By: ForeverFemdom
The seat leather creaked under her weight as she adjusted her hips, the scent of her perfume mixing with something warmer, muskier. She hadn’t even started the engine yet, but the car already felt like a trap the kind you didn’t mind being caught in. Her nails tapped the steering wheel, short and polished, while her other hand absently smoothed the fabric of her skirt over her thigh.
"Lie down," she said, like it was nothing. Like she wasn’t already shifting her weight toward you, the curve of her ass pressing into the seatback as she turned slightly. The command wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t optional either. Her voice had that tone the one that made your stomach tighten before your brain even processed why.
You hesitated, just for a second, and her smile sharpened. "Now." The word landed like a knee between your shoulders, and suddenly you were folding yourself into the footwell, the carpet rough against your cheek. Above you, she exhaled, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment before she moved.
The car door clicked shut, sealing you in. Her skirt rustled as she lifted herself just enough to settle back not onto the seat, but lower. The heat of her was immediate, the pressure against your face undeniable. She sighed, comfortable, as if this was just another Tuesday. "Long ride ahead," she murmured, and then her body relaxed, sinking down fully. The first gasp of air you stole was thick with her.
Her thighs tensed around your ears as she shifted, adjusting, and the first sound was wet a low, deliberate release that vibrated against your lips. The smell hit like a wall, warm and heavy, the kind of stink that curled your toes even as you inhaled deeper. She laughed, soft and throaty, fingers tangling in your hair. "Good boy," she cooed, and you felt the next one coming, the way her stomach tightened before the guttural ripple tore loose.
By the third, your eyes watered. The car was a sauna of her scent, her weight pinning you as she rode each shuddering exhale. Her panties were damp now, the fabric searing against your nose, and when she rocked forward slightly, you felt the wetness smear across your cheek. "Getting lightheaded?" she teased, grinding down harder. "Don’t pass out yet. We’re just getting started."
The engine roared to life beneath her laughter, the AC blasting but doing nothing to cut through the haze she’d made of you. Her hand left your hair to adjust the mirror, casual, like she wasn’t suffocating you with every shift of her hips. "Forty five minutes to home," she mused, popping her gum. "Hope you packed a lunch." The next fart was longer, meaner, her body clenching around your mouth like she was trying to feed it to you.
Your throat convulsed, spit pooling under your tongue as she leaned into the wheel, taking a turn too sharp. The movement forced your nose deeper, her panties riding up just enough to let you taste her salt and sweat and something darker. She moaned, half for show, half because she knew it’d make you twitch. "Someone’s eager," she purred, pressing down until your teeth scraped lace.
Traffic slowed, and so did she, letting the silence stretch before another gurgle built low in her gut. This one came out choked, bubbling against your chin, and she shuddered with it. "God, that one’s been brewing since breakfast," she sighed, rolling her shoulders. Her skirt hiked higher, the hem brushing your forehead as she settled back, heavier now. "Breathe through your nose, baby. It’ll help."
But it didn’t. Not when her next exhale was a slow, deliberate hiss, the kind that seeped into your pores. Not when her fingers were back in your hair, guiding your mouth to where she wanted it. "There," she whispered, as the car lurched forward again. "Now swallow." And you did.
Her thighs twitched around your head, a silent praise, before she shifted her hips just enough to let the next one roll out uninterrupted. It was deeper this time, ragged, like she’d been clenching for miles. The sound filled the car louder than the radio ever could, and her breath hitched halfway through, toes curling in her heels. "Fuck," she muttered, grinding down harder. "That’s the spot."
Something dripped onto your chin not sweat. She was wetter now, her movements slick with it, and when she rocked forward again, it smeared across your lips. "Taste that?" she asked, voice gone rough. "That’s what you’re doing to me." Her laugh was low, dangerous, as the next gas bubble worked its way free. "Think you can take another?"
The answer didn’t matter. She arched her back, letting it rip long and thick, the kind that made her own nails dig into the wheel. The smell was rancid, clinging to your tongue, but her moan was filthier. "Good," she breathed, fingers tightening in your hair. "Now hold it in." And you did, because she told you to. Because her hips were still moving, slow and deliberate, and you knew she wasn’t done. Not even close.