Crazy Gina

"Goddamn," I growled, turning into a dollar store parking lot. The store was closed, the lot deserted, and I turned off the headlights as I brought the car around to the delivery area in the back of the building.

"This is going to be fun," she gloated, nearly bouncing in her seat. "She's got a pretty small backseat, but I'm a pretty small girl." Once I'd found a shadowed spot between two loading docks, the two of us hopped out and made short work of Jake's carseat. I threw it into the trunk as Gina swept crumbs off the seat. "You people live like pigs," she mused. "My OCD is acting up here. You're lucky I'm horny. Now then," she announced, getting back in and shutting the door, "where shall we begin, Mr Temple?"

"You're the one who suggested making out," I said, cramming myself in behind the driver's seat. "I'm up for whatever."

"Really." Her eyes gleamed in the glow of the security lights on the back of the building. "Let's start with that live, in person look I was talking about." Her teeth flashed.

I shrugged; the moment had come, and for whatever reason I was feeling totally uninhibited. Probably because I knew I was no match for this woman; there was no point in being shy. I reached down, unbuckled my belt, and took down my zipper. Gina was kneeling, sideways, on the other seat; her hands grasped her knees, and she craned her neck so that her face was close to mine. I could feel her breath warm on the side of my neck.

Pulling in my belly, I reached into the hole in my boxers and fished out my dick. It was already hard and thick. "Cool," she said calmly as I brought it out into the air, throbbing and straining. She bit her bottom lip and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, reached out to touch it.

I had a hard time believing this was happening, but I was now far past the point of common sense. I held my breath as I saw her small, tapering fingers moving toward my rigid, bright-pink cock, letting it out with a cracked groan as she let the back of her left knuckles drift slowly up the sensitive skin on the bottom of my penis. She caressed me that way a few more times, finally fluttering her nails over the head, playing with the thick moisture she found there.

I watched the whole thing with a strange sense of dissociation, as though I wasn't even there. My hands remained stupidly on the seat next to my thighs, and a few more intense minutes passed before she straightened back up. "Excuse me," she said in a low, throaty voice. "I'm going to take my clothes off now."

The windows were already fogging as her hands went to her fly, unbuttoning herself with some haste. She kept glancing back and forth between what she was doing and my dick, still throbbing; at one point, she reached impatiently down to dig for my balls, bringing them outside my boxers. Her right leg lashed out toward the floor of my wife's backseat as she shoved her pants down toward her ankle; it took me a few moments to realize her underwear was bunched up in the pants, and that her vagina was now totally exposed below the skintight tanktop. No sooner had I figured that out than I looked at it, greedy like a fat boy presented with a pie.

She was looking keenly at me, gauging my reaction as she lifted her foot out of her clothes; she wasted no more time, peeling her gold tanktop from her firm body. Her A-cups stared at me, the nipples grotesquely long. She impatiently shoved the remains of her pants behind her left leg and displayed her nude body for me. The security lights glimmered like a jewel on the wetness surrounding her slit.

"I like being naked," she explained, her voice husky. "It's very freeing. If I could, I'd teach naked. All my students staring at my cunt." she smiled slowly. "Just like you are, Mr Perfect Husband." She was looking at my dick again as it swayed in the air. "If your little wifey could see you now..."

The car had a smell now, deep and rich and earthy: the smell of animals in heat. Without any tenderness or sensitivity, she now reached her grasping hands out to clutch at my dick; it was far too thick for either of her hands to handle comfortably. She wanked me firmly, with full strokes, watching me closely with those shining eyes.

And of course, she expected something of me. So I reached out my clammy, trembling right hand, laid it with electric excitement on the inside of her right knee, still locked straight with her bare foot planted on the floor of the car, and inched it upward over the stringy muscles of her tiny thigh. She "hmm"ed with delight as I crawled closer to her crotch, the skin becoming hotter and more damp as I went; she responded by reaching her right hand down to wrap her fingers around my balls.

She already had a good head start, so as I felt her cradle my nutsack I ran my fingers impatiently up her sweaty leg, past the point where it curved back outward; I cupped her firmly, my thumb long and straight as it sank right into the oven of her vagina with a squishing noise.

