Gay Erotic Stories

You have to be at least 18 to read the following material. However in most states you can get a driver's license well before that. I guess it's OK to pilot a 3,000 pound hunk of metal down the road at 60mph, but not to play with yourself in private. Makes sense to me. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Auto Biography - by M1KE HUNT -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Thank God for Cars. Have you ever wondered what it must have been like a few generations ago when the only thing you could do was walk through the village to go to the girl's house to visit? And with her parents in the next room playing the piano? If the family was really hip they might have a Victrola with the latest scratchy acetate of John Tesh or something. A big time was to go sit on the porch. Whoopee! No, the automobile changed everything. Manufacturing, of course. And asphalt. Where would we be without the endless miles of gummy black ribbon that so beautifully decorate our environment? And sex, of course. I had to get around to it sooner or later, and this time it only took three paragraphs. I'm getting better at this. I was the oldest in my family, which meant that I never got a ride anywhere until Mom or Dad decided it was OK. Sometimes I wished I had an older sibling just to have a little more freedom. But I suppose I would have hated having an older sister, unless she had really big tits and left her bras lying around for me to jerk off in, but I didn't. Anyway no use crying over spilt, uh, milk. But if I had had an older sister, at least she could have taken me out of the house and maybe even let me double date while she drove around with her boyfriend. Yeah, that's a likely scenario. Older sisters. Fuck 'em. Anyway, I had to make do during my teenage years with stolen kisses behind the bleachers at a football game, or in the back of a bus during a field trip with 6,000 other kids smirking and giggling, or wherever opportunity presented itself. And then, one day, I got a pass which entitled me to have sex anytime I wanted almost anywhere in the world. It was an official pass, actually signed by some politician or another, and it had my picture on it and it said I could pilot a car all by myself. It didn't specifically mention sex, but I think that's pretty much understood. Two weeks after I got my license I was copping a feel from Phyllis in the front seat of Mom's station wagon. OK, it wasn't the coolest car in the world, but it had one feature that should be standard on every vehicle ever sold. No, not airbags. Phyllis thoughtfully supplied those right inside her bra. I'm talking about fold down seats. It was a Rambler, and there was a little lever you pulled, and the backs of the seats went perfectly horizontal, turning a perfectly good bench seat into a perfectly great bed. I don't understand why Rambler went out of business. Except that most teenage boys weren't buying station wagons, I guess. That's one marketing feature they never played up in their advertising, which was probably a mistake. But, they never asked me for suggestions, and I think they blew it. Marketing Executives. Fuck 'em all. So there I am, making out with Phyllis, my arm stretched around the back of her neck, my hand slipping slowly under the top of her scoop neck blouse, and my fingers are sliding, sliding, and I feel the swell of her breast. And I push my hand down further, and my elbow is now jamming at the back of her neck cause my arm isn't long enough, and she bends her neck to get it out of the way and my fingers are sliding, sliding. And my fingertips encounter something hard. Button hard. And I know I've hit gold. Or rubies, to be more accurate. Of *course* I'm sitting there making out with her, but my concentration has completely left my lips and tongue and is refocused on my fingertips, which are now trying to surround the tip of her breast. "Ouch," she says, and I realize I'm about a quarter-inch from snapping her neck. So I reluctantly let my arm slide back up and I take it out from around her, and I immediately glom onto her tits and begin unbuttoning any button I can find. Anywhere. I'm so glad the Rambler people didn't attach the dashboard with buttons, cause I would have stripped them bare. It's the most amazing feeling, to be sitting in a car with a girl for the first time in your life and not have to worry about your Mom suddenly coming down the stairs, or worse, her father looking out at the back porch where you're making out. And now I've got her blouse open and I'm fumbling with the GODDAMN FUCKING CLASP on her bra and finally I somehow happen to hit the magic combination and it opens and her bra falls off and her tits are staring at me and I dive in. Phyllis, like most good girls when I was growing up isn't participating much in the exercise. It's enough for her to just sit there and let it happen. It's another ten years before girls acknowledge that they, too, have hormones. It didn't matter. It was enough. She provided the Disneyland of delight with her bare chest and I'd bought an all day pass. My hands covered her tits like ivy on a Harvard schoolyard wall. And we kissed, and tongued, and I caressed her soft flesh