It’s only past seven in the evening and still already pitch dark outside the car. The headlights illuminate the fat raindrops that hurl themselves horizontally at the windshield. He is on the autobahn going barely 50 mph in the middle lane and it still looks like Chewie just punched it. Fall season in Germany is goddamn dreary.
The streets are packed today. It’s rush hour, but no one’s literally rushing anywhere. Wise decision in this weather.
He changes the radio channel and catches the tail end of the traffic news just as he clears a little crest and the view before him makes him curse. The road flows down the hill, snakes around a copse of trees and then up another hill, vanishing there - and as far as his eye can see, it’s a chain of red tail lights. Bumper to bumper gridlock.
Predictably, the truck in front of him slows down. He eases onto the brakes as well and swerves toward the right hand side as far as he can to allow rescue vehicles through on the left. Soon, he is sandwiched between the truck and the SUV behind him. With a sigh, he puts the car in idle, sinks into his seat, leans his head back and closes his eyes.
He’s not really in a hurry. There’s no one waiting for him at home except his bed. Thinking about that empty bed makes him sigh a little.
A slow, sensual guitar comes through the loudspeakers. He recognizes Chris Isaak’s ‘Wicked Game’ and slightly turns up the volume. He remembers the video clip, remembers watching it on loop back in the VHS days. Helena Christensen artfully strip-teasing herself out of her lacey underwear at the beach, damp, stringy hair falling across her glistening lips, pale, kohl-rimmed come-fuck-me-eyes hypnotically staring at the viewer, is not something anyone could ever forget.
He looks around himself – truck in front, SUV behind, dark van to his right. The truck’s tail lights, the reflection from his own headlights and the shine from the headlights of the cars in the leftmost lane do brighten the interior of his car a little, but there is more than sufficient shade and darkness, too. It’s public, but also private. No one is going to see. And even if they did… so what? The faint possibility is actually the thing that gives him the last little nudge.
He reaches down and unzips, wriggles his jeans down just a bit, reaches into his underwear and touches himself. He is half-hard already. He blames Helena Christensen and her pouty lips.
Leaning his head back against the headrest, he slowly and steadily tugs and strokes his meat into full hardness. As he pulls it out of his briefs, he imagines Helena and her sun-kissed skin, her perky tits, the nipples she never actually showed in the video. He imagines her video lover latching onto and sucking on them as she straddles him and rubs her panty-clad pussy against his crotch. Her lover’s big hands come around and cup her shapely ass, and the tips of his fingers slide under the seams of the lacey fabric to tease and tickle her cleft. He can almost hear her panting and moaning, can almost see her throwing her head back with her eyes closed in ecstasy.
Suddenly, someone honks and an ambulance howls past out of nowhere. Torn from his fantasy, he opens his eyes and looks around once.
Then he does a double take.
The van that was next to him is gone. It crept forward a couple of meters on the rightmost lane and the next car pulled up into its spot. It’s an English car, its front window lining up with his exactly, the driver behind the wheel that’s installed on the far right side instead of the left. The van’s tail lights are high and bright. That’s how he can see all of her.
She, in turn, can see all of him.
The woman in the other car is watching him – watching his cock, to be precise – with one hand on the steering wheel, the other in her own pants, burrowed into her crotch.
It takes a long, magical moment for her to realize that she has been spotted. She freezes like a startled rabbit as their eyes meet. Even in the bright red glow of the taillight, he can see how she blushes furiously. She pulls her hand from between her legs, acting like she had merely adjusted her underwear or her sanitary pad or whatever, and bows her head so that her dark hair falls between them like a curtain.
He chuckles to himself. It would almost be endearing, if only he wasn’t painfully hard and any thoughts of Helena Christensen hadn’t dispersed like clouds at the idea of jerking off with an eager, participating live audience instead. He keeps staring at the woman, wishing so hard she would look over at him again that he grits his teeth.
