Afternoons were riskier, but the thrill made it irresistible. I'd offer to drive him to class, the car a confined cocoon of leather and anticipation. The engine hummed softly as we pulled onto a secluded side road, trees arching overhead, dappled sunlight filtering through the windshield. The space was intimate—too close, forcing proximity, our scents mingling: my perfume, his cologne, the faint leather polish.
"Pull over," he said one day, voice strained, but I smiled, drawing it out. The urgency built in the confined space—his hand on my thigh, inching under my skirt, fingers brushing the lace of my panties. I found a hidden spot, engine idling, the seat creaking as I shifted. Windows began to fog almost immediately from our heated breaths, blurring the outside world, trapping us in our own bubble.
I hiked up my skirt slowly—fabric bunching at my waist, exposing smooth thighs, the garters holding stockings that framed my bare pussy. No panties today; I'd planned this. The motion was teasing, deliberate, heightening the burn. He watched, pupils dilated, as I climbed over the console, straddling him in the driver's seat. The space was tight—my knees bracketing his hips, back arched against the steering wheel, which dug into my spine just enough to add a bite of discomfort, sharpening the pleasure.
His hands pushed my blouse open, exposing my breasts—nipples peaking in the cool AC air. He latched on, sucking one into his mouth, teeth grazing, tongue flicking, while his fingers delved between my legs. I was drenched, lips slick, and he groaned against my skin at the feel. "So wet for me," he muttered.
I ground against him slowly, his cock—freed from his jeans—pressing up, the head nudging my clit with each roll of my hips. The confined space intensified everything: the creak of the leather seat under our weight, the fog thickening on the glass, our breaths syncing in ragged pants. Skirt hiked high, it facilitated quick access, but I maintained the slow grind—forward and back, coating him in my arousal, the slick slide torturous, building the erotic tension until he was begging.
"Please," he whispered, hands gripping my ass, trying to lift me.
I obliged, but on my terms—sinking down gradually, feeling every inch stretch me, the angle in the car allowing deep penetration, his cock bottoming out with a gasp from both of us. The urgency of the space made it feel frantic yet controlled; I rode him languidly, hips circling, the seat protesting with each shift. Fogged windows dripped condensation, mirroring the sweat on our skin. His fingers left marks on my thighs—red imprints from his grip—as he thrust up, meeting my descent.
The burn built, slow and insistent, my clit grinding against his pelvis, sparks turning to fire. When release came, it was explosive—my body shuddering, pussy convulsing around him, drawing his own climax, hot and filling.
We lingered, windows clearing slowly, the world intruding again. But in that car, we'd burned brighter.
Our encounters evolved, each one a lesson in desire, sensory overload binding us tighter. Alex was transformed—focused, insatiable. And I? I had him exactly where I wanted.