The driver's seat is cool against my bare skin, a sensation that has become as familiar as breathing. Every muscle in my body is coiled with a tension that is both agony and ecstasy, and it all centers on the man sitting in the passenger seat.
He doesn't even have to speak to command me. His presence is a gravitational pull, and I am a willing satellite caught in his orbit.
I remember the day he first looked at me, really looked at me, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur that seemed to bypass my ears and settle directly into my soul. He spoke of devotion, of a love so pure and all-consuming it would become the very air I breathed. He promised me a purpose, and he delivered. I am hopelessly, madly in love with him. It's a fact as solid and unchangeable as the Earth turning on its axis. The fact that he shows me so little affection in return is irrelevant. My love is not dependent on his actions. My loyalty and devotion are not so fragile as to be shattered by his indifference or neglect.
My purpose is simple and twofold: nearness and usefulness. To this end, I have become his everything. His personal driver and assistant. My clothes are a hindrance - a barrier between my skin and his occasional touch - so I drive him naked. He prefers me that way, anyway. The city lights blur past the tinted windows, but my focus is narrow, absolute. The destination he's requested and the sound of his voice.
"Turn here, Letty," he says, his tone casual. I obey instantly, the car gliding smoothly down a quiet residential street. His fingers, long and soft, brush against the naked skin of my thigh. "That's good girl."
My pussy quivers and clenches at just the words. I wonder what would happen if he'd actually touch me someday. What those soft fingers would feel like inside me. Could my coiled mind even survive it?
"I'm always ready for you, Kyle," I breathe, the words a sacred vow. It's the truest thing I've ever said.
He chuckles, a low, rich sound that makes my stomach clench. His fingers dance closer and closer to my needy, desperate wetness. Closer. Closer. I want to let my eyes close to feel it more fully, but I have to keep watching the road. And then, in the instant before he touches my bare pussy, his hand disappears back to his own lap. "I know," he says with a self-satisfied smile.
He directs me to a sleek, modern apartment complex. "This is the one," he says, and I know what that means. Another night where he will give a stranger the affection I crave. Another woman who will cum on the cock that I worship but never see or taste or feel. He doesn't need to tell me her name or what she looks like, though he will. It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that he is happy, that he is satisfied. His pleasure is my pleasure.
I pull up to the curb and put the car in park. The engine's low hum is the only sound. He opens his door, but before he gets out, he leans in close to my ear. His breath is warm against my skin.
"Wait for me," he whispers. "Don't go anywhere."
"I won't," I promise. "I'll be right here."
He smiles, a slow, predatory curve of his lips, and then he's gone. I watch him walk towards the entrance, his confident stride never faltering. He doesn't look back. He knows I won't move. I am his, anchored to this spot until he returns.
The minutes stretch. The city sleeps, but I am wide awake. The silence of the car feels like a cathedral, and my devotion is the prayer. I close my eyes and I can see it so clearly: Kyle in that apartment, his hands on another woman's skin. I can almost hear his low groans, the sound of him losing himself in pleasure. The thought doesn't bring me pain or jealousy. It brings me a profound, dizzying sense of connection. I am lucky enough to be part of it. By serving him, I bring him to his pleasure.
My hand drifts down, over the flat plane of my stomach, and between my legs. I am already wet from his teasing touch. I touch myself, my fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves with practiced ease. I don't rush. I don't need to. I've been on enough of these drives to know how long he takes to finish. I imagine him up there, his body moving with powerful, rhythmic thrusts. I imagine his face, contorted in ecstasy, the sounds he would make. My own breathing hitches, the pressure building low in my belly.
I think of his voice all those times after each drive where he's told me all the things he did with the women I drive him to. All the ways he's pleasured them. All the times they've made him cum and how and where.
I bring myself to the edge, my hips rocking against the leather seat, my mind filled with nothing but images of him. I picture him kissing her, his tongue claiming her mouth, and I let out a soft moan. My fingers move faster, circling, pressing. The pleasure crests, a wave that crashes over me, leaving me trembling and breathless. A physical manifestation of my love.
I slump back against the seat, my skin flushed, my heart pounding. I wait. And I wait. An hour passes. Then two. I don't check my phone. I don't listen to the radio. I just sit, naked and devoted, the moisture between my legs slowly drying in the open air of the car.
Finally, I see him. He emerges from the building, looking relaxed, satisfied. He walks back to the car and slides into the back seat. The air around him seems to shimmer with the energy of his conquest. He sniffs the air as he gets in and shoots me a look that tells me he knows what I did while he was away.
"Her name was Lottie," he says as he buckles his seat belt. "So close to your name."
His words sting slightly. So close. But different enough to have him.
"Do you want to know how many times she made me cum?"
"Yes, Kyle," I said, pulling out of the parking spot and making room in my mind for another story to use on our next drive. "Tell me everything."
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