What My Wife and I Went Looking for on the Motorway

The dashboard thermometer read thirty-two degrees when I turned the key. The Opel Corsa started on the first try, and the plastic hula girl on the dash shook herself as if she were dancing for us. Chipped paint, faded skirt, a gift from the twins twenty years ago, when we were still “Dad” and “Mom” and not two names in an address book that say hello by text every fifteen days.

The air conditioning worked, and that was almost a miracle. That car had nearly three hundred thousand kilometers on it and still spat out cold air, with the sound of a cat trapped in a washing machine, but it cooled. It was already more than one could ask for.

—I’m roasting in this heat —Reme puffed, sinking into the passenger seat with that catlike stretch she’d perfected over the years.

The white T-shirt clung to her body, soaked through, tracing every curve beneath the fabric. It was barely five minutes from the sand to the parking lot, but the midday sun had been enough to turn sweat into a salty film between cotton and skin. Underneath she wasn’t wearing a bra, only the black bikini bottoms marking her hips. And her nipples, dark and erect from the air-conditioning cold, showed through without shame, two wide circles that the wet fabric turned into a sign for anyone who looked at her. After so many years, they were still my undoing.

Everything shows under that T-shirt. Firm tits, nipples like olives. Forty years old and she still gets my cock hard like the first day.

—Will you cool me off? —she added, in that voice she used when she wanted to provoke me. A double entendre that almost came with subtitles.

I put it into first and pulled out of the Agua Amarga beach parking lot. Sand on the pedals, salt in the air, and that generic-brand sunscreen that smells like coconut. I was still in my wet trunks and an old cotton T-shirt, and I could feel how my cock, already half hard since I’d seen her stretch, was pressing against the damp fabric with no attempt at subtlety.

—I’ve always preferred artisanal ice cream —I told her, taking the exit toward the motorway—. With texture. With history.

She burst out laughing, the kind that wrinkled her eyes.

—Are you calling me artisanal or old?

—I’m calling you the most fuckable woman I’ve ever seen in my fucking life.

She reached over and touched my thigh. Her fingers left a pale imprint on skin reddened by the sun. A small gesture, repeated since Hombres G played on every radio. But that afternoon there was something more: the hand didn’t stay on my thigh. It slid upward slowly, nails grazing my skin, until it brushed the bulge over my wet trunks. She squeezed me, measuring me, weighing the heft of what I carried between my legs as if checking that her toy was still in good working order.

—After forty years, you still go hard before the car even starts —she murmured, squeezing my cock through the fabric—. You’re rock hard, asshole.

—With the way you look, it’d be strange if I weren’t.

She’s squeezing me without trying to hide it. She knows perfectly well what she does to my cock. And I know what her cunt is like right now: wet, swollen, those lips opening when she gets hot.

The road stretched straight south, between orange groves that seemed to pray with their drooping leaves, exhausted by the sun. The heat wasn’t a temperature: it was a heavy, sticky beast sitting on your chest. The asphalt shivered in the distance, as if it had a fever.

Reme had her bare feet up on the dashboard, toenails painted dark red and a bit of sand still caught between her toes. On her ankle, the gold bracelet she never took off: three tiny charms, an A, a C, and a P, the initials of the kids, who weren’t really kids anymore. Her legs were still firm, golden, shining in the afternoon light, and with her feet up like that the bikini bottom dug into her pubis, outlining her cunt in an obscene way, with that line that formed between her lips and that I kept glancing at every time I changed gear.

—Four hours without clothes and I already miss being naked —she said suddenly, stretching—. This T-shirt is torturing me. It’s rubbing my nipples raw.

—I’d say it’s doing its job wonderfully. From here I can see your tits perfectly. And with those nipples, it makes me want to pull over and suck them.

She shot me a sidelong look with that smile that promised trouble.

—Pervert.

—I’ve been one for decades. I’m not changing now.

She slipped a hand under her T-shirt and pinched one nipple, twisting it slowly, looking at me while she did it. A small gasp escaped her, half pleasure, half mockery.

—You know? —she said, lowering the sun visor to look into the little mirror—. That guy with the tattoo on his arm looked like he’d have an interesting conversation. And a considerable cock, honestly. Though you seemed more interested in something else. It was starting to show when you talked to him. You got hard and everything, right in front of me.

I felt the heat climbing my cheeks.

—It showed?

