Fun in My Partner's Old Car

My handsome, thirty-something lover bought a non-descript, beige Pontiac 6000 four door, mid-size family sedan right off the showroom floor at the local GM dealership when they first came out in late '82

He worked back then in an entry-level executive position for a conservative private corporation and was trying to present a convincing image of straight-appearing, wholesome family man to his boss and co-workers until he had firmly established himself within the upper ranks of the corporate hierarchy.

He was a masculine stud of a man with a confident, deep baritone voice and an ever-present, sexy five o'clock shadow, obliging him to shave twice daily to look decently groomed at times.

He played his role well ... convincingly looking and sounding 100% masculine with his mannerisms and when he spoke.

Remember that this was back in the early eighties.

It was a closeted time for many.

It did weird things to my brain when I thought about his motivation for buying his car and the image he was trying to portray to the public.

I think he thought back then that straight masculinity was an image thing you could either drive or wear, like his favorite sport coats or his grey, well-tailored men's suits ... or hopping in, adjusting his big, hairy package and tooling around in an anonymous, beige, conservative family four door sedan.

All his Pontiac 6000 ever did for me was to underscore the contrast between it and him by being the 180 degree polar opposite to the compellingly handsome and virile man I had come to know intimately and love passionately.

In private, I jokingly nick-named his car "... Howard ... "

"Howard" to me was a middle-aged, married straight man wearing thick bifocals, with a short, whiny wife and three rotten kids.

"Howard" was an accountant with a big mortgage, a small penis and a rapidly thinning, receding hairline.

"Howard" was likely impotent and would have been the type of man to drive a car like what my hot, masculine lover had just purchased.

My man was the opposite of "Howard."

My man could raise the temperature in a room by merely walking into it. Both men and women would pause in mid-conversation to turn their heads and discreetly check him out when he was out in public. I know he pretended to be oblivious to the attention but was secretly hugely amused and proud of the effect he had on envious strangers.

I never called his new car "Howard" in front of him. The man would have been crushed. And the last thing I would have wanted to do was mock or belittle him or intentionally wound his masculine vanity and pride.

I remember we'd been living quietly together for about a year the day he came home and proudly announced he'd just bought his first brand new car. I was in my mid-twenties and he was the hunky, older stud daddy, ten years older than me.

From the beginning of our dating and eventual relationship, I lusted over him and his big, hairy cock, I'll never forget that first time he let me get into his pants and go down on his thick tool. It didn't take long for me to become addicted to that eight inch, butt hole impaling shaft of his.

He clearly knew what he had between his legs and how to turn up the heat ... keeping me fully conscious of him and in a state of constant sexual tension whenever I was close enough to feel his body heat, and he was within groping range of my body.

After three months and after much begging, I convinced him to let me move in with him.

I was then his "Cookie" ... chewy, delicious, highly addictive (... and impossible to say no to after the first nibble, according to him ...). It was his affectionate pet name for me. I liked that he called me that.

The prospect of having his big, hairy dick pumping his seed deep inside me every night and sharing his big, cozy bed, tightly curled up next to him with his arm protectively around me was everything in that first year.

The day he took delivery of his new wheels from the dealership I have this memory of him pulling up to pick me up from work.

He was wearing his favorite tweed sport coat. He had a big, shit-faced grin on his face as he screeched to a head-jerking, sudden stop in front of me. He rubbed his prominent, half-hard bulge, then leaned over to open the passenger side door. He patted the passenger seat beside him, leered lascviously at me and motioned to hop in to that big, comfy, fully reclining, front bench style seat up close and tight beside him.

I didn't hesitate.

He revved the crap out of his brand new car, then floored it and off we went like shit. He always drove the piss out of his cars. It was a manly, boner-inducing testosterone thing for him, I guess.

That pick-up scene with him and me and his new wheels will always be a vivid memory for me.

At the time, I thought to myself, "Well ... maybe, perhaps things were going to work out OK between me and beige "Howard" after all ... "

... and then just a few weeks later ...

He discovered that the first generation of these early 80's General Motors "A" body, mid-size cars had quirky carburetors (before fuel injection was introduced in later models) and correspondingly temperamental and stubborn tendencies when it came to cold starts.

