Across the Breezeway Pt. 01

Ten minutes after Darla leaves the Dulles Toll Road in Virginia for the 495 Capital Beltway on her way home from work it begins to snow. Big, feathery flakes grip the windshield of her Hyundai Santa Fe and hang on. It's not coming down too hard yet, but the forecast calls for a storm that could drop as much as two feet overnight. Darla thanks God it's Friday and she won't have to go out anywhere over the weekend.

Although the snow isn't coming down hard enough yet for her to turn on her wipers, traffic on the Beltway is starting to back up. God, she hates her commute! One drop of rain on the Beltway and there's guaranteed to be a multi-car pileup that will back up traffic for miles and take her hours to make it home. On days like this she misses her hometown in North Carolina. Millville was slower than molasses in winter but at least it hardly ever snowed.

On days like this she wishes she could afford to live in Herndon, Virginia, where she works. But the cost of housing there, in the Washington DC technology district, has always been ridiculous, and is even worse now with the cost of housing skyrocketing. The best she can afford is her two-bedroom apartment in Laurel, Maryland. It's an hour commute when traffic is moving steadily (which it hardly ever is), but she has to do what she has to do. At least living where she lives comes with a nice benefit.

Last night Vincent stopped by her apartment with bags of groceries clutched in his fists. Standing in her doorway looking tall, dark, and delicious, he'd told her that with the storm coming, by the time she got off work on Friday the stores would be cleaned out of anything decent to eat because people would shop as if they were preparing for an apocalypse. So now she has a couple nice ribeye steaks, some chicken breasts, a frozen pizza, a ton of sandwich stuff, and enough junk food to put a football team in a coma. Oh, and two bottles of wine. Thinking about the wine makes her smile. She knows it probably means Vincent doesn't intend for her to spend the weekend snowed in alone.

The radio disc jockey switches his broadcast over to the station meteorologist, who announces with something that sounds almost like glee that they can expect six inches of snow in the DC metropolitan area by 9:00pm, a foot by midnight, two feet by sunrise, and it's going to keep coming down through Sunday.

Just fucking great.

Well, at least she doesn't have to go anywhere. She has plenty of food, thanks to Vincent. The immediate issue is getting home. Already up ahead she sees the taillights of a zillion vehicles glow redder as drivers start riding their brakes. And it's coming down harder now; the individual feathery flakes are starting to stick together, blocking parts of her view. She clicks on her windshield wipers and tries to ignore the little quiver of panic between her heart and her belly. Driving in the snow sucks. Driving in the snow on the Beltway is hell.

Now the brake lights up ahead, glowing back at her like mocking evil red eyes, aren't moving. Darla takes her foot off the Hyundai's gas pedal and cruises forward for about thirty seconds before she needs to brake to a stop.

Shit.

She checks her rearview mirror. Through the snow starting to cover her rear window she observes that the headlights of the traffic behind her stretches back as far as she can see. She presses the rear window defogger button.

Shit.

Now she wishes she'd taken Vincent's advice and told her manager that because of the weather forecast and her commute she would work from home today. It's a nice benefit of her job as a technology salesperson that she can telework when necessary; can access the company sales database from home via their intranet and use the cellphone they provided her with so she can contact her clients. But lately she doesn't like working from home. It is too distracting, knowing Vincent lives right across the breezeway of her three-story apartment building, and knowing he's self-employed and works from home, and knowing that if she stays home, rather than focusing on work, she will spend the day fighting the temptation to go visit him in his apartment, or fighting the temptation to ask him to come to her. Odds were if she'd stayed home she wouldn't get much work done, and she'd probably interrupt his work too.

The traffic ahead of her creeps a few feet forward and stops again. In her rearview mirror the headlights of the vehicles behind her are dimmed by the thickening snow. The meteorologist advises listeners that over the next forty-eight hours, if at all possible people in the listening area should stay home.

She should have listened to Vincent and stayed home.

Since she's not moving, Darla adjusts her rearview mirror and takes a look at herself. She brushes a lock of her pixie cut auburn hair away from her brow. Her hazel eyes reflect her anxiety. Part of her is glad she's not moving in this weather. Another part of her wishes she were already home. Or at Vincent's place.