—Salva, we were naked. EVERYTHING showed. Your cock was moving when you talked to him, up and down like it had a life of its own. I don’t know whether he noticed, but I did. And I can assure you the woman who was two towels over noticed too.

I laughed, half embarrassed, half turned on to admit it. We’d spent the afternoon at the nudist beach, three hours lying among bodies of all shapes and ages. And yes, there had been the odd specimen that caught the eye. The tattooed guy was one: forty-something, wiry, with that tan of someone who has time to lie in the sun every day, and a thick cock hanging heavy between his thighs even at rest.

She secretly reads on her phone every night, thinking I don’t notice. Stories of threesomes, couples who share, mature women fucking younger men, husbands watching another guy put his cock in their wife. And I read them too. And we both know it, even though we never say it.

—Have you read anything interesting lately? —I asked, feeling my way forward.

She went very still for a second. Then she smiled and kept stroking her nipple under the T-shirt, no longer bothering to hide it.

—A few days ago, one about a couple who stopped on the road. It reminded me of us. They fucked a stranger in a service-station parking lot. The husband watched while the other one came inside his wife.

—Oh, yeah? And what else did that couple do?

—Let’s just say they didn’t get home as fast as they thought. She ended up with his cum in her mouth, and the husband licking it off her tits.

The air inside the car grew denser. She was looking at me without hiding it now. My hands were still on the wheel, but my cock was throbbing inside the wet trunks, so hard it hurt.

—Maybe we should take a look —I said, my voice rougher than I intended—. See what those roadside places are like.

—You really can be classy when you want to, Salva —she laughed.

—I’m a refined man.

—You’re a filthy little bastard with charm and a cock that’s always ready.

—That too.

—I read on a forum once, I think —she went on, choosing her words as her hand kept teasing my bulge— that on Sunday afternoons, at certain rest areas, people don’t exactly stop to stretch their legs. They stretch other things.

My throat went dry.

—And you, by coincidence, remember the exact place. What a memory for a woman who loses her phone three times a day.

—It’s general culture, darling. They say it’s a very democratic place. They fuck whoever’s willing.

—Democratic. So they don’t ask for ID at the door. No membership card, no age check.

—Exactly.

Her hand stayed on my thigh, sliding slowly up the inside, already slipping beneath my wet trunks. Her cold fingers brushed the base of my cock and pulled a stupid little moan out of me that I tried to hide.

—So what are we looking for in this democracy, Reme? —I finally dared—. An audience for you, or company for me?

Silence. The hula girl swayed on the dashboard. The air-conditioning roared. Her fingers fully circled my cock and squeezed. It was hard as stone, the tip already wet with fluid.

—Maybe a little of both —she said softly—. You like being watched, I know that already. You love it when they watch my tits, my ass, when they get hard thinking about your wife. But they say the guys in those places are bolder. They don’t ask permission. They pull out their cock and that’s that.

—They go straight for it.

—Exactly. They pull it out and shove it in your mouth without asking.

She’s saying it. She’s opening the door to what I’ve been wanting for months, maybe years. And she’s giving me a slow hand job while I drive.

—And if they come up to you while I’m there —I went on, choosing every word— maybe one of them gets confused and doesn’t know which of us he’s provoking. Maybe one of them decides to pull my cock out first.

She let out a warm laugh, not mocking, never stopping her stroking.

—They don’t get confused, dummy. They know perfectly well the prize is me. But they also know the husband of a woman like that has to be a pervert. And perverts like you are easy to spot a mile away —they’d gladly take a cock in their mouth if it’s offered right.

—You’re the treasure —I said, moved, swallowing hard while she squeezed me tighter—. But yes, sometimes I like to think that if the wasps come for the honey, one of them might sting me too. Do you mind?

She hiked her T-shirt up a little, revealing the bikini bottoms, the fabric tracing every curve. The bottom had a dark wet patch right between her legs, and it wasn’t seawater. She fanned herself slowly with her free hand.

—The only thing I mind is you leaving me alone with the wolves. If we stop, you and I are a team. If they touch, we touch. If they look, we look back. If they fuck me, you watch and whisper dirty things in my ear. Always together. That’s not up for debate.

—Never up for debate.

Mother of God. We’re really going to do it. I’m going to see my wife with another man’s cock inside her. And maybe I will too.

She pulled her hand out of my trunks, licked her fingers without looking at me, sucking off the fluid she’d drawn out with that slow, satisfied-cat calm, and then turned to stare out the window as if she’d done nothing at all.

