index


Message-ID: <37355asstr$1026900610@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
Errors-To: <news@concentric.net>
From: i_m_NightShade@hotmail.com (NightShade)
Reply-To: i_m_NightShade@hotmail.com
Subject: {ASSM} [RP] A Deer in the Headlights (MF/Fcar) [1/3] - deer01.txt (1/1)
Date: Wed, 17 Jul 2002 06:10:10 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


THE USUAL WARNINGS:  

This is a work of fiction by a twisted mind.  If you 
are offended by graphic descriptions of natural and/or 
unnatural sexual acts, if you are underage, or if this 
type of material is illegal where you are, don't read 
any further.

This is a fantasy.  You will have to loosen your clench 
on reality a little when you read it. This is a tale in 
which physical acts and human responses are not limited 
to, nor necessarily based in, reality.  Some acts and 
responses in this story may be physically impossible 
and/or physiologically improbable.  

Also, as is the case with most of the stories in this 
newsgroup, all the women in this story are beautiful - 
gorgeous, even.  Gravity has not caused breasts to 
droop nor have wrinkles creased unblemished faces.  The 
men (the leading men, at least) are hung like bulls.  
They can get it up and keep it up often and at will.  
In this special little fantasyland, there are no STDs, 
morals, or unwanted pregnancies.  Guilt is a four-
letter word.  Most important of all, neither strength 
of character, courage of convictions, nor moral belief 
stand a chance against any erotic stimulus.  This can 
be as benign as an accidental glimpse of a bared ankle 
or as stimulating as a whipping on the genitals.  

For those of you who didn't understand the preceding 
statements, GO AWAY!

This story is intended for the salacious entertainment 
of consenting adults.  Do not try to do any of the 
things described in this story.  You could injure 
yourself or your partner, be arrested, or shot by her 
father....

If you are under 18 years of age, GO AWAY!  This story 
will burn your eyeballs and fry your brain. 

If material of a strong sexual nature is prohibited 
where you are, GO AWAY!

By continuing, the reader accepts all responsibility 
for any disgust, revulsion, jail sentences, or pleasure 
that results from reading this story.  If you don't, GO 
AWAY!

You have been warned!

If you enjoy this story and feel the urge to post it on 
a <free> site, at least give me (NightShade) credit for 
it. 

So, stick your tongue firmly in your cheek and enjoy 
the story!....:) 

NightShade


















A Deer in the Headlights (MF, F/car, BDSM)

Chapter 01

by NightShade

11/99

"A deer caught in the headlights of an onrushing 
truck."  That was the image that stuck in my mind like 
the red clay of Alabama sticks to a clean car.

Actually, Alabama clay is what started it all, now that 
I think of it.  We were short-handed at the office, and 
I had been working double shifts, managing both the 
regional office and doing a lot of the fieldwork for a 
nation-wide insurance agency.  One of the suspicious 
claims I had to investigate was way the Hell out in the 
Northeast corner of Alabama near the headwaters of the 
Cache River.  That doesn't have anything to do with the 
rest of the story, other than the fact that it had been 
raining steadily up there for about a week.  The mud on 
what passed as roads into the area was thick and 
sticky.  

Of course, it worked out that I had to take my personal 
car.  The only functioning company car had been totaled 
by a herd of stampeding chickens (the honest to God's 
truth, I swear.  But then, Headquarters didn't believe 
me, either...) earlier in the week, another reason I was 
short handed.  Worse, I could only get up there on my 
one day off for the month.  When I did get there and 
finally located the "client," the claim was bogus, to 
top it all off.  The guy filing the claim couldn't have 
kept his facts straight if he had a ruler to help him.  
Not that he would have known what all the little 
numbers on it were for...

Although not native born, I did know enough about the 
area to understand that if you left that sticky clay on 
the car, it would soon become a permanent part of the 
vehicle.  So as soon as I got home, I immediately 
washed and waxed my `baby,' paying particular attention 
to the undercarriage and wheel wells, a dirty job even 
without the clay that was caked into every nook and 
cranny.  My baby, my jewel was a mint condition classic 
Jaguar.  Low and sleek, a car with character.  A car 
with a real hood ornament, not some wimpy plastic 
stick-on.  

Perhaps now you can understand why it was so easy for 
me to be in a really piss-poor mood that day.  Besides, 
as much as I love my car, washing and waxing it is not 
something I particularly like to do.  When I spend that 
much time rubbing anything, I prefer it to be a certain 
part of my own body.  Or better yet, someone else's who 
is also rubbing mine.

