Hot wheels

I’ve always had a thing for cars that move. When I saw this one parked in the garage, I knew I had to come back alone. I wanted to feel the cold metal on the fenders, the smooth steel under my palms, the way the leather seats gave under my weight. So I slipped inside wearing nothing but a tiny lace bra and the matching thong. The moment I sat down the leather kissed the back of my thighs and I could already feel myself getting wet. My hand slid between my legs, rubbing slow circles over the sheer fabric until the thong clung to me. I pressed two fingers harder, found the right spot, and started to rock my hips against my own touch. The car stayed still while everything inside me started to move. My breath fogged the windshield. I pulled the bra down, let my nipples brush the cool air, then pinched one while the other hand kept working between my thighs. Every time the leather squeaked under me I got wetter. I spread my legs wider, pushed the thong aside, and slid two fingers deep inside. The car didn’t move an inch, but I did—hips rolling, fingers pumping, soft moans echoing off the metal. When I came, my back arched so hard the headrest caught my hair, and the only sound left was my breathing and the quiet tick of the cooling engine beside me.