***

We merged onto the motorway under light traffic, Sunday afternoon, the occasional family car packed to the brim and trucks heading back north.

—Do you know where it is? —Reme asked.

—More or less. I read it was at the rest area, not the service area. No gas station, no lights, no security.

—Discreet.

—Exactly.

Though I’m not entirely sure. I only read vague mentions. And I may be confusing rest areas with service areas. Shit. And on top of that I’m so hard I can’t think straight.

I saw the sign: “La Marina Service Area, 3 km.” I froze for a second.

—According to what I read —I said, trying to sound confident—, it should be near the truck area. More discreet than the main parking lot.

Reme nodded. What she didn’t say out loud was how relieved she felt. The dark, isolated rest areas scared her a little: strangers, no witnesses, no easy escape. But a service area, with lights and people nearby, seemed safer to her. Better that way, she thought. I understood that much later.

—Whatever you want, darling —she said aloud—. You’re driving.

I put on the turn signal. Click, click. The sound synced with my heartbeat. The hula girl swayed obscenely when the wheels brushed the rough strip of shoulder.

—If that doll lifted her head... —Reme murmured.

—She’d applaud us.

—Or die of envy from not having a cunt to get filled.

I took the exit. The service area appeared like an island of light: a Cepsa gas station with the pumps shining under sodium lamps, a café with huge windows, families coming out with half-asleep kids. Completely unsuitable for what we were looking for.

Too many people. Too many lights. I’ve got the wrong place. And with this hard-on I can’t even get out of the car.

I parked near the café, in the shade of some trees, and turned off the engine. I adjusted my cock discreetly under my trunks, trying not to let it show when I walked.

—Well —I said, trying to sound casual—. Fancy some dinner?

Reme looked at me with a mix of amusement, relief, and a touch of disappointment. But mostly tenderness. And she noticed the bulge under my trunks with a quick glance.

—Sure. I’m starving. Though you seem to have a different kind of hunger.

—Shut up and get out.

We got out of the car. The heat wrapped around us like a damp blanket after the air conditioning. Reme stretched, arms over her head, and her T-shirt rode up, showing the bikini, the bronzed skin of her belly, and the warm crease under her tits.

A trucker smoking beside the pumps turned his head and froze with the cigarette halfway to his lips, mouth open as if life itself had paused on him. A family man did the same until his wife elbowed him. Reme noticed. A flicker of a smile touched her lips and she straightened her shoulders a little more, pushing her chest out, letting her nipples show even more against the soaked fabric.

***

The café interior was a brutal thermal shock, the air-conditioning almost glacial, with the smell of reheated coffee and stale frying oil. We sat by a window overlooking the parking lot.

—This is like walking into a freezer —Reme said, rubbing her arms. The cold made her nipples even harder—. Look, they’re about to pop out.

—Better than hell outside. And I don’t care, it makes them look more.

The waitress came over with the expression of existential exhaustion and took our order without looking up: salad, two hot sandwiches, sparkling water, and a soda. She shuffled off.

I looked around. Families with hyperactive kids, a young couple glued to their phones, a couple of lone truckers staring at the screen. Nobody paid us any attention. Perfect.

And then he walked in. Tall, dark, early thirties. A full head taller than anyone else in the place. Tanned from working in the sun, not from lying on a beach. Tattoos peeking from the neck of a white T-shirt that hugged his shoulders, outlining the hard pectorals beneath. Athletic shorts, and there, between his thighs, a bulge that left no doubt: the guy was well endowed. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who knows what he’s got, or who doesn’t give a damn.

Reme had seen him too. Of course she had. Her eyes had gone straight to his crotch without any shame before climbing up to his face. The man ordered a coffee at the counter and exchanged a couple of lines with the server about traffic jams and routes. Then he sat on a stool to wait, legs spread, making the bulge even more obvious.

—That boy looks like he’s carrying a good package —Reme murmured.

I raised an eyebrow.

—A package? What exactly are you thinking about?

—His truck, of course. You need room for that much cargo. What else would you think I meant?

—A huge cock between those legs. Same as you, probably.

—You can see it from here. He’s not wearing underwear under those shorts, you can tell. And he’s not even hard. Imagine it when it’s hard.

That guy is exactly what I’ve been reading about for months. Young, athletic, self-assured. And those arms. Mother of God. I’d suck his cock right here if he’d let me.

