Goode Vibrations

by Jasinda Wilder

  Neither of us spoke a word, tension from the encounter rattling in the van like a marble in a soda can. Radio off; the only sound our breathing, the tires, and the hum of the engine. Despite his story about being lost, Errol navigated back to the highway without error, and without consulting GPS. We hit the highway, paused with our front tires on the paved road and our rear tires in the gravel. A brief glance left and right—the highway was empty at this hour, just past dawn—and then he hooked left to continue on the way we’d been going before making the turn-off.

  “You put yourself between me and him,” I said, eventually.

  He glanced at me, seeming a bit confused, if anything. “Well…yeah. Of course I did. He had a gun and I’d no way of knowing how friendly he’d be.”

  “I just…thank you for that.”

  “Don’t make it out to be some kind of great act of chivalry. It was instinct.”

  “To protect me.”

  He nodded, his expression serious. “Yeah. I mean, I protect things that I value.”

  “Most guys I’ve known wouldn’t have done that—stood between me and the threat.”

  “Then you’ve never met a proper man, have you? Only a sissy-fuck little boy would do anything but shield you in a situation like that. I’m not sayin’ this to sound like I’ve got antiquated notions of gender roles or anything, but it’s a man’s job to protect a woman. You can handle yourself just fine, I see that clear as anything. But if there’s danger, I’m not gonna sit around with my thumb in my mouth, I’m gonna nut up and take it on so you don’t have to.”

  That was fucking hot. I shifted on the seat; now that the danger was past, the heat of what had been interrupted came flooding back through me. “I’m sorry we got interrupted the way we did,” I said, letting my gaze drop to his groin, hoping he’d still have that hard-on going. Sadly, he didn’t.

  He chewed on the inside of his cheek, glanced at me. “What are you sorry for? Wasn’t anything you could’ve done.”

  “No, I mean…it was shitty timing.” I scraped my teeth over my lower lip. “I’m a firm believer that turnabout is fair play.”

  His gaze went heated. “That so?”

  “Yeah, absolutely.” I kept my eyes on him as he alternated between looking at me and at the road. “You made me feel…really fucking good, Errol. And I was looking forward to returning the favor.”

  He let out a tight, short breath. “Well, let’s just keep one thing straight, Poppy—what I did, I did because I needed to touch you. Needed to know what you look like, sound like, feel like when you come.” He held my gaze as long as he dared while driving. “Not because I was thinking about what you might do in return.” A pause. “When I give you an orgasm, all I want you to do is sit back and focus on enjoying it. Nothing else. Once it’s over, if you feel like there’s something you want from me, you just feel free to go about getting it. But don’t ever do anything because you think you’ve got to because of what I did. Only greedy, selfish children bother with immature shit like keeping track.”

  I laughed. “You’ve got quite an opinion on that, huh?”

  He smirked, chuckled. “Yeah, guess I do.”

  “Well, Errol, rest assured that I never do anything out of a sense of obligation. I’m a girl who knows what she wants, okay? And I’m not at all shy about taking what I want.” I reached out and rested a hand on his thigh.

  He held the wheel in both hands. “Glad we’re on the same page, then.”

  “What’s your last name?” I asked.

  He quirked an eyebrow at the non sequitur. “Sylvain.” He said it with a hint of a French accent—Sylv-ANH. “Errol Sylvain.”

  “Kiwi mum, French dad.” He jutted his chin at me. “You? What’s your last name?”

  “Goode,” I said. “Poppy Goode. G-O-O-D-E.”

  “Let’s go one better. Full name.” He flicked his sunglasses down onto his face—I think he’d actually slept in them, or he’d slipped them on the moment he woke up, I wasn’t sure. “My full name is Errol Bastien Sylvain.”

  “Poppy Estelle Goode.”

  Silence. He glanced at me, and even though his Wayfarers were too darkly tinted to let me see his eyes, I could feel them on my breasts. “How long have you had your nipples pierced?”

  I glanced down at the objects in question—the piercings visible as dimples against the white cotton of the shirt. “Oh, not long, actually. Three months, maybe.”

  “What made you get them?”

