Alissa Nutting - Tampa

“Bravo.” I smiled at him from over my shoulder, then dropped the bra to the ground and turned back to face him bare-chested. “You’ve got me pretty worked up, Jack.” His hands were down at his sides, bracing; he’d scooted back over to the right, as far away from me as the tiny backseat would allow. I got up on all fours and crawled over to him, my breasts hanging level with his face. “Feel how hard my nipples are.” He started to reach out his hand but I pulled away and gave him a teasing smile. “Not with your fingers,” I said, correcting him. “With your tongue.”

Nodding, he scooted closer and stuck his tongue as far out from his lips as he could manage, as though he’d just been dared to lick a metal pole in the winter. His eyes were open wide, visually taking in the target—he seemed to be worried that he wouldn’t be able to find my breast if he closed them. I lowered my head and watched the pink-on-pink contact, my nipple beginning to glisten with Jack’s saliva. Dutifully, he fully wetted one, moved over and wetted the other, then sat back and looked up at me with eyes that awaited further instruction. “That felt perfect,” I said encouragingly. “I knew you’d be really good at this.” I sat down in front of him with my legs bent open; the thin lace string of the thong covered the tip of my clitoris but not much else. “Have you ever put your fingers inside a girl?”

Even in the dark I could make out the hot blush that was covering his cheeks. “I haven’t done much,” he said. The sound of his breathing suggested he was running away from something.

“Why is that?” I asked. “You’re certainly good-looking.” My hands wrapped around the jersey of his cloth-covered penis and began to stroke. He folded a leg up and sat on it, squirming with nervous energy as the speed of my fingers increased. Compliments seemed to freak him out more than relax him.

“I’m just shy with girls I guess,” he said. I watched him swallow three times before speaking again. “I never know what to say.”

I lifted my hands from the wad of fabric swirled up around the shape of his erection and found the panel opening of the crotch, then slowly moved it down to reveal his penis. Lowering my head so my hair fell across it, I spoke just above it like it was a microphone. “You can relax, Jack,” I said, bathing its tip in my warm breath. “You don’t have to say anything.” With that, I licked my lips, then slid them down over him, slowly arching my neck and extending my throat until my mouth came to the base. He made a gasping noise and bucked a little, writhing in a disoriented way that bumped the head of his cock against the roof of my mouth. I gave him a quick thirty seconds of advanced sucking, my tongue fluttering against his underside until I could taste the salty bitters of pre-ejaculate, then sat back up and wiped my mouth off on my arm.

His face had transformed into a foreign mask of disbelief. He looked down at his erection as though he was trying to confirm it was still attached to his body. I grabbed his right hand, which was clammy and limp, bereft of all resistance. I felt like I needed to continue talking to him, the way one would a victim of hypothermia, to keep him conscious and prevent him from going into shock. “You’ve seen pictures of girls on the Internet, right?” I began moving his fingers across the sides of my exposed labia. “Did they have hair down there or were they shaved?” He closed his eyes for a moment, flipping through his mental catalog and trying to remember in earnest, and I took this opportunity of blindness to guide two of his fingers inside me, pushing my hips forward to meet them. When he opened his eyes again, he did so slowly, like someone who’s seen an apparition and tried to make it go away by tightly squeezing his lids shut, hoping it might disappear if he gave it a chance to escape unwatched. “Well?” I smiled, my pelvis bucking up against his fingers in rhythmic movements. “Shaved or unshaved?” I couldn’t believe how close we were to actually doing it. I had the growing paranoia that some bizarre act of nature was about to intervene and prevent our sex from happening—lightning was going to strike down and bisect the car, throwing Jack and me to opposite, smoking ends, or a sinkhole to the center of the earth was opening just below the convertible, about to send the vehicle plummeting. I pictured us, airborne and naked in the backseat of the falling car, trying desperately to crawl toward one another against the forces of gravity so he could stuff his penis inside me for just one moment before death.

“I guess I’ve seen both,” he whispered.

Lifting off from his fingers, I stood upright on my knees and braced against the ceiling, gripping the garment hook above the door for balance. “You know what’s fun?” I asked, squaring my vagina in front of his mouth. “If you take my panties off with your teeth.” He glanced down at his wet fingers for a moment, taking in the reality of them, then brought his mouth to my underwear and grabbed at their elastic, lightly scraping the skin around it with his incisors. His head slowly lowered, his nose grazing my pubic bone, and I let out a relieved shout of ecstasy as the top of his head moved down my leg, my thighs nearly straddling the back of his neck. When my thong fell loose to my knees and he sat back, only a slight tilt of my pelvis was required—I leaned forward and in a single moist click-and-lock was sitting atop him, fully impaled by every inch he had to offer: it had happened. It had actually, finally happened. In many ways, I realized, this was a bigger first time for me than it was for Jack. Sliding back, I pulled his torso down until he was lying nearly flat along the backseat, grabbed his hands and placed them on my breasts as I began to push against him with slow, rocking-horse motions. For an instant I felt like spontaneously crying at the release of it—in that moment I had everything I wanted; every action of my adult life had been engaged in setting up a situation that would allow me to feel exactly this: the slim, curious pressure of a teenage boy pushing into the center of my being.

Our orgasms were almost instantaneous. I looked down into his face and saw both ecstasy and loss—the running comprehension of his brain, always one long step behind his body, attempting to tally what had happened, what was happening, and what was almost over. His eyes registered a sense of bewilderment at his lack of control, then an involuntary and guttural noise of surprise left his mouth. The unpracticed wince of his face as it contorted tipped off my own; I dropped my hips and pushed into his erection with all my force as he began to spasm. Several moments passed before I looked down again at his eyes and saw fear—when I came, I’d probably screamed in a manner reserved for the fatally injured.

But my breath soon returned. I dismounted and felt the leather seat lock onto my wet skin. My crotch was a hot pool of spent pleasure; the slow drip of his fluid leaving my body felt like a deep ache inside me that had finally been purged. My mind immediately raced forward to after I’d drop Jack off at home—there would then be the additional delight, perhaps an act that would become part of the ritual, of stopping in a parking lot to wipe our fluids off the car seat.

The windows of the car had fogged up; I reached into the front seat to grab my shirt and first wiped Jack’s brow, his sweat clinging the small bright curls of hair against his forehead, then wiped the sweat from my own face and between and beneath my breasts before clearing off the two windows on the driver’s side of the car. Finished, I passed the shirt to Jack, and he wiped down the two on his side.

“That was the best sex of my life, Jack.” He smiled; his eyes bashfully dodged my own but his face held a definite glow of pride.