To further set the stage, when I had arrived back home, 
I found that my wife of 25 years had left a cryptic 
note on the table for me to find upon my return.  In it 
she informed me that Momma needed her, and she didn't 
know when she would be back.  `Momma' lived four states 
away in the Texas panhandle.  She was the single most 
demanding person I had ever known in my life and was 
only woman I knew who made my wife seem pleasant by 
comparison.  Oh yeah, there was not a scrap of food 
left in the house, either.  She thought Momma might 
need something, so she had taken everything with her, 
right down to the salt shakers and dish soap.  She must 
have needed a fucking moving van to get all that shit 
to Momma's house.

I never realized how much noise my wife made around the 
house until the silence slammed into me that evening.  
I was getting out of the shower, had slipped into a 
pair of torn old boxers and an even older T-shirt, and 
was sitting on the edge of the bed.  I had my Dockers 
shorts in one hand and my belt in the other, but I was 
so weary, I just couldn't bring myself to finish 
dressing.  I was tired of the rat race at work, tired 
of the traffic, tired of the responsibilities that come 
with the middle-class lifestyle.  A mortgage, car 
payments, insurance.  When you think about it, all you 
do is work to buy things.  Then you worry yourself to 
death that someone will take them from you.  When do 
you ever really get a chance to enjoy them, anyway?  I 
sure as Hell didn't know.  I was still waiting!  I let 
the silence wash over me, comforting me in its solid 
embrace.

It took a while before I realized there was something 
wrong.  The silence wasn't silent.  I was almost too 
tired to care, but there was a nagging alarm going off 
in the back of my head.  I tried to listen carefully, 
but the sound was too faint to pin down.  I collapsed 
back onto the bed and was almost asleep.  

Then I heard it.  Psst-psst .... psst-psst.  Water-
sounds.  They came and went, and it took me a while to 
identify them and then even longer to realize the 
potential dangers they represented.  There shouldn't 
have been any water-sounds in the house with just me 
there.  God help me if a pipe broke.  I was hoping for 
a stuck toilet, but it didn't sound like that was it.  

I was rousted out of my near-catatonic state by the 
possibility of having to explain any spurious water 
stains to my in-house inquisitor.  She considered her 
precious wallpaper and other whatnots more valuable 
than national treasures.  A fast, but thorough search 
of the house revealed nothing, much to my relief.  

The sounds were still there, however, coming and going 
with an almost recognizable rhythm.  It bugged the shit 
out of me, not being able to place the pattern.  I knew 
I was tired, but I prided myself on being pretty damn 
sharp and on being able to figure most things out 
faster than most other folks.  This simple little noise 
eluded definition and it was not making my foul mood 
any better.

I went into the kitchen in search of a possible leak in 
the plumbing in that room - although it was hardly ever 
used.  My wife only seemed to use those facilities to 
celebrate presidential elections and lunar eclipses.  
Then something caught my eye and I glanced out the 
window.  

I totally fucking lost it.  

Some idiot - my neighbor idiot, specifically - had 
turned on a fucking lawn sprinkler and aimed it right 
smack dab at my freshly washed and waxed car.  

A little background here might help.  We, my neighbor 
and I, were the only two dupes unfortunate enough to 
have purchased houses in this particular development 
before the developer went bankrupt.  Actually, the 
builder had gambled the town would grow out this way, 
but, lucky guy that he wasn't, it didn't.  So my 
neighbor and I were the only ones in this secluded cul-
de-sac.  And I mean secluded.  The nearest buildings, 
other than the odd farmer's outhouse or hunting cabin, 
were over 6 miles away.  

As part of the developer's bankruptcy, I had been able 
to quietly pick up all the other lots in the 
development using a dummy corporation.  That little 
tidbit has nothing to do with the story, either, but, 
hey, I got a deal on the land, and if I can't brag 
about it every anonymous chance I get, it would be 
worth less than it actually is, which is almost 
nothing.

We had electricity and telephone, but there were no 
other utilities out this far.  That meant we used well 
water to do everything, like water the lawn and wash 
the car.  The water that came out of the ground around 
here may not have been toxic, but it was damn close.  
The shit was so laden with minerals, it could spot a 
leopard, not to mention what it would do to my freshly 
waxed car.  So when I say I lost it, you can understand 
why.  Right, guys?

I didn't even think about what I was doing.  I charged 
over to my neighbor's front door and started pounding 
on it with both fists.  I know now I must have been a 
frightful visage - half dressed, bare foot, uncombed 
hair still plastered down from my shower, my belt in 
one hand, my pants in the other, red-faced, angry, 
yelling and pounding on the door.  I'm surprised she 
opened it at all.

I was so mad, I didn't even notice her then.  I 
couldn't even speak coherently.  I remember looking 
past her for her prick of a husband.  Somehow she 
communicated that he wasn't home, so I grabbed her by 
the arm and dragged her out into the middle of their 
front yard.  I was gesticulating, waving my arms like a 
madman, and grunting like an enraged elephant.  
Eventually she understood what had enraged me.  She 
walked over to the sprinkler and reversed the setting 
of the sweep to properly cover their yard.  Which 
promptly soaked me, as I was still standing in the 
middle of their yard.  