  I let my hand sidle upward on his thigh. “Well, it’s kind of a story.”

  “You’ve heard plenty of mine. I’m keen for one of yours.”

  I sighed. “It’s not really one with sad bits in it, but it goes something like this…once upon a time, I had a boyfriend, and things were super great. We dated for about six months, pretty low-key, nothing serious, but good times and what I thought was a standard unspoken agreement to fidelity, you know? Then, I had, in the words of Judith Viorst, a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Some clumsy moron in the art department spilled paint all over a nearly finished painting, totally ruining three weeks of work. And then I tripped on my own feet and spilled my mocha all over myself, ruining my favorite white button-down and the white bra underneath, plus burning my neck and chest and arms all to hell. Then, on the way home to change, it started raining buckets, turning my brown-stained shirt totally see-through, and a taxi ran through a puddle and splashed me…and then as I was almost back to the shitty apartment I shared with two other girls, I dropped my cell phone and it went down a storm drain.”

  “Wow. That is a bad day.”

  “That was just the cake. Ready for the icing, and the cherry on top?” I stared straight ahead and tried to relate the event without letting myself feel the memory of it. “I walk into my apartment. Started ripping off my wet, ruined clothes, needing a hot shower and a glass of wine so fucking bad. By the time I get to my room, I’m down to my underwear and socks. Now, you need to understand one thing, first. I lived with my two best friends. We’d met day one at Columbia, at orientation. We all lived in university housing first semester and then moved out together and got an apartment, me and Shannyn and Yvonne. Shannyn was my real deal, best-best friend, and I was friends with Yvonne because she was childhood friends with Shannyn…anyway. Point is, we weren’t just roommates.”

  Errol was already wincing. “No. You didn’t. He wasn’t.”

  “Oh yes, he was. Fucking both of them. In my bed. Not Shannyn’s bed, not Yvonne’s bed. MY motherfucking bed. I’ll never forget that moment as long as I live, and fucking trust me; I’ve tried to forget it. Shannyn was riding him reverse cowgirl, and Yvonne was sitting on his face, and they were both making out while he ate out Yvonne and fucked Shannyn. It was like something out of a porno.”

  “No way. In your bed?”

  “Yeah. My bed.”

  “Like, why, though? Just to twist the knife even more?”

  “I guess, I don’t know. I didn’t stop to ask. I marched into my room, all but buck-ass naked. Shannyn and Yvonne scrambled off Reed and they all started stammering fucking stupid-ass excuses, like it’s not what you think, blah-fucking blah. Reed sat up, and as soon as he was halfway vertical, I punched him in the nose as hard as I could. Broke that fucker’s nose, too. Still naked, mind you, I punched both of my ex-friends, and then dressed, packed my shit, and walked to a friend’s house. I got promptly shitfaced, and somehow we ended up at this piercing party in the Bronx. I was hammered, and it sounded like a good idea. Especially when the girl doing the piercing explained what it was like to have your nipples sucked on with piercings. So I got them pierced.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Like a sonofabitch,” I said, laughing, “and I was drunk at the time, and not really feeling much.”

  His eyes flicked to my boobs again. “And? What’s it feel like to have them sucked on?”

  My tongue compulsively traced the corner of my mouth, a nervous habit of mine. “I don’t know,
” I muttered, my eyes on his, or where his would be if they weren’t hidden behind sunglasses. “No one has sucked my nipples since I got them pierced.”

  He bit his lip. “What a fucking shame,” Errol whispered. “Can I fucking please be the first?”

  I swallowed hard. “If Farmer Jebediah hadn’t shown up when he did, you’d be sucking on them right now.” I reached out, leaned over, slid his sunglasses up onto his head so I could see those wild, hot, Aegean-blue eyes of his.

  “Fuck,” he growled under his breath. “I’m about ten seconds from pulling over and taking our chances of not getting got on the side of the road.”

  I was so damn horny in that moment that I nearly agreed. Only a narrow thread of caution, in the form of a memory of my sister Lexi having once gotten a ticket for public indecency for doing exactly what Errol was proposing, stopped me.

