Some people call the 944 the “poor man’s Porsche.” Yes, it was relatively cheap for a car that can perform that well. And yes, it is not nearly as well known as the 911. I think that’s why I like it so much. Like a typical sailor, as soon as got my enlistment bonus, I went and blew it all on a car. A Canary Yellow 1987 Porsche 944. I love that car.
But, that left me broke, which is how I came to live in this flop house. A bunch of guys from the ship got together and rented a house. With the rent split 6 ways, it was very affordable, but it wasn’t the best living conditions. Someone comes home shitfaced every night, fucks up the kitchen. No one cleans. The place was also a revolving door of skanks.
Ryan, fucking asshole, was the worst. More than once someone has had to drag his latest conquest out of his bed before his real girlfriend arrived. On the occasions she would find some half naked hussy passed out on top of him, he would get mad at her for coming over so early. Fucking asshole.
I’m up early, washing my car in front of the house, trying to get out of there before all the morning after drama starts. Samantha, Ryan’s actual girlfriend, comes walking up the drive in a floral patterned sun dress, short enough to show off her amazing legs, but long enough to still leave plenty to the imagination. It’s low cut in the front, but not slutty. Samantha has small, perky tits, and I don’t think I have ever seen her with a bra on, and I make a point to look. She stands at the back of the car, watching me, looking at the car. A gentle breeze is teasing her dress, floating it up just enough to give me hope, and bathing me in the smell of her lotion. Coconut, I don’t even like coconuts, but goddamn she smells good.
“Morning Samantha.”
“I’ve told you, call me Sam, it’s fine.”
“Sure, Samantha.” I say her name in a playful way, it’s my thing, calling her Samantha, absolutely no one else does.
“You spend a lot of time on that car.”
“I love that car.”
“Is it, like, rare, or something, yours is the only one I’ve ever seen?”
“Samantha, since when do you care about cars?”
“Since right now, and I’ve been spotted from the window, I’m killing time so that he can….tidy up.”
Tidy up. His girlfriend is standing in the yard, giving him time to get rid of the evidence from the night before. Ryan, fucking asshole.
We walk to the house together, she has made the mistake of asking more than one question about the 944, and is hearing all about weight distribution and compression ratios.
Ryan, fucking asshole, meets us at the door.
“Hey babe, he boring with that stupid car?”
“It sounds pretty fast, I mean, I think that’s what you were saying.”
“Yeah, it’s a Porsche, it’s pretty fast.”
A while back, we had a liberty call in Spain, and some us were renting cars, to get away from the Naval base for a day. Ryan, fucking asshole, was in line in front of me, and I overheard him tell the clerk that he can’t drive a manual transmission. He does not know that I know that, and I have been waiting for the right time to give him shit about it.
“Here, take her for spin.” I unexpectedly, and a little too forcefully, throw my keys at Ryan’s chest. They hit him, he fumbles to catch them, fails, and they fall to the floor. I don’t even try to hide my smirk. Fucking asshole.
“Fuck that, I’m not driving that bright yellow piece of shit.”
“That sounds fun, babe, take me for ride.” Samantha begs him, placing some extra emphasis on ‘ride.’
“No babe, it’ll probably break down, and he’ll blame me for his car being shitty. Besides, since when do you care about cars?”
“Since right now!”
“Sam, it’s not like you’d know if you were in a good car or not, you don’t know shit about cars, just let it go babe.”
Ryan, fucking asshole.
Samantha watches two strumpets emerge from the back hallway, wearing their club clothes from the night before, smeared makeup, sex hair. I wonder if she’s trying to figure out which one her boyfriend fucked. I wonder if he even knows. Ryan, fucking asshole. She looks at him, shakes her head no, looks at me, and demands:
“You drive then.”