It's funny now, looking back, but then, well, then I 
did something that changed my life - and hers.  I don't 
remember it as clearly as she does, but if she can 
laugh about it now, I suppose I can, too.  It would be 
nice to say I had stayed in control of myself, that I 
was calm and cool, and made a joke out of getting 
sprayed by the sprinkler.  Big deal, right?  It's just 
water....

Wrong.  I went berserk.  She told me later that I got 
this strange, maniacal look in my eyes.  She admitted 
she was truly frightened for her safety, as well she 
should have been.  I stood there for several seconds, 
head-cocked, staring at her with this wild look in my 
eyes, a bloodlust coursing through me that I had never 
experienced previous.  I wanted some serious revenge, I 
wanted a serious response.  I was deadly serious.  

For some unknown and still unexplained reason, she 
giggled.  That part I remember, only to me it seemed 
more like a guffaw, a taunt.  It was a big mistake.  It 
was the last straw, apparently.  

I charged at her faster than my wife with a new credit 
card.  She was totally unprepared for my on-rush, and 
that's the picture I remember to this day.  A deer 
caught in the headlights of an on-coming vehicle.  It 
knows it's dead, and it just sort of gives up and 
stands there.  Like she did.  

I'm not a big man when you compare me to some of the 
bubbas we have up here in the backwoods, but I hold my 
own.  At just over 6 feet, I towered over her 5'1" 
stature.  The adrenaline was flowing as I grabbed her, 
sat down on the grass, flung her across my lap, and 
proceeded to raise my hand.  It still held my belt, and 
it was poised to strike, held up over my head.

"Please, sir, not the belt.  Please don't use your 
belt."  

Those were the only words she spoke, and somehow, they 
penetrated the denseness of my bloodlust.  I dropped 
the belt and proceeded to beat the tar out of her ass.  
Somewhere between when my hand was over my head and the 
time it landed solidly on her tight little butt, the 
old memory cells in my brain kicked back in.  
Apparently this was one of life's little episodes they 
wanted to be conscious of for a long time.  To be able 
to replay over and over.  

I remember she struggled as best she could until that 
first blow landed.  Between the surprise and my size I 
was too much for her, though.  I don't know what I 
intended to do, but I felt as if the dam had burst and 
she was going to get the benefit of every frustration 
in my life up that point.  

I didn't hold back on that first strike.  The sound of 
my hand colliding with her gluteus maximus sounded like 
a rifle shot.  In the amount of time it took for the 
pain from my hand to reach my brain, the fight was gone 
from her.  She stiffened slightly, I heard an 
infuriatingly soft "Oooooh!" and then she just 
relaxed over my lap.  

Well, relaxed isn't quite the word.  She sort of wedged 
her ass up in the air, like she was begging for more.  
I know it's impossible, but that tight little butt of 
hers was looking at me with an attitude that said, "Go 
ahead.  Give me your best shot."  She swears she 
didn't say anything.  But her pert little ass was 
speaking for her, loud and clear, and it really ticked 
me off.

I lit into her behind like there were fire-ants on a 
baby.  I hit my target fast, hard, often and 
everywhere.  It must have been around the fifteenth or 
sixteenth swat that I felt something spray me in the 
face when my hand connected.  At first I thought it was 
piss, but a quick investigation of my boxers told me it 
wasn't mine.  There was a distinctly musky metallic 
odor wafting up from her upended bottom.  I was not 
totally unfamiliar with that smell nor its origins, but 
I was totally unprepared for her to be enjoying this.  
The little minx had climaxed on my lap.

As I continued to paddle her resilient cheeks with my 
bare hand, she shifted slightly, managing to massage 
the outside of my thigh with her tits.  With every 
squirm she made as I walloped her butt, she ground her 
nipples into the bare skin of my leg and rubbed her 
upper arm against my cock.  Which was, by this point, 
extremely hard.  She continued to cum about every ten 
or so swats, and her shorts were by now so dripping wet 
that the spray was flying with each blow.  This woman 
was cumming like a river.  And the smell that filled 
the immediate area of their front lawn was like a fine 
perfume.  

Pausing, I rested my hand on her warmed ass cheeks.  
When I pressed down a certain way, I could hear her 
juices make a squishing noise.  I felt along the leg 
openings of her shorts, running my finger through the 
rivulets of cum trickling down onto the grass.

I wasn't totally immune to the sexual connotations of 
the situation, nor was I totally ignorant that this 
type of thing could happen on those rare occasions.  I 
had always thought it was pretty well limited to the 
realm of fantasy and the outrageous stories I read on 
the Internet news groups.  Having something like this 
drop into my lap (pun intended) was completely 
unexpected and I really wasn't sure what to do next.  
Honest!