Gina's whole body twitched, her extended nipples shaking; her left hand corkscrewed around my dick, and she grinned as she exhaled slowly, raising and lowering her sexy body over my questing thumb. "Yeaaah," she whispered happily, letting a long string of saliva descend slowly toward my cock. Her closed eyes opened halfway, looking blissfully at me. "You like me jacking your dick?" she demanded crudely. "You like my fingers on your balls?"

"No more than you like me groping your pussy," I grated, getting into the act. She laughed, short and breathless.

"It's a 'cunt,' you stupid motherfucker," she groaned. "Call it what it is."

"So I'm groping your cunt," I barked. I'd never once said the word out loud, and the taboo thrilled me almost as much as her hand on my shaft. The sounds of wet, rubbing fingers on blood-engorged flesh filled the car. "I've got that leaky cuntjuice all over my hand."

"Fuck!" She ripped my hand away and made me grasp my own dick. "Spread that shit over your cock," she instructed. "I want your wife to smell me on you when you fuck her." She suddenly batted my hand away, satisfied that I'd added to her lube, and went right back to work, her able hands rubbing and twisting with purpose now.

I retired my thumb, substituting two fingers; I put them into her pussy like a key into a lock, wiggling and twisting my fingers inside her. She momentarily lost control, lurching down onto my hand as she quickly found her legs again. 'That bitch is a lucky woman," she snarled. "A big ol' dick and a useful set of fingers; maybe later we can find out what your mouth can do." She swooped back in, her hands a blur over my penis, and gave me a harsh and painful kiss.

She was bucking steadily on my fingers now, and I had a sense that she wasn't likely to last long; I was absurdly pleased that I was going to make her orgasm. My wife was highly variable in that regard; Gina, it seemed, was an easier lay. "That cunt is going to explode," I taunted. "I'm going to make that fucking thing burst."

"Only after you," she muttered, concentrating now: my dick was an angry shade of dark purple, her hands grasping it like a blood pressure cuff. "Give me that cum, Andy."

We stayed like that for a couple more minutes, staring wildly as we tried to get each other off. The crisis came for her when I extended my pinky to her asshole, finding the hot, gritty moisture back there, reaching way underneath to reach it; at the same time, I curled my raisined fingers against the front wall of her slit and pulled her toward me. The whole sequence was a lucky guess, but it worked. I sat there in awe as the walls of her pussy pulsed around my hand, the rest of her body convulsing in rhythm. "Motherfucker!" she wailed, mashing herself into my hand.

And if I needed any further stimulation, watching Gina cum gave me enough in spades. I shot my load nearly a foot into the air, the two of us watching as it splattered across my hairy chest. But Gina knew there was more coming, and she blindly wrenched my dick sideways to launch the next batch directly onto her smooth little tits. She gasped with delight, her mouth a wide open grin, angling me so that the next shot landed on her chin. I just sat there, blowing like a horse after the Kentucky Derby, watching with that same sense of dissociation as I came on this woman's body again and again.

"Oh, I fucking love that feeling!" She was still squirming over my fingers, her hands pushing the skin of my deflating dick calmly up and down. I wasn't sure what she meant. The remains of my load were now running slowly down onto my jeans.

"What?" I panted. "Cumming?"

"Yeah, I love that too." She let go of my prick and smacked my chest playfully, leaving a semen handprint. "No, I'm talking about that hot splash when a man's jizz comes out." She was playing on her own body now, doing finger painting with my cum on her chest. I watched mesmerized, the whole scene lit with a bluish pearly light. I could hear crickets outside. She was making swirled tribal patterns in her shallow cleavage, inseminating her nipples. It was the hottest thing I'd ever seen. At length, she looked furtively up at me. "Babe," she said, shaking her head slightly, "that was amazing."

"Damn skippy." I deflated, my wet dick drooping dangerously close to my clothing, but I didn't care. My fingers kept lazily spinning inside Crazy Gina's snatch, which she did not seem to mind. The car stank like a locker room overlaid by the starchy smell of bodily fluids. She pushed some of my cum absently down her body and rubbed it across her labia, stroking my hand once she got to it. "We shouldn't have done this."

"Nope." Gina remained pragmatic, even with her best friend's husband fingering her vagina. "But we did, and it was fucking awesome. So suck it up, buttercup." She came back in for another kiss, this one languid and gentle as my fingers slipped out of her. I was stroking her inner thigh again, my hand gliding through a film of her slowly trickling juices, when she finally backed off. "Okay, buddy," she said, wiping absently at her spermy breasts. "Time to get me back to school."

