She liked to be watched. [MF][M]

First semester of university was a big culture shock, and I was relieved to be going home, 90 miles away from school, for Thanksgiving break. There’d been a cold snap, and the few leaves still clutching to tree branches flared scarlet in the headlights’ beams as my father drove me through my hometown back to the house.

After family hugs, kisses, questions and answers, I made my excuses and headed downstairs to my old stomping grounds. My hand flipped on the rumpus room lights, picked up the cordless phone, and dialed my best friend’s number without any conscious effort or memory on my part.

“Hey man, glad you’re back!” Jay drawled in my ear. “Come on over at ten, we gotta go out tonight. Bring your car, ‘cause Roxanne is in the shop.” Roxanne was his red 1991 Pontiac Firebird that had replaced Betsy, his green 1978 Oldsmobile Cutlass, early in his senior year. I hadn’t been allowed to take my car to school as a freshman. He’d been roaring around town in bucket seats, scraping by in basic courses, while I’d been grappling with distant lecture halls, weed-out organic chemistry, and a student body that had two women for every man—none of them interested in me.

At ten precisely, I pulled up in Jay’s driveway in my 1991 Ford Taurus that had stayed home first semester. Jay ran from the carport as I got out, and we bro-hugged in the headlights.

“Hey, man, you remember Jenny Smith?” Jay asked as I flew around curves and rolled through the stop signs of familiar byways.

“The new girl in your grade? I don’t remember much,” I replied. My only real interaction with her over the previous year had been offering her a ride to school in the morning after she’d missed the bus. I’d driven by a dogged, slight mousy-haired figure on the side of the road, gracelessly plodding one foot in front of the other through old dirty snow, eyes straight forward, thick clouds of breath puffing out of the grimace on her face. I’d turned into the next driveway, maneuvered in the slushy gravel so I could head back out, and yelled her name out my window. On hearing me yell her name, she had RUN through the slush to the back door I’d opened and leapt into the backseat. Jenny had chattered her thanks repeatedly the entire way to school, slim frame shivering and teeth clattering, unused to the weather and the snow. After that, she had thawed towards me, giving me the occasional smile, wave, or “Hey, Russ.”

“After I get a pack of Reds, let’s pick up Jenny,” Jay suggested, bringing me back to the present. I agreed. Jay was agreeable, except when he was earnestly convincing. He had always been the explorer, the bold, the first to try everything, and often wouldn’t tell me his plans beforehand so I couldn’t naysay them. It worked because if and when trouble arose, I was the one who could get us out, because I was known through my hometown as a scholar, a Good Boy and a Good Influence. Yes, looking back, I was a doormat, and yes, I resented it even as I consciously denied it, but that night didn’t seem troublesome or unusual in that aspect.

At SpeedMart, Jay effortlessly piloted his bulk across the parking lot to the counter inside, his broad back rippling and stretching his hoodie. “Jay looks like a goddamned GI Joe,” one of my classmates had said irritably before graduation. His musculature got him attention, but his charisma got him laid, a lot. I sure as hell envied his hard body and easy manners. In fifteen years of friendship, I still hadn’t picked up how the trick worked, and I was well on my way to the Freshman Fifteen.

Jay pushed the store door back open and exited, palm-packing his cigarettes on the way back to the car. “It’s actually really close,” he said as he sat down and buckled. “Right down Ararat Way.” He indicated east across Glendale Avenue with his lighter. A fresh coffin nail popped into his mouth as he rolled down the passenger window. Cold or not, he needed his nicotine, and I was too passive to forbid him from smoking in my car.

I parked a little bit down the street from Jenny’s house at Jay’s request. The brick facade was dark and silent; surely the Smiths had traveled out of town for tomorrow’s feast? “Stay here,” Jay ordered, as he got out of the car. The passenger window was still down, and I didn’t need to see the cherry on his cigarette to follow Jay’s roundabout path to the rear of the house. Mr. Smith clearly hadn’t raked yet. Every step Jay took crackled with alarm and dread as dead leaves crumbled under his Chucks, threatening to alert suspicious parents.