He wasn't mechanically inclined in the least and knew next to nothing about cars or maintenance, even though he liked to pretend he did ... not unlike a lot of guys his age.

Ask him the difference between a driveshaft and a dip stick and you'd likely wind up getting a "... Huh? ..." and a blank look from him.

He figured all you had to ever do was get in, turn the ignition key, stomp down hard on the accelerator and go like fuck.

He was really clueless for such a masculine guy when it came to his own vehicle.

To his shock and consternation during that first bone-chillingly cold Ontario winter, he came to learn that in our frigid Canadian climate if he left his prized baby outside for a couple of hours with a strong, frigid north wind blowing, the damned thing wouldn't start for him no matter how much he pumped his gas pedal and cranked the son of a bitch.

You had to take a pen or screwdriver and stick it down into the carburetor air intake in to open the flap up wide, and then crank the shit out of it for a long time to clear out the flooded gas float chamber. Then it would sputter, stall out, cough, reluctantly turn over and idle roughly for you.

It was usually a two man job ... one guy messing with the carb, leaning in under the hood while bending over in front of the car, while the other guy planted his ass in the driver's seat and pumped and cranked the living, fucking shit out of it.

The poor stud was proud of his first set of new wheels. He was my hairy, masculine, tasty piece of daddy bear, man candy back in those days.

It emasculated him when his prized 6000 wouldn't start for him when he was alone somewhere on his own.

I loved my butch hunk of a man. And I came to eventually accept "... Howard ..."

I understood both of their secrets, intimacies, needs and quirks.

After a few years, his 6000 smelled of him and carried his strong pheromone scent and essence inside. You could feel it when you got into his car. It was his pervasive, intimate, personal man space. His ride was an intense, private sensual and sexual thrill for me when I was alone in it without him knowing.

The driver's seat had worn down over the course of the nine years he drove his ride until it fit the contours of his masculine ass like a well-worn glove. I felt like I was sitting in his hairy, furry, funky pube forest with his muscular legs straddling me when I sat in his driver's seat.

The brown upholstery in his wheels was a velour textured fabric. It gave off the distinctive, faint manly aroma of his male crotch smell and body sweat, mingled with the stale tobacco odor of his cigarettes.

I used to have fun at times going down on his hard tool while he drove like Hell.

He'd recline back fully in his driver's seat and let me unzip his pants to give him head any time I told him I wanted his cock and needed to blow him.

I'd rub my face against the grain of the driver's seat fabric and drive myself crazy, feeling the coarse, rough texture of his trousers. My eager tongue and lips would go down on his musky, male-smelling, hairy, hard shaft, teasing and tasting his pre-cum leaking cock head until he would groan loudly with intense pleasure and shoot a big wad of his thick, white spunk down my throat.

I was convinced that on some days, he would deliberately take the long and roundabout way to get somewhere, just so I would have enough time to service his big dick and suck the last bit of tasty cum from that throbbing tool. Not that I ever complained about it at the time.

He really got off on car sex and road head.

I secretly nicknamed his big cock "... old reliable ... " because it never failed to respond and get rock hard for me, while he slouched down, spread his legs wide, unzipped his pants and drove the fucking, living piss out of his baby.

Too bad his prized Pontiac 6000 sedan turned out to be anything but ...

His temperamental set of wheels sometimes refused to start for him in the winter.

I always got half hard when I was with him in his ride and had to get out and fool with the carb, while he hunched over his steering wheel and muttered and swore in angry frustration ... cranking his car relentlessly and coming close to burning out his starter at times.

He parked his wheels in our apartment building's underground garage where we lived in those days.

At rare times early in the morning before he was getting ready for work ... with him still innocently half asleep and lazily slumbering in bed, I would sneak down into the dark concrete parking garage and pump his gas pedal for the longest time until his choke completely flooded out.

He always looked dejected and frustrated when his prized wheels wouldn't start for him on those early work day mornings. He'd plead, curse and beg his pride and joy 6000 to turn over for him ... mercilessly cranking the crap out of it ... draining the battery right down and hopelessly flooding it ...