You have to understand something at this point.  My 
wife had retired from a professional position at a 
large bank five years after we were married so she 
could raise the kids.  Problem was, she seemed to 
forget that in order to have kids, you have to have 
sex.  To fuck and be fucked.  Somehow that small detail 
seems to have escaped her notice.  It ended up that the 
only one getting screwed at our house was I.

For years I tried.  God knows I tried.  Everything.  I 
was loving, I was tender, whatever.  Hell, I was young, 
horny and desperate.  I would have done anything and 
probably did.  But after a while, it became clear that 
the pearly gates were closed forever.  After five 
years, she was done.  My constant craving for sex 
changed to an occasional urge and then morphed into the 
quiet bitterness of life that I had known the last 15 
or so years.  

Yes, you got that right.  I hadn't had sex for going on 
twenty years.  I knew my right hand really well, but 
other than that, I was celibate.

In the space of a week after her `retirement' from 
sexual activity, my wife had changed from the beautiful 
woman I had married into a younger spitting image of 
Momma.  Well, almost.  Momma was still uglier.  I 
swear, the little button nose I had planted so many 
kisses upon actually hooked out and down.  It scared 
the shit out of me for months after when I woke up in 
the morning.  Her tits - I distinctly remember she had 
a very nice pair when we married - now applauded when 
she did aerobics.  When she did aerobics, you could 
hear them clapping and flapping up and down as she did 
her workout.  Otherwise, they laid flat on her chest, 
two empty bags thinner than my wallet the day before 
payday.  She had somehow managed to suck the life out 
of them just as she had our marriage.

She had a pair of purple Lycra(R) bicycle shorts she 
loved to wear around the house.  I do not exaggerate 
when I say that those shorts made her butt look like a 
giant California prune, complete with wrinkles and the 
crease down the middle.  It didn't tighten up when she 
bent over, either.  I still shudder when I picture her 
in those shorts.  

Like I said, I did my best for a while to please her, 
thinking if she were satisfied she would reciprocate.  
I never found out if that theory was true or not, as, 
try as I might, I never heard the slightest moan or 
even flinch from that corpse-like catatonic body that 
lay beside me in bed at night.  I probed and prodded 
with fingers and tongue for months in search of her 
magic button, but I never did find it.  I would lay 
odds that if she ever had one, Momma had it cut off for 
her.

The odor drifting up from the squirming woman on my lap 
was nothing like the stench I remembered emanating from 
my wife.  What emanated from her was more like swamp 
gas when the skunks are mating, not to mention the 
revolting taste.  It tasted like she wiped her ass the 
wrong direction, not that I actually knew what shit 
tasted like.  

I was not surprised to learn later that she did wipe 
the wrong way.  Surprisingly, she never got a vaginal 
infection that I can recollect.  Apparently, all the 
noxious germs in her bowel had declared her cunt a 
hostile environment and stayed the Hell away.  
Eventually, I did the same, as well.  Of course when I 
learned later of her poor hygiene, that helped explain 
the painful burning sensations I had had for the first 
five years of our wedded bliss and the bouts of 
projectile vomiting I experienced the day after 
sticking my tongue into that cesspool....

So, you may well ask, as I often did myself, why the 
Fuck did I stay with that horrid woman?  That's an easy 
question to answer.  

Fear.  

Total abject fear that came from knowing with certainty 
the horrible consequences of divorcing or even 
separating from her.

You see, Momma had three children: Two sons and my 
wife.  Momma had made her fortune early and often by 
gutting and filleting a series of foolish, rich 
husbands.  Two died paupers, one died mysteriously, and 
the other three were still in the loony bin.  At the 
state's expense, of course.  Momma had cleaned them all 
out, then dumped them, if they were still alive.  My 
wife had learned her lessons well, she had just picked 
the wrong horse.  For all practical appearances, I was 
in no hurry to get rich, dead or crazy.  It was just 
about the only means of revenge I had.  Not to mention 
survival.

Her two brothers were the only men I knew who 
considered the institution of marriage a legitimate 
profit center for their business.  Well, other than the 
Catholic Church.  They were divorce lawyers.  Figures, 
right?  More pain and suffering only meant higher fees 
for them, and Heaven help the other side.  They were 
vicious, cutthroat amoral assholes.  But I already told 
you they were lawyers, didn't I.  Sorry to repeat 
myself.

With those two and Momma backing her, my wife, in her 
oh-so-delicate manner, informed me on the day after our 
wedding night that any attempt to divorce her would 
result in my instantaneous transportation to the state 
of abject poverty.  The same went for philandering and 
debauchery.  Now, while I was in no apparent hurry to 
get rich, I was in even less of a hurry to be poor.  
That sucks, big time!  Been there, done that, so to 
speak.  

