Page 98 of The Fed Sex Man

Tyson

We’d reached yetanother Saturday and were out on what had become our ritual date night. Headed to a steakhouse we’d both agreed on, I recalled the night of our first date, and chuckled at the thought of Jo barfing on my car.

“I was just thinking of the first night we went out,” I said.

“It seems like so long ago,” she replied.

I chuckled. “The look on your face when I stomped the gas pedal was priceless. I thought you were going to shit your pants.”

“I’m not saying this because I’m trying to impress you or something. Believe me, I’m saying it because I mean it,” she assured me. “I really mean it.”

In the midst of changing lanes, I glanced over my right shoulder. “Shit. I’m scared to ask what you’re talking about.”

“This car,” she said. “I love it. It’s, I don’t know. It’s exciting not knowing what’s going to happen next. When you get frustrated and stomp the gas, it’s like riding a roller coaster. I love it.”

I grinned. “It can be exciting, that’s for sure.”

“When you mash it, it just goes. It scares the crap out of me,” she explained. “But at the same time, I find it exhilarating. Exciting.”

“For me, it’s therapeutic,” I said. “When I get depressed, or when I’ve been having a bad day, I’ll drive this thing for half an hour. After that, all is well.”

“I can’t imagine having a car like this. I’d either be in a ton of trouble, or…” She looked at me as if apologizing for something she intended to say. She swallowed heavily. “I’d get a lot of tickets, for sure.”

“I haven’t received a single ticket in it.”

Her eyes went wide. “How can that be?”

I pointed at the row of LED lights in the dash. “It’s got a built-in radar detector. And, I use Waze on my phone when I’m driving on the highway.”

“Waze? What’s that?”

“It’s a GPS app that allows drivers to load information showing where the police are running speed traps.”

She shook her head. “I don’t even speed that much, and it seems I’ve always got two speeding tickets on my record.”

I laughed. “You’d lose your driver’s license if you owned this car.”

She adjusted her seat belt’s tension, and then relaxed in her seat. She looked at me and grinned. “I’d have no driver’s license and a wet pussy.”

I gave her a look. “A wet pussy?”

She nodded. “When you go fast, it makes my pussy wet.”

“Really?”

Her eyelids fluttered. “Uh-huh.”

I glanced in the rearview mirror and then checked both side view mirrors. After making sure there was no traffic, I downshifted two gears and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The shrill whistle from the supercharger was drowned out by the sound of the exhaust as the engine climbed to 7,000 RPM.

I shifted gears and glanced at the speedometer.

125 miles an hour and climbing fast. I shifted again.

145 miles an hour. As the needle reached 155, we approached a slow-moving truck. I shifted the car into neutral and changed lanes.

With both hands on the steering wheel and my eyes fixed on the road ahead, I asked the only question that mattered.

“Is your pussy wet?”