and wondered what a lifetime pass would cost. Too much! Wives. Fuck 'em all. I was thumbing her nipples, tweaking them back and forth between my fingers when I broke the kiss. "Hey, want to see something?" I asked. "Sure," she mumbled. I reached for the magic lever and pulled. The back of her seat dropped away, and fell perfectly between the front bench and the back, forming a continuous horizontal upholstered platform. "Wow," she said. "I've never seen that before." I could have said the same thing about her tits, but I kept my mouth shut. Well, not shut exactly, because as she sank back, I brought my lips to her breasts and began sucking on them, pulling especially hard at the nipple. I was in heaven, heaven on wheels. Phyllis seemed to be enjoying herself too, although she didn't make any noise to let me know. Years later I decided she was one who had come through the production line without the sound card activated. If I had only known, I would have worked a little harder on that particular feature. Anyway, I suckled and smeared my wet lips across her tits for a few lifetimes and then went for the gold. As I rested my hand on her bare leg I could feel her relax and her legs part slightly. I figured I was home free. And I slid my hand up her leg, under the pantleg of her shorts and across the front of her panties. I raised my head up and began kissing her again, one hand smothering a soft breast, one dancing across the soft fabric of her underwear. I crooked one finger and found the elastic of a pant leg. I snuck underneath. I felt the fuzz that could only be her pubic hair. And as my finger wandered around, exploring that portion of a woman about which I knew so little, I felt as though my dick was about to rip right through my shorts. She still made no movement to touch me. I removed my hand from her breast and brought it to my own zipper, which I lowered quickly. I'd had more practice with my own clothes. I took one of her hands in mine and guided her to the intended target, and as her fingers slipped inside my pants I felt a rush of feeling that I had felt so many times before. In the shower. With a bar of soap. Yep, I came in my pants, right there in Mom's car. I'd moved from heaven to hell in just six short spurts. Now I had to worry about stains on the seat. And in my pants. And on my reputation. Truth be told, she didn't care. She was into receiving, not giving, and though I continued working on her for at least a half-hour more, she just lay there letting me do all the work. It was enough. Not a week later I was back in the car, back with Phyllis, back at the same dirt road. We were making out again, and I was unbuttoning her blouse again, only this time it was her hand that was snaking around looking for the magic lever. Phyllis was nothing if not a quick study. She found it and yanked and we went horizontal. As we lay there, side by each, my fingers eagerly went for the buttons on her blouse. She giggled while I fidgeted with them. At last they were all opened, and I reached around behind her to unclasp her bra. I would have just yanked it down, but her tits weren't yet big enough to hang over it, so I had no choice but to try to remove the pesky white garment. And one handed, no less. With her lying on her side, I couldn't get my other arm into play, and I fumbled with the GODDAMN FUCKING CLASP again. This time it wasn't so kind, and she finally had to sit up and reach behind herself and undo it for me. I gave a silent prayer of thanks. She lowered herself back into my embrace. Our lips touched, then mashed together as I reached through her hair to hold the back of her neck and swoop her toward me. Even the touch of her hair was erotic, but my hands had other targets in mind and swiftly slid from her neck across her chest and over her young breasts. Heaven in a two pint container. I lowered my head and began to kiss her hillocks, nibbling and suckling and bringing out the firm texture of her swelling nipple. I switched to the other side and repeated. In a teenage boy's mind it seemed a lifetime, but by the clock on the dash it was maybe 20 minutes. My attention span was longer then. And I slid one of my hands down across her pleated skirt and my fingers sunk into the crevasse between her thighs. Her knees parted slightly as she relaxed. I moved my head back up and began to kiss her anew. The wandering hand slid even lower, searching for the hemline of the skirt, found it, and crept underneath. Fingers tickled and teased her skin as they reversed course and now inched higher and higher. The texture beneath my fingertips changed. It was still soft, feminine, warm. But it went from smooth skin to even smoother silk, and I was rubbing across the front of her panties, eagerly anticipating yet another layer of clothing to be violated. I wasted little time with this one, and reached up high to get under the elastic waistband of her underwear, then dipped my hand down across her furry mound and seized my target. In the dark, and with so little experience, I scarcely knew what I was looking for, but like any good explorer invading unknown territory I bravely marched on. My fingers found a damp region that was more slick than wet. The