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It was three o’clock in the afternoon and it had started to rain. Wet leaves stuck to the glossy red trunk of the Jaguar, beaded with droplets, and a hazy sun caught the rear window. Bobby opened the door and sat down heavily, breathing in the leather. So that was it. The end of Arla. He looked across the passenger seat to the lawn through the streaked window, the lawn that led up to the house. The canopied street curved away before him, its houses and hedges and willows and mimosa trees dripping and green. He looked down. Suddenly he felt her legs around his head again and his face pressed so deep into her pussy that it was stopped by her pubic bone. Her fragrance was overwhelming, so close, so close…

…Arla was sitting beside him as they raced along the 101. The ocean to their right appeared and disappeared through the hills. The wind swirled into the Jag. He shifted gears. She seemed pleased with how he did that. They drove up through the hills and it got cooler. It started to rain, or was it mist? “Hey, we’re driving through a cloud,” he said.

The car felt snug and strong, and he looked over and what he saw, what he saw, was Arla slipped down below window level with her skirt hoisted up and her legs wide open and her panties pulled to the side. Smiling like the sun and moon, she seemed to fill all the space in the cabin. But Bobby was cool. He kept driving, as the wind tore at her skirt in the corner of his eye. (click to read entire story…)