The front seat is just for starters. You tell me that in your thoughts, there's a gear shift knob for me to reach, which is conveniently located right where rubbing can occur, and I suspect you might even try to capture my hand below your thighs. Of course the danger with you being that close to me, I can pull you in at any time, and things could heat up too quickly. Instead, I recall my first car, which had a wide front bench seat, and automatic transmission, so that when we find ourselves there, you're teasing, you're in control, setting the pace, keeping it light. You could be stretching out, and then turn to lay across the bench seat, your head suddenly in my lap, looking up at me. But before I have a chance to even bring my hand across your hair, you could be far away, leaning against the passenger door, using only your bare feet to reach me, your toes dexterously finding their way around to undo the buttons. Then perhaps you are crouching down in the passenger floorboards, out of reach, your fingers worming around my right leg and under my thigh, raising me just enough to ensure the parts you need next are freed from my clothes.
Only once you have me ready, then it's time for you to move in to range. Straddling me, the car's stopped yet we still feel like we are going over ruts and railroad tracks. Our mouths meet, and I am able to more properly use my hands to bring your breasts up into the air. You had already ensured that your underwear would not be a hindrance to my entry, a fact I had noticed earlier in the evening as we were walking to the car and my hand just happened to find the right place for a moment. Still, the angle is not advantageous for deeper stimulation, and I can't bounce up without us hitting the roof, and we both know that it's time for me to take over and put you into a new position. If there are bucket seats, I could recline and then just take you under me. Or in the back bench seat, a bit narrow with your feet sticking out the window? Perhaps, but we found that the seats are too cushioning, too absorbing, and that takes away too much. We need a better support.
I bring you around to the back of the car, opening the hatch. I've already arranged the supplies we'll need, a carpet spread out, a thin blanket to cover us later. The back area is not deep or wide enough for us to stretch out fully inside the car, but that isn't necessary, it's warm enough outside, and you can hook the heels of your boots into the ridges on the bumper., keeping your feet in position as my legs dangle out the back of the car. Here you will not be sinking into anything, you can take the whole force of my thrusts, and the car springs slowly moan as we establish our rhythm.
I can tell that you are fully under the influence as after our first round like this, as afterward I withdraw and regroup, you are impatient for me to reenter, no longer teasing at me but stimulating me any way you can. Your sigh when I come back into you is immense, and in this second round you are much more vocal. Though no one can see us in the dark, your voice carries on the wind, initially a low growl, then a intense sound of your inner need, repeated over and over, calling for me to take you, to fill you. Raising in pitch,, in intensity, then as I release deep inside you you reply with a near scream, and you are speaking in tongues, words of thanking and pleading mixing together.
Later that night, though we can both barely walk, we decide to try one more idea, and so I bring you around to the front of the car. The engine has cooled off but the hood is still warm as I lay your head onto it. With you between me and the car, each time as I push in, the force is transferred through you and the car imperceptibly rolls back on its wheels a bit, then a split second later the car returns that force to us, pushing you back against me with each stroke. Naturally with this intensity it is not long before I fully spent, and we collapse together, gasping and panting.