After a small eternity, she risks a sideways glance – just a glance – then turns away once more. He curses. Oh, now you’re shy?! Fuck that. You started this. He reaches up to switch on the interior light and then leans on his car horn. The blare goes on for full five seconds until she looks over again and he lets up.
Her eyes go wide. He knows she can see him properly now. She looks away again and he honks again – eventually, she gets it, gives in, bites her lip and holds the eye contact.
That is, until he grabs his cock again and gives it a good pump. Throwing down the gauntlet.
He sees her gaze snapping down, sees her staring, scandalized and mesmerized simultaneously, mouth slightly open. He even switches hands for her so that she can better see what he’s doing. He knows he has a nice cock, with the right length and girth, and a pleasant curve and shape. No wonder she got stuck watching him. He smirks to himself.
The smirk falls right out of his face when he sees her hands reaching up to her chest and cupping her tits – big ones, C-cups at least – through her white blouse and underwear. Her fingers knead and pinch. Not in the porn star Look at these kind of way, but in the I’m so horny that my tits are heavy and my nipples are achy kind of way. He groans to himself and slows his hand down to match his strokes to her rhythm, imagining his cock wedged between those tits, pumping upwards, his angry red mushroom head reaching for the tip of her tongue. She would be sticking it out to lick his pre-cum off his slit, he just knows it.
His groan fills the car when she decides to make a goddamn commitment and take his challenge, and unbuttons her blouse hastily. Her breasts are confined by a very sensible-looking flesh-colored bra, and as if she can hear his thoughts, she folds down the cups immediately. Her glorious tits spill out, jutting forward. Her nipples are dark and pointed and he longs to suck on them. Instead, he watches her pinch, roll and tug them between her thumb and index finger, much harder than he thought women liked it.
Her other hand slides down her body and back underneath the belt of her black office slacks. She doesn’t unbutton or unzip them. With the fabric still so tight and tense, her hand shows up as a moving bulge, which is somehow even hotter than seeing exactly where her fingers are going and what they are doing. Again he matches his rhythm to hers.
They lock eyes across the two cars and it’s like they are locked in a strange sort of embrace.
Faster, he mouths, and she speeds up right alongside him, pressing her lips together to stifle her moans. He imagines that she is used to keeping quiet. Maybe that’s how she’s also an expert on masturbating without even opening her pants first. He imagines her in her cubicle, her co-workers all around her and her hands busy with her cunt without anyone the wiser. Or maybe she’s one of those women who like to keep it inside, the ones who implode instead of bursting outward when they cum, screaming silently instead. Or does she like to be told to keep quiet? To be threatened a little? One peep, my slut, and I’ll give you proper reason to scream this house down.
Shit, he curses. Her hand and arm are working so furiously and have almost sunk so deep past the waistline now he knows she has at least one finger inside her pussy. He imagines the smell filling the car, imagines the squishy noises. I’m gonna cum, he tells her.
She shakes her head once. Not yet.
With another, heftier curse, he clutches his cock at the base and squeezes to stall the orgasm just a little longer. His balls feel achingly full. His cock and his fingers and palm are slick with his pre-cum.
He watches her flying solo for a moment, and she watches him watching her, her eyes flicking down to his cock every time it twitches. He can’t help but think how beautifully desperate she looks with her tits bare, her fingers clamped around one nipple and her hand between her legs.
With his empty right hand, he points and gestures for her to pull her hand out of her panties, and she does – with her lips pressed together again, this time to stifle a groan of frustration, he imagines. In the taillights’ glow, he can see the wet glisten on her skin. Fuck.
He sticks his own middle finger into his own mouth and licks it.
Her eyes go wide, but she complies and licks her juice from her fingers, never breaking eye contact, never stopping to fondle her tit.
Delicious? he asks with a lifted eyebrow, and she blushes again and momentarily hides her face in her palm. He huffs a laugh. So dirty and so innocent.
