Plutarch hadn’t even seen his wife’s pussy since the accident.
He wasn’t insensitive, he understood that it was a terrible time for such thoughts. But he had needs, and his needs weren’t being met in the slightest. They say that marriage kills sex in a relationship. Well, those people who say that haven’t had an unborn baby die in a car crash.
Plutarch revved the engine. He was driving a muscle car, something you normally didn’t see in Greece, an American model. He ran his fingers on the leather seats. This Pontiac was from the earlier century. A refurbished 1978 Firebird Trans Am, it looked as good as the day it rolled out of the assembly line. He looked up at the Mediterranean sun. It was blinding, but he liked the T-roof. It was a midway between a normal roof and a convertible, a feature that got discontinued for some reason. He made a mental note to look it up, his wife loved that shit.
He put on his sunglasses and let the sun kiss his skin. He’d been waiting for at least an hour for the crew to get ready, and he didn’t wanna be the one leave his assigned place. Only amateurs did that and it bugged him like hell. Sure, the crew had been fucking around for too long, trying to get everything sorted, things that they should have figured out yesterday, but what the heck?
He loved sitting in that car.
He ran his palm along the curve of the steering wheel, imagining the moment he’d perform the stunt.
He turned off the engine, waiting his cue. A technician came up to his window, an old friend, Panos. He was middle-aged, balding and greying and carried around a pretty big beer belly. “Nice of you to sit on your ass while the rest of us are working,” he teased.
Plutarch shot a glance at him. “The director ordered me to take my place.” He turned his palms up over the steering wheel. “I’m taking my place.”
Panos chuckled. “That was an hour ago.”
“I know.” Plutarch said patiently.
“Those damn kids don’t know shit about filmmaking,” Panos whispered, leaning a bit closer.
“That is obvious.”
“Those guys make more money this year than what me and you’ve made in our entire careers, man. I hate this,” Panos said, looking down at the tarmac.
“It is what it is. I’m just happy the director,” he said the title with meaning, “loves practical effects and they didn’t just replace me and the car with a CGI model.”
Panos nodded to the side. “There is that.”
“See? Shit could be worse, man. Cheer up. We do this crappy commercial, we get paid tonight. Beers at the usual place?”
“Uh… Sure. I’m on a diet, but I can drink some light coke or something.”
Plutarch snorted. “Okay. I assume those are Barbara’s orders.”
“What else would they be?” Panos asked, opening his arms. “Do I look like a fucking health nut?”
“You sure don’t!” Plutarch laughed.
Panos rapped on the hood of the muscle car. “This is a fine car,” he said, licking his lips. “So fucking fine…”
“Hands off!” Plutarch grunted back. “She’s mine.”
“Well, you’ll be over the alcohol limit, and I’ll be sober, so it seems like I’ll be driving this sweet ass home tonight…” Panos said with innuendo.
“If they let us borrow it after the shoot is wrapped. I doubt it.”
“Nah… I dunno. That director, he may be a teenager, but he worships you. If you ask, he’ll let you keep her for a couple of days. I think they already rented her for an extra two in case we didn’t get good weather and all that.” Panos walked away.
Plutarch raised his eyebrows, then ran his fingers across the dash. Oh, yeah. He’d love to spend a couple more days with this beauty. They’d have to ditch all that ugly extra gear, of course.
The Assistant Director came in, and he looked even younger than the Director. Those boys must have been a week older than eighteen, no more. He had crazy hair and a few more piercings than Plutarch could stand in a person. “Hey, Mr. Plutarch, we’re ready to roll. Are you ready?”
“I am,” Plutarch said laconically. He really wanted to snap back at him, tell him, ‘Of course I’m ready you little shit! I’ve been ready forever, waiting for you infants to get your shit together.’
But he didn’t. That’s why he was laconic. Keeping it short helped him bite down on a nasty remark. So what if he had to show up at six a.m. and then wait around all day, then get in the car and wait around some more? That was filmmaking, he knew that. He’d been in shoots all over the place, this wasn’t his first rodeo.
“Excellent!” the AD said and opened the passenger door and leaned in, his ass still outside the car. He turned on the GoPros and the attached gear. They had filled out the car with sports cameras and microphones attached on sucker tripods, standard practice. “GoPros rolling,” the AD said in his phone. “Mr. Plutarch is ready to go,” he added, meeting his gaze.
Plutarch nodded and put his hand on the gear shift, it was the weird one that was bent towards the driver. Unlike the usual clutch on the side of the steering wheel that the American cars use to have, this one had an actual manual transmission. He preferred it, of course. A stunt-driver needed control.
The AD got out of the car and shut the door, then ran back up to the crew. He brought a divine beauty with him, a pale-skinned girl that couldn’t be more than seventeen. She was wearing a billowy white dress that wanted to show off her legs. The red lipstick made her lips desirable, a true jailbait.
She smirked at Plutarch as she walked straight at him, and Plutarch gulped. He felt his heart racing, more than it ever had before a stunt.
