumbing antics had pushed me over ecstasy's precipitous edge, so I was perfectly primed for any impending action, yet subdued my body's cravings just long enough for cold economics to spill past my pouted lips.
'At that price she's a gift and well you know it.'
He rubbed his stubbly chin.
'Would you take...?'
'Look,' a slow breath and my two front steps raised my nubile nipples into his eye line, 'I'm throwing her at you and you're turning me down.' Again I pouted. 'I'm offended.' I somehow pouted even more. 'Almost as much as if I'd thrown myself at you.'
The gleam in his eye said try me. I opened my front door, bade him enter then followed him inside and turned the key.


This finely-wrought piece plus nine further precision-engineered components comprise the surprisingly affordable 'Measuring up: an indispensable compendium of eclectic erotica' that, were it a car, would undoubtedly win What Car's 'Sexiest vehicle of the year' award.

Copyright: Alexandra Amalova 2017. This work may not be used, either in part or in full, without the author's express permission.