Bench Seat Wife

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There I was, lurking in the company truck for a whole hour. It was dark and I was parked on the curb by the university parking garage. Just waiting. Not even really sure for whom. It could have been a prank, an ugly transvestite, an old fat man. Someone laughing at the thought I’d come out and drive an hour and then wait longer to meet a fake person.

Everyone hopelessly trolls for pussy online. Most of the time you see scammers, spammers and flakes. But she posted something that sounded like a real person wrote it. The ad said “Looking for married man with bench seat for safe car anal,” which was … just way too specific to be a scam. She responded quickly to my replies, and always to the point. Very specific, like she paid attention. Maybe she was testing whether I was a robot too by saying the first thing she wanted to see was my family pictures to prove I was married. Yeah, sure, I figured. Whatever. I can do that.

As we were emailing back and forth I was very nervous, but weirdly turned on in hopes that this was a real thing, making me sport a semi the entire afternoon. For some reason I was supposed to be home with my family very soon, but, sometimes a deep nasty urge makes you want to damn the consequences. Wife’s texts went unread. I mean, … what if this girl from the ad was real?

There were plenty of people walking around, finishing their work shifts, classes or whatever. When you’re in a parked car, everyone’s eyes follow you. The fat construction worker was walking way too slow so that I was sure he’d open the door and introduce himself as Jennifer. Luckily he just kept walking. The trickle of people slowed down and then it was down to late workers. Finally, I saw her. She was heavyset, wearing stretch pants and carrying a dark satchel, just like she said she would. Headed straight to me, eye-fucking me as she walked.

Once she got closer, she screwed up her face uncontrollably, like she too was disappointed with the blind match. Which was only fair. After all, I’m a middle-aged, out-of shape blue collar guy with a moustache and a mild comb-over. It’s not like I misrepresented myself, but people tend to hope for the best despite being told otherwise. My heart was beating fast and my throat felt dry. Pretty sure I’d crack up like a teenager trying to say anything. She stopped right by the passenger door and reached for the handle. I closed my eyes.

But then, nothing happened. I looked over and she was walking away, having pulled her phone out of a pocket. Very shortly thereafter, she rounded the corner. What the hell? Did she just blow me off without saying anything? What was she thinking? What the fuck, I showed her a recent picture of me, admitted I wasn’t a fantasy but a working class carpenter and that I didn’t actually have a bench seat. The family minivan had bucket seats, but the company truck they sometime let me take home had a nice wide bench. A welt of anger surged through me and I wished that this wasn’t a cruel rejection. Would have been so much nicer if this was a prank instead.

Feeling hurt, I was about to turn the key and drive on home to a late family dinner when I heard the passenger door handle move. To my shock, a lithe girl wearing a fancy business skirt and jacket opened the door and sat down. She was just stunningly gorgeous. All made up with lipstick and eyeshadow and whatever else they put up there near the eyes. She was about 5’5″, maybe 130 lbs if she was soaking wet, with dark hair and incredibly fair skin. Looked like she was in her late 20s, and I figured she got into the wrong truck. But then there was a dark satchel in her lap.

“Are you Mike?”

Forgetting entirely about my earlier disappointment, I just muttered “Yeah that’s me” and then my heart remembered to start racing again. My feeling of rejection was completely replaced by nervousness likes of which I’ve never experienced before. The entire evening was starting to feel like a very unpleasant roller-coaster of being unprepared. Her face never cracked a smile, it was all just business. She was pretty, her cheekbones pronounced and toned.

“OK. Lets see your family pictures.”

Why did she just ask me for that? I thought she was joking earlier that morning. “Come again?”, I said. She tilted her face inquisitively and repeated herself, “Your family photos. You said you’d show them to me so I can make sure of who you are. Not joking.”

For about an eternity I stared at her to make sure she was real, and for real. My eyes swept her from top to bottom. Seeing my gaze, she figured I was buying time so she unbuttoned her tight jacket. She was wearing some kind of heeled shoes, making her seem taller. Despite being short, her knees were noticeably raised higher than the bench seat she was sitting on. Glancing up, I saw light brown or maybe nude pantyhose, a dark business skirt with faint vertical stripes and its matching jacket. The skirt seemed stretchier and shorter by every second, because she was leaning back to unbutton and thus slowly pulled it up over her knees. Once her güvenilir bahis jacket opened up, I noticed a faded pink camisole with intricate lacy fringes.

