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Ten and a half hours into a twelve hour road trip, your radio cuts out.
It’d been sputtering for a while between Oldies FM and Late Night with Delilah, giving way to longer and longer washes of static, just blips of melody or words in between, when Kim finally put it out of its misery. Now it’s silent on the long, dark motorway, the shadow of Kim’s brow occasionally illuminated by yellow guiding lights.
YOU: “Want me to take over?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Thank you, but no.” He does not pause to consider it.
EMPATHY: Even so close to your first anniversary, the memory of you crashing your district’s Kineema into a frozen lake remains crystal clear. He will not let you in that driver’s seat, ever. He’s going to be buried in it.
PERCEPTION: It’s tough to see behind the frame of his glasses, but his eyelids keep flickering. Every two, three miles, the repeating expanse relaxes his body, his hands loosen on the wheel… and he jolts up straight, bites the inside of his cheek.
EMPATHY: He’s rationalizing it in his head. Over three quarters done. This is just as easy as the first quarter, and it’ll be done just as fast.
The slightest swerve, into the rumble strip on your right. Vibrations wrack the car for just a moment, and then silence again.
LOGIC: Maybe you can get him to pull over, take a nap.
RHETORIC: No. For several reasons: chiefest among them, pride. Then, desire for efficiency, and disliking the idea of shoulder mud on his wheels.
Kim fiddles with the dial again, static to static to static. Shuts it off. You must be in a real dead zone. No rest stops for at least twenty miles, either. At this time of night, he’d usually be having his cigarette, but you know he won’t risk getting ash on the leather, no matter how cool it looks to smoke out the window.
You feel your eyes start to drift watching him, and stop yourself, shifting against the seatbelt. It wouldn’t be fair to fall asleep. Besides, the way this is going you might wake up impaled on a road sign. No, you have to stay awake. And keep him awake, too.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: If nobody else is going to say anything, I have an idea.
LOGIC: Does it involve thinking of some new, engaging conversation topic that will refresh his mind and keep him alert?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: No, not really.
SHIVERS: Rain batters a brownstone in Jamrock – a good night to stay in. The man in 33-B extracts a plastic case out of a spot behind the VHS player, white scratches dashing the cover picture. You know the title by heart, embarrassingly. Slippery When Wet. The tagline, in cheeky sans serif: Babes that’ll make your engine purr. He slides it in the machine with a familiar ka-chunk-click.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Now only found behind the curtain at seedy film shops like Video Revachol, Slippery When Wet is an erotic tape which capitalized on the motor carriage boom of the Thirties. It details the sexual escapades of an on-call mechanic who services bored wives in their garages, test drives their husbands’ shiny sports vehicles, and ultimately gets caught by a high-profile CEO who, in an unprecedented twist, enjoys watching the mechanic scrub his wife’s tailpipe over the hood. It’s flashy, sexy, and plays right into one of your greatest fantasies: screwing beautiful, rich women and taking their money.
SHIVERS: Vicki Steele, the platinum-blonde lead actress, runs her poppy red acrylics along the mechanic’s bicep. Sparx something. Sparx Wilder? “So what’s the damage?” she croons. “I sure hope I didn’t bang it up too hard…”
His white tee, stained for effect with machine grease, clings to his toned chest and abs. That’s part of the fantasy too, of course, that you could be a ripped, gruff, well-endowed mechanic. He clicks some dials, rests his hand on the stick. “Runnin’ smooth, babe,” he growls, the camera panning to an artful shot of her tits in the rearview mirror. “Reckon I can take you ladies home now.”
She pouts, cocks her head. “Really? And I was so loving our drive… Would you stay on the highway if I gave you… an extra tip?”
Her hand is drifting down now, to the ridge of his navel, teasing his fly open with two fingers, slowly… The man in 33-B lets out a heavy breath and leans back in his brown leather recliner.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: On release, Slippery When Wet barely made enough to cover the cleaning costs of the motor carriage it was filmed in. It turns out it’s difficult to fit a camera, a boom mic, and three people in an early Model T while still getting reasonable amounts of cock and tits in the shot. Among pornographic film enthusiasts, though, it remains a cult classic. One which you could probably quote from memory.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Yeah, baby, shift my gear…harder!