  “I’d rather not risk an encounter with the police while naked,” I said.

  “Fuck. A side road, then?” His expression was tight, hard, jaw clenched and tensing, as if he was only just barely restraining himself from doing something inadvisable.

  “We just left a side road so remote no one should ever have found us,” I pointed out. “I’m just as eager as you are, but I also know my sister got a public indecency ticket and said it really ruined the fun.”

  He growled. “Shit. No, being in the States on a temporary visa with only a New Zealand driving license, I really can’t afford legal trouble.”

  He looked so unhappy, so forlorn, so irritated and turned on and frustrated. I just had to take pity on him, didn’t I?

  Of course I did.

  Checking the road ahead and behind us—totally deserted, and we hadn’t seen another car the entire ten almost fifteen minutes we’d been on the highway—I pressed the button to release my seat belt buckle. It caught on the bulge of my breast, slipped over the mound, and snapped back against the pillar. Errol’s eyes cut to mine, raked down my body.

  I only hesitated a moment, then my tongue did its nervous tic of flicking over the corner of my lip, back and forth, back and forth. His eyes caught the motion of my tongue, and he sucked in a deep breath, hissed it out. “Drives me nuts when you do that.”

  “In a good way, or a bad way?” I asked.

  “In a way like I want to suck your tongue into my mouth.”

  “Oh.” I gathered the lower edge of my tank top in my hands. “I like the sound of that.”

  “Poppy, my restraint is just about munted.”

  I grinned, slow, promising him with my eyes and my smile what I was about to do. “You just hold on to that steering wheel, Errol.” I tugged the shirt down, flattening and stretching it against my boobs. “Keep us on the road. The sooner you get us to civilization and a motel room, the sooner you get your hands…and mouth…and…other parts, on me.” I felt and heard the engine rev as he mashed the pedal down. “A speeding ticket won’t help, though.”

  “Fucking hell,” he snarled. “I’m losing my shit, here.”

  His eyes went to my chest, flicked to the road, back to me. “God, your tits are fucking fabulous.”

  I smirked at him, and I knew seduction was in my gaze. “What…these?” I tugged down until my tits popped out, and then drew one arm and then other out of the straps, and now I was topless, the shirt around my midsection.

  “Jesus…fuck,” he breathed. Slowed, foot coming all the way off the accelerator as he stared, open-mouthed. “How the fuck are you real?”

  I played with them for him, squeezing, lifting and releasing with a jiggly bounce that set them swaying, flicking the bar through my nipples until they stood on end, aching, tight. Errol swallowed hard, and his breathing came in short huffs, and he was shifting in his seat in an attempt to adjust himself without touching himself, without letting go of the steering wheel.

  “Looks like you’re having an issue over there,” I said, tongue licking my lower lip on its way to the corner of my mouth.

  “Yeah, my issue is I’ve got a half-naked woman next to me, and she’s the most beautiful human being I’ve ever seen in my life, and if I don’t get to put my hands on those glorious fuckin’ tits of yours I might just die right here.”

  I ran my fingertips in a light teasing touch over his bare arm from the sleeve of his muscle shirt over the outside of his bicep, over his forearm, to his wrist. Guided his hand to my breast. “I wouldn’t want you to die. I mean, if you die, we crash and I die, and then we wouldn’t get to have hot monkey sex later.” I closed my eyes and groaned as his big strong rough hand closed over my breast, kneading the soft flesh and lifting the heavy weight of it, weighing it in his palm, brushing his thumb over the nipple, tweaking the piercing—which was a silver bar with fake pink diamonds capping the bar on either side. “So really, you touching my boobs is saving both our lives.”

  He laughed. “Fucking hell, Poppy, I love the way you think. Can I save our lives more often?”

  “If you promise to play with my piercing like that every time…then I’d wouldn’t just let you, I’d make you.”

  “Make me? I beg to be allowed to worship at the altar of your tits, Poppy. Consider me your acolyte, my goddess. Allow me the privilege of worshipping you.”

  I laughed, but the laugh turned to another groan, because he was just gentle enough as he flicked and tweaked, and also just rough enough.