There were two rings on her ringfinger. Why would she ask me for my family photos? What was this fine-assed girl doing in my truck anyhow? Without actually doing it, she almost snapped her fingers at me with a demand. “Hey, I want to see family photos or I’m walking out of here. You got taken seriously, and now you have to reciprocate.”

Aside from a saw, I wasn’t exactly sure what that word meant but I took it that she meant business. So I fake-coughed to buy some time, dug out my phone from my pocket and opened up the Facebook app. Somewhere in there was a family album from the other week. While I was thumbing through it, she scooted over closer to me and was craning her neck to see the screen. Her leg touched mine, her lightly curly hair obstructed a notch of my vision, and I smelled perfume on her neck. It smelled like honeysuckle and it was like an instant fire to my loins. My dick got a primeval burst of blood and showed up as a spasm through my pants. I froze, not sure if she saw it stirring. The pictures were up.

She started swiping at the phone and thumbing through the pictures while I held it for her. There was my family, my wife’s aunt who lives with us, our disappointing house, my unkempt face, my idiot kids, and my homely and very chubby wife. “Does your wife work?”, she asked. My throat went dry and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out if this girl was fucking with me. “Uh, no, Linda stays at home with the kids most of the time.” Was this a bizarre sociology experiment of some kind?

She looked around to make sure no one was watching. Did this girl ever smile?

“Alright, let me see your cock.”

She couldn’t be fucking with me at this point so I too looked around to see if anyone was nearby. Then, I arched my back forward to loosen my belt a little, fumbling with my zipper for an embarrassingly long moment. To buy more time, I pretended to look around again and then finally managed to fish it out. It was semi-hard and my underwear caught in the zipper just a tiny bit so my dick wasn’t all the way out. Without hesitating, she grabbed it with her right hand and used her left hand to unbutton my pants. Surprised me. Last thing I was expecting was for her to just grab it. Her fingernails were short and painted a pretty purple. Once my dick was all the way out, she let go of it and it just lazily plopped down over my loose belt.

With her hands now free, she pushed herself closer to me, shifting her body so her leg was practically on top of mine. It made me feel like she wanted to touch me. Without any hesitation, she grabbed my dick again with her left hand and started stroking it slowly up and down, leaning over to see it better up close. Her hair almost touched down to her hand. God, I wanted her to suck it.

She stopped stroking, bent it this way and that for a closer look, and then leaned back and kept on jacking it. Guess she was making sure I didn’t have open sores or something, which was probably an impolite thing for her to do, but I didn’t care. Her eyes stayed fixed on it while she stroked, and her mouth opened up absent-mindedly and stayed open as long as I remember. Her small hand felt so incredibly soft, like velvet. Her grip wasn’t too firm, just enough to freely slide over my penis, and drag some skin up and down gently with her strokes. It all felt amazing.

It also made my dick grow harder with each pump. It had been so many years since I’ve felt a hand that soft. My own hands are covered with callouses and feel like 60 grit sandpaper. Her eyes were still locked on my dick and her mouth was still open while she breathed through it. If she wasn’t so gorgeous and beautiful, I would have closed my eyes and moaned. But I had to stare, because right in front of me was her blouse, and I was looking down it. Some kind of a dark purple lacy bra was sticking out just a tiny bit from what I thought was a low-cut camisole. Her breasts looked like a decent handful even for my big hands and firmly stuck straight out, cleavage casting a dark shadow inside her shirt.

Between her soft hand stroking me and what I was seeing, my dick got really hard. Like once in a few months level of hard. Her mouth still open like she was going to drool over my cock, she moaned and slowly said in what sounded like her version of a porny voice, “Now that’s a nice big hairy dick.”

All my life I knew I was average length and girth, but then again I was 6’2″ and she was almost a foot shorter than me, so I accepted that it seemed big to her without her mocking me. But hairy was uncalled for. I’m sensitive about my body. Sure, I didn’t shave my dick and balls or really trim it but I didn’t think it was that bad. It always seemed natural to me. What a weird thing for her to say. So, I responded neutrally with the stupidest line I could think of, “Yeah, do you like that?”