Okay, definitely at Vincent's place.

Last night after he'd put the bags of groceries he'd bought her on her kitchen counter, she'd said, "How much do I owe you?"

"We're good," he'd said. "With your commute I knew you wouldn't have time to shop."

"I feel like I should pay you something," she'd said, because his thoughtfulness had put her in the mood. Well, put her more in the mood, because she was almost always in the mood. "So name your price." She'd given him a little smile to let him see the deeper meaning in her offer. Okay, actually, she hadn't been able to not smile.

He'd smiled his handsome smile back at her and said, "Take your clothes off. Everything."

Sitting behind the wheel of her Hyundai Santa Fe, Darla feels another quiver, this time not between her heart and her belly, but between her legs.

In the almost three months since she and Vincent have been having sex, she has only recently been comfortable enough with him to be completely naked. Not naked during sex; that was easy, but naked walking around his apartment or hers when they weren't having sex. She has always been self-conscious about her body. She isn't really overweight, but she has never had a figure that is the standard for American feminine beauty. Her mother used to say she was pleasingly plump, which had always felt like a backhanded insult.

Vincent says she's voluptuous. He told her one time that she reminded him of the women created by an artist named Richard Corben. He showed her some of Corben's work, his illustrations of women. They were almost all well-endowed, with what Darla's crazy Uncle Jack called tig 'ol biddies, and plump booties. Vincent told her that besides those attributes, she has killer legs made for high heels. Vincent makes her feel good about her body. She has learned not to mind too much being naked for him, especially since her being naked around him usually means they're going to have some good sex. Well, with him it's always been good.

Last night after she got undressed for him to thank him for the groceries, he'd taken her by the hand and walked her out of her galley kitchen into her little dining area. He'd bent her over her dinette table, opened his pants and taken her from behind, first her pussy, then her ass. Vincent isn't the biggest guy she's ever been with, not in length, but he's plenty big, and he's the perfect mix of length and thickness. More important, he knows how to use what he's working with. Last night was delicious. When he was done with her she'd been so weak he'd had to help her to her sofa. Weak and contented.

Darla thinks it would be easy to become more than neighbors with benefits with Vincent. Besides being good in bed (or wherever), he's a nice guy, maybe the nicest guy she's ever been involved with. But she doesn't want to push him. His divorce was finalized just over six months ago. She's willing to give him time. It's not like he's far away from her, living just across the breezeway and one door down.

There are four apartments on each of the three floors of the apartment buildings in their complex. Darla has lived in her third-floor apartment for four years. Vincent moved into his apartment about a year ago. In the time she has lived in her place, residents--usually college students--have come and gone in the other two apartments on the third floor. Right now the other two apartments are empty.

Like Richard Corben, the guy who draws voluptuous women, Vincent is an artist. He's self-employed and makes a living selling prints of his work online. Since they transitioned from friendly neighbors to neighbors with benefits, Darla has spent most of her time when she's home alone trying not to bug Vincent to death about hanging out in her place or his so he can work. She thinks she could be perfectly happy if they lived in the same apartment. Happier than she is living across the breezeway from him. But she's willing to give him time, to wait and see what happens beyond the good sex.

Traffic on the Beltway moves forward about one car length and stops again. Darla has to put her wipers on high speed to beat off the snow, which is now falling angrily and staring to cling to the side windows. She turns the defroster fan on high.

There are three lanes in this part of the Beltway. She's in the middle lane. Though there are dozens of vehicles around her, maybe hundreds, she feels isolated in the storm.

She's a little nervous.

She fishes her phone out of the cupholder and texts Vincent:

Darla: You busy?

In less than a minute he responds:

Vincent: Nah. Just finishing up. Where are you?

Darla: Stuck on the Beltway, near the Georgia Ave exit. It's snowing pretty hard already.

Vincent: You shouldn't be texting and driving.

His concern makes her smile. He's a nice guy. Really nice. She could do a lot worse for a neighbor living across the breezeway from her. She could do a zillion times worse when it comes to a lover.

She feels that quiver again, the one between her legs. Because she's communicating with Vincent the sensation is stronger.

Darla: Want me to call?

Vincent: Only if it's safe.

The traffic moves forward another few feet. When it stops she presses the "call" icon on her phone's display.

Vincent answers with, "Hey, sexy baby."

At the sound of his voice the quivering between her legs becomes a throb. The crotch of her thong panties dampens. She squirms in the driver's seat.

"Hey," she breathes.

"How bad is it on the Beltway?"

"Terrible. Traffic's not even moving. It's starting to come down hard." Though she's nervous, talking to Vincent makes her feel better.

"I wish you'd worked from home today."

"Me too now. I should've listened to you."

"Are you worried?"

"I feel better talking to you. It'll keep me distracted." Vincent is quiet for a few moments, long enough for her to ask, "Still there?"

"Yep. Is traffic moving?"

"Not at the moment, damn it. It's six-thirty now. I think if I'm lucky I might get home by eight. If I'm lucky."

Vincent is quiet again for a few seconds, then he says, "What are you wearing?"

Oh.

Shit.

When it comes to her company's dress code, the women have it better than the guys. The dress requirement is business casual. Men have to wear either a shirt and tie and slacks, or slacks and a company logo polo shirt, or a polo shirt bearing the logo of one of their partners; Microsoft, Adobe, Cisco, whoever. Women can wear pretty much anything as long as it's business casual--dresses, skirts, slacks, any kind of blouse or sweater as long as it has sleeves. On Casual Friday they can all wear jeans and sneakers, but guys still have to wear a shirt and tie or logo-bearing polo shirt. During football season on Casual Friday all employees can wear the football jerseys of their favorite team.

On this Casual Friday Darla is wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a blue New York Giants jersey. Being from North Carolina she's a Panthers fan, but the Giants jersey belongs to Vincent, who's from New Jersey, and she borrowed it to wear because it makes her feel closer to him. Though she is curvaceous, his jersey swallows her up, is large enough on her that in warm weather she could probably wear it as a minidress, if she were bold enough.

She tells Vincent what she's wearing. Her heart is hammering in sync with the throbbing between her legs because she's wondering why he asked.

"You wearing a belt?"

"No." With her curvy hips and bottom she doesn't need a belt when she wears jeans.

"Traffic moving?" he asks.

"Not at the moment, no."

"Take your jeans off."

Now traffic moves, and Darla is disappointed. "Hang on a sec..." She advances about three car lengths before she can stop again.

She puts her phone in speaker mode, places it in the cupholder, and says, "I'll have to take my boots off."

"Okay," Vincent says matter-of-factly.

Darla steals a look around. The snow is coming down thick and hard, and she can't see the drivers in the vehicles on either side of her. She can barely tell what color those vehicles are. In her rearview mirror she can only see the gleam of the headlights of the vehicle directly behind her. It must be a truck because the headlights are at the level of her back window. She figures if she can't clearly see that vehicle behind her, then the person in the SUV in front of her can't see her either.

Traffic starts moving again, so Darla says, "Hang on; I'm moving again." She is anxious, maybe a little scared thinking about what she's about to do, but she will do it because Vincent told her to, because she wants to do what he says, and because turning him on now could pay benefits when she gets home.

The throbbing between her legs won't stop. She wishes she were already home. Or in Vincent's place.

The traffic jam advances a slow four or five car lengths, during which the thought that it might not stop again and give her a chance to obey Vincent's order to take her jeans off transforms the quiver between her belly and her heart into a heavy lump of dread. She likes the game they're playing, and she wants to play it out and see where it goes. No, she needs to.

Moving slowly forward with her foot covering but not touching the accelerator, she realizes that traffic has quickened because vehicles are exiting the Beltway at the Georgia Avenue exit, creating a little space. Once she passes the exit the logjam reforms, and she has to brake to a complete stop.

Moving quickly, she puts her Santa Fe in park, unfastens her seatbelt, reaches down, and grasps the seat adjust lever and slides the driver's seat back as far as it will go. Up ahead she can only see the brake lights of the SUV directly in front of her glowing. She leans forward and lifts her right leg until it bumps the bottom of the steering wheel.

Up ahead traffic still isn't moving.

She works her right boot down her foot and yanks it off. Her shoulder bag and knee-length down filled overcoat are on the front passenger seat. She drops her boot into the passenger seat leg space.