I kept looking at him longer than socially acceptable. Reme watched me with a wicked smile.

—You’re getting hard again, aren’t you? —she whispered.

—More than you think.

—Salva, it’s going to show in your pants when you stand up.

—Let it show.

The food arrived steaming and we ate with real hunger, the kind left by a full afternoon in the sun. Between bites, we both kept sneaking glances toward the counter. The trucker took off his cap for a moment to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck, then put it back on. Reme stopped chewing for half a second. I swallowed with difficulty. Under the table, she’d put a bare foot on my thigh and was slowly moving it toward my crotch.

The man looked up right then and caught us watching him. He smiled. He winked. He grabbed the bulge over his pants with complete naturalness, like someone adjusting something heavy, and held our gaze a second longer than necessary. Then he finished his coffee, left some coins on the counter, and stood to go.

And then, before fear could paralyze me, I did it.

—Hey, excuse me.

He turned, surprised.

—You seemed interesting to us. If you have a little time before you keep going, do you feel like sitting with us?

He sized me up. Dropped his eyes to my crotch for a moment, then up to Reme, paused at her tits, and finally came back to my face. His mouth curved into a slow smile.

—Why not? I’ve got time to spare.

Southern accent, deep voice. He walked over to the table and sat on the bench beside Reme, opposite me. When he sat down, his thigh pressed against hers; neither of them made the slightest effort to move apart.

—Salva —I said, offering my hand—. And this is Reme.

—Nando —he replied, shaking it. The handshake lasted half a second longer than normal. Direct eye contact. Something happened between us; I couldn’t tell you what, but my whole body tightened and I felt a crack of lightning in my cock.

He kissed Reme on the cheek. She inhaled discreetly: clean sweat, diesel, cheap cologne, something young and musky.

He smells like a man. Like a young stud’s cock. Raw. Interesting, she thought, and felt her bikini bottoms go wet in an instant.

—You coming back from the beach? —Nando asked.

Reme pointed to the bikini under her T-shirt.

—Is it that obvious?

—A bit. And the nipples too. Guardamar?

—Agua Amarga —I said—. The nudist beach.

He lifted his eyebrows and smiled slowly, eyes bright.

—Brave. So today you spent the afternoon naked in front of strangers. I like people without hang-ups.

—It’s not about bravery —Reme leaned in, mischievous, letting her damp cleavage show even more—. It’s about wanting to be naked. And to be looked at, let’s not lie.

He looked at her with renewed interest and dropped his eyes to her breasts without the slightest attempt to hide it.

—Well, you certainly look like you want it. And you’ve got beautiful tits to show off, if that’s not too forward.

—It isn’t —she smiled—. I like being told that.

She’s flirting with him in front of me. She’s letting him look at her tits. And I’m about to spill out of my shorts.

—And where are you coming from? —I asked, trying to control my breathing.

—From the port of Valencia. I’m hauling a container to Cartagena. Stopped for dinner before continuing.

—That’s some trip —Reme said.

—Same as you with that Corsa outside. I saw the sticker when I parked: “Twenty years on the road” and an old plate. You don’t have to be a genius.

—Sharp eye.

—It’s the job. Watching roads, cars, and people. People mostly.

And he’s watching us. Very closely. And he knows I’m staring at his bulge without hiding it, Reme thought.

—And what do you observe about us? —she dared to ask, resting her elbow on the table and leaning in a little more.

Nando didn’t hesitate.

—That you’re a couple that still looks for each other with your eyes. That there’s chemistry. Something I don’t see in most marriages after so many years. That your husband can’t stop looking at me, and that your nipples are showing through because they’re that hard. And that you’re both horny as hell since I walked in the door.

—Is it that obvious? —I swallowed.

—Crystal clear. Couples who’ve been together for decades barely look at each other when they eat. You two don’t stop looking at each other. And at my cock, to be exact.

Reme laughed, a little scandalized by the bluntness of the word, but also flattered. Her eyes shone.

—And do you have a partner? —she asked, not lowering her tone.

—Nothing steady. The road doesn’t help. Casual encounters, you know.

—What kind of encounters? —I lowered my voice.

He fixed his gaze on me. Ran his tongue over his lower lip, slowly.

—Everything. Whatever the body asks for. Service areas, industrial estates... Single girls, couples like you, the odd guy. People want company. So do I, sometimes. And I’m not very picky about who sucks me off, if it’s done well.