Then she gestures back, and he is stumped for a second before he realizes what she wants from him. Well, maybe not so innocent. He laughs, swipes some pre-cum off his cock with his thumb and very showily licks it off. It’s salty and not unpleasant. Her eyes watch him with a heated glow. She bites her lip and sticks her hand into her pants again.
Before long, they are both writhing and pumping their hips in their seats, and as if by telepathy, they both ask Now? and then both nod desperate affirmatives.
He jerks his cock almost painfully, feels the hot flesh swell just a little more until it’s ready to burst, flicks his wrist and feels his orgasm barrel down his spine like an avalanche. With a long, feral groan he watches his cum spurt from his cock, onto his chest and stomach, drip down his knuckles and then get rubbed back into his skin as he pumps and wrings the last few drops from it.
Looking up, he sees her riding her own wave, her hand clenched and cupped around her pussy, her back bowing off the seat, her face in a grimace of pure bliss, eyes screwed shut, mouth open on an O. Gasping, she relaxes again as her orgasm slowly subsides, and with a last shiver, she unhands herself. Shooting him a sheepish look, she rummages in the door pocket to find a tissue, readjusting her boobs and bra in the meantime.
He produces a hanky from his own pockets and also quickly cleans himself up. Once his cock is soft enough again, he slides back into his briefs and pants, zips and buttons up again. Then he opens the driver’s side window just a crack and sighs when the colder air from outside blows across his slightly sweaty face.
Just that second, the brake lights of the truck in front of him come on, alerting him to the fact that the vehicle has moved forward a bit and then stopped again. Before long, there is a widening gap between his car and the truck’s back bumper and the lane definitely starts moving. The driver of the SUV behind him starts honking like an idiot.
He looks to his right and finds her looking back at him with a cheeky smile on her face, giving him a small wave with her fingers.
See you in the next gridlock, he says and steps on the gas.
She has heard so many rumors about the autobahn. Apparently, it’s a near-magical place and driving on it is a fantastic, almost therapeutic experience. Wonderful asphalt, nice, broad lanes, no speed limits, great fellow drivers.
Most of it turned out to be b.s. The asphalt is okay, she supposes. The lanes are pretty much the same at home. But there is a speed limit almost everywhere, and the fellow drivers apparently fuck up once it gets dark and a single raindrop falls from the sky. There must have been an accident somewhere ahead. Truly magical, indeed - if magic sucked badly. She checks her watch again. She’s been practically standing still for almost twenty minutes already. So much for getting that report of today’s meeting done before midnight.
The van in front of her lurches forward a couple of meters and she lets her right-hand drive Vauxhall Insignia roll a bit to close the gap.
The radio jabbers something in German, and then plays ‘Wicked Game’ by Chris Isaak. She hums along. Such a sad but sexy lyric to go along with a music video that’s always made her envious. She remembers that the woman in it looked gorgeous, the guy – was it the singer himself? – was dreamy, and the passion between the two… wistful-sigh-inducing. She hasn’t had a tenth of that in the entirety of her relationship with her ex whom she left on the other side of the Channel, the same guy who had always been against her plans of going to Germany. They’re all cold fish there, she remembers his words. You won’t connect with them.
She is almost afraid to concede that he may have been right. For sure, all of her colleagues, the few neighbours she has met, and even the people she has met at the bar on Friday nights seem… dispassionate. They like to talk about their many interests and hobbies and are very animated when they do, but there isn’t any trace of a deeper connection. She can’t feel any heat, not even a spark.
Then she looks over to the car next to hers – their windows line up perfectly and are closer than normal because the other driver has pulled to the right hand side for emergency corridor – and gasps.
The driver of the other car is clearly… Well, he is wanking.
She looks around to see if anyone else is seeing what she’s seeing. There is the dark van in front of her, and a huge truck in front of the, uh, wanker. In her rear view mirror, she sees an older couple in a big BMW right behind her, next to an SUV so towering she can’t even see the passengers. No one has the angle to see him there behind the wheel of his car with his head back and his hand on his crotch.
