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I gingerly tuck my tortured shrinking staff into my pants and hobble out. She comes around the SUV, gives me a quick kiss and a wicked smile while rubbing and squeezing my privates. She pats my cheeks, shoulders, and chest as she says, “Thanks for driving, boyyo. It was nice. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”
I can only stammer, “But... wait... please...” as she gets in, starts the car and drives away. I watch, mouth wide.
Only later, when I undress for bed, do I discover the business card with her cell number that she slipped into my shirt pocket as she patted me down. “Text me tomorrow AM,” is written on the back side. When did she write that? She couldn’t have done it in the car...
There’s no way I can sleep. My raw, tingling, masochistic member keeps distending and throbbing, eager for more as THE question burns in my mind: “How early is too early to text?”
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