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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: drive-by.txt (mf)
Authors name: Peter Principle
Story title : Drive-By
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This work is copyrighted to the author (c) 1999.
Please do not remove the author information or make
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Drive-By
by Peter Principle (PeterPrin@hotmail.com)
I was back in my old stomping grounds for a few
days last week. I travel there every couple of months
on business, pressing the flesh with customers, occa-
sionally catching up with one old friend or another
when the mood strikes me. Most of the times I just
keep to myself in the evenings. Sometimes I even drive
down her street.
BJ and I -- her real name was Betsy Jerrigan,
though everyone called her BJ -- were quite an item
back in the late 1980's. We were together, if you
could call it that, for almost two years. I never
really felt "together" with her, though. I don't know
that anyone did. She was a fiercely independent soul
who I think was truly the happiest when she was by her-
self. That's one of life's ironies, of course. A close
second on her happiness scale was when she was fucking.
I thought about all that when my rental car
aimed itself up the Peninsula and found the exit to
downtown Palo Alto and the gentile tree-lined streets
that BJ called home. She didn't live there when I
knew her. Back then she lived in a tiny house in a
modest neighborhood not far from the railroad tracks.
It was all she could afford then, before she struck it
rich with a startup in Silicon Valley. After me.
I'd found out about her new neighborhood last
year when I had the urge to look her up in the tele-
phone book. "B Jerrigan" was there with a Palo Alto
address that signaled just how successful that startup
had been. I didn't drive down her street during that
trip. The first time I did that was only six months
ago, and I'd only done it twice before last week. I
never actually saw her. Until last week, that is.
BJ's street extends for only three long blocks.
It's a wide street, lined with resistant elms that arch
over the sidewalks and most of the way over the road-
way, giving the street a winsome cathedral effect. The
first time I saw it, I knew why BJ had chosen to live
there. She always loved the stately elegance of large
trees, showing quiet strength and independence. Just
like her.
Even though I knew that her house was in the
last block of the street, I always began my drive-by at
the far end of the street. This time I pulled over to
the curb and turned off the engine. I wanted time to
absorb the grace of the trees, the well-manicured lawns
fronting the sedate mostly two-story houses. Time to
think about BJ and what I would do if I actually saw
her. And if she saw me.
She and I had ended our relationship in much the
same way we began it, with passion. Not love. It was
never love, for either of us. It was passion, it was
lust. It was carnal. It was all about acceptance and
about freedom. Well, maybe it was more about her free-
dom than about mine.
Our relationship at the end was shaky. We were a
car that was running out of gas, gasping for fuel one
day and surging forward the next. We hadn't seen each
other for almost two weeks when I showed up, unan-
nounced, on her doorstep. She didn't seem surprised,
though. It was a late Fall afternoon, full of blustery
winds and occasional cold wet spritzes, and BJ came to
the door wearing her baggy Oshkosh overalls and a thin
white cotton shortsleeved top. That was a common outfit
for her, a kind of unisex statement I suppose. And
convenient. She never wore underwear beneath it.
I remember BJ telling me that I'd interrupted
nothing in particular. She'd been slumped in her black
beanbag chair in the livingroom, reading and sipping
hot tea from a large mug that rested on a nearby spind-
ly three-legged table that she'd found at a garage
sale. I'd interrupted her solitude, of course. Her
number one joy. And, of course, it wasn't long before
we shifted to her number two joy.
Five minutes and one long kiss later, BJ had
unsnapped her two shoulder straps and had wriggled her
overalls to the floor, deftly stepping out of them and
back over to the beanbag chair. There she reassumed
her slouched position, though this time naked from the
waist down and with unabashedly sprawled legs and an
expectant grin on her face.
I spent the next twenty minutes on my knees,
praying to the God of Pussy. BJ was less patient than
I was in these circumstances. I would favor an initial
mood of lazy exploratory licks, and BJ would interject
her own fingers to brusquely flick at her clitoris with
a nonverbal demonstration of her preference for harder
and faster. Her musky, oozing vagina would contribute
as much as my saliva to the general juiciness between
her legs, and as always, before too long, my mouth
would nudge aside her fingers and devoutly replace
their effort.
That afternoon her scent overwhelmed me. Her
fat labia grew even more thick and crimson and yawning.
