Thursday, 22 September 2011

The Duchess And The Truck Driver (Part 4 of 4).

He looks on with excitement as she hits the buttons in the throes of her passion. Click! The headlights flick on, illuminating a billboard for Pizza Shack, which makes Terry’s mouth water. Click! The windscreen wipers scud into action, and he speeds up to match their rubbery rhythm. Click! The wiper fluid squirts up the glass, framing their illicit fuck session with bubbles and lather, and Terry struggles to control himself.
“Are you nearly there, lover?” she sighs lustily, her curly blonde hair snaking onto the leather seat in a highly erotic fashion.
“Yeah, my balls are about to explode. I’m gunna give you a pearl necklace to go with your diamond one.”
He knows he’s past the point of no return, and he extracts his love length from the duchesses gaping canyon just in time.
“Oh, Jesus”, Terry groans, as he fires a round of creamy shells from the end of his cock cannon. The first volley lands on the steering wheel, before dripping down like a spunk stalactite slowly to the floor. The next sticky rope flies across the cab and hits the duchess on the cheek, making her flinch. The third and final helping of sex saliva lands on her black dress, and she squeals in delight.

This was the part she’s been dreading the most; the ejaculating. She didn’t mind getting it on her face; she could clean that off easily enough. She just didn’t want any on her nice clean dress. But, lady luck saw to it personally that a generous wad of fuck fondant landed right in the centre of her outfit, creating a gooey runway. She’d have to wear something else now; she could hardly show up at a dinner party with a trucker’s sperm all over her dress, could she?
“Sorry love, hope that’s machine washable.” he chuckles. She glances over at him, his wilting dick still dribbling onto the seat.
“Hope the seat’s machine washable” she counters. He looks down at the mess he’s making and shrugs his shoulders.
“Wipe clean” he remarks, grinning like a moron who’s just won a shit-eating contest.

He watches her as she slips on the dress which he’d just given a baptism to. Terry sometimes wished he could fuck himself with his own schlong. He wrenches his oily jeans back up his hairy arse and attempts to stroke the duchesses golden locks. She eases playfully out of his reach, batting his hand away as she does so. What a minx. He clicks open the glove box and removes two half melted choc-ices.
“Want one?” he enquires, pushing the slimy wrapper under Gertie’s nose. She shakes her head coyly.
“Suit yourself”, he grunts, leaning back in his seat and tearing off the wrapping with his teeth, before spitting it out onto the floor of the cab. Just then, something catches his eye. He reaches into the glove box once more and extricates a little sheathed square.
“Ah, that’s where that was. Knew I had one of these bad boys kicking about somewhere.”
Gertie turns to face him. Her face paints a picture of distress, but Terry knows when a woman looks like that, she’s really turned on.
“You don’t want to go another round, do you?” he asks, waving the condom at her.
She slowly shakes her head.
“Uhh, I need to go. I think my car’s working now.”
“What? But how can you –
She pushes open the door and leaps down from the cab.
“Thanks for everything, I’ll be sure to keep in touch.”
Gertie steps over to her own car, gets inside, and turns the key in the ignition. It starts first time. She backs out of the truck stop, pauses to look at Terry, then speeds away up the road, the smell of burning rubber lingering in the night air like fuck fog.
Terry turns to study his own reflection in the rear-view mirror, amazed that her car started up perfectly. He spends a few minutes letting it all sink in, then grins at himself as he comes to one inescapable conclusion:
“Damn, I’m good.”

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