There were too many raucous tales of their vicious 
courtroom battles that had been re-told in gruesome 
detail around the annual Christmas dinner for me to 
doubt the outcome of any proceedings I might undertake 
against her and them.  Those haunting images of 
eviscerated marriages were just too real to afford me 
any hope for a way out of this marriage prior to death 
doing us part.  So I took the small revenges I could.  
I refused promotions at my job and carefully hid my 
investments in dummy corporations, mostly out of state 
or off shore.  Like the land I mentioned earlier.  
Shit, I'm not stupid, just trapped!

You, however, are probably thinking about now that I 
sure the fuck am too stupid.  Here I am, in a sex-
charged situation the likes of which will probably 
never happen to me again, and I'm telling you about 
California prunes.  So why the Hell didn't I just fuck 
her right then and there on the front lawn?  I hear 
what you're thinking.

Well, two reasons, asshole.  One, it would make a 
really short, predictable story.  You can get that 
anywhere else in this newsgroup.  Two, I really was 
serious when I said I didn't know what to do next.  I 
was scared to continue, and petrified not to.

She felt me feeling her wetness and became a little 
shy, I guess.  She put her hands back to push mine away 
from her, but I would have none of that.  For one, I 
wasn't quite done wailing on her butt, yet.  Secondly, 
her upper arm moved away from my cock, and I missed the 
warm fuzzy feelings it had been giving me.  That pissed 
me off all over again, but as you have probably figured 
out by now, it was just that kind of a day for me.  
Everything pissed me off.  

I snagged my belt from where it had fallen when I 
dropped it and looped it around both her forearms.  I 
cinched it tight, looped it twice more and tied off the 
end.  It was a pretty thick belt so it wasn't a great 
tie job.  She could have been loose in three seconds if 
she wanted.  It's hard to tie a knot in a good belt, so 
the end of it was just sort of tucked under and folded 
over.  It would hold, but only for as long as she 
cooperated.

Tying her arms like that moved her biceps back into 
contact with my own hard muscle.  When she realized I 
had tied her arms behind her back, it was as if a 
switch had been thrown.  I thought she had been 
sexually aroused before.  Shit, now I could literally 
feel her quivering with sexual energy as she lay across 
my legs.  It was as if, by tying her up, she could let 
it all loose.  She had no option left to resist, and I 
was free to do to her and with her whatever I chose.  I 
don't think she exactly understood that at the time.  I 
sure as Hell didn't, but that didn't stop me from 
taking advantage of the situation.

I started spanking her again, this time with slow 
deliberation.  My frenzy was passed.  When my hand 
would get tired, I would rub her thighs, feeling and 
marveling at the silky smoothness of her skin and the 
continued wetness of her sex.  At first she resisted 
the insertion of my hand in between her legs, but soon 
she allowed me to feel her freely, wherever I wanted.  
And I wanted a lot!

When I couldn't lift my hand anymore, I stopped her 
punishment.  We were both breathing hard, and I sat 
there for a while getting my breath back.  My anger was 
sated and my hand throbbed.  So did my cock.  I can 
only imagine what her ass felt like.  It must have been 
hotter than a two-dollar pistol.  The color of the skin 
I could see below the bottoms of her shorts was a deep 
red and radiated heat.  Her breathing made her tits, 
still hard-pressed against my thigh, massage her erect 
nipples into my skin.  I could feel their hardness 
through her thin shirt.

I don't recall her crying out or screaming throughout 
the entire spanking.  I do remember hearing groaning 
and panting and the tiny little gasps of `Oh-Oh-Oh!'  I 
had read about those sounds women make in the newsgroup 
stories as signifying an orgasm in progress.  What I do 
remember, and I find this the most amazing part, was 
that I had not ejaculated during all of this.  Maybe it 
was that fact that pushed me to do what I did next.  I 
truly don't know why I did something so out of 
character.  But I did, and it turned out to be the most 
memorable thing I had ever witnessed in my life.

Leaving her arms tied behind her back, I leveraged her 
backwards so she was on her knees.  Standing up, I 
helped her up onto her own feet.  I started leading her 
over to my property.  When she realized where I was 
taking her, she suddenly stiffened in fear.  Somehow 
being tied up in the open with a strange man was OK, 
but going over to his house scared her?  Huh?  I don't 
even pretend to understand `em, women confuse the Hell 
out of me...  

I turned and glared at her, not saying a word.  The 
wild look came back to me easily as I still did not 
have a firm grip on my sanity.  She lowered her gaze in 
resignation and sighed.  I led her like a lamb to the 
slaughter over to the door to my garage.  In the 
cupboard just inside the door, I located a large beach 
towel and held it up to her mouth.

"Open!"

She opened her mouth with a startled look and took the 
towel.  I think she was expecting to get fucked.

I pointed to the car.  "Dry it off!"