Ryan, fucking asshole, snatches my keys off the floor and wings them right at my face as hard as he can, which is quite hard, and accurate. Somehow, (I don’t have particularly quick reflexes, or excess coordination) I manage to Cobra Hand the keys right before they hit me. I imagine it looked badass, but I instantly regretted it, one of the keys stabbed my palm, and broke the skin. Samantha was at the passenger door when I started down the porch stairs, I was at almost a full run when I reached the car, and it took every ounce of restraint I have not to Bo Duke across the hood. I love that car. Ryan, fucking asshole, was pouring out onto the porch with everyone else, shouting some kind of threat at Samantha. But the roar of the engine drowned all that out. And within a matter of seconds Samantha and I were skidding out of the driveway.
The 180 turn is way easier than it looks. It can be perfected in the matter of an afternoon, and I had been practicing for weeks. You need enough speed to get the car to slide when you lock the brakes, but not too much or you’ll spin too far around. Clutch, snatch the handbrake, whip the steering wheel a half turn, while releasing the handbrake, down shift, and accelerate out of it, now going in the opposite direction. It puts up a dense fog of smoke and screeching tires. The small congregation on the porch is in an uproar when we pass the house. I look over at Samantha and the fear of thinking I was going to crash had pushed every other thought and feeling from her. Now it was all being replaced by joy. Her eyes were wide and fixed on the road ahead, her mouth slightly open, unable to contain her smile. I caught a glimpse from the rear view of Ryan dragging one of last night leftovers back into the house. Fucking asshole.
“Holy shit! Did you do that on purpose! That was awesome!”
I was doing a buck ten when we took the on ramp, I let off the gas an coasted to a respectable 20 over the speed limit. The windows were open, her dress was being blown around like a plastic bag in an artsy film. Her panties were almost the same color caramel as her skin, I had to do a double take when I first saw them, I thought she wasn’t wearing any. She saw my reaction, and kind of spread her legs open a little more, not enough to invite me into her downstairs, but enough to let me know a hand on her thigh would be welcome. I moved my right hand deliberately from the stick to her awaiting thigh. It felt like heaven. Warm skin, silky smoothe, toned muscle. I squeezed her a little, and she responded with a smile. I slowly moved my hand from the respectable position on top of her leg, to a more PG-13 spot on her inner thigh. She spread her legs a little more, and I took the hint further up, up…
“Oh my god are you bleeding,” she gasped. I look down, and suddenly all the adrenaline and desire left my body and was replaced by the stinging pain in my palm. Ryan, fucking asshole, my hand was bleeding from my goddamn keys. Which I had smeared up the inside of her perfect leg, leaving a very visible indication of just how far she had let this go. And with that the spell was broken, my dreams of making Samantha cum on the hood of my car evaporated into a cloud of engine exhaust. She started pulling out tissues, and cleaning herself up, and fussing over my minor cut.
“Ryan, he can be an asshole sometimes, but he’s really a nice guy. I wonder what he’s doing right now? Oh god, I hope he’s not too mad. Can you take me back?”
“Yeah, of course”
Ryan, fucking asshole, had drug this helpless hussy up stairs, and into my bedroom. He pushed her, face down into my bed. Ripped her leggings open from the back, spread her cheeks so wide that her eyes teared up, and spit right into her back hole. He starts talking all kinds of shit about me, and what a little slut Samantha is, he barely noticed this chicks screams as he was grudge fucking her asshole. He’s just slamming the shit out of her assways, cursing under his breath, while Samantha is worrying about his feelings. After about three minutes of absent minded hate fucking, he cums in her ass. Fucking asshole.
I let Samantha out at the end of the driveway. I’m not scared to go back in the house, I just need to be away from her, away from her and him together.
Samantha looks at me the way you look at a kid who dropped their ice cream. “I’m sorry about all this, I didn’t mean to…it’s just that… you’re a really good friend, and I would hate to lose that.”
Ryan walks out to meet her in the drive. I can hear him blaming this all on her, and Samantha agreeing, apologizing, and then giggling the words makeup sex, and he hasn’t washed either of the other two off his dick. Fucking asshole.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/wwhqbr/i_love_that_car_mf18