I waited patiently, I told myself. *Five minutes,* I told myself. Owls hooted from above. Cold crickets chirped sleepily. I tried to count the chirps in fifteen seconds to get an approximation of the temperature—what was that formula again?

Leaf corpses cried out again; two sets of feet were approaching now. Jay showed himself first, crushing dead leaves underfoot into the dormant yellow Bermuda grass lawn made garish green by the streetlight.

Behind him was a wispy white phantasm. No, it wasn’t a smoky apparition, it was a white girl in a white nightgown, moving in and out of starlight and shadow, flapping with the wind and the walking, deftly avoiding the leaves as much as possible. Jenny’s chest, limbs and face were rosy with chill, and what the hell was up with her hat?

Oh. *Oh.* This wasn’t a trick of the uncanny buzzing streetlight. Jenny had bleached her hair platinum blonde—even her brows—and gotten a short pixie cut. I’d had a thing for Angelina Jolie in *Hackers* a couple of years back. Behind Jay walked the closest hometown non-union 18-year-old platinum blonde equivalent.

“Hey, Russ,” Jenny said to me as she slid into the backseat. In the dome light of the car cabin, the nightgown was substantial and decidedly opaque, but its fit accentuated her slim curves, and it’s hem only barely covered her pelvis. She grinned and shivered. “Can you turn the heat on, please?” She didn’t even have slippers—her bare feet shed dry leaf bits on my floor mats. I started the car and flipped the heat up to max, tongue-tied.

Darkness fell over the cabin as Jenny closed the back passenger door. Jay stayed outside the front passenger door, still puffing on his cigarette. I rolled up his window silently, not trusting my mouth to form proper words or meaningful sentences in reply to Jenny. *Hoozawuzza?* I thought wildly as the blood in my brain migrated south. *Would you like a hot chocolate to go with your poky nipples?*

I *needed* Jay to sit in the passenger seat and turn on the charm, just like always, or this joyride would be over before it started.

The back driver door opening startled me. Jay had circled behind my car, through the plume of exhaust, so he could sit in the back with Jenny. He closed the door, buckled his seatbelt, and said “Let’s go to the bypass,” before turning his full attention to the chilly girl without clothes next to him.

(A note about the bypass: when it was opened in 1994, it promised quick and easy drives to neighboring cities and an end to the biannual traffic jams on race weekend. What it ended up doing was killing the few tourist-oriented businesses left in the city, as NASCAR fans bypassed urban capillaries and honest commerce in favor of arterial rural monotony and raceway price-gouging. But it was the one place nearby where a driver could put the pedal to the metal with little fear of a ticket, if only until the State Line exit, and at this time of night no other drivers would notice or bother teenagers making out in a moving car.)

I drove the posted limit to the bypass on-ramp while Jay and Jenny made out like, well, like teenagers. I couldn’t see what was going on, but over the engine I could hear moist lips, hot breath, and tightened fabric. *My* lips were dry, *my* breath was held. I stayed warily in my lane. *Something* was about to happen… but what?

As the right turn signal clicked off and I accelerated onto the bypass proper, I heard a zipper.

New slurps and moans replaced the earlier sounds of teenage abandon, which now seemed but quaint, childish fumblings. “Open her up,” Jay told me thickly. He meant the car’s throttle. Jenny said nothing, but the slurping continued.

*Fuck that,* I thought. I wasn’t about to risk a speeding ticket or worse just so my friend could set a land-speed record for jizz. I kept the car’s speed steady and legal. Furtively, periodically, I glanced in my rear view mirror to creep out on what was happening in my car’s backseat. The mirror didn’t disappoint; it reflected a softcore edit of a Cronenburg film, as Jenny’s blonde pixie cut bobbed steadily on an unseen piston.