slipperiness covered my probing digit, and I greedily pushed it further into the center of the swampy lubricant and fluttered my finger back and forth across her pussy lips, spreading the moisture across her in a wide circle. This was an exercise I could do for days if allowed. But my hand was getting hot, trapped as it was inside her panties, and I released my target and reached up to grab at the elastic band that was cutting into my wrist. She bounced up off the seat and with one quick tug slid the offending clothing down her legs and over her knees. She kicked them off, and my hand immediately returned to her cunt. Now I had full access, and I rubbed several fingers across her slippery and slimy pussy. I could smell her wetness, and it drew me to her like a fly to honey. "Honey," I said pulling her hand to my fly, "slip up a little higher." She did without question. I rolled her on her back; he neck was now bent against the backrest of the backseat, and I crouched down between her legs, my back pressed against the dashboard. I'd never eaten a woman before, but I instinctively knew what to do. So did she. Her legs opened wide, and my eager tongue began to lick her like an ice cream cone. My lips kissed at her, and her juices smeared across my teenage face from cheek to cheek. God it was heaven. I stuck my tongue out as far as I could, and pushed it into her waiting snatch. She grunted. I probed and prodded her, and she lay there quite still, but occasionally moaning or whispering something like "up higher". I licked and sucked and rolled my face in the feminine dew, and I waited for her to reach orgasm. She never did, at least I don't think she did. I know when it happened to me it was a feeling like having a truck run over my brain, only nice. She certainly seemed to be enjoying herself, but she never started thrashing about or yelling or any of the other things I expected would happen. Still, it was an experience I'd never forget, eating Phyllis in Mom's car. As I knelt in front of her I moved her squeezing fingers, unzipped my pants and extracted my dick and began to fiddle with it. Finally I began to move up on her. I wiped my face of the vast amount of her own lubricant and came up to kiss her. She immediately realized what was happening and stopped me. "I can't," she said. "What! Why not!" I whimpered. "I'm saving myself," she answered. And as though that was explanation enough, she fell silent. I'd never been taught anything about sex. But it was logical enough that when a girl says "no" it means "no", and although my brain railed at the decision, I stopped. Well, sort of. I pushed my dick down between her thighs, and she clamped them together. I'm sure it was as protection for herself, but it had the effect of surrounding my erection with her warm feminine flesh, and I dry humped against her as we continued to kiss. Dry hump is probably the wrong term, because it wasn't long before I reached my orgasm, and shot a bucketful of cum from my throbbing penis. Straight down. Right on to Mom's upholstery. Jeez, was I a mope. The rest of the evening was pretty uneventful. The next day wasn't. I'd tried to get the stain out of the seat as soon as I got home. Shit, I worked with a sponge and paper towels for a half hour, but by then it had "set" and I couldn't get it out. And I couldn't see myself saying "Hey Mom, how do you get cum stains out of a car seat?" So I didn't. Mom noticed right away. I made up some lame excuse about Phyllis dropping her ice cream cone on the seat, and gosh I was real sorry, and gosh I'd pay out of my summer job money to have the stain worked on, but Mom just shrugged and told me to forget it. Good old Mom. Good old stupid stupid Mom. I never did fuck Phyllis, in that car or anywhere else. She finally started actually participating, rather than just lying there, and I did get many a hand job and an occasional blow job from her. I was more careful where the fruits of our passion landed, however. Phyllis was skinny, and my mother wouldn't have believed she had an ice cream cone every time we went out! Just before the summer ended my mother got a new car. My folks decided I should have a car when I went back to school in a few weeks, so I got the Rambler. Mom had gotten it as a used car, and I was getting it as a used used car, but I didn't care. I was going to a "campus" college, rather than one in a city, so a car was a great gift, even if it was a shitty old beat up Rambler. I certainly couldn't afford to buy one myself, which is why I'd been resigned to the bus for my first couple years there. When I got to school I saw the very cool cars all lined up in front of the dorm. I'd seen them, or their cousins each fall when I went back to college. Beemers. Corvettes. One guy had a 64 T-Bird, cherry. My little gray Rambler station wagon stuck out like a sore thumb in the parking lot, but I didn't care, it was wheels, and that was enough. Funny thing was, the dorms were completely segregated. The girls had to sign-in and sign-out, and there was a 24-hour live human monitor at the door to each dorm. So if you were going to get some nookie, it wasn't likely to be in the comfort of your room. Which made my little station wagon quite