She protested.  With her mouth full, however, it was 
difficult for her to talk.  That was something I would 
have to remember in the future!  When I continued to 
glare at her and point at the car, she finally turned 
around and made motions for me to release her hands.  I 
wasn't quite ready to do that yet.

I shook my head.  "No hands.  Now get busy!"  I 
barked the words like I was giving instructions on a 
noisy construction site.

She turned and looked at me.  Again with those eyes!  I 
almost gave in but I held firm.  She made her way 
slowly over to my car.  She looked back a couple of 
times to see if I would give in, but I just stood 
there, glaring.

Suddenly I gasped, short of breath, but this time not 
from exertion.  My neighbor's wife looked better the 
farther away she got from me.  That had nothing to do 
with her beauty, but rather with my eyesight at my age.  
She had just moved into clear focus.  I had recently 
hit that age where my arms were no longer long enough 
to read the newspaper.  I had glasses, but detested 
wearing them for around the house stuff.  It wasn't 
vanity.  I could never keep them clean.  Now I wished I 
had them on.

She stood about 5'1", like I said before.  She was a 
brunette, with wavy shoulder length hair.  Even after 
all she had been through being over my lap, her hair 
just seemed to be perfectly in place.  If she weighed 
105 lbs., she would have to have been holding sack of 
groceries while standing on the scale.  It was no 
wonder I could manhandle her so easily.  I began to 
worry if I had hurt her when I hauled her around so 
roughly.

Her breasts were pushed forward by the position of her 
arms, but what I could see would have been ample for a 
woman with a larger frame.  With them jutting out like 
they were, young, firm and high on her chest, it looked 
almost cartoonish.  Each was a good hand's full and 
then some, and she had great nipples.  That I could see 
clearly.  Her hips flared slightly in a girlish 
fashion, as if she had not fully matured.  But her 
magnificent ass, the one I had just pulverized, was 
exactly that.  Magnificent.  High, firm, rounded nicely 
and it had a great jiggle as she walked.  The kind of 
ass that could get a man fired for pinching it if it 
were on a co-worker.  Or rubbing it.  Or just having to 
worship it.  Truly, a great ass.

I had already spent a great deal of time caressing the 
smooth skin of her thighs, but seeing them under her, 
supporting her, put them in a whole new perspective.  
They really did go from here to there.  The proverbial 
never-ending legs.  And each one ended in what the 
Victorians would have called a `well-turned ankle.'  
(That's not a sports medicine term for an injury, by 
the way.)  Even her toes looked suckable, and I had 
never, ever understood that particular fetish.  Then 
again, you've never seen what grew in between my wife's 
toes....

She must have heard me gasp, as she had stopped and was 
watching me stare at her.  She seemed pleased with my 
reaction, or perhaps that I had finally noticed her at 
all.  I motioned for her stop where she was and to 
wait.  I dashed into the house and grabbed my glasses 
and one of the pieces of office equipment I have to 
keep with me.

She blushed when she saw me coming back out of the 
house with my glasses on.  It was very becoming.  I 
moved closer - now that I could see her clearly! - and 
noticed she had beautiful expressive brown eyes.  I 
motioned for her to go ahead and start drying off my 
car.  She pleaded with me with those eyes....  Damn those 
eyes.  I almost gave in.

When I didn't, she carefully laid the towel down on the 
hood (the bonnet, for our UK readers) of the car.  At 
first she used her forehead to rub the towel over the 
surface of the metal, but the folds in the large towel 
thwarted her efforts.  However, I wasn't paying much 
attention to how good a job she was doing on the car.  
My attention was riveted to her luscious body.  When 
she bent over to press her forehead to the towel, 
gravity exerted its own forces on her tits, making them 
hang down to the full extent of their magnificence.  
They were each a hands full, but only if you could palm 
a basketball.  Well, maybe a volleyball.  OK, OK.  
Croquet ball.  But that's the absolute truth.  Nice 
tits and a great firm jello-like action when she tried 
to rub the car.

My own reaction was painfully evident as it was 
sticking out of the fly of the torn boxers.  I still 
had not cum, and I knew the slightest touch would make 
me erupt.  My terrible mood had evaporated in the heat 
of my burning lust.  I hadn't noticed her looking back 
at me from her bent over position, but I did notice she 
suddenly got very involved with rubbing the car, using 
her whole body to try to move that towel.  It was at 
that point that I guess she decided to get a little 
back at me.  She really started to put on a show for 
me.

She started by grasping an edge of the towel and 
standing up straight, so that the cloth fell down and 
unfolded along her body in a single thickness.  That 
towel had never looked so good.

