...and the Average Girl
This damned stupid van. This dumb little van was going to get her killed.
She’d only been here an hour, and all she’d had to do was a quick survey to improve the car park and go back to the office. Instead, she was going to go over the edge into the pretty village below because there was no sodding hand brake.
A face appeared at the side. God, it was a handsome face! Older, bright-eyed, cheeky grin, bed hair. Perfect!
She was frumpy at the best of times. With makeup and youth, she knew she could get by. But give it a few years, and no one would eye her up. Average face, average body, average personality. And cannot drive. That’s how he’d see her.
He wouldn’t see her at all. She didn’t have make-up on, and she hadn’t been drinking to make flirting possible. He felt sorry for her, but he didn’t want to tuck her in. She could have been anyone—a middle-aged man or a teen harlot. He was just being nice.
Then another head appeared on the other side of the car. Aha! A married couple. Assessment confirmed!
She found the button for the window. At least she could do that.
“Hey, sorry, miss. We saw you edging closer to the edge and thought you might need help. Is it a button hand break?” He was so nice and sweet, and his voice was not like a know-it-all man. She wanted to kiss him, but well, his wife was there.
She nodded. She was unable to speak because she realized how close to tears she was, and that would have pushed her over the edge. Bad metaphor! Her • tires were at the age of kerb, the only thing stopping her from going over.
“Yeah,” he said,” I had the same thing. You can’t hold it on the clutch. I call these bastards semi-automatic, although they probably have a proper name. I had to be pushed backwards so I had room to get into gear.”
She smiled weakly, and she saw the woman smile back at her. They took up positions on the corners, and she let them push her backwards.
Soon, she was across the small car park, still facing downhill but with loads of room to get started.
The man stood up and stretched his back. She glimpsed the hair of his lower stomach. He was firm-looking, like he’d not quite taken on the bad bod of so many his age. She imagined her hands on him, touching him from behind, like she enjoyed doing when dancing in the clubs. And yes, sometimes she would not only rub her hands up onto their bellies, under shirts, but down into trousers, which always seemed loose enough to let her hand in. Oh, she loved touching men in such intimate places on the dance floor, even if it was just for a moment, even if they weren’t hard. It made her feel alive and different.
When you were as average as her, you wanted something different. You need to feel a little out of the ordinary. And feeling a guy’s cock on the dance floor, a guy she probably didn’t know, was her rebellion.
At night, after putting her hands on a few, she would lie back and imagine many hands on her. Anyone, male or female. She would refeel her brief extrusions into men’s underwear, the soft skin of a foreskin, the tender sensitivity of a cut cock. The way they always jumped in her hand. Maybe a grip, a stroke or two before teasingly withdrawing her hand and going back to dancing, maybe never even spotting the guy she just groped ever again.
She flushed thinking about that then. And felt a hint of guilt that she did such things. Maybe not all the men wanted that? Was she just a silly, ugly tart groping innocent men? Why was she thinking about that now? She knew why, because she felt useless.
She burst into tears.
In a second, the wife had jumped into the passenger seat and pulled her head onto the wife’s breasts.
It was incredibly forward and intimate, but it was exactly what she needed. She had been frightened, and now she felt safe.
She soaked the lovely lady’s cleavage with her tears and breathed heavily into the gap between them.
Women were mostly not her thing. She’d kissed them, messed around with them when younger, but never a date—never proper sex. She wondered if she could do that now. This woman was so nice. The wife stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head.
“It’s ok,” the wife said,” You’re safe now.”
“I’m sorry,” and now she could feel her emotions flow.” You’ve been so kind. You are so kind. I’m so stupid.”
“You’re not stupid. You’re beautiful,” the wife said, pressing her lips on her forehead. Then, she put her head back onto her chest.
“You’re so good. What can I do to repay you? I can’t, I know. I bet you’re dirty. That was hard, I’m silly.”
“Listen, just do this,” and the woman she didn’t know pulled her top down and let her nipple nearly fall into her mouth. Gillian opened and clamped on as naturally as if she were swigging a bottle of beer.
“There, there,” the wife said, and Gillian felt herself calming even more. The taste and shape and way the woman’s long, hard nipple moved in her mouth gave her a primal sense of well-being.
“Suck, baby, suck as hard as you like. I like it sucked hard.” The wife’s voice had changed. Gillian knew that change. The wife was no longer in care made but instead aroused and needy. It didn’t surprise her to become aware of this woman, left hand moving behind her. She was touching herself; the woman was masturbating to Gillian’s suckling.
Was this having sex with a woman? Gillian thought. She wanted to touch herself, too. No, what she wanted was for the husband to lift her body to the window and tuck her from behind. Oh god, they were married. Gillian was cheating with this woman while her husband must be watching. Where was the husband?
She soon knew he was at the window when warm, thick liquid hit her hair, ear, and cheeks. Some glazed her lips where they met to nipple she sucked so hard on. The husband had shot his load over her. He had been jerking himself off watching her and his wife together. He had obviously intended to do it. He groaned in satisfaction, and this was mirrored by his wife, clearly more excited than ever.
“God, you look so good covered in my husbands’s seed. A common whore, a harlot, tempting us with your cry for help.
“Now bite my nipple so I can cum. Bite it hard.”
Was it being called names that made it so easy to follow the instructions? Or was she so turned on herself that Gillian bit hard without a thought for the pain or damage she might cause? “Aghhh!” The wife screamed, and Gillian jumped out of her aroused zone for a moment to panic. She had gone in too hard. She swore she could taste the metallic taste of blood.
But she was wrong, no obvious blood on her tongue, and a woman who was convulsing through waves of an orgasm.
The excitement took some time to subside, but as it did, the wife moved Gillian off her nipple and sat back up.
She left the car, and her husband passed her a small flask, open and ready to drink. Hot chocolate. Perfect!
“I think you’ve paid us back. Keep the flask.”
Gillian watched them drive away, still drinking.
She realised three things within seconds of each other...
Firstly, she couldn’t go straight back to the office covered in cum.
Secondly, she hadn’t had an orgasm herself, even though she had given the couple one each. But being at home with these memories and a stranger’s cum drying on her face would make an orgasm easy to come by.
And thirdly, these people were more perverse than her. They may not have groped her, but they took what they wanted. They were her kind of people. She wasn’t alone in her average appearance and weird kink underbelly after all.
What a shame they were gone forever...
Then a fourth wonderful thing appeared to her.
A phone number was written around the side of the flask.
Fuck going home. She touched herself right there in the company van, and texted two words to the number.
use me
