By | December 11, 2006

I spend a lot of time driving at the moment. The nature of my job means that from time to time throughout my career I have spent a lot of time on the open road. It’s cyclical, I’ll spend years in the office, then, either through change of employer or change or role I’m on the road again.

Sometimes being on the road is a plus, I get to listen to music, something we do too little of at home. Sometimes I just think, often the music inspires me.

A lot of the time these days the time in the car is effectively non-productive. I have masses of ideas bubbling up in my head, for writing, for tweaks to the site, but it’s not something you can act upon while driving. I have half written posts lurking in every dusty corner of my mind. So it can be frustrating.

The extra time behind the wheel also means I don’t get to visit other bloggers either. But something occurred to me on Friday night. If I’m feeling like that, what are the rest of the drivers feeling like?

We pull up at the lights. I glance across through the rain-spattered side window of my vehicle and into his. He glances back and just for a moment our eyes meet. I see it in him…

It’s been a month since he sat in the room with his stern-faced boss and the prissy little spinster from HR. Both staring at him disapprovingly across the desk. He’d been found out. Not because he was any more of an offender than his colleagues, but because they were a little younger than he was. A little more technically savvy. “Browsing History”, what was that then.

It was a small firm, they didn’t monitor Internet access, but the boss knew how to click the “History” button on a browser and so Ted’s fate was sealed. Apparently he should have been setting an example to his younger colleagues, he felt like pointing out that his younger colleagues were running their own eBay businesses in company time, but thought better of it.

Now sitting in his car on his way home from spending the day in the library he wished he had. Little bastards. He spent a few a few minutes a day perusing a few porn sites. Whereas that little fresh-out-of-school shit Kevin bought and sold who knew what on the auction sites all day.

Ted’s key slid into the lock and opened the door onto his knew guilty little web of deceit. How could he tell Margaret that he’d lost his job at 56? Even worse why he was dismissed? The money wouldn’t last forever, He’d have to tell her soon.

He only got chance to peruse his favourite sites on a Friday now, when she went out with their daughter to the bingo. That was why he’d been browsing at work, so Margaret wouldn’t discover his growing addiction to pictures of half naked women in stockings and tight business suits. And they were women, mature women, he didn’t regard himself as a pervert lusting after “Barely Legal Teens”.

He settled down in front of the PC in his dressing gown and submerged himself in his alternate reality.

He found the site by chance, a click from a link, from a random site. For a moment he thought it was her, the spinster from HR. It wasn’t, but it so easily could have been, right age, right hairstyle, right disapproving look.

He started to get hard at the thought of her. Spinster she was, but old maid she wasn’t. About 47, hair always plaited, nice curvy figure and a chest that promised much more than a handful when released from her bra. He knew she wore stockings too, he found her adjusting them in the stationary store once.


He thought about it now, mind alternately switching from the images of the increasingly undressed model on his screen and the brief, awkward encounter of six month’s previously. She’d had her skirt hitched up, stocking top and full, milky thigh exposed. Classic pin-up girl shot. She wasn’t Betty Page, but she was there, a few feet in front of him.

Sliding doors, if things had been a little different.

He closed the door and slipped his key into the lock, the tumblers rolled and sealed them into their unfolding scene. She looked at him skirt still high on her hips, chest beginning to rise and fall. A heaving bosom, ripe and full.

He feels himself swell against the fabric of his business suit, clichéd but classic, the juxtaposition of the respectable and the sordid, the clean cut and the dirty thoughts.

She licks her lips, wetting them slightly, they seem fuller in the glow of the single, yellowed, dusty bulb. She leans back against the shelving, a box of ballpoint pens overturns, several of them fall to the floor.

Ted stands in front of her, an inch away from her swelling chest. Looking down he can see her lacy white bra down her blouse. She’s opened more buttons than usual, did she plan this? Maybe, she doesn’t push him away, or object.

“Ted”, she says, haltingly “What are you looking at?”

“Your tits …” He realises he can’t remember her first name ” … Miss Heath.” And somehow addressing her like this makes him feel hotter. She’s more taboo, more dangerous. The hard cock in his trousers needs to be released now, but he wants her to do it. He hints by pressing it against her stomach.

Without taking her eyes from his she reaches down and unzips him. Her hand reaches inside to find the hot swollen cock that longs to be touched by her oh so prim and proper fingers. Her hand eases him from his trousers and holds him firmly. Her mouth forms an “O” of surprise, as if she didn’t expect to find a hot, hard rod of flesh in his pants.

The sensation of his skin being drawn back to expose an already moist head makes him draw a short breath and smile.

His hands grasp at her ample breast through blouse and bra making her moan appreciatively. Then he fumbles open the buttons to gain better access. Joy of joys it’s a front-loader! Her tits spill out into his waiting hands, full but not as saggy as Margaret’s, dark nipples erect and appreciative. Definitely not like Margaret’s.

He toys with them for a while as the owner of the magnificent chest slides the skin of his cock back and forth. Then he’s ready to take her, she’s ready too and leans over the boxes of photocopier paper, hitching up her skirt.

His hands pull her pants down to her knees, With satisfaction he notes that their crotch is wet with her pussy juice. He plants himself in her, gliding into her with a satisfying friction. She moans, “Oh, oh” and becomes more appreciative with every stroke. He can feel the glow rising in his groin the familiar and welcome precursor to release.

The rushing, pumping flood of hot semen follows within seconds. She welcomes it with “Oh yes Ted, I’m coming,” as thanks for his sticky gift.


Then he’s back in front of his computer, cock in hand, covered in his own issue. The model has a but plug in her ass now and is toying with the idea of inserting a huge dildo. Not Miss Heath, she’d never consider such behaviour.

Well, maybe next time.