LOGIC: Okay, but that wasn’t Wilder’s own car he was risking. This is Kim’s car. Probably the only object on the planet dearer to him than his dick. He’ll never agree to it.
In the driver’s seat, Kim coughs and rubs his brow, oblivious.
RHETORIC: No, wait. It’s not about getting him to agree, it’s about putting him in a position where he can’t not agree. He’s already halfway there – he needs a pick-me-up. The danger is minimized, there’s nobody else on the road, and it’s paved well enough. No heavy greenery nearby to pop a deer in his path. The only real issue is the mess.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Easy. Just get him hard enough that he stops caring.
VOLITION: Cmon, seriously? This is how you want to die?
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Shut up. Start innocuous. It has to be in motion before he realizes it’s happening.
You unlatch the glove box. This compartment, after some time together, has become analogous to a guest nightstand for you. It’s got clean boxers, a zip-bag with a toothbrush, a pulp paperback you dip into now and again when he falls asleep before you do. Nestled under a plastic wrapped utensil set you find your prize: a black elastic hairband.
He glances at you as you pull your hair back into a rat-tail, having nothing else to look at, but finds nothing noteworthy in the gesture and focuses back on the road.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Ease in…
Just be natural. Stretch, arms over the head, then lean closer. You pat him twice on the thigh, then let your hand rest there.
YOU: “Tired?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Hm? Ah, no, sorry.” He had started to drift again, and the corner of his mouth quirks with embarrassment. “Just in the home stretch, that’s all. We can wake up late tomorrow, remember?” You’re nodding along as he talks, drawing tiny circles on his leg with your index finger.
YOU: “Refresh my memory.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He glances over, and under his feigned exasperation you detect the smallest of smiles. Secretly, he loves explaining, reiterating, showing off his airtight planning skills. Especially to you. “Again, we have an evening show. De Bergerac, ” the hard ‘c’ snaps off his tongue like glass, “at 19:00.”
INTERFACING: You’re drumming lightly on his inner thigh, and shift up just before your pinky lands, so it strays just past that plausible-deniability line. The old skipped-a-step move.
COMPOSURE: A twitch, when you did that. The slightest of hesitations in his speech.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Until then, we are free.” His gloved right hand slides down on the wheel with the luxurious zip of leather on leather. “I’d like to take you around the theater property. They have a perennial garden I’ve heard is quite lovely.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You’d like to take him in that garden, too.
RHETORIC: Now that you’re hearing it again, this sort of itinerary is very unlike Kim. It stinks of romance, artsiness. Floridity.
SHIVERS: March, Jamrock. This year’s final frost adorns the trees, and Lieutenant Kitsuragi is huddled in a used bookshop, navy woolen scarf pulled over his ears. His fingers, pink from the cold, turn the bitten page of a travelogue dated two years ago. ‘Resurrection,’ says the header in white-outlined cursive. Smaller, underneath, ‘You’ll want to relive it again and again.’ The lieutenant takes out his ledger and makes a tiny note on a list tucked in the back – sprawling, dotted with bullet points, arrows. Times and costs.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Like a knitting machine, or a color printer. He used his skillset to fill in the gaps. For you.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Harry?” You’re snapped out of your dreamy staring. “I said, was there anything you had in mind for lunch tomorrow?” There’s a warmth – his hand has rested lightly on yours, and gives it a quick squeeze.
REACTION SPEED: There! There’s your in!
YOU: “I don’t want to be hungry at the play, so… something filling.” You let your voice drop just a bit at the end and give him a harder squeeze in return, your hand wrapped around his thigh, fingers jolting the soft flesh under his jeans.
COMPOSURE: He coughs, turns back to the road a bit too fast, hand gripping back on the wheel. You catch the lightest flush of color on his ears, his cheek.