He'd eventually head back up to our apartment, his hands smelling faintly of gas fumes from screwing around under the hood, pouting and petulant, sadly admitting to me, " ... well ... "Cookie" ... honey ... it won't fucking start for me again this morning ... "

Then he would angrily exclaim, "How in the fucking Hell am I going to get in to the office today with no god-damned, cock-sucking wheels???"

To make him feel like he wasn't a total loser on those mornings, I would tell him I needed him and wanted to blow him and was glad he wasn't leaving so early ... to call in late to the office, so we could have some boned up, cock-sucking, hot sex, play time together ... then offer to go down on him and service his thick, meaty cock. If he said yes (... which was almost always ...) I'd bury my face deep into his hot, moist, ripe smelling, sweaty, furry package to bring his big, rock hard tool with its perfectly shaped mushroom head to full standing attention. It never took long to get him fully aroused when I offered to suck his thick cock on those occasional rare mornings.

It was always incredible to feel the masculine heat radiating from his suit pants. I'd tease his hairy pleasure trail and stiff wood with my tongue and lick and suck it through the coarse fabric of his trousers, until he'd pull his fully aroused dick out and force it deep down my throat to help relieve his disappointment and frustration over his beloved car letting him down once again.

After he shot his spunk load, he'd head back down to his "straight daddy 6000" and crank it repeatedly until the damned thing finally fired up for him.

Once he left, I'd fantasize about his butt in his driver's seat with his muscular thighs spread wide to give his hairy balls some room ... adjusting his big, furry pube package to get comfortable ... my sexy, mature, confident stud man cruising on down the highway.

I remember one night I was bored, boned up and super horny.

My handsome man was exhausted after a particularly long and stressful day at work and had gone to bed earlier. I was feeling lonely, neglected and frankly, more than a little frustrated sexually by having been abandoned by him and left alone.

So, I started to fantasize and decided I just had to have some private time in his car.

It was perverted and kinky of me ... we all have our particular takes on our fetishes and what gets us off.

I got dressed in his office clothes, consisting of the pit-stained dress shirt he'd worn earlier in the day to work, along with his favorite tie, tweed blazer and light grey dress pants.

I went commando in his wrinkled, loose-fitting trousers. I had to feel where his hot male balls and big, hairy wood had been all day. The friction of that coarse fabric riding against my cock made me half hard in the elevator as I rode down to the dimly lit P2 parking garage.

His prized 6000 was sitting there begging for some hot action and abuse.

I slowly walked over to the secluded far corner where his non-descript, beige "Howard" was hidden away, forgotten and parked all on its own in that dark garage.

I pulled his car keys out of the pocket of his pants, making sure they slowly rubbed against my stiffening cock in the process. I found the key I needed and slowly opened his creaking driver's side door.

Finally, I stared down at his sagging and stained, ass-imprinted driver's seat the dim interior dome light had weakly illuminated.

I slowly slid into his driver's seat, fantasizing I was sitting right on top of him.

I wished I'd thought to bring my butt plug along to shove it up my ass. It would have then felt like his big, hairy man shaft was deep inside me while I sat where he customarily did.

Once comfortable, I used my left hand to slowly feel the rough, masculine texture of his sport jacket sleeve. Then I put my right hand between my legs to feel the upholstery fabric.

These sequential actions almost made me shoot my cum load inside his trousers right then and there.

I took my time and gripped his steering wheel, imagining his strong hands doing the same when he was alone in his personal ride.

Then I adjusted his driver's seat and reclined back so I could stretch my legs and pump his worn gas pedal.

With a final gesture, I boldly stuck his key in the ignition and turned it to see the red GEN light come on. I checked his gas gauge and made a quick mental note it was down almost three quarters of a tank.

I didn't want to flood and stall his wheels out while still in the parking garage, so I only gave it four or five deliberate, long pedal pumps. I knew this would be enough so the bastard wouldn't start for me on the first turn of his key in the ignition.

My cock sprang into action the second I turned his key to START and his starter commenced to wail and grind with that familiar GM cranking noise.

It took four long crank sessions to coax and convince that reluctant cock-sucker to turn over for me.