The air turned electric. A small gasp escaped Reme. I felt my cock jerk inside the trunks.

—By the way —he added—, if you’re looking for the cruising area, this isn’t it. Too much light, too much surveillance.

I blushed.

—How...?

—You’re not the first ones to get confused. Your plan shows a mile away: both of you in wet clothes, staring at me like I’m the menu, your wife with her hand under the table doing God knows what to you. The place is three kilometers back, at the rest area. No gas station, no lights, nobody.

Reme laughed nervously, pulling her hand back from my thigh.

—Well, we just...

—You don’t have to explain anything —he said, raising a hand—. I understand perfectly.

He knows. He knows exactly why we came. And he’s turned on too; you can see the bulge growing under those shorts.

Reme went straight to the point, as always. She’s the brave one, the one who crosses lines I only look at from far away.

—What if we weren’t looking for a cruising area? What if we just wanted to meet someone interesting? Someone like you, for example. With those hands, those arms. With what you’ve got down there.

She said it slowly, warmly, like offering coffee after dinner. In her mouth, the forbidden becomes ordinary. And yet the word “package” had fallen onto the table like a stone.

—Someone like me? —he asked, smiling faintly.

—Exactly like you.

I jumped in, nervous but aroused, my pulse hammering in my temples and lower down, with my cock so hard it hurt against the seam of my dry trunks.

—What Reme means is that we like you. Yes, both of us. Her and me. And not just to look at from a distance.

Silence. Nando looked at us. First at me; his dark eyes swept over me with a frankness that raised gooseflesh on my skin, pausing for a second at the bulge I could no longer even pretend to hide. Then at her, and there he lingered longer: on the breasts under the wet T-shirt, on the parted lips, on the shine in her eyes, on the cleft of her thighs pressed together under the table.

—Both of you? —he asked, his voice rougher—. Let’s get this straight, because there’s no need for any fancy talk here. Do you both want to suck me off? Or do I fuck her while you watch? Or does she suck my cock and you do too? Name things properly or we’re getting nowhere.

I nodded. My throat had closed up. Reme took a deep breath, her tits rising and falling under the T-shirt.

—Both of us —I managed—. You choose the order. I watch her get fucked and I’ll suck you too, if you let me. She opens herself for you. And for me after. And we’ll see how far we get.

He inhaled deeply. I saw him weighing options, calculating risks, and I saw the exact moment he decided to jump in. The bulge pressed even harder against his pants.

—I’m going to be honest. I’ve never been with a man, only women. A guy’s sucked me off in a gas-station bathroom once or twice, nothing more. But I wouldn’t mind trying it tonight. If it’s with you. If it’s your wife opening her mouth for your cock while I eat her pussy, to put it plainly, I’m in.

He said it. He said it and didn’t back away. This is really going to happen. I’m going to have this bastard’s cock in my wife’s mouth, and in mine.

I felt a mix of euphoria and panic. Reme squeezed my hand under the table, hard, because she felt the same: the disbelief of seeing a fantasy materialize before your eyes. With her other hand, she reached under the table for Nando’s thigh and squeezed that too.

—Really? —she smiled, eyes shining, her hand climbing his thigh.

—Really. You’re one of a kind. So why not? The first time with a cock, I want it with a woman in front of me who knows what she’s doing. And you look like you know what you’re doing.

—I know what I’m doing —Reme told him, almost in his ear—. And I know what I like. I like a hard, thick cock, and I like having it inside me for a good long while. Not one of those who come in three minutes.

—Don’t worry —he whispered—. I can last.

—Where? —my voice came out rough.

Nando thought for a moment, squeezing the bulge over his pants now with no attempt at subtlety.

—Not at the rest area. At this hour there may be others, and a woman alone with two guys draws attention. But I know an industrial estate ten minutes from here. Old, with yellow lights, almost empty at night. We park where the cameras don’t reach. I’ve got my truck cab: wide bed, curtains, air-conditioning. Plenty of room for three, as long as we know how to use it. Quieter than any rest area.

—And the Guardia Civil? —Reme asked, practical, though her eyes were shining and her thighs were pressed together.

—They pass sometimes, but they don’t stop if they don’t see anything odd. A truck with the lights off and the curtains drawn doesn’t draw attention, even if your wife is inside getting fucked by two cocks at once. I’ve stopped there before. It’s safe.

Reme bit her lip and looked at me for confirmation. I nodded, swallowing hard.

