I pulled up in the car. It was dark and the restaurant I stopped in front of was very crowded with its typical Friday night set. I could see Lo through the plate-glass window at the bar with Dean, touching his arm as she talked with him.
“Here,” I texted her from the street. It had just begun raining so lightly that it was barely a mist, but it was enough to make the windshield speckled with drops like dew.
Lo and Dean emerged from the bar and hopped in the back seat, mid conversation as if I wasn’t even there. I pulled away from the curb.
“So, you really haven’t been with anyone for about a month?” Lo asked.
“Really,” said Dean.
“I just can’t believe that. You’re a bartender — a very good looking bartender — and you must get hit on all the time!”
“It’s a myth about bartenders.”
“Well, what good is tending bar and meeting all those people if you don’t get to bed them?” asked Lo.
“Ha!” laughed Dean, “we bartenders don’t even sleep with each other. I think that most bartenders are probably loners.”
“So, a month?” asked Lo again.
“I mean, lucky me,” she said, and I could see as I looked in my rearview mirror that she was licking her lips in anticipation. She was sitting to his right and her left hand was stroking his leg over his jeans.
“I have a little bad news,” I said, interrupting their conversation.
“What’s that?” asked Lo, finally acknowledging my presence.
“I have to stop for gas.”
“Yes, seriously,” I said, “I didn’t know I’d be a chauffeur tonight,” I added, defensively.
I pulled into the nearest gas station and got out to fill the tank. I stood by the rear window of the car and could see that Lo had draped her left leg up and over Dean’s right leg. With the short skirt she was wearing, this gave him a lot of room for him to play. They were still talking. I was surprised as I pumped the gas that she hadn’t leaned in for a kiss yet.
I got back in the car and pulled away. The rain was coming down a little harder. I turned the wipers up and they made a rhythmic “thud-swish, thud-swish” sound. Lo and Dean were now discussing a new topic, but with Lo it always comes back to the same thing.
“So, you’re thirty-something and still single?”
“Yep,” he said, “and I’ve got no plans to change.”
“I think you just don’t want to let anyone in,” said Lo, but she said it in her sexy, seductive tone.
“You might be right,” he said.
I could see her rubbing his arm, encouraging him to make a move, but he just kept on answering her questions. Finally, I could take his politeness or shyness or whatever it was no longer and I blurted out, “Dean –”
“Yeah?” he asked, looking up at me.
“I don’t know if Lo has told you this, but I’ve been denying her for the past couple of days.” It was true, the entire past week, Monday to that moment, I had been in a horrid mood and every night at bedtime Lo would cuddle up to me to play and I turned her away cold. How many times that week had she asked me, “Daddy, do you mind if I play with myself?”
“No,” I’d say, and as she rested her head on my shoulder or chest and had her right hand between her legs, she’d bring herself to a quiet, muffled orgasm, trying to respect my sleep.
“She didn’t mention that,” Dean said.
Seeing he wasn’t about to take the hint, I spelled it out for him: “Well, I think she could really use a good orgasm right about now.”
“Oh,” he said as Lo spread her legs wider. “No more talking?” he asked of Lo.
“No,” she said simply, leaning in to kiss him and reaching over with her right hand to guide his left hand up her skirt.
It got more wet as I drove and I had to turn the wipers up to high. A very fast tempo of “thud-swish-thud-swish” seemed to keep pace with my racing heart as I saw Lo lose herself to ecstasy in the back seat.
The kissing went on for some time and all I could see in my rearview mirror was the thick lock of Lo’s dark hair with his right hand running through it. At one point she pulled down her sexy, skimpy blouse, and exposed her breasts. I heard her whisper, “Don’t be shy, baby” and then he leaned in to suck on her nipples. She moaned, saying, “Bite down.” Then she pulled away to gasp and tell him, “Yes, there. Oh, that feels good. Oh, yes. You’re so fucking hot. Oh God. I’m going to cum.” She turned and looked right at me — her eyes in the rearview mirror as she said that, as if to say, “You see, you jerk, he’s making me cum and I’m loving it. Why didn’t you make me cum all week?”
I was hard up as I drove — so hard that driving was difficult.
Lo came and I could only imagine that if there were any people outside the car, they’d be able to hear her muffled calls. When she was done, she took a deep, long breath. The rear window was covered in condensation and I turned on the rear defroster.
Lo leaned back and still had her breasts exposed. Dean leaned in again and sucked on them gently, tenderly. He rested his head up against her and for a moment there was a real sense of intimacy between them. He removed his hand from under her skirt and held her and she held him. I drove on in the dark silence.
“H.H. got it wrong,” Lo said to Dean. “I didn’t need to cum. I want to make someone cum.” As she said that, I heard her unzip Dean’s tight jeans and say, “Oh my!” in appreciation of his form.
The rest of the ride — I was driving Dean home — was Lo performing a long, playful, teasing, tempting hand-job. Once or twice I saw her head bob down and then up. As we pulled up Dean’s street I heard her whisper to him, “Are you going to cum?”
“I’m enjoying this,” he said.
“Well we’re here,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Can we come in?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “My roommate is home and. . . well, it’s complicated.”
“OK,” said Lo. “What are you going to do when you get home?”
“I’m going to jack it to your pics.”
“You’d better. I want you to send me photos of it.”
“What are you going to do?” Dean asked.
“I’m going to blow H.H. all the way home and then he’s going to fuck the hell out of me cause he owes me and tonight he’s going to make up for all the orgasms he denied me.”
That was exactly how it played out. After we were done and we were lying in bed in the dark, Lo said, “The night was fun, but also sad. I feel sad for Dean. I think he just needs someone to love him.”
“I’ll admit,” I said, “it was cute to see how he was resting his head on your shoulder.”
“You mean as he was fingering me with those strong fingers of his?”
“He just calls out for love. While he was doing that I was imagining myself as a traveling companion who finds lonely people who just need loving and I spread — the love, that is.”
“Lo, you do know what they call people who do that, don’t you? — Prostitutes. Escorts. Ladies of the night.”
“But I’m not doing it for money, I’m doing it for the greater good.”
“Oooooh,” I said, sarcastically, “the world’s first non-for-profit prostitute?”
“It’s not prostitution at all. It’s called being a do-gooder.”
“Oh, so if the cops pulled us over, you’d just pop your head out of the back window and say, ‘Nothing to worry about here, officer, just doing some good.’”
“Lo, did I ever tell you that I love how altruistic you are?”
“No, but go on.”
“You give Mother Theresa a run for her money!”
[Originally, the story, “Do-Gooder,” from the blog: mysexlifewithlola.com]