EMPATHY: Astoundingly, he still thinks he’s being the pervert here. Misinterpreting, brain addled from fatigue and daydreams. Even though you’re literally feeling him up right now.
RHETORIC: Before he retreats – you must charge!
You slide up, maintaining pressure, running your thumb on the seam, and nestle the far edge of your palm firmly against his crotch. When it slots in, his entire body stiffens, and you can feel it finally click in his mind. Checkmate.
KIM KITSURAGI: For a moment, just the smooth purr of tires. Then, “Harry,” his mouth works silently as he struggles to compose his sentence, “I hope that, as a representative of the RCM, you are not proposing we engage in a dangerous, semi-public sex act right now.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Who, me? Never!
YOU: “Of course not, lieutenant.” His leg tenses at the word. It still carries an allure, a power for him, a reminder of his triumph. He likes being addressed by his rank. “But what if I were?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “In that case, I would remind you that even off-duty, we are bound–” his voice peaks as your pinky trails over his dick– “to uphold the morals and values of our institution.”
RHETORIC: If that were really his priority, he would move your hand away right now. But he isn’t.
EMPATHY: The chase is part of the fun.
YOU: “I see.” You let your hand ride back, kneading his thigh. “But what about our duties as citizens?” He frowns, and you push on. “Are we also not obligated to keep the roads as safe as possible? And is the road safe, lieutenant, with a driver falling asleep at the wheel?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I fail to see how a distracted driver is any better,” he breathes. Your hand’s inched back up, now, and he glances down at your palm rolling, excruciatingly slow, over the growing bulge in his pants. The hiss of fabric as his hands slide up on the wheel.
VISUAL CALCULUS: Giving you more room.
YOU: “So I’m distracting you?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Clearly.” White knuckles, red ears.
RHETORIC: And now, the personal angle. Zoom in for the kill.
YOU: “This easily? I must have overestimated your skill behind the wheel.”
COMPOSURE: That got him. His brow knits, mouth ajar. Pissed off and turned on all at once. God, you’re good.
KIM KITSURAGI: “ You are in no position to gauge my driving abilities.”
DRAMA: Oh, but your hand is.
YOU: “Remind me again, Kim. In records of motor accidents caused by sexual activity, the offenders are overwhelmingly…” You’re teasing his belt out of its metal loop, the skin of his stomach burning hot against the MC’s air-conditioned interior.
KIM KITSURAGI: The ball in his throat bobs as he swallows. “New drivers. Teenagers.”
YOU: “Teenagers!” You nod for effect, carefully undoing the button of his fly. “Is that where you rank as a driver? Among juvenile delinquents?”
No rebuttal, just the shaky sound of his breath. And now, the coup de grace.
You bend over the center console – it’s sleek, doesn’t jab your ribs – fingers through the buttonhole for tension, and unzip his fly with your teeth. Smooth all the way down.
PERCEPTION: Just barely, through his teeth: “Fucking hell…” And then, whispered fast, a Dolorian prayer for safe travel. So dramatic.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Baby, he’ll need it.
You slip his cock free, noting with satisfaction a wet spot on the flap of his briefs, and take as much as you can. Hot, savory with sweat. Marinated and overripe with hours of stillness. You press your tongue flat on, nestle it in your soft palate, to taste it completely. An undignified little mewl escapes him.
YOU: “Liked that?” With his dick so far down your throat, it really comes out as ‘ike aht’. A shudder passes him with the bass vibration.
He doesn’t respond, just grabs your ponytail and forces you down, shoving your nose in his pubes. Now it’s your turn to make a girlish little noise – you can feel him smirking up there. A point for him.
COMPOSURE: Even with one hand gripping your hair, grinding the head in your throat, he’s keeping the carriage remarkably straight.
PERCEPTION: Speeding up, even. You can hear the tires’ hum rising in pitch.
