Driving school

Aletta Ocean grips the wheel like she wants to break it. Her top strains against the weight of her breasts, buttons fighting to stay closed. She drives like the car owes her money. A tight turn sends her hair whipping across her face and she laughs, low and throaty. The camera stays close as she spreads her thighs just enough to ease the tension building between them. Her hand leaves the wheel and drifts down to press against the front of her shorts. Heat rises through the denim. Another hard turn, another jolt, and her nipple stiffens against the fabric. She bites her lip, eyes still on the road. One hand steers while the other pops the button, slides beneath the waistband, and finds wet heat. Her fingers work in tight circles. She exhales hard, hips lifting from the seat. The car swerves, rights itself. She never takes her eyes off the stretch ahead, but her wrist moves faster, knuckles flexing under the fabric. Traffic lights blur past in red and green. Her breathing grows ragged, mouth open, chest heaving with every stroke. The car slows at the next stop. Aletta’s fingers are soaked. She pulls them out, glistening, and wipes them across her lower lip. Then she smiles, shifts back into gear, and drives on.