  I shifted to angle toward him, giving him access to the other one. “Righty wants some touches, too, you know.”

  He rasped a hoarse laugh, eyes soaking up my topless form as often and for as long as he dared while safely operating a moving vehicle. This was, perhaps, a little risky. But god, so worth it.

  Finally, though the issue he was having inside his board shorts consumed my attention—namely, his cock was bent and angled inside the shorts in such a way that he couldn’t entirely unfurl. I just…I had to help him.

  I gently detached his hand and returned it to the wheel. Turned fully sideways in my seat, putting my feet in the open space between his seat and mine. He glanced at me, clearly not liking having my boobs taken away from his hand, wondering what my next play would be.

  I unbuckled the latch, and he let it slide away to snap into place. Held his gaze as I found the laces of his shorts. My hair had come mostly loose from the braid at some point, and would get in the way, so I twisted it into a loose, sloppy bun at the top of my head and tied it in place with the extra hair tie I wore on my left wrist. His eyes, to his credit, ran over my face, taking in how I looked with my hair up.

  “So…fucking…gorgeous,” he breathed.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “Now. Don’t speed, and don’t swerve.”

  “Don’t speed, don’t swerve. I’ll do my best.” He knew, I think, what I was about to do—it was fairly obvious—but he still seemed like he was holding his breath, not quite believing I really meant to do it.

  I untied the laces, loosened them. “Butt up,” I said, and he obeyed, lifting his butt off the seat, and I tugged the shorts down around his thighs.

  His cock straightened instantly, slapping against his belly with a loud thwap.

  My jaw dropped. His cock was…fucking incredible. I’d felt the outline of it earlier, but feeling the outline of it behind shorts does nothing compared to seeing it bare, and begging for attention.

  Fat. Big, fat, plump cock. Pink, contrasting beautifully against his otherwise sun-golden skin. He was cut, and the head was a broad circle, weeping precum. Trimmed black pubic hair, a buzzed thatch around the base, a few runaway hairs on his shaft. Long, straight—how long? Don’t know, don’t care. Long enough to put to shame anyone I’d ever hooked up with by a vast measure of inches, but shy of being too big. It was so damn thick, though. God, he would stretch me so tight.

  He was breathing slowly, his stomach sucked in. Waiting.

  Mustn’t keep him waiting.

  I reached out and took him in my fist. God, I couldn’t make my fingers meet around his girth. It took both hands to span
him—granted, I have ridiculously small hands for a girl built like me. I mean, I’m not short at five-seven and a half, and I’ve got huge tits, a lot of ass, thick thighs, a tight waist but still nothing close to being a size zero, or even single digits, not that I give a fuck about that, but still. I’m not a dainty thing. I once had a guy compliment on an IG post, “Damn girl, you THICCCCC!” Which I took as a compliment. That being said, I have tiny hands, and according to the female doctor at my last ob/gyn checkup, a very small hoo-ha.

  I maneuvered myself so I could comfortably bend over him, between his chest and the steering wheel. One of his hands rested on my back, and then began making soft slow scratching circles, which was confusing, because who doesn’t love a good back scratching, but while I was about to blow him? Confusing, somehow. I liked it, though. He drove with one hand and roamed my back, my shoulders, my neck, toyed with my ears, my arms, traced my cheekbone with the back of his fingers, reached as far down my back as he could, and then scratched and smoothed back up, making a circuit.

  Affection. Intimate. My heart hammered, because he wasn’t supposed to touch me like that. Grab my hair, maybe.

  Kneeling over him, I glanced up at him. Stroked him in both fists. Grinned up at him. “I know I don’t have to tell you this, but Errol, you have a magnificent penis.”

  He laughed. “A magnificent penis, huh?”

  “Glorious.”

  “You know, the first real look I got at your tits, that was the word I had in my head—glorious.”

  I bit my lower lip. “Well. I’ve got glorious tits, you have a glorious cock…” I clenched my breasts together and lowered them onto his cock, feeding it between them and lifting and lowering until he started groaning.

  “Holy fuck, Poppy,” he grated through clenched teeth. “Holy…fuck.”