"School?" I was puzzled, trying to stuff myself back into my sodden boxers. "I'm not taking you home?"

"Why? My car's at school," she replied, shrugging.

"But..."

"Jesus, Andy. What am I, a stupid shithead? Like I'm parking in a handicap space!" She chuckled. "I made the whole thing up, parked across on the other side of the building. Let's just say I wanted to see your cock again, and I usually get what I want."

I leaned my head back against the crusty upholstery. "Don't be sad, Andy," she went on briskly. "You and she are no match for me when I'm on my game. And I think your dick would agree I was on my game tonight," she added with a wry chuckle. "You were, too."

"Huh." I felt used, but of course that was the wrong way of looking at it; nobody had forced me at gunpoint to whip my dick out for Crazy Gina, nor to dip my hand into her snatch. "I guess."

"Right. So let's get that carseat back in here and get me back. Your lovely wife is waiting," she cackled, "and so's my darling husband."

* * *

If I was apprehensive when I got home that night, I needn't have worried. Questions about why it had taken me so long to run Gina home, why I stank of sweat and pussy juice, why there were fresh cumstains all over my clothes, and why I was looking particularly guilty didn't materialize, as my wife had apparently passed out in bed midway through the dishes. I took a deep breath, had a quick shower, and went out with a flashlight to make sure the carseat fully covered the puddle that Crazy Gina's vagina had made on the upholstery. Then, I went to bed.

I'd expected to be tossing and turning, troubled by my conscience. Instead, I fell asleep almost immediately.

* * *

Life went on after that night, plodding in its normal course: I spent my days debugging code and my evenings halfway listening as my wife talked about work. With one exception: now, I found that my ears pricked up every time she mentioned Gina's name.

"Oh, you'll never guess what she said today," she said one night about a week after Gina and I had made each other cum. "I found this weird stain in the back of my car; I guess one of the kids spilled something. So I was asking everyone how I should clean it out, since it was pretty stubborn."

"Huh." Guess my cleaning hadn't been as careful as I'd thought.

"Yeah. So Gina, she starts in on this story about how she gave some dude a handjob in the back of a car one night. Like, out back of a discount store. She said they were both going at it: she was totally naked and he had his penis out, and they were going crazy." She laughed. "Lucas' head was exploding, hearing this. I think he wants to fuck her, even though she scares him."

I tried to sound as uninterested as I usually did. "When was this?"

"How the hell should I know? Before she married Mike, obviously. She's not the type to fuck around, I don't think." I kept my attention studiously on my book. "So she was saying that he stuck a finger in her ass. Can you believe it?" She pondered. "I've heard men cum more if you do that; I guess it works for women, too."

"Hmm," I said noncommittally, looking automatically at my right pinkie.

"Yeah. She told me I should give it a try, but I said you wouldn't be interested in sticking your finger in anyone's ass." She smacked my arm affectionately.

"Huh." I had to ask. "What did she say to that?"

"Oh, I don't know. Something about how men will do anything if they're motivated, or something." She looked fondly at me. "But you're not doing anything in anyone's butt. Exit only. I know you too well."

Well, you certainly think you do... "Your faith in me is inspiring," I said dryly.

And yet still I'd be picking up my phone from time to time to file through Gina's text stream, looking at the picture of her ass. It never really got old: I had long since memorized every curve and contour, from the greenish-black angles of her tattoo to the spot where the thong disappeared out the bottom of her buttcrack. Then there were always her pussy pictures, covered and un-, which I could look at if I needed anything else.

I was trying hard not to become obsessed with Crazy Gina, but there was no use. I'd never been the kind of guy who could do something with a woman, notch it on the bedpost, and move on to the next one; no, I tended to brood. Once I'd seen a woman naked, or touched her, or kissed her, I tended to keep thinking about it. I'd always been that way in high school and college, but of course I hadn't had to worry about it since I'd met my wife; she was always there.

Now, though, the cycle was beginning again, just like when I'd lusted after Kelly Cooper after the seventh grade dance. We'd shared one clumsy turn on the dance floor (to Martika's "Toy Soldiers"), and it had wrecked me clear through until the end of high school. Hell, I was still hung up on some random girl I'd shared a grope with decades before, sleeping out before the Rose Parade.