She stopped stroking my dick, closed her mouth, türkçe bahis tucked it back into my pants and slid back to the passenger side, fumbling with something in her purse. Before I concluded that me saying something stupid blew it, she buckled her seat belt and said “Why don’t you park on the 5th floor?”

Drive up to the fifth floor was a bit of a blur. I remember going into the parking garage, through a ramp, pressing a button, getting a parking ticket thing and creeping up slowly in the truck until she pointed to a dark spot behind the last turn and told me to park there. Some garage lights were out and nearby cars were mostly covered in dust. No one complained about those lights, and no one seemed to be around. Ever. My phone buzzed, it was probably my wife again wondering when I’d be home. I didn’t care. I shut the engine off and suddenly it was more silent than a tomb. She breathed out, unbuckled herself and slid back to sit right next to me. My heart was beating fast.

“Do you like shaved pussy?”, she asked looking me right in the eyes.

That direct question almost gave me a heart attack. Fuck yes I like shaved pussy. My wife is not a fan of it, and I only get to see it in porn. Like a dumb mute, I nodded. She gave me a look like she wanted a verbal answer, so I said “Uh yeah, I love it.”

In a slightly husky voice she replied, “Too bad you’ll never get to feel this wet shaved pussy.”

Before I could even process what she meant by that – I mean, was she toying with me? – she arched her back, dug her hands behind her skirt and pulled down her pantyhose side to side until they just reached her mid thighs, past her skirt that now rode up half a foot. With the pantyhose came down her purple panties, and in the dim light you could see just how much they were glistening. Holy fuck, this girl was wet. And I mean wet. What did she mean I couldn’t feel it? I could literally smell it. It was right there, inches away from me hiding under her skirt, and she just about served it on a platter for me.

“Does your wife shave her pussy?” she asked. It’s funny now that I think about it, but she had a knack for throwing me off balance and then giving me rope to reel myself in with. I could answer that question without thinking about anything, so I did. “Uh, no, she’s kind of old fashioned.” She raised the front of her skirt up just enough to show me her pussy lips. I swear, the moment I saw them, I smelled honeysuckle again and got harder than earlier, my dick straining uncomfortably against my pants. Her shaved mound was darker than rest of her skin, and her pussy lips were pink and glistening like her panties. I was hypnotized by what I was seeing. She continued, “What do you mean? Shaving a pussy is not a fashion.” She spread her legs for a brief moment so I could see better.

Rather than talk about it, I just wanted to watch her spread her bare pussy lips. But she was the talkative kind so I replied without thinking, “Well I guess she said that it was unsettling, that young girls these days shave it and make it seem like they’re prepubescent when they should be maturing. Or some such.” As far as I remember it, that’s exactly what my wife said when I asked her to shave hers. Jennifer’s reply took me completely by surprise so that I nearly choked on an air bubble. She chortled and said “Really? An unemployed stay-at-home housewife knows about maturing and being mature?”

That stab really hurt. I was confused, maybe angry in that instant moment. Here I was obviously trying to cheat on my wife, but I also felt defensive about her to a stranger who was showing me her pussy. My dick got softer and without rationalizing it, I felt indignant and started backtracking, “Now wait a minute, that’s not fair to…”

She cut me off by exhaling loudly and then removing her jacket. With the rustling noises the fabric made, and her moving around to take it off, I figured she couldn’t hear me so I paused until she was done. Before I could finish my thought, she pulled the front of her skirt back over herself, turned toward the glove compartment, backed her soft ass against me and invited me to feel her up.

Whatever she had literally said is still a blur to me; she interrupted my sentence before I got anywhere with it. Still feeling that confused rise of anger I decided to keep my mouth shut and just run my greedy hands over her petite body while I still could. My god, was she fine. And a bitch. Tight body, nearly athletic build, and wearing pantyhose and ladylike clothes I could only dream about my wife wearing. My hand slid up her thigh and just barely skidded under her skirt, but before I could reach for her pussy, she turned to me and barked, “Don’t you touch my pussy or anywhere below my waist, or I’m walking out.”

“Didn’t you just tell me to feel you up?”

She made a face that hid nothing. I was an idiot, a buffoon, a chubby handyman in a borrowed truck with a beautiful woman way above my class, and she said as much with that look. It made me angry. She continued, “Are you an idiot? güvenilir bahis siteleri I said feel me up. That means up, not down. Up like my tits. You can feel my tits up over my shirt.”

My dick was still hard, she glared at me with a disciplined hatred in her eyes, and I wanted nothing more than to punch her in the face as hard as I could. My own face must have turned red, because it always does when I’m angry, and I thought to myself “fine, you crazy bitch, you want me to feel you up, I’ll feel you up.” I turned to face the same way she was, leaning over closer to her and quickly ran my big meaty hands under her arms and right over her tits, and squeezed. Women don’t like them to be squeezed. They’re tender and soft and sensitive.

For two minutes I squeezed, and pulled, and massaged and grunted and pulled so her whole body was sliding over the seat toward me, with my big ape hands greedily groping her. Handling her tits like I would a sack of potatoes was my substitute for punching her, and I glared right back at her while I did it. Her shirt got all stretched out of shape. Her purple bra stuck out in places. Her facial expression conveyed complete disgust. She looked away, and I couldn’t believe what she said next.

“Kiss the back of my neck.”

With that, somehow my angry erection turned into a puzzlement. My fully erect penis now seemed like it was just a semi-chubby, and that it could somehow get even harder. I’ve never experienced anything like this before. My phone buzzed again and I ignored it, instead leaning over and putting my lips right between her neck and her shoulder. With my hand I parted her hair, and kissed her there. With that kiss, I smelled honeysuckle again and felt my dick spasm again. This crazy bitch was prodding me with a stick, and enjoying it. And enjoying my reaction. I didn’t understand why, but I just went along with it because her tits felt amazing. They had been entirely firm and perky not too long ago, and had just started softening up, and oh god, to be young again.

“Where’s that big hairy dick?” she purred and reached behind for it with her left hand. Her eyes were closed, she was craning her neck slowly against my lips and offering more of her fair neck skin to me, and when she finally pulled my dick out, her nipples shot through her shirt like they were nails. Her moans were porn quality, like no one ever did this to her before. She cautioned me not to leave a mark, so I more gently kissed her neck and kept kneading her young tits. My dick was bent forward and her soft hand was stroking and bending it back and forth gently, because that’s the only way she could reach it. She gyrated closer to me, then raised her left leg and lowered it between mine, so it was held in place by her stretched pantyhose.

Then she did something weird. She lifted that leg directly over my dick, pulled up her pantyhose halfway and inserted my hard dick between her leg and the pantyhose. It felt like nothing I’ve ever felt before. When I’d slowly grind myself toward her, my dick would slide over the silky pantyhose and under her soft smooth leg. It didn’t feel uncomfortable, despite being bent forward a bit, but I didn’t have anything to compare this to. Guess it felt good. This strange sensation could probably – eventually – make me cum. Also, not entirely sure, but I think her wet pussy rubbed up against my leg a little bit. God bless her for being limber.

She turned to me and whispered, “Your wife doesn’t let you fuck her ass, does she?”

It felt like a trap again. It was a false choice question. She’s playing with me. I say “yes she does”, she walks away because I then don’t need it or something. I say “no she doesn’t”, she makes me explain or demands to pee on my face. If I really could actually explain why my wife doesn’t do anal, I’d understand my wife better, and probably be a national TV sensation from my super-human level of empathy. No good answer. Problem is, she brought up the word “anal” which reminded me of the pretend reason we met (because there’s no way she’s for real), and that made my dick spasm again. So I said nothing.

Turns out each time my dick spasms, it squirts out some precum. She felt that on her leg, and accepting that as my negative answer, said nothing. Instead, she knocked my hands off her breasts and then pulled her tits out of her bra so they just hung naked over her shirt. Fuck that looked hot. Young feisty bitch, in prime of her life, with her nice fucking tits out. She then guided my hands back to them. Released out of her firm bra, her flesh was much softer. I gently fondled them while she moaned. It’s amazing how a young woman’s moans can subtly scream “horny.”

I spewed some more precum on her nylons, and by this point I was pretty much humping her leg full-time in slow motion. My phone buzzed again in my pants and I ignored it again, though I took that opportunity to look over and watch my dick slide in and out of her pantyhose. It didn’t always move straight, on some strokes it would slip to the right and almost touch her wet panties. Maybe it did a few times. I wanted it to. My hands were on her bare breasts, feeling her up, gently pinching her hard nipples, my dick was lubricating itself and fucking her pantyhose when she said “kiss my neck” again.

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