Corvette lover

She sees a car the way other women see a lover—every curve, every reflection a secret to claim. The red Corvette sits waiting. No, not waiting. Demanding. She never learned to share and the car suits her for it. Blonde hair brushes her bare shoulders as she climbs in, her short summer dress riding high on smooth thighs. The leather sticks. She likes that. The way it clings the way a man’s hands would if she let them. She closes the door. The world disappears. Her fingers find the stick shift first, giving it a slow stroke, then her own thigh, then higher. The fabric peels back. No panties—just skin and the cool kiss of air. She spreads for the empty passenger seat, showing everything the way she would show him if she wanted to. She doesn’t. Not yet. She touches herself like she handles the wheel: with purpose, with certainty. Two fingers slide in, curl, press. The other hand drifts up to circle one nipple, then the other, tightening until she bites her lip. She breathes harder, hips rolling against nothing but the driver’s seat and her own rhythm. The car smells like leather, perfume, and the wet sound of her pleasure. She leans back. Her legs open wider, heels planted on the carpet. She works both holes now—two fingers in her pussy, thumb brushing her clit; the other hand reaching lower, slick and insistent against the tight ring of muscle. She likes the stretch, the little ache. Her moans bounce off the windows, fogging the glass. The engine never starts. She doesn’t need it. The car idles with her, shaking ever so slightly when she shudders through the first wave, then the second, thighs trembling, chest flushed. She stays like that a moment longer, fingers lazy, body slack against the seat. Outside, traffic passes. Inside, she smiles at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. Different, yes. And exactly as she likes it.