Gina was all I was thinking about, which was no doubt what she intended. And as the Spring Fling preparations ramped up and my wife spent more time with Gina at school, I started to worry that she'd inadvertently let something slip, some innuendo that my wife wasn't too dense to catch. She was wholly unpredictable and, apparently, completely uninhibited, neither of which boded well for me the more time she spent around my wife.

The date of the Spring Fling drew closer, my wife spending more and more time at school. "Is this the kind of thing I'll need to come to?" I asked. Often, she wanted our kids at her school functions, and that meant I had to come along.

"Nah, not this time. Some of the high schoolers are setting up a daycare in one of the classrooms, and they'll have all kinds of activities and stuff. You'll just be home alone." She looked around. "You could do some cleaning, if you want."

"Stop it." I was already in charge of dishes, laundry, and most of the diaper changes; if I had a free night to myself, I'd probably just sit there with a beer and some kind of TV show. Nice. "I went last year, didn't I? I don't think I liked it."

"Right. And I'll be busy with Gina the whole time. So it's not like you're missing anything anyway."

Great. I checked my calendar; the Spring Fling was coming up in three more days, on Friday. I was already checking to see who was playing hockey that night.

* * *

When I got home Friday, blessedly free of responsibility for picking up any kids, I kicked the front door open and heaved a long sigh. I stepped over the mail, kicked a few Legos aside, and made it to the couch, where I slumped in total relief. A Friday with no kids, no wife, and no obligations; this hadn't happened to me in a long time. I had four hours or so: I could do anything I wanted.

So delicious was the feeling that at first I didn't even notice my phone twitching in my pocket; of course, I still had it on silent from being at work. It went for a few minutes, then went again more insistently: a flurry of texts was apparently coming across. I shook myself out of my torpor and pulled out the phone.

GUESS WHAT? It was my wife. GINA SKIPPED OUT ON ME.

SAYS HER KID IS SICK.

SHE'S AT THE ER NOW; SOMETHING RESPIRATORY.

I felt a sudden uneasy twinge. NEED ME TO COME GIVE YOU A HAND?

She sent back a happy face, then a quick NO NEED. PLENTY OF HELPERS HERE; IT'S JUST A DRAG, IS ALL.

No doubt. This was what she got for saddling herself with the most unreliable person in town, but of course I couldn't tell her that. I sent back a sympathetic message of the HANG IN THERE variety, then decided she'd be fine. I grabbed the remote and began thinking about dinner, destined to be a packet of ramen followed by a bowl of peanuts.

Which might not sound like much, but I was having fun remembering my college days. I sank back into the couch with a beer of far better quality than I'd been able to afford then, remembering football games, debate trips... part and parcel of a healthy American college experience. There had never been all that many women, especially once I'd met my wife in the middle of junior year.

She'd changed everything, and after we'd graduated I'd followed her here for grad school, and the rest was history. The kids had come along seven and two years ago, respectively, and now I was sunk into a comfortable and ambitionless life, happy and content but not really thrilled. Which might have explained my attraction to Crazy Gina.

And just as I thought that, the doorbell rang.

I stared blankly at the TV for a moment longer, not quite sure what I was expecting. The bowl of peanut shells sat in my lap, my beer half-finished next to my elbow, and it took me a few moments to realize what I'd heard. Because, see, I think I already knew who was at my front door. Rather than, say, at the ER with her sick kid.

She was, in fact, already calling me through the door. "It's cold out here, Andy." She was talking through the mail slot. "Come let me in!"

I'm not going to lie: a big part of me was annoyed that my perfect evening was spoiled. But a bigger part of me swung between worry at her arrival and absolute, crushing lust. I knew what was going to happen even before I got to the door, and my penis knew it too: it was already rising. "Who is it?"

"Jesus Christ, Andy. You had to have known I'd come over." Well no, in fact. "Or at least guessed." Not consciously, but I thought about it as I reached for the doorknob and realized that maybe there had been a flicker in the back of my mind when I got my wife's text. Whatever.

I opened my door to show petite Crazy Gina, looking like she'd just gotten out of bed. Frumpy sweat pants, flipflops, and a ratty concert T-shirt covered her firm, toned charms. "I see you dressed up for the Spring Fling," I said with a smile.