—Protection? —I asked, forcing myself to keep a cool head for one second.

—I’ve got condoms in the cab. And I’m clean. I got tested a month ago.

—We are too. Tested six weeks ago. And we’ll use condoms. Always. For fucking and for sucking, if it ends up in the mouth.

—Always —I repeated—. Non-negotiable.

—The rules are clear —he nodded—. With condoms you suck me off, and with condoms I put it in her. And if at any point any one of the three says stop, we stop. We stop and nothing happens.

—We stop —Reme confirmed—. That’s the only rule that matters.

The three of us looked at one another. The moment stretched out. Reme, without taking her eyes off him, put her hand over his bulge under the table. She squeezed, weighing it, and a barely audible gasp escaped her when she felt its real size under the fabric.

—Fuck —she murmured—. What a cock you’ve got.

—All yours in a bit.

—Ours —she corrected, glancing at me—. All ours.

—Then shall we meet there? —Nando said—. I’ll lead you.

—Shall we go? —Reme looked at me.

—Let’s go.

***

I insisted on paying for dinner, mostly so I could move and hide the hard-on when I stood up. We went out together to the parking lot. The sun was still high, though beginning its slow descent, tinting everything with that intense golden color of late afternoon. Nando walked toward his truck, a huge red Volvo that gleamed under the newly lit lamps. We headed for the Corsa. Reme walked beside me with her legs slightly apart, like someone wearing a soaked bikini bottom and not wanting the fabric to stick to the lips of her cunt.

I got into the car. Reme fastened her seatbelt, and I noticed her hands were shaking a little. I put the key in the ignition but didn’t start the engine. She looked at me and, without saying anything, pulled her T-shirt up to her neck, leaving her tits bare inside the car. Her nipples were so hard they looked ready to burst, dark, swollen, shiny with sweat.

—Touch me —she whispered—. Before you start. I need you to touch me.

I put one hand on a breast and squeezed it slowly, feeling the warm weight, the nipple digging into the center of my palm. With the other hand I pinched the other nipple, and she moaned with her head thrown back against the headrest.

—Are you sure? —I asked softly, not stopping my caresses.

—Nervous —she admitted—. But my cunt’s been dripping for an hour. Yes. You?

I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed it. Then I brought mine down to her bikini bottoms and brushed her soaked bulge. The fabric was so wet it clung to her cunt, outlining her swollen lips. I slipped a finger under the elastic and brushed her clit. She shivered.

—I’ve never been more sure. I’ve been hard since we left the beach. But if at any point you want to stop, we stop. No questions.

—I know that already, dummy. I know.

Something in her gaze, a mix of fear and determination I knew by heart, went straight through my chest. She leaned in slowly and kissed me. A soft kiss at first, without urgency, with that familiarity that contrasted with everything unknown waiting for us. Her tongue brushed mine for a moment and then slid in completely, warm, wet, seeking me. I caressed her clit slowly, feeling it swell under my finger, feeling her breath slip from her mouth into mine. She reached for my cock over my trunks and squeezed it, moaning softly.

—He’s going to split you in two —I whispered in her ear—. It’s huge. I saw the bulge.

—I saw it too. And I touched it over his pants. It’s heavy. Really heavy, Salva.

—And what are you going to do with it?

—Suck it first. Nice and slow. Make it so hard it hurts. And then have him shove it all the way in. And you beside me, watching. Whispering dirty things in my ear.

—And then me too.

—And then you too. We’ll both suck it. And then he’ll fuck me while you suck him from behind if he lets you. Anything you want. Everything.

She stroked my cheek with the back of her hand, her fingers running through my two-day beard, her thumb stopping at the corner of my mouth as if she wanted to memorize every wrinkle time had left on my face. She removed her hand from my cock and pulled her T-shirt back down, with some difficulty, over her still-hard tits.

—A whole life together —she whispered— and you still surprise me.

—And you me.

—Then come on. Let’s go. Before my cunt changes its mind.

I started the car. The Corsa coughed and then purred. The hula girl swayed on the dashboard, chipped paint, faded skirt; but we were no longer the same people who had received her as a gift. Ahead, the Volvo’s taillights came on.

We followed the truck toward the exit, back onto the motorway, toward an industrial estate we hadn’t even known existed ten minutes earlier. Toward the unknown, with a hard cock and a soaked cunt. Together, as always.

To be continued...