You were already home when she texted to say a colleague was giving her a lift. She didn’t say which one. Just that she’d be back a bit later than usual…
You were already home when she texted to say a colleague was giving her a lift.
She didn’t say which one. Just that she’d be back a bit later than usual.
He was white, mid-thirties, the quiet one from her team who always stayed late. She got into the passenger seat still in her work blouse and skirt, hair a little loose from the day. For the first ten minutes she just talked—normal things, deadlines, the usual. Then the conversation slowed. She shifted in her seat, angled her knees toward him, and let the skirt ride higher on her thighs. When he glanced over she didn’t adjust it. She left it there.
At the next red light she uncrossed her legs and left them open. Not wide. Just enough. The soft shadow between her thighs visible in the low evening light. She watched his hands on the steering wheel tighten.
She didn’t speak.
Instead she reached across, slow and deliberate, and rested her fingers lightly on his thigh. Higher than was friendly. When he didn’t move her hand away she slid it further, until her palm was pressed over the growing shape of his cock through his trousers. She kept it there, gently squeezing, feeling him harden under her hand while he tried to keep driving.
He pulled into a quiet retail park a few streets from your house. Engine off. The second the car stopped she leaned over, unzipped him, and took his cock into her mouth right there in the passenger seat. No teasing. Just warm, wet, hungry. She sucked him slowly at first, one hand wrapped around the base, the other already pushing her own knickers aside so she could touch herself while she did it. The wet sounds filled the car. She moaned around him every time he throbbed against her tongue.
When he was fully hard and leaking she climbed across the centre console, pushed her skirt up around her waist, and sank down onto him in one smooth motion. Facing him. Forehead against his. Riding him slow and deep in the driver’s seat while his hands gripped her soft arse and the car windows began to fog. She came first—quiet, shuddering, cunt gripping him tightly—then kept moving, rolling her hips, taking every inch until he finally groaned and emptied inside her.
She stayed on him afterward for a long minute. Full. Breathing against his neck. His cum already starting to leak out of her around his cock and onto his trousers. Only when she was ready did she lift off, smooth her skirt down, and quietly tell him he could drop her at the end of the road.
You heard the car pull up outside. Heard her key in the door a minute later. She came in soft-eyed and flushed, kissed you on the cheek, and said traffic had been bad. Then she went upstairs to change. When she came back down she was in her usual lounge clothes, hair brushed, face calm. But when she sat on the sofa beside you and curled her legs up, you caught the faint scent of sex on her skin… and the way she shifted, just once, like she was still feeling him inside her.
She never mentioned the colleague.
She didn’t need to.
You already knew exactly how your wife had thanked him for the lift.