Then she moved to the driver's side window.  Keeping 
the edge of the towel in her mouth, she pressed 
forward, forcing her tits against the window, with that 
lucky towel trapped between her body and the window.  
She then moved them over and over and around and around 
the glass, again using her whole body in a writhing 
motion.  I noticed that she spent a long time on the 
edges of the window, where they seated into the 
weather-stripping.  At first I thought she was being 
careful, then I noticed she was using her nipples and 
brushing them over and over the uneven surfaces, using 
the edge to flip them back and forth.  She was really 
getting into - and off on - the job of drying my car.  
Well, two could play that game.

I lifted the piece of office equipment I had brought 
out with me and aimed it at her.  I fired five shots at 
her point-blank before she looked up and noticed.  
Those little digital cameras don't make much noise, but 
I was getting into it now.  Anyway, the shots I got of 
her were hot.  She came across through the lens like 
the sexiest vixen imaginable.  I only hoped the jpegs 
would be as hot.  She saw the camera in my hand when 
she looked back at me.  I saw a brief flash of what 
could have been fear, quickly replaced by one of 
defiance in those deep brown eyes of hers.  

She spied a pool of water that had collected in the 
side mirror.  She bent down and used the surface 
tension of the cloth of her shirt to draw the water 
onto her own body.  The part of her shirt she used to 
soak up the water was that part which was directly over 
her left breast.  As any red-blooded Southern boy 
knows, thin cotton T-shirts, water and boobs were one 
of God's greatest combinations.  I could see her breast 
as clearly as if she were naked.  Only this was somehow 
sexier.  She walked, hell, she sashayed, to the other 
side of the car and soaked up the pooled water in the 
other side mirror with her other tit.  She came back 
and did a shimmy-shimmy for me that nearly made me 
loose my load right then and there.  

As the windows on the driver's side were done, she used 
her toes of one foot to grasp the towel by one edge and 
lift it over the rear side panel.  I thought she would 
set it up there and then use her body again.  I was 
actually looking forward to seeing that one more time.  
But she surprised me.  

She kept her foot up and slid with the towel under her 
leg up onto the car until she was kind of straddling 
the rear fender, one foot on the ground, the other leg 
on the trunk of the car, folded back a bit.  She then 
proceeded to use her inner thighs to rub the towel over 
the rear quarter-panel of the car and about half of the 
trunk.  I think she surprised herself a little, when 
she raised her foot that was next to the tire and tried 
to use it to dry the chrome wheel.  When her foot came 
off the ground, her cunt came into close personal 
contact with the slight ridge that ran from the back 
window to the taillight.  The look on her face was 
priceless, and I captured it with the camera for 
posterity.  

When she stopped cumming from that sudden assault on 
her privates, she scooted her hot little body up and 
down that fender like she was trying to sand it smooth.  
I think it was at that point she completely forgot 
about the camera and me and just began making love to 
my car.  She did remember to do the other side, and it 
was rubbed equally smooth.  Her face looked relaxed and 
satisfied when she finally opened her eyes and 
remembered where she was.  Looking at me with a Mona 
Lisa grin, she got on with the rest of the job.

She propped her bare heels on the back bumper and used 
her rubbery ass to rub out any imperfections in the 
finish of that area.  She breast-rubbed the passenger 
windows and then, using her teeth, dragged the towel to 
the roof of the auto by climbing up on the back bumper 
and over the lid of the trunk.  I held my breath, 
hoping she wouldn't fall off with her arms tied behind 
her like that.

She was very careful.  Careful not to fall off the 
precarious perch and careful to get every last drop of 
moisture on that roof.  You wouldn't believe it if I 
told you what she did up there to move that towel 
around, but suffice it to say, I was ready to die a 
poor man.  My wife could have everything.  This woman 
was phenomenal.  I have never seen a woman writhe and 
twist and squirm quite like that before or since.  The 
camera captured a lot of it, but the stills, while 
stupendous, just didn't do justice to the motions she 
went through.  

Then came the grand finale.  Flushed and breathless, 
she ended up sitting at the front of the roof, just 
over the windshield.  I was still snapping shots like 
crazy, swapping disks as needed.  I saw when the idea 
came to her.  It was those damned eyes, again.  A 
mischievous gleam lit off inside them that was 
noticeable even in the pictures.  I saw her rearrange 
the towel a bit, then she looked at the camera and 
licked her lips as sensuously as possible.  

She did the splits, spreading her long legs almost 
straight out on each side of her body.  Then, with a 
little scootch, she launched her body off the edge of 
the roof and slid down the windshield.  Her widespread 
legs pressed the towel against the window and dried it, 
but by that time, I couldn't have given a shit about 
the fucking car or the water spots.  By using some more 
little scootches with her hips that made my cock ache 
with jealousy, she maneuvered her widespread legs and 
her tight little ass all the way down to the front of 
the car.  There she stopped, propped her heels on the 
front bumper and leveraged herself off the hood of the 
car.

