Work Text:
You’re on your way home for the holidays in your shitty old jalopy, hoping it will last until you can get to your dad to fix whatever’s been making that awful whining noise. You figure it can’t be anything too bad, but it still makes you wish that you had been more interested in the mechanics knowledge he had tried to impart before you went away for college. There’s a long stretch of road before you reach the city limits of your hometown that is vaster, bleaker, and more vacant than you could imagine without having seen it before. You’re finding it a bit unbelievable and you have seen it before. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush of spending time with friends, the lack of need for sleep, or just a general teenage enthusiasm for life, but you never remembered this part of the drive being quite so boring when you were in high school. As much as it galls you to admit it, this view makes all of the jokes your college buddies tell about Kansas make sense.
The whine feels extra loud today, pushing past the sound of your podcast, occasionally harmonizing with a groan, and punctuated by occasional staccato thuds and clanks. Maybe you shouldn’t have pushed it this long… And all of your parents’ sage advice about not running out of gas on this particular stretch of the highway comes flooding back. You slam the palm of your hand against the top of the steering wheel in frustration, but there’s really nothing you can do about it at this point.
The car seems to react to the smack personally, with a loud sigh and the faint wisps of smoke beginning to exit the hood. “Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, looking around for a shoulder to pull over. That won’t be hard, you realize, it’s pretty much all shoulder here. Flat, empty, not a person or other car around for miles.
The engine sputters and then your entire car vibrates with a feeling that under other circumstances would not have been unpleasant, but under these circumstances are downright terrifying. A few more equally terrifying moments, filled with terrifying sounds and smells, proceed, as lights and sounds that you vaguely feel were covered on your driving test, but can’t seem to remember in this moment, fill your vision and hearing with the not-so-subtle reminder that you can’t put
everything off forever.
Afraid the car is going to explode, you pull it off the road and kill the engine. You heave a sigh of relief upon fully registering that you haven’t exploded and rest your forehead on steering wheel for a minute. You give the car a moment to cool down, and yourself a moment to catch your breath before inserting the key and turning it over yet again.
There’s a whirring, a wheeze and then nothing.
“No,” you say to yourself as you try it again, expecting with zero evidentiary basis that this time will produce different results.
You turn the key in the ignition again…
And nothing.
You’re not sure if the reduction in noise accompanied by your third and fourth attempt are good signs or bad, but you realize it’s time to swallow your pride and give Dad a call. He’s probably about an hour drive from here, and you’ll at least be able to ride back with him and get in bed by nightfall if you go ahead and call now.
As if your luck, could not possibly get any worse, you tap on the display of your phone screen to see a dearth of bars and the dreaded words “no signal” at the top of the screen. Hurling your phone into the passenger seat you slam your head against the headrest in time with three shouted “no no no!”s.
What your stupid phone is still willing to do for you, is note the passing of time. So, you know for sure that it’s been about 30 minutes when you decide to get out of your car and lean up against the door in case anyone decides to traverse this godforsaken road. While admittedly getting any help on this road is incredibly risky for you as a woman, (flashback to all the times your mom urged you to listen to your father’s car repair advice so that you’ve never be at a man’s mercy) there’s no help within walking distance, and this phone service you switched to for better coverage in your college town unfortunately appears to be utterly useless out here. Eventually, it will be time for a 911 call, but you’re not fully at the acceptance stage of grief.
Nearly an hour has passed when you finally spot a tiny speck in the distance, growing as it comes near. You share at it, blinking to see if this is just a mirage in the desert. But as you stare, a sleek black car comes into view. You don’t know enough about cars to make out exactly what kind of car it says, but you’re certain from the body that it’s old. This is probably good news, you think to yourself, since it’s probably an old man, and old men can be creepy, but hopefully won’t have the agility to win in a fight.
“Or to get it up,” you add to yourself, bitterly.
As the stunning vintage sedan pulls over next to you, you lean in to get a better view of the driver and realize you are definitely not dealing with an old man. A truly ridiculously attractive sandy blond with freckles dotting his perfect face rolls down the window, and in a husky voice that gives you butterflies asks, “Car trouble?”
Blushing at your thoughts as they cycle from inappropriate to downright problematic, you nod and frown in a way that you hope lands in the perfect sweet spot between embarrassing helpless child and woman-at-the-beginning-of-a-porno. So somewhere in the “hot but totally-not-exploitable damsel in distress” territory. He grunts in response and turns off the engine.
As he exits the car he hits you with a slow and blatant elevator glance, not bothering to hide the way he slows down in certain spots or purses his lips in appreciation, making you wonder if he got his manners from the same decade as his car. He’s hot enough that you decide you’ll let him get away with it.
“So what seems to be the trouble?” He asks.
You shrug in response, “I’m sorry, I really wish I knew, but if I did I probably wouldn’t have ended up here. My dad always fixes my car.”
