friction

It’s late when you pull into the parking space in front of the motel – dark and silent, 2 am, no one around. Gusts of wind are blowing some plastic bags around the lot. You’re here for a family wedding, drove up late after work; inside the motel room your cousin will already be asleep, snoring, probably, but – you’re horny, want it so bad your knickers are already wet inside your tights.

You look across the car, and he glances back and flashes a grin.

‘OK, babe?’

‘Yeah,’ you say, distracted. He’s still wearing his suit from the office. When he unbuckles his seatbelt you turn your body a little towards him and shuck your low heels into the footwell, brush your hand down the length of his arm.

‘You wanna stay out here for a bit?’ you say.

He looks across at you and cocks an eyebrow. One corner of his mouth twitches like he’s laughing at the question. You make a noise in your throat, exasperated arousal, and give his forearm a tug.

‘Come over here.’

He does, slides across the seat towards you, and as he does you shift around and over to straddle him, one of your hands braced on the seat back behind his head. You drag the other hand down his chest, knuckles slipping over buttons, coming to rest when your little finger touches the metal of his belt buckle. He kisses the hollow of your neck, wet-warm breath ghosting across your collarbone.

‘Hey handsome,’ you say, ‘take off your tie.’

He does, eyes fixed on your face, tongue slipping between his lips. His hands fumble a little, fingers tugging at the knot. When he gets it undone you take it, wrap it around his wrists and tie it in a simple knot, watching his face. His eyebrows are cocked up in flirtatious interest, face open, cheeks flushing pink.

You kneel up in his lap and push his arms up behind his head and back a little, so that his bound wrists fit snug over the headrest. The long tail of the tie has a foot or so left hanging, and you stretch it back to the hook above the backseat door. The tabbed pocket of fabric at the tie’s end slips neatly over the hook. He could get out of it with one jerk of his arms, if he wanted to. But you’re thinking, hoping, that he won’t want to.

For a few seconds you’re distracted, gone lust-blind over the way his arms stretched right up behind his head make his jacket ride up high on his shoulders and his biceps bulge, strained so hard against the jacket that you can see the muscles working through the fabric. His body is arched back a little, following the taut line of the tie, and he shifts, spreading his legs apart, feet shuffling against the floor mats.

‘Gonna have your nasty way with me?’ he says, eyes bright and flickering. You don’t answer, just peel off your tights and press down deep into his lap, grinding over his crotch, knees digging into the back of the leather seat. One of your hands touches his elbow and slides slow down his bicep, down to his shoulder, slips inside his jacket and trails down over his slightly arched chest. When your thumb brushes over a nipple and he puffs out a breath you pause and roll your hips, intrigued.

‘You like that?’ you say. He opens one eye.

‘Fuck yeah.’

You don’t reply, just unbutton his shirt and flick the same nipple again with the pad of your thumb, brushing upwards. You can feel his thighs tighten a little beneath you and do it again, twice, three times. His mouth is open a little now, breath growing laboured. You put one hand down on his hipbone, hard, and with the other you roll his nipple gently between three fingers, mouth closing over the other. His hips ride up then, not quite bucking but thrusting, surging forward. The nipple pops under your tongue. You can taste his sweat and feel the prickle of hairs around his areola. You suck a little harder, getting a sort of rhythm going between your fingers and tongue, and his cock jerks beneath you and tightens the crotch of his dress pants.

‘You do like that,’ you murmur, quiet, against his skin.

‘Hnnng,’ he says. He’s flexing his arms a bit, not hard enough to release the tie but enough that his pecs are jumping a little under your mouth. You tighten the hand on his hip and can feel him tilt his head to the side, throat bared. His cock twitches again and he shifts, uncomfortable now, pushing his hips up into you, but you raise yourself up on your knees a bit, teasing him, letting his crotch just brush against your knickers. There’s a second or two or maybe four (most Disney promises don’t stick but you’ve found out as an adult that time does stop, sometimes) where the tension is like a physical thing, eyes fixed on each other. Something unfurls in your gut and it’s not quite arousal or – no – it is, but it’s more than just slick, swollen flesh – not separate from that, exactly, but fuller, thicker, another layer, the drag of some sensory tide between you.

‘Babe,’ he says, hoarse, and you put your hands flat on his chest and close your eyes and grind down hard on the swell of his cock, keening low in the back of your throat. Then you’re unzipping his trousers and his cock presses up into your palm; he’s wet through his shorts. You pull him through the fly and run your thumb over his crown, breathing heavy.

‘Glovebox?’ you say, and his head’s back against the seat now, eyes blinking fast, but he grunts yes and you scrabble behind you, get one hand on the handle, pop it open. Papers fluttering, gum, car registration – there, a strip of condoms. You tear one open with your teeth and he gets his head up to look at you, flashes a grin. Then you’re pulling your panties to the side and sinking down around him.

You try to draw out the teasing, rolling your hips a bit to grind up over the root of his cock, forcing yourself to go slow, slow. He’s quiet, just heavy breathing and sporadic grunts, but the movement of his face does the talking for him; he’s biting his lips, eyes closed, head straining hard back against the headrest. When he starts to fuck up into you, hips pistoning, desperate for more, you make a satisfied noise and let him, bearing down hard to meet his thrusts. It’s fast and all friction now, shallow wet thrusts that quicken the nerves all down your spine and punch little noises out of you with each stroke.

‘Fuck,’ he says, ‘fuck, fuck, I’m gonna come, sorry, fuck, gonna come -’

‘Yeahhh,’ you say, soft, throaty, and as he arches up he gives his shoulders a twist and his arms are suddenly around you, tight and strong, and his fingers are dragging along your lips and trailing into your mouth.

‘My turn,’ he says.

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friction

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