I thought she was done.  I was wrong.  She had other 
plans.  She used her ass and tits to dry the grill and 
headlamps.  The collected water kept the cotton of her 
tight shirt translucent.  I was breathing in short 
ragged gasps, as if I had just gone five rounds with 
the WWF champions.  Licking her lips again, she bent 
over in the front of my car and gave the fucking hood 
ornament a blow-job.  That fucking lucky chrome Jag 
ornament.  I swear I heard the damn thing purring, but 
then again, that may have been her.  

After several minutes of mouthing the chrome ornament, 
she stood up.  I again thought she was done, but she 
did one more thing.  With her eyes firmly locked on 
mine, she stood with her back to the car she had just 
so charmingly dried off.  With slow deliberation, she 
backed up, until her ass touched the hood ornament.  
There she paused briefly, sort of shifting her weight.  
Then she eased back further.  As she settled her ass on 
to the hood, her eyes closed and I heard her groan.  

I looked down at the juncture of her thighs, expecting 
to see the tip of the Jag hood ornament protruding from 
between them.  I did a double-take.  No Jag!  The slow 
rhythmic motions of her hips left no doubt as to what 
was happening.  My baby, my pride and joy, my Jag had 
just bagged his first piece of ass!  My baby became a 
man that day- so to speak.  

I continued to capture the entire event on disk after 
disk, through her gut-wrenching climax to her using her 
dainty tongue to clean all of her fluids from the no 
longer virgin hood ornament.  When she was finished 
with the car, we both just kind of stood there staring 
at each other.  I don't think either of one us could 
believe what had just happened.  Neither one of us 
wanted to do or say anything to ruin the moment, 
either.  

Finally, after what seemed like decades, she came over 
to where I was standing.

"I'm sorry about the sprinkler.  Will there be 
anything else, sir?"  Her gaze was directed not at my 
face, but at my crotch - and my exposed cock - just so 
there would be no misunderstanding what `else' she was 
referring to.  

"No, I don't think we'd better do anything else."  It 
came out as a cross between a croak and a groan.  It 
was one of the most painful sentences I have ever had 
to utter.  Like I said earlier, abject fear and total 
certainty of the consequences.  A man does strange and 
perverted things to avoid pain and poverty.  Her eyes 
whipped up to meet mine in surprise.  

"Don't I please you, sir?"

"Oh, God, yes.  Very, very, very, very much.  But, 
well, it's complicated.  I, well, I just can't."

"It sure looks like you can!"  she quipped, with a 
nod of her head at my crotch.

"No, not like that.  It's my wife....  Damnit all!  I 
just can't.  Not now."

She misunderstood what I had been babbling about and 
got a horrified look on her face.  "She's HERE?"  I'm 
sure she pictured the old bat peering at her erotic 
performance through the upstairs window and that she 
would be critiquing her technique later.  That thought 
made me shiver, too.

"No, she's out of town for a while.  But if she ever 
found out, and believe me, she would, I stand to lose 
everything."

"Oh."  That concept she understood.  Figures.  "So 
there's nothing I can do for you?"

I thought about that for a moment.  Then I grinned.  
"Yes there is.  Two things, in fact."

Her face lit up and so did my heart.  Her innocent joy 
was so pure it was infectious.

"You can tell me your name..." her face fell "...and you 
can make breakfast in the morning."  Her eyes turned 
into saucers at that.  I had just told her I couldn't 
mess around, and now I was talking about breakfast.  
"Come over and knock on the door at 7:30.  That is, if 
your husband is out of the house."  I knew he was.  He 
was almost always gone on weekends.

The play of emotions across her face was delightful to 
watch as she put the pieces together.  She blushed at 
the trick I had pulled on her, then burst out laughing. 

When she calmed down, she grinned up at me.  "It's a 
deal," was all she said.  She then stretched up and 
kissed my cheek, turned and walked across my driveway 
and onto her yard.  Just as she stepped off the paved 
driveway, she wiggled her arms and the belt came 
undone.  She pulled her arms free, and rubbed them to 
get the circulation going again.  With her hands free, 
she gave my belt a little cowgirl whirl over her head 
and turned towards her house.  

About halfway to her door she looked back over her 
shoulder to see if I was still watching.  I was.  There 
was nothing in the world I would ever want to look at 
again.  It was quite a distance, but I swear, when she 
saw me watching her she stuck her tongue out at me, 
then turned and pulled her shorts down and mooned me as 
she scurried the rest of the way to her door.  Bare-
assed and laughing.  

Just as the door closed I heard her call out, "Oh, 
yeah, my name.  It's Janet."

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

End of Chapter

I hope you enjoyed it.    :)

All my published works are archived and can be read or 
downloaded free.  The archive is located at: 

     http://www.asstr-mirror.org  

     Then open "authors", then "NightShade"

Comments to:  i_m_nightshade@hotmail.com

----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format.  The post was sent as a uuencoded attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}|
|Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org>      |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+