“What’d your dad say about it this time?” he asked.
There seemed to be a hint of hostility when I mentioned my father helping me, but I couldn’t guess why, so I just attributed it to his annoyance at my lack of automotive education.
“He hasn’t seen it. I’ve been away at college.”
“Freshman?”
“Junior.”
“So, 21?”
You furrow my brow, wondering why it matters, but you nod. He processes the information and then moves on without an explanation.
“Alrighty then what happened today? Noise? Smells? Whatever you got helps me figure out what she’s got going on.”
You relay the full list of the car’s symptoms, most recently and today. He asks some follow-ups which you can’t figure out the point of, and suggests a few diagnoses, which you find painfully boring and honestly a rude distraction from how stunning his blue eyes are. But eventually you reach the point in the conversation where he says, “Well, I got some tools in the trunk, wouldn’t hurt to at least take a look under your hood and see what you got going on.”
He takes off his oversized brown jacket to toss it in the back seat and his flannel catches on it just enough to expose the line of skin between his black t-shirt and the top of his jeans, as the taught abs there flex. You look away quickly, hoping he didn’t see how obviously you were ogling him. Then again… he ogled you first so… fair game.
You appreciatively survey the most perfect ass you’ve ever seen on a man as he opens the trunk and bends to pick up the tools, but you notice a glint in the back of his waistband that you assume at first is a wrench before your fantasy gets splashed with a sudden cold wave of reality.
That is most definitely the barrel of a gun.
You haven’t seen many, but it’s unmistakable. You put some distance between the two of you and pretend not to notice as he returns to your car and orders, “Pop the hood for me, sweetheart?”
He announces that he thinks he has a solution after poking around for a few minutes and begins working on the engine. The exhilaration of your handsome knight in military surplus clothing rescuing you is significantly dampened by you coming to your senses and remembering how dangerous this situation is. You try to ignore him and think through the different ways this situation could play out, and your survival instincts force you to change the channel any time one of your imaginary horror scenarios inevitably starts to feel sexier than it should.
Dammit, why did he have to be so hot??? The combination of racing heart and dampening panties was ridiculously confusing.
After what feels like an eternity, he asks for your keys, and cranks the car. It’s not perfect, but it cranks, and sounds better than it has in a while. You want to squeal in relief and excitement, but settle for a high pitched, “Yay!!! Oh my gosh thank you so much!!!”
You walk towards the driver’s seat as he exits the car, but he makes no move to unblock the door, and looks at you shyly, like he’s trying to find the words to say.
Something about the obvious, honest awkwardness and your relief overrides your caution, and you allow that flirty tone to color your words again as you begin to thoughtlessly blab out, “Thank you, thank you so much!!! I didn’t know what I was going to do, thank you for stopping and for fixing the car! You’re an absolute lifesaver and I just wish I had a way to thank you or repay you.”
His head snaps up and you see something new in those blue eyes that reminds you more of a wild creature than a handsome young man, and the voice you didn’t think could get any sexier deepens and growls, “Honey, you got about ten seconds to rephrase that before I give you the answer I’ve been thinking of ever since I stepped out of my car and got a good look at you.”
“Think fast!” Your mind screams, and “Why the fuck did you say THAT?? Of course it sounded dirty to him, did all of the fucking hypotheticals you were running through rot your ability to speak like a normal person?”
But none of that comes out your mouth, and as he closes the distance between you, you suddenly realize your thought spiral has wasted your entire ten-second window.
Frozen and unable to think of words, you simply make eye contact with him as he puts his hands on your waist, spinning you around and pushing you back into the car as they move down to squeeze your hips before separating to palm at your breast between the thin fabric of your dress with one hand. Your body has picked a side your brain and mouth won’t yet allow you to, and your nipple pebbles and hardens as he roughly massages it and begins circling it with the pad of his massive, rough thumb. You open your mouth, and he waits for a second to listen, but as nothing comes out he softly covers it with his own, and as you kiss him back, he slowly slips his tongue in, finally pulling back and nipping at your lower lip.
You let out a breathy sigh and immediately curse yourself for it.
Both hands are on your breasts now, pinching and kneading at you through the dress that you might as well not even be wearing as one of his knees parts your thighs.
He pulls back from the kiss to bury his face into your neck and inhale your scent as that rich, husky voice whispers, “God you’re so fucking sexy,” as his hands continue exploring, and his thigh begins to rub against your clit. You feel the hardness growing in the front of his pants as he continues, “I was hoping you’d let me do this to you from the minute I pulled over. I mean, holy shit have you seen yourself? A sexy little thing like you stuck out here helpless on the side of the road? I mean… that’s every mechanic’s dreams. Hell, every man’s dream. Although,” he adds with boyish pride, “Not many men would’ve been able to get that engine up and running again.”