When it finally coughed and started, I waited thirty seconds or so until the hesitant, uneven, rough idling adjusted. Then I stomped on the gas a couple of times to show my stud daddy's baby who was boss.

I roughly shifted his nasty ass, straight accountant's sorry excuse for a car into reverse and aggressively squealed the tires while driving it out of the parking garage. I felt so manly at that moment, pretending to be my hot stud, fuck daddy heading in to work for the day.

I drove along for a bit, revving the crap out of his ride every time I had to stop for a stop sign. I was so horny and completely turned on by the abuse I was giving his wheels.

After a few kilometers, I headed toward the place I was thinking about. I had to find a private spot to have some fun with his temperamental, piece of shit old ride. Luckily, there were a few unlit and secluded parking lots not far from where we lived.

I had an idea and was determined to do what I'd been fantasizing about for a long time

My hot lover's old heap needed to be teased, tortured and taught a hard lesson. Hard being the operative word.

I stomped forcefully down on his worn gas pedal ... flooring that cum-faced, cock-sucker Pontiac ... red-lining it ... speeding down the dark boulevard for a couple of kilometers ... then aggressively wrenching his steering wheel to the right, forcing a sudden, neck-snapping hard turn ... and swerving with a tire-screeching cloud of gravel and dust into a deserted parking lot.

I took my foot off the gas and turned his ignition key to the ACC position.

I let his aging piece of GM metal coast along, pumping his gas pedal continuously until his 6000 sedan came to a full stop.

Then I started to pump and crank the living, fucking shit out of it.

The bastard wouldn't start for me.

I kept stomping down on his gas pedal aggressively, while rubbing my left hand against the coarse tactile grain of his good trousers.

The visual of my forearm inside the sleeve of his favorite sport coat was getting me extremely excited and boned up.

My commando cock was at full attention, with spots of my pre-cum branding the tent I was making in the warm, stained crotch of his work pants.

At the same time, watching my right hand holding his ignition key in the START position made me so fucking horny, I didn't care if I shot a big load of my cock juice in his office clothes or not.

I was pretending to be my hot, masculine stud daddy stranded alone somewhere in the dark.

In that moment I was him in his wheels ... slouched down, legs spread in his driver's seat with my foot planted firmly on the gas ... my arm slung over his steering wheel with my right hand jerking his ignition key all the way forward in the START position ...

I was him in that moment pleading for my baby to start for me and coming to the dreaded realization it wasn't going to.

I started shifting up and down in his driver's seat ... raising my hips and butt up ... pushing my back against his seat back and head rest to give my leg a chance to extend out fully and forcibly ram his worn gas pedal right down to the floor like I'd seen him do before.

I could feel the protesting vibrations of his old Pontiac right through his worn and stained driver's seat.

I was imagining him talking softly and murmuring to his precious baby ... coaxing it to start for him as it cranked away ...

" ... C'mon baby ... suck my hard, horny dong and turn over ... c'mon baby ... start baby .... that's it ... almost ... you can do it, baby ... daddy knows you can ... yeah ... that's it ... c'mon ... c'mon ... you can do it ... almost baby ... don't let your daddy down ... c'mon ... don't do this to your daddy today, baby... "

Then finally an explosive roar from him, "FUCK YOU, shitbox!!! You mother fucking, cunt whore!!! TURN OVER for your boned up DADDY ... NOW!!! "

I was thinking to myself, "... yup ... sounds just like him, when he gets super pissed off and totally frustrated ..."

After seven or eight crankfest sessions, I became concerned about draining his battery. I didn't want to become stranded there and have to walk back home. The prospect of having to fess up to him what I'd done to his car the next morning was not something I wanted to do.

I sat there for a few minutes, playing with myself through the warm, sweaty fabric of his trousers until I could feel my cock head start to ooze more pre-cum.

It was time to finish what I'd intended to do from the start.

I slowly unzipped his pants. Hearing the sound of his zipper and feeling the heat between my throbbing hard-on and the inside reeking crotch of his office clothes ... these sensations were highly sensual and erotic as I pulled my stiff, straining, eager hot dick out to play.