INTERFACING: You’re part of the machine, in this moment. Another lever to shift, like the stick jutting into your stomach right now.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Quick, shallow strokes that barely give you room to breathe, spit pooling onto his lap as you struggle not to graze him with your teeth. Being used as a cocksleeve for a man who isn’t even fully focused on you is making your pants remarkably tight.
Suddenly, a sharp tug. Your head’s yanked into the air, suction breaking with a wet pop. A line of spit trails from your bottom lip to the glazed slit on his cock.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Proved myself?” Confident, nonchalant, but the husky breathiness in his voice betrays him. His eyes rove over you, pupils dark. Taking in your flushed face, the drool mussing your beard, sweaty escaped strands from your ponytail clinging on over your half-lidded eyes. He’s barely even looking at the road.
EMPATHY: He’s committing this to memory. For later.
YOU: “Yeah,” and your voice is heavy, obscene, like a porn star. You bring a hand back to pump his cock, slick and chilled from the sudden absence. Slow, firm strokes, base to tip. “Adequately. So I guess you want me to stop?”
DRAMA: His silence speaks for him, sire.
He doesn’t stop you as you lower your mouth onto his cock again, lathering the head with your tongue, letting your hand do the work at the base. His hand rests back on the wheel, letting out a long, measured breath.
COMPOSURE: Steady, careful. You’re sucking him off in his car, and he still has to keep the indifferent mask up?
RHETORIC: It’s part of the game. A show for you. Or…
DRAMA: He’s hiding something. Rip it out!
You speed up, inching deeper and deeper, until in one big show of force you ram it all down. Your neck screams with the building ache and you’re starting to gag, but it’s working, you can feel his leg trembling. A little more…
Still bobbing, you shove your still-wet hand up under his shirt and grab a nipple. Hard. He gasps, and the car jolts.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Your hips slam on the door handle when he swerves, just barely keeping your jaw open wide enough to not slice his dick off.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Fuck…” His voice squeaks, and you can feel his fingers ghost along your back in apology. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
COMPOSURE: Oddly quiet – no reprimand? And he even said not to stop. It’s rare for him to beg.
RHETORIC: Oh… of course! He’s a speedfreak. The power, the danger… Of course this is a longtime fantasy of his. And of course he’s embarrassed about it.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You found another kink of his. Well done, officer. Now you have to really play it up.
Lifting off his cock with a slurp, you keep thumbing his nipple, let your voice drop lower. He glances down at you, face burning.
YOU: “Go faster, baby,” you purr, stroking his thigh.
KIM KITSURAGI: “You sure?” he breathes, barely over a whisper. He knows you know, now. Only thing stopping him is the knowledge that he might wrap you both around a tree.
You wink and get back to work.
Under the shudder of his body you can feel a floating sensation, force pressing you against the seat. That tingle down your spine as the speedometer climbs… ninety, one hundred… hundred and ten… His legs are trembling as he floors it. Higher.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Harry, I… Fuck, I’m…”
In your mind’s eye, the road whizzing past, a blur of gray, white, yellow. Trees black in the night. And your finely-tuned boyfriend falling apart in front of you, letting his voice out. Your life in his shaking hands.
KIM KITSURAGI: “God… Harry…!” A hand winding in your hair, hard enough to hurt, lost in pleasure. Hot cum, acid and lemon, pumping down your throat. He takes deep, shuddering breaths as you swallow, letting you milk him until he has to let go.
You pull up, tight, careful not to leave him wet with drool, and his fingers tense on your back. He’s still breathing hard, easing down the speed in his afterglow… seventy, sixty-five. Watching you like the moon.
His eyes flicker over you, your ruined hair, red cheeks and rubbed lips. Your shirt undone at the top from friction. And down to your cock, raging hard, unattended to. You relax in your seat and let your head loll, neck exposed, still staring at him.
KIM KITSURAGI: He turns back to the road, but a satisfied smile still lingers. When his voice returns to him, he says, “Figured out what we’re doing tomorrow.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Fuck yeah. You earned that.
Only an hour to go.