The girl came up to a metre from him, and then suddenly turned to the side, running her fingers on the side-mirror that was right next to Plutarch. The way she touched the metal was like a seduction. Her dress rose up from the sudden turn. This close, he could see the shine of her perfect skin.
She hopped on the hood of the car and stood right in the middle of it. The metal bent a little and complained in a tiny whimper, but she couldn’t weigh more than forty-five kilos. The light breeze lifted her skirt and Plutarch sat there, looking up at her, also white, panties, cupping her perk butt.
Of course he got hard, who wouldn’t? Add in the months of blue balls and it wasn’t really that impossible.
The director and the AD came around and secured her on the hood with elastic ropes. She basically had a belt that held her in place while she stood on top of the hood. “Okay,” the director said nasally, “Jessy, like we said. Look forward, look lustful, but innocent. Got it?”
Jessy nodded with a smile.
Gods, she looked pretty.
Plutarch started up the car and she squealed with excitement. Plutarch was excited too. This job, even though it was just a silly commercial, driving this car, having the prettiest pair of legs right on his eyebrow… It was good. He shouldn’t complain. He did, but he shouldn’t.
“Okay, Mr. Plutarch, when I say ‘action,’ you do the stunt.” The director was the one that looked more anxious than all of them, even the little girl strapped on top of a soon-to-be-moving vehicle.
“Relax, director,” Plutarch assured him. “We got this.”
“I’m sure you do!” the director said. Then he snapped his fingers and the AD gave a period pad to Jessy. She held it in her hand.
Everybody ran back into places.
“Camera?”
“Camera rolling.
“Sound?”
“Sound rolling.”
“Action!”
Plutarch started the car, let it roll smoothly. Jessy turned back and squealed in delight, balancing herself with her arms spread. She gave him a magnificent smile. Her lipstick was perfectly applied on her lips, making the two different types of skin completely separate. A perfect lip-shaped border between soft, red skin and the rosy-white skin of her face. It was impossibly good, it looked fake, photoshopped, but here it was, right in front of him, in real life. The perfect female mouth, with no hairs, no zits, no imperfections.
Plutarch imagined the tip of his penis rubbing along that perfectly-applied lipstick, messing it up. He wanted to run it up and down, to paint her flawless skin red. He wanted to run the tip along the curve of her lips and smudge it all.
She wobbled, then pursed her lips together as she tightened her body to regain her balance.
Plutarch imagined them coming together the same way around his cock.
“I really need to get laid,” he grumbled and stepped on the gas pedal. The muscle car roared, the girl giggled excitedly, and the experienced stunt-driver ran them both through a series of artificial obstacles.
Rain.
Dirt.
Fire.
The obstacles were nothing more than an array that splashed some particles onto them or just blew some flames as they went through the frame. But, taken from the right angle, and sprucing it up in post-production, it really seemed like she was getting spattered with light-blue water, brown dirt and orange fire.
And coming out of it spotless, pad in her hand.
Where did the muscle car fit into all of this? Nowhere, Plutarch knew that. It didn’t make sense, all those avant-garde commercials were like that. It didn’t matter, it was fun, it got him to drive this beauty and stare at that beauty, and got him paid in cash.
“We got it!” the director said and ran up to Jessy.
They got her unhooked and she asked, “Really? On one take?” while they helped her step off.
“Yes, you were brilliant!” he said and kissed her on the cheek.
Plutarch snorted softly but said nothing. If he was in this director’s place he’d have her bent right then and there. No, the other way, on her back and legs open. Beauties were meant to be seen, after all.
“Mr. Plutarch,” the director said pointing at him, “you were brilliant! No wobble, no nothing, just a smooth ride.”
Plutarch wasn’t used to the praise. He got out of the car and stood there, not knowing what to do with his hands. “Well, I was being careful. We wouldn’t wanna get bruises on that alabaster skin of Jessy’s now, would we?”
She smirked at him.
“No, we wouldn’t. Listen, how can I thank you for this?” the director asked. “I mean, the producers, miss Olga would never have agreed on shooting this practical without having someone as experienced as you on board.”
“I am getting paid, aren’t I?” Plutarch chuckled.
He laughed too. “Of course! But what else can I do? It was a pleasure working with you.”
“Well, there is one thing…” Plutarch said trailing off.
“What? Name it,” the director said.
Plutarch nodded at the muscle car. “I heard it’s paid off. Can I borrow it until tomorrow?”
“I… Uh…” the director stuttered. “I’m not sure miss Olga would agree…”
Plutarch slapped them man’s shoulder. “I can? That’s great, director. I’ll bring it back spotless, don’t you worry.” And then he got back into the Firebird and drove away.

Preorder 7 Deadly Passengers.

Did You Like This Story? You can support me on Patreon. There is no exclusive content there but that way you can make sure these stories keep on coming. Or, you can get the Spitwrite collections which are easier to read on an e-reader.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: