The Ride
"His car broke down. His best friend's mom offered to drive him home. The ride takes forty-five minutes. By minute fifteen, her hand is on his thigh. By minute thirty, they're not going to his house anymore."
"I can call an Uber."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm going that direction anyway." Mrs. Chen—Susan—gestures at the passenger seat. "Get in. I'll have you home in forty-five minutes."
My car's dead in Marcus's driveway. Something with the battery, he thinks. We spent an hour trying to jump it before giving up.
"Mom'll take you," Marcus said. "I've got to study for tomorrow."
So now I'm alone in Susan Chen's BMW, watching her adjust the mirrors, trying not to stare at her thighs in that skirt.
She's fifty-one. Chinese-American. And built like every fantasy I've ever had.
"Buckle up," she says, and pulls out of the driveway.
For the first ten minutes, we make small talk.
How's school. How's work. The usual questions you ask your son's friend when you're trying to fill silence.
Then she asks, "Are you dating anyone?"
"Not at the moment."
"Mm." She glances at me sideways. "Pretty boy like you? I find that hard to believe."
"I've been... focused on other things."
"What kind of things?"
You, I want to say. You in that dress at Marcus's birthday party. You bending over to get something from the oven. You in a bikini at the pool, curves spilling everywhere.
"Just things," I say.
She smiles. "You're being evasive."
"Just private."
"Fair enough." She turns onto the highway. "I can be private too."
Her hand leaves the steering wheel. Lands on my thigh.
I stop breathing.
"Mrs. Chen—"
"Susan." Her fingers squeeze gently. "I've asked you to call me Susan a hundred times."
"Susan. What are you doing?"
"Seeing if I imagined it." Her hand slides higher. "The way you look at me when you think no one's watching."
"I don't—"
"You do." She glances at me, then back at the road. "And I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been looking back."
Her hand finds the bulge in my jeans. I'm hard—impossibly, undeniably hard.
"That's what I thought," she murmurs.
She pulls off at an exit I don't recognize.
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere private." She navigates through back roads, past farms and fields, until she finds a deserted overlook. Kills the engine. Turns to face me.
"Here's what's going to happen." She unbuckles her seatbelt. "I'm going to give you a choice. We can pretend this never happened—I drive you home, you forget about my hand on your leg, we never speak of it again."
"Or?"
"Or." She reaches over, unzips my jeans. "You show me what you've been thinking about all these years. And I show you what I've been thinking about."
"Marcus would—"
"Marcus isn't here." She pulls my cock free. Strokes it. "Marcus doesn't know his mother hasn't been touched in three years. Marcus doesn't know how lonely I am, how desperate, how hungry."
Her hand moves up and down, slow and deliberate.
"So what's it going to be, Tyler? Door one, or door two?"
I grab her hand. Stop her.
"Backseat," I say. "Now."
She's thicker than I imagined.
The kind of thick that fills out a dress, that strains against fabric, that makes my mouth water. When she hikes up her skirt in the backseat, I see thighs that could crush my skull and an ass that overflows the leather seat.
"I'm not young anymore," she says. "I'm not thin—"
"You're perfect." I pull her onto my lap. "You're exactly what I want."
I kiss her. She melts into me, her hands in my hair, her body soft and warm against mine. She's wearing a thong—barely anything—and I feel the heat of her through the thin fabric.
"Condom?"
"I'm on the pill." She reaches back, positions my cock. "And I want to feel you. All of you."
She sinks down.
The car fills with the sounds of our fucking.
Her moans. The creak of leather. The slap of her ass against my thighs. She rides me hard, desperate, her breasts bouncing in my face.
"God—Tyler—" She grabs the headrest, uses it for leverage. "So good—"
"Is this what you've been missing?" I grab her hips, pull her down harder. "Three years without this?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
I thrust up into her. The car rocks. Her body shakes. She's tight around me, clenching, and I can feel her getting close.
"I'm going to—don't stop—"
I don't stop. I fuck her through her orgasm, feel her scream and shake and clench. Then I flip her onto her back across the seat and push back in.
"More," she gasps. "Give me more—"
I give her more. I fuck her until the windows fog, until she comes again, until I can't hold back anymore. I bury myself deep and fill her while she wraps her legs around me and whispers my name.
Afterward, we sit in the dark car, catching our breath. The overlook shows nothing but stars.
"We should probably get you home," she says.
"Probably."
"And this can never happen again."
I look at her. Disheveled. Satisfied. Still half-naked in the backseat of her BMW.
"Is that what you want?"
She's quiet for a long moment.
"No," she admits. "That's not what I want at all."
"Then let's figure something out."
She laughs—soft, surprised, almost happy.
"You're trouble," she says.
"You have no idea."
She climbs back into the front seat. Adjusts her skirt. Checks her makeup in the mirror.
"I'll text you," she says. "When Marcus is at class."
"And until then?"
She looks at me. Smiles.
"Until then, try not to look at me too obviously. He's not stupid."
I promise to try.
I fail almost immediately.
But she texts me three days later, and after that, looking is the least of what we do.