a hot commodity on campus. Within a few months I was renting it to about every guy in the dorm. $10 a shot. And there were a lot of shots. Either that or ice cream was very popular with my fellow students. I had to laugh when the guy with the Corvette came in to rent the pussywagon, as it became known. He said he was going to tell his girlfriend that his car was broken down, and he'd had to borrow mine for the night. Sure. You know there are times when I've said women are stupid, but believe me, they're not THAT stupid. How did I know? I rented the car to a couple of them, too. They knew. They're pretty smart little fuckers, if you ask me. One of the smartest was Marissa. On our very first date we went to a movie. Before we even reached the theater she'd figured out the handy little handle without asking me a single question. She gave it a yank and the seat back flopped down and she squealed "Oh that's great!" I have no idea what movie we saw. I have no memory of actually driving to the theater. I couldn't tell you what country I was in, or my name if you'd asked. I only know that I had a two hour erection, and couldn't wait for "The End" to appear on the screen. Mercifully, it did, and we trooped out of the cinema and into the car. "Good movie," she said. "Umm," I replied. It was an effort. "Where do you want to go?" she asked innocently. "Umm," I said again. The brain finally uncramped and I said "How about we just drive out Route 2 and look at the stars and stuff?" "OK," she said. "OfuckingK," I thought. I've become convinced that certain actions are preprogrammed into your DNA. Because if I'd had to follow a logical set of numbered instructions, we wouldn't have moved. But my hand unconsciously found the key, inserted it into the slot, twisted it, and the engine roared to life. My foot hit the gas as my other hand released the parking brake and we were off like a shot. That car thing, it's in the genes. Another one I'm pretty sure about is the TV clicker. But I digress. We rode up Route 2, at the time a lovely road just north of campus that twisted and turned through some beautiful countryside. Better, it wasn't well traveled. Best of all, it had plenty of dirt roads flaring off like so many branches on a mature maple tree. We found one. We parked. Her hand went for the handle. The back of her seat flopped down into its trusty position and I slid over to meet her on her side of the bench. "Wait a minute," she said. She bent across me and began fumbling down at the edge of the seat on the driver's side. There was a magic handle on my side, too, but I never used it because I didn't want to be stuck behind the steering wheel. She found the handle and gave it a tug, and my half of the seat back gave way and joined its mate in horizontal position. We now had virtually a double bed, but it still wasn't enough for her. "Wait a minute," she said again, now beginning to strain my tolerance. She continued to lean over me, her breasts brushing back and forth across my thighs, as she started fumbling around under the dashboard. "What the hell are you doing?" I asked a little impatiently. "Hang on, think I've got it," she said. And lo and behold the steering wheel telescoped out of the way, collapsing against the dashboard and opening up the space all around. She'd created a regular playground for us, and I was ever so grateful. Like I said, she was a smart little fucker. Which proved to be true on both counts. She was on the Dean's list, and she quickly got on M1KE's list, too. The Dean's list had more names on it, but I vowed to try to narrow the gap. Actually I widened the gap that very night. Because it was only a few minutes before we were both naked and cavorting in the huge pussywagon playground. I made a note; for an extra $3 I'd show the guys how to get rid of the steering wheel! Marissa and I explored each others' bodies in the fine moonlight that filtered through the maples. I held her tits, she stroked my dick. She swung around and pushed me down and climbed on top of me backwards, her cunt perched over my nose and her mouth hovering above my dick. She lowered herself those few precious inches, and we worked oral magic on each other as the radio played softly in the background. There was just enough light for me to look closely at the sex organs that now bounced up and down against my lips and tongue and chin. God they were beautiful, full and puffy and oh so smelly. I eager munched at her perfectly defined lips, toyed with her little clit, speared her opening with my tongue. She returned the favor with kisses, sucks, and licks on my engorged penis. We had a regular mutual admiration sex-sigh-ity going. The feeling of her lips surrounding me and sliding up and down my manpole was too much to bear, and I pulled away from her before she could finish me off. I wanted to fuck her. I'd had a few hand jobs by this point, and more than a few blowjobs, too, but I was still a little light in the "fuck" category, and I wanted to bring some balance into my life. And I swung around and positioned myself over her and began to lower my midsection onto her. I knew she was eager, because her hand grabbed my dick and she guided me surely into her cunt, and I sