It’s another balmy day in Port Elizabeth and I’ve been attempting to float in the pool for half an hour now. I can’t float – it’s always been impossible for me despite the Seamstress insisting that it is – but trying is fun. At least being in the water is fun. I don’t like the heat, anyway, and being in water is a way to pretend it isn’t as hot as it is.
Louise isn’t in the water, because she’s paralysed with laughter. She’s been watching me flail around for a few minutes. I leaned back and almost floated for about a second before sinking into the water with a sound like the ‘drowning’ noise from Worms 2. Apparently my facial expression was what made her laugh. She hasn’t stopped.
“Hey, you,” she says. “Let’s go for a drive.”
I pull myself out of the pool with a huge reverse splash. The heat in the air dries me off almost immediately. Who needs towels?
“Didn’t we go for a drive yesterday?” I asked. “You drove me around the city. We went to the wharfs. We went to the café. We probably would’ve ended up in the bush if I hadn’t persuaded you otherwise.”
“That was then; this is now,” she replies, as if there’s some sort of weighted finality in this completely innocuous statement. I’ve no idea what she’s going on about, but I’ve long since decided there’s no point at all in questioning her. I shrug, walk through the French windows, throw on a loose T-shirt and pull on some shorts that I hadn’t been aware I still had.
She’s already standing by her car by the time I’ve locked everything and left through the front door. It’s quite a nice car, although I don’t really know anything about cars – I just think it looks nice. It’s a nice blue colour. To be frank, I’m just impressed that she can drive. She learned at 17 which, I remind myself, was two years ago. Still, she picked me up from the airport and has been driving me around a city I don’t know for two days now, so…
“Your chariot awaits,” she says (and yes, she seriously says that), holding open the passenger door. The seat is pushed all the way back, which I assume is because I’m a tall idiot with hecka long legs.
As is turns out, that’s not exactly why she’s pushed the seat back.
“I thought you said we were going for a drive,” I say, albeit quietly, as she climbs on top of me without so much as a preliminary warning.
“Eh… I lied,” she admits. “Surely you don’t mind this?” she adds, pulling off her top to reveal her breasts, huge and shiny, grabbing my hand as she does so and guiding it so I can feel how wet she is.
“Mind it? No, not really,” I say. Or, at least, I would, but I’ve got my lips wrapped around one of her peaked nipples and can’t really say anything right now.
I could spell it out in Morse code via small licks, I suppose. But I’m not sure that would work. I don’t know Morse code.
She arches her back while I work her with my tongue. She looks fantastic, but then again, she always has. I’m starting to feel the heat again, but then, I’m in a car with a beautiful girl sitting on top of me – it’s hardly an Arctic floe.
I won’t recall, later, exactly the particulars of how she manages to get my shorts off and my pants down without dismounting. It’s not that important anyway, I reason. She’s not wearing anything under her skirt which, I suppose, shouldn’t be too much of a surprise. She shifts; there are a few moments of silent anticipation, and then I feel her folds split wide as my smooth, firm cock slides in, her grinning the grin that she grins at my semi-gleeful, semi-abashed face (which, apparently, is what I look like every time).
I feel her inner walls squeeze, moulding themselves around my shape. I’m throbbing – a lot – but can’t really do much, stuck as I am into a car seat. She’s doing the work, merrily riding away, sliding up and down like only she knows how to do, giving me what I need… and, judging by the sounds she’s making (and yes, she is loud), she’s getting what she wants as well. I try to do something with my hands, but all I can really do is hold onto her sides. She doesn’t have a problem with that.
We’re having sex in a car. I realise this just before she orgasms – a huge, powerful, rolling one. She makes a kind of low guttural moan – almost bestial – as I feel her girlcum begin to cascade from her soaked sex, coating my shaft, and running down her legs, to boot.
She leans forwards, resting her whole body on me (but there isn’t too much of her, so this doesn’t hurt). I wrap my arms around her and just hold her. Neither of us say anything, but then what else is there to say? Good sex is good. I’m not going to look this gift horse in the mouth, specifically when the gift horse is a millionaire’s daughter who did quite a lot of pleading a few days ago to actually get me onto the ‘plane.
It’s only after we get back into the pool – we didn’t go for a drive at all, you’ll be totally shocked to hear – that I think to ask what she’s going to do about the large stain we left on the seat.
“Oh, that’s okay,” she says brightly. “I’ve got a sponge and some cleaning fluid. It gets the stains out of anything. I’ll clean it up tomorrow, and then we’ll go for a drive. A real one this time.”
“You’ll clean it up? Surely you’d let me do it, after what you just gave me.”
“I’m the one who came, and besides, it’s my car.”
“It is,” I demur. “But surely I could at least help. Carry the bucket, or something.”
It takes me a while to convince her that “carry the bucket” isn’t a euphemism for anything. But, by the time I’ve finished explaining, she’s right back to where she was an hour ago… on the side of the pool, watching me flail, and wheezing with laughter.