Traffic still isn't moving.

Heart hammering, she bends her left leg up. As she starts to work the boot off her left foot, the brake lights of the SUV in front of her dim.

Shit.

No, the SUV's brake lights gleam again.

Shit-shit-shit.

Hurry girl.

Heart racing, Darla yanks her left boot off. She drops it into the passenger seat leg space with her other boot. Figuring her luck will run out at any moment, she slides her seat forward again, depresses the brake pedal with her socked foot, and puts her Hyundai back in drive. To Vincent she says breathlessly, "I just got my boots off. Gotta wait to see what traffic does."

"Good girl," Vincent says, and then, "Be careful."

Her heart trembles as she says, "Yes, Daddy." The crotch of her panties has become warm and moist, and the throbbing between her legs has become a dull but pleasant ache. She wishes she were already home, or at Vincent's place. Thinking about him, about being in his arms, about the way he touches her, the way his kisses on her mouth and all over her body set her on fire, about the way he feels inside her, she unfastens the button on her jeans, and with her eyes locked on the brake lights of the vehicle in front of her, lifts her bottom off the seat so she can work her zipper down.

Traffic starts moving again, and Darla tells Vincent so.

"Be careful," he says again. He sounds so calm.

He's calm. Her heartbeat is thundering in her ears. When she's ripe she's extra leaky, and now the crotch of her panties feels soaked and sticky. She touches her fingers there. The denim between her legs is warm, but not wet.

Yet.

The brake lights on the SUV in front of her brighten again. Darla inches the nose of her Santa Fe close to its rear bumper and stops. If the driver in front of her looks back they can probably only see the top of her head, if even that. She thinks about that as she puts her car in park again, then again slides her seat back as far as she can get it. She bends both knees up, then works her jeans down over the curve of her hips and below her bottom. If traffic starts moving now she'll be in a mess.

Once her jeans are below her hips she pushes them down her thighs and below her knees, then suffers a bright flare of panic as her pants get stuck on her legs in the cramped space below the steering wheel. Her eyes on the brake lights of the SUV in front of her, she fumbles between her seat and the driver's door, finds the seatback adjustment lever, and lowers the seatback. Reclined back as she is, now she can't tell when traffic ahead of her starts moving.

This is crazy, she thinks. But her fear is mingled with her excitement, and the latter is the dominant part of the mix.

She bends her legs up until her socked feet are at the level of the top of the steering wheel, not allowing herself to wonder what whoever is behind her might be seeing. She tugs the right leg of her jeans over her foot and off her leg, then does the same with the left leg. Her left sock comes off with her jeans. Jeans off, she tosses them onto the passenger seat with her boots. Gasping her anxious excitement, her heart jackhammering, she readjusts her seat to the driving position. Thankfully, the SUV in front of her hasn't moved.

"Okay, jeans are off," she says.

"Panties too?" Vincent asks.

Shit.

Though she hadn't expected Vincent to tell her to take her panties off, she says, "Not yet."

"Off," he says.

Traffic starts to move again, creeping along. Though her windshield wipers are going full speed, she can barely see anything but the taillights of the SUV in front of her, and the flare of the headlights directly behind her. Right now she's glad of that.

When the traffic finally stops fully again Darla puts the Santa Fe in park in a hurry, pushes her seat back, lifts her legs again and peels her panties down. When the damp crotch pulls away from her shaved sex the change in sensation, the heated air in the Hyundai against the part of herself she loves most, makes her shiver.

Before she and Vincent became intimately involved she shaved down there whenever the mood struck, or when she was taking pussy pic selfies to post on her go-to adult website. Since they've become intimate, because he likes her pussy bald, she keeps it that way.

For him.

Not long after they started having sex she told Vincent about the pics she posts online, images of parts of herself from different angles; pussy pics, booty pics, tittie pics, leg pics, and feet pics for the guys (and ladies) into that. She'd been worried that he might disapprove, might judge her, but when she showed him some of her posts, he'd only said, "Cool." She never shows her face in her pics, and before becoming involved with Vincent, never posted a full body pic. It turns her on to show off that way, to have strangers around the world seeing her and appreciating her, maybe wanting her. She feels safe doing it because it's only online and she never shows her face.