Are smart cars sexy? These blunt, compact 2-seaters are a boon to the environment, and are too squat to resemble anything remotely phallic. Yet, when I purchased mine in 2008, I capriciously licked the hood. Something inexplicable inspired me—perhaps it resembled the deliciously swollen glans of the penis after all.
I have never been much for backseat rutting. It is a mythology borne of the 1950s, I imagine, when the rear space of a DeSoto was equal to a suite in a Red Lion Inn. Contemporary vehicles allow little room for full-on freaking. But, dear reader, I’m always tempted to experiment.
My bon ami and I drove the new Smart car to lunch in Minneapolis’ warehouse district. The day was clear, and my brain and loins were aglow from a vodka martini at the Monte Carlo. We were parked on a deserted backstreet in the shadow of a looming warehouse. As we entered the cab, and I turned to my companion with great gravitas: “Dear? I’m in the mood to [insert activity] your [insert organ].” I blushed, but that only increased my ardor, and my honey pot (and panties) became sodden from my impulsive grubby talk.
He nodded as I tossed the offending undergarment, now uncomfortable, out the window. There is ample vertical space in the cab, and I straddled my bon ami’s lap, extracting his fleshy implement, now as rigid as the crankshaft of a Maserati Biturbo. Sadly, the cramped space did not allow me to bend down to fellate the stick shift of desire, but I gleefully played with the dear implement. It trembled sweetly, pulsing like a V12.
I looked into his eyes and bravely inserted the valiant pink torpedo. Mmmm. It fit perfectly; the piston slid deliciously into my dripping cylinder as a checkered flag whipped across my horny brain: We were off to the races, and I delivered on my promise to frick the poor bastard into oblivion.
If the Smart Car’s a rockin’, don’t bother knockin’. Or perhaps do…the show is sublime.
XO
Syl
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