Fixing Hubby's Porsche

As soon as she disconnected, her rider, accelerated, pulling Sarah to a sudden, intense climax – her umpteenth of the afternoon – she'd lost count. He came himself, at the same time, deep and loud, depositing yet another load, among the litres of semen sloshing about in her snatch; then he pulled out, leaving Sarah feeling a bit abandoned, even after such a long bout. "Paul thinks he'll get home in an hour," Sarah told Jacobs, as he handed her a towel.

"Don't worry," he replied, "we'll give you enough time; but you'll have to shower at home," as he passed her her clothing. All the staff had returned to the shop when Kyle whisked Sarah home in the van, sticky and slick beneath her clothing. Uncharacteristically, Kyle said, as Sarah got out in the driveway, "Thanks for being such a good sport."

She replied sharply, "I didn't have much choice, did I?" But she really didn't know how felt about it, as she virtually ran for the shower. Perhaps the thanks were sincere; perhaps she felt all right about that.

She was sparkly clean, casual in her sweater and jeans, when Paul got home. He huffed and puffed, complaining about the service and the car and even the Germans, until Sarah handed him a drink, and the household slipped quietly back into a comfortable routine.

After months of privately reliving the experience, quietly masturbating to recollections of the orgy, Sarah showed up one day at the dealership, unannounced. "I'd like to speak with Mr. Jacobs, please." She was wearing a short, gray, stretch-jersey dress, with a scoop neck and cap sleeves. The Spandex material gripped her curves, which were unmarred by underwear – neither panties nor bra. As her heels clicked up the stairs, and she approached the manager's door, her high-beams, stiffening tit-buds, pushing out at the tips of her firm breasts, and becoming increasingly conspicuous, led the way.

Sarah tentatively tapped, and without waiting for a response, pushed the office door open. She stood in the doorway until Kyle looked up, a surprised smile crossing his face. "I was wondering, Mr. Jacobs," she began, in an almost coy voice, "do I have to wait until my husband pisses you off again, or can I bank a little goodwill?"