At State Line, I turned right again, back toward the hills and curves of my hometown. Jay no longer cared about speed or heat or anything outside of his lap. His hands gripped the upholstery to hold himself steady. The blonde cap cycled unceasingly just out of sight, the nightgown rustling over Jenny’s torso in a constant whooshing rhythm. Her mechanical motion and silken sighs never deviated as I piloted my impromptu secret sexmobile through the industrial city limits and into the old founders’ neighborhood.

It was the graceless walk to school in the snow all over again, I realized. She has the wrong idea how to give head, but she’s invested in it, and eventually she figures she *will* get him off, if only she bobs her head on his cock enough times. That can’t be much fun for her, I decided, and I should do something about that—but what could I possibly do that wouldn’t be creepy as fuck?

On a straight avenue lined with the homes of long-dead factory owners, I made my move. I conspicuously *swiveled* my rearview mirror to a more revealing angle, in defiance of the vehicle safety laws of the Commonwealth. Jenny’s eyes caught the motion; she searched for and met my eyes in the mirror. Transfixed, like a deer in headlights, I slowed the car so as to avoid sudden hazards (like deer in headlights, natch). Her eyes continued to stare into mine. My jeans rubbed my stiffening dick uncomfortably. Who knew eyes were sexier than tits? I slowed further and pulled to the shoulder to watch a woman I barely knew deep-throat my childhood friend and, as of late, manipulative user.

Jenny varied her head’s rhythm as I watched, but her eyes refused to leave mine. Her lips changed shape and retreated from Jay’s cock; was she *smiling?* Her hand crept between her thighs and moved with a swift, sure skill unseen in her plodding snowbound stride or her robotic oral. I tried in vain to see what she was doing between her legs. Did she have platinum blonde pubic hair now too? Only my left hand remained on the wheel at ten o’clock, as my right hand compulsively stroked my rock-hard cock through faded denim. Jenny dropped her eyes from my face, her lashes mussed with sweat and effort, and rose to meet my eyes again with a twinkle, and by God, she *was* smiling! She increased the speed of her head and her hand, she closed her eyes absently as she let herself go, she tightened her dripping lips against Jay’s shaft, she moaned with a throat full of manmeat.

Something was happening indeed. Jenny might have had Jay’s dick in her mouth, but she was *getting off* to *me.* She was discovering that she liked to be watched, and lucky me got to be the first to watch her. I still consider it a gift and an honor.

Jay caught his breath, tensed his body against the car, and cried out. Jenny slowed her head and her hand with a muffled squeal. I finally braked fully and shifted into park, eyes desperately looking anywhere but the weird public sex in the reflection, but I couldn’t help myself. I *needed* to see what was in the lopsided mirror. I looked.

Jenny locked her gaze with mine for the last time that night. She raised her head completely free of Jay’s twitching member and carefully collected all the excess semen from her lips with her tongue. I lost her gaze as she closed her mouth and raised her chin. Her throat pulsed powerfully in the starlight, and I marveled that this woman, this *goddess* who barely knew me, was making sure I would remember and replay these events for the rest of my life, just by drawing my attention to her throat as she swallowed.

Head leveled, mouth emptied, tongue freed, eyes aimed out the window, Jenny said “I better get back” to no one in particular.

I don’t remember the drive back to Ararat Way, if any of us even said anything or offered each other any physical affection. Blue balls did not impair my operation of a motor vehicle, but they did something to my memory, for certain.

“Here,” Jenny said eventually, because I’d forgotten which house was hers. Jay mumbled something. We ignored him. He didn’t even try to say he’d call, let alone thank her or hug her or kiss her. His charm had drained from his body alongside his cum.

As she opened the car door to brave the chill November night in a wet and flimsy nightgown, Jenny said, “See you at Christmas, Russ.”

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/8v352s/she_liked_to_be_watched_mfm