One of his hands has replaced his thigh while the other has resorted to pinching and twisting your nipple. You already know what he’s going to find as he hikes up your skirt and pushes aside the fabric of your panties, but you can’t help me feel a little surprised as he slips a finger into the wetness and moans, “Oh baby, you’re so fucking wet.”
Your brain has too many factors to consider, and your body has already made its decision, so you continue to hold very still as he moves from whispering and kissing your neck to kissing your mouth again. Even as all of the complicated thoughts and feelings swirl, you can’t deny he’s an incredible kisser, and some part of your brain wants to know what else that mouth can do.
He places a finger inside you and you gasp as he begins working it, finding your G spot and clit without breaking eye contact. Through a haze of growing arousal, you wonder why he’s paying you this courtesy as he adds a second finger and then a third, working them in and out with a skill you can’t deny. Any naive thoughts you had about his altruism are dashed as you glance down at his other hand, which has begun stroking an already mostly erect cock and lining up the pre-cum-glistening head at your entrance.
This is pragmatism. Without preparation, if he could even get it in at all, he wouldn’t be able to
last.
“Last??” Your body tenses up and feel a wave of panic at the thought. “How long does this sick fuck intend to be inside me on the side of a public road? Surely he has to make it quick if he isn’t afraid of getting caught.”
Then your mind returns to the hours of total solitude you spent on the road already, between waiting and him repairing the car, and to the glint of the not-wrench you saw earlier.
You get the feeling that even if there was a realistic chance of getting caught, there’s very little in the world this man is afraid of. At that, he pushes himself inside you, with an immediate groan once he finally sheathes the entire thing. He stands there for a minute, one hand holding your hips still with a vice grip, and the other around your neck. He’s not choking you, just holding you still as if his life depends on it while talking intentionally slow steady breaths. His cock twitches a few times and you toy with the notion of rocking your hips to end it quickly, but part of you is afraid of how he’ll react to having his fun cut short so quickly and the other half of you, from some darker corner of your mind you’ve never dared to explore before, wants to see what will happen.
Before either part of your mind has a chance to act, he’s got both hands on your hips and is pulling slowly out before thrusting again with another stifled moan. To your surprise you hear a tiny gasp involuntarily escape you as well. You feel a twitch in response to that, as the throbbing warmth between your thighs pulls back out and thrusts in again.
Despite the total insanity of the situation, you tilt your hips to an angle that you know will be better for your both and feel his breath on your neck as he chuckles appreciatively.
He fills you completely, the thickness hitting every single spot, and as he builds up a rhythm and seems to get some control over himself, he brings a hand back to circle your clit. Hiding the way this is making you feel would be utterly impossible, as the wetness is rolling down your thighs and each stroke ends with a feeling like lightning shooting through your body that is making your eyes roll back in your head. Logical thought requires too much brain processing power now, and you can contextualize later, so you hook a knee around his waist and put a hand up to ruffle that perfect blonde hair as he begins thrusting in and out and you moan and gasp.
You feel the pleasure in your body building, and a wave of it crests over you as you let out a moan you’re afraid they can hear even on the other side of this vacant prairie land.
He’s groaning as well now, his warm, hard cock throbbing, and as you place your forehead to his you see in his eyes how hard he’s focused on keeping up the rhythm and holding it together as your walls clinch around him.
This may in fact, be the best sex of your life and it’s on the side of the road with an absolute stranger, you think to yourself deliriously as he pinches your nipple and rolls your clit into your second orgasm.
“Fuck!” you scream.
Finally, you feel his thrusts begin to get erratic and as his cock twitches inside of you, you wonder if he’s going to pull out.
Instead, he holds your hips still and a shiver runs through his body as his cock spasms inside of you for a final time before hot ribbons of cum coat your insides and begin mingling with your own juices running down your thighs.
“Damn,” he says between heaving sighs. He looks into your eyes and smoothes your hair
before asking, “You okay?”
You nod, and in that moment, you truly do mean it. With remarkable gentleness, he straightens your dress and helps you to the driver’s seat before bounding over to the car like some kind of antelope. He returns with a cloth and cup of water, the shyness from earlier back across his face and none of the wildness in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t planning on that last part but you were just too good and I kind of lost control,” he explains with a reddening face as he cleans up your thighs as if he isn’t the bow-legged sex god who made the mess to begin with.
The processing is beginning to happen as post-sex clarity hits, and you mumble, “Fuck, I don’t even know your name.”
He looks up in surprise and goes, “Oh shit, I’m sorry.” He smiles and begins to extend a hand, but has a quick moment of realization and wipes it off first, “Name’s Dean.”
You take his hand and give him your first name as well, red in the face and wondering what it means about you that you currently have zero regrets as you say, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance Dean.”
A tiny hint of the suaveness returns as he winks and grins before retorting in that deep voice, “Believe me sweetheart, the pleasure was all mine.”