Well, except herself.
She glances at him again, looks away.
Glances again. A little more thoroughly.
Looks away. A little more briefly.
The sight pulls her like a magnet.
He has a nice cock. She blinks at herself, but the thought doesn’t go away. It’s true. Very true. It’s big but not gigantic and has an appealing shape. And God, the way he moves his fist is also very alluring. The few times she has seen men wank, it always struck her as strangely hilarious rather than sexy. Something about the hunched shoulders and the too-quick jerky movements. But this man, he makes it look like…
Like he’s making love to himself. Like he’s got all the time in the world.
She glances away – now ‘looking’ and ‘glancing’ is definitely reversed – this time to check if anyone can see her. No one can. With the truck’s tail lights shine blocked by the A-pillar of her Vauxhall, she’s in deep shadows.
No one will know.
She leaves her left hand on the steering wheel and slips her right hand between her legs, on top of her slacks. She jolts with the first squeeze. Everything feels tender there, and like her panties are too tight. She can feel her own sweaty heat through two thick layers of fabric. When she looks up and at the man and his beautiful cock again, it’s suddenly too much and not enough at the same time. She hesitates a moment, sees him flick his wrist like that, and slides her hand underneath the waistband of her stretchy-but-respectable trousers and into her panties.
Her fingers easily slip between her lips because they are already thickly coated with her warm honey, brush against hot, slick flesh that seems to light up at the touch. Gently, she presses on the little turgid pearl of her clit and pets it. This always makes the muscles in her abdomen shake like someone is tickling her sides.
She stifles a moan when she sees him flicking his wrist again, imagines the veins bulging on his forearm during this hard, abrupt, even slightly violent move, and God, German men do have sexy forearms. So nice and strong, great to twine around someone from behind and pull them back onto that long, big cock, which he should keep stroking with his hard hands, keep stroking--
He has stopped.
She looks up and when their eyes meet, someone has dumped a bucket of icy water straight into her stomach. First comes the cold shock, then her body turns up the heat in counteraction and all the hot blood flows straight into her face. Oh, shit!
Embarrassed to her core, she hurries to pull her hand out of her trousers, so fast she gets her wristwatch caught in her underwear and has to twist her hand around to free herself, and shakes her hair forward to hide her face – now both ashamed for and also annoyed with herself that she didn’t think of doing that right away.
Her fingers are wet. Somehow, stupidly, doesn’t dare to wipe them off. Through two car windows and across several meters, she can still feel his eyes on her.
Indeed, when she dares to peek around her hair, he is still watching her with the same intensity with which he jerked his cock. A shiver zips up her spine and she looks out the other side window into the dreary, rainy German night.
Suddenly, a car horn starts up and goes on and on and on, vibrating ear-piercingly through her passenger cabin. She turns her head again and the horn falls mercifully silent when her eyes fall onto the man in the car next to her, now illuminated in all his exposed and erect glory by the overhead light of his own car. Jesus Christ! She averts her eyes again, but the car horn promptly rings out again. This is… blackmail! Or coercion or something!
Eventually – much too easily – she gives in and looks at him. Into his eyes this time. Not at his cock. Into his eyes. Don’t look at his cock. Don’t. Look.
The movement of his hand is entirely impossible to ignore. Such a nice cock in such a nice hand. Long fingers, but not too long. Strong and sturdy. She would bet there are calluses on his palms, and that they feel good to himself as he massages and tugs and twists his own shaft.
How would they feel on her? Just thinking about it makes her boobs hurt a little from want and deprivation and she presses her palms to them. When was the last time a man – or anyone, really –touched her properly? Cupped and kneaded her tits like she liked it? Her tits used to be so primed and sensitive she could orgasm just from nipple play and having the undersides touched. She had once seen a porn movie in which a woman was riding a man’s cock, and the man sat up and licked, sucked and bit the nipple of her one breast and slapped the other with his hand. She still returns to this memory now and then in lonely nights, pinching her nipples as she lies in bed.
As quickly as she can, she unbuttons her blouse and pulls her bra down to get to her painfully erect nipples. A groan slips out of her mouth once her fingers close around the engorged nubs. It feels like both have a direct line to her clit. With her eyes searching his and then latching on to the beautiful movement of his hand again, she plays with her nipples as long as she can stand – which is not very long – and eventually slides her hand back into her panties.
Everything is more now. More sensitive, more intense, more swollen, hotter, wetter. She can feel a gush of cream squeeze out through her pussy lips when she leans back a little more to give her hand more freedom of movement. Normally, when she masturbates she merely touches her clitoris. Today, however, with a fat cock right there on display, her vagina has turned into an achingly hollow that begs to be filled at least a little. She slides her middle finger into the hot, wet well and feels her own muscles flutter as she slides out again, slipping all the way up to her clit and back. Matching her rhythm to that of his hand on his cock, she pushes back in and out, in and out.
Her right hand is around her breast, her left between her legs, her eyes are caught by his. Faster, his mouth says and she wants to moan and complies readily, greedily, wants to scream with glee when his pokerface breaks and his lips say Oh shit, I’m gonna cum.
She is close, but not there yet. Not yet. She shakes her head.
He grabs his dick by the base as if to strangle it and it twitches like crazy, visibly shiny with pre-cum. Knowing just how close he was and that he stopped just because she said so makes her moan.
With his free hand, the man gestures at her to also stop and pull her hand out of her pants. Breathing hard, she complies, still feeling the ghost of her own finger inside of her pussy. At this rate, she assumes she might literally pass out from the orgasm that is currently building within her.
Then, he sticks his middle finger into his mouth and motions for her to do the same. Blushing again, she complies, smelling and tasting herself, feeling the strange consistency of her juice on her tongue and swallowing it down.
Delicious? he mouths and smirks. For some reason, that makes her feel embarrassed, and she giggles. Well, time to pay like with like. She flicks her now-clean fingers at his general direction in a ‘well? What are you waiting for? Your turn!’ type of motion.
He takes a moment to understand but finally drags his thumb up the side of his cock to collect some pre-cum and sticks it in his mouth, never breaking eye contact.
Oh, fuck. That sight goes straight to her clit again. She can’t wait any longer. She puts her hand back onto her pussy just as he puts his back around his cock, and this time there is no holding back for either of them. It only seems to take a few seconds of frenzied touches for both of them to break and beg Now? and for each to give the other one permission.
Every cell in her body seems to sing and buzz with joy for a long moment that floats, suspended weightless in mid-air, and then her orgasm crashes through her with the force of a freight train, making her legs jerk like she’s being electrocuted, driving sweat through each pore, actually blinding her eyes for a long second. Her pussy clenches and gushes more wetness into her panties. She bows off her seat, throws her head back and shouts a long, creative curse into her passenger cabin.
Time stands still for a blissful ten, fifteen seconds as the afterglow percolates through her.
Eventually, reality sets back in. Shivering a little, she collects herself.
Being sweaty and wet is not necessarily comfortable, so she gropes around for the pack of Kleenex she keeps in the door pocket and cleans herself up as much as possible, stuffing a tissue into her panties to soak up some of the, uh, spillage and putting her boobs back in place. In the other car, the man does the same, putting himself back together again although he does nothing about the big white stains on his dark shirt.
Just then, the brake lights of the big truck in front of his car come on and then go out again. The truck has moved a couple meters, then moves again. Apparently, the traffic jam is finally dissolving, one lane at a time. Behind them, the other drivers immediately start honking like mad, impatient for the man to get a move on.
Well. So much for not connecting with the cold Germans, she mutters as if he can hear her, smiles at the thought that her ex is really an ignoramus, then smiles as the man in the other car and gives him a little wave good-bye before he drives away.
The autobahn really is a somewhat magical place.
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