My fingers found the heat of her vagina and the rough-
ness of her G-spot as my tongue muscled its way back
and forth across her stiff soldier, and I could hear
the delicious slurpy sounds of lubrication and the far-
away moans and grunts of her pleasure. BJ was slippery
sweet and flowing, gasping and clenching at me with her
thighs and her vagina, and when she was ready, my firm
tongue danced on her clit with a random frenzy until
her hips rose up off the beanbag chair and her body
stiffened and shuddered, her grunts throaty and rhyth-
mic in their pleasured release.
And then I rose up on my knees and gazed down at
her, looking at her closed eyes and her inscrutable
smile, at her fingers which were sneaking back to soft-
ly tease her raw glistening openness. I discarded my
shirt, and then with more effort my pants, yet BJ never
opened her eyes, never acknowledged my naked presence
between her legs. When I was ready I moved forward to
cover her body with mine, and only then did her eyes
open and her smile become more apparent.
I wanted to feel her nakedness against mine, and
I fumbled to pull her top up over her full breasts, and
only reluctantly did she straighten her arms above her
head to allow me to remove it completely. I visited her
breasts with my mouth, first one then the other, teas-
ing fuller life back into her already hard nipples.
BJ's fingers tousled my hair and she chuckled.
"Can't wait, can you?" she teased. "Don't you want to
eat me again?" I only grunted, my mouth being full and
busy, and BJ's legs wrapped around my thighs and pulled
me onto her, telling me that she wanted to be fucked
more than she really wanted to be eaten again.
My cock found her and centered itself, but I
resisted the impulse to drive into her. "Have you been
seeing him?" I asked. The tip of my cock swirled in
her pouty slickness.
BJ was silent for a moment. Her eyes were
closed once again, her mouth returned to that cryptic
pose. Then in a quiet voice she whispered, "Yes," and
in one quick thrust I was fully inside and arching my
hips to strain my stiffness against her clenching ring
of muscle. BJ gasped and growled her low-pitched gut-
tural animal sound. I couldn't make up my mind whether
to start thrusting or to just savor her silky grasp of
my erection.
"Mmmm," she hummed, and her legs pulled me
tighter, then relaxed. Then tighter again, her hips
pressing upward to pull me further into her cunt, then
relaxing. It was my cue to begin to thrust. After all
this time, I certainly knew her non-verbal signals.
BJ spread her knees wide and held herself open
for me. Her hips remained still, the outsides of her
ankles lying relaxed on my calves.
She wanted to be fucked. I wanted to fuck her.
I wrapped my left arm around her back, while my right
hand snuck around to cradle her behind. I slowly and
deliberately thrust into her creamy sheath with a
dancer's hips, side to side, in and out, edging and
stretching and rejoicing in her cunt and her body and
her exposed soul. BJ gave me encouraging little moan-
ing whimpering noises as I drove us both upward. Her
breathing shuddered and shimmied as she climbed, as I
nudged her along.
And when she was almost there, I was almost
there, too. With my own animal growl I plunged into
her body with rapid, full-length strokes that would
only have one conclusion. BJ's breathing quivered in
erratic little gasps and I knew she was with me, neck
and neck, even if I didn't really care anymore. She
squealed, clung onto me tightly with arms and legs,
and I let myself go. "There!" I announced, slamming
into her with those final satisfying pounding thrusts,
"There! Now!" and I jammed impossibly deep as the
slow-motion explosion ripped through me.
BJ squealed a second time and her entire lower
body trembled as her own orgasm crested, and my super-
hardend cock began to spurt liquid fire into her
clutching grasp. I wanted to fill her with my own
seed, to displace his, to drive out the demons that I
could not control.
With every one of my long surging spasms I push-
ed hard to bury myself ever deeper. BJ clung to me,
panting rapidly with shallow breaths, full of her
orgasm, full of mine.
When I left her house that afternoon, I knew it
would be the last time I would be there, the last time
I would be with her, inside her, holding her in my
arms. We finalized our breakup with the remoteness of
the telephone. It was an ironic way to end a relation-
ship that had been so physically intimate.
-o-o-
Finally, I restarted the engine and resumed the
slow crawl down her street to the final block. As I
approached her house on the right, I saw BJ emerging
from the front door of the house. There she was, wear-
ing a simple white cotton t-shirt and running shorts.
She glanced briefly at my approaching car, then return-
ed her attention to inside the house. My last glimpse
was of her holding the hand of a petite girl, no more
than three or four years of age, with short-cropped
blonde hair, wearing faded blue Oshkosh overalls and a
big smile.
Copyright (c) 1998 by Peter Principle
PeterPrin@Hotmail.com
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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sun, not thinking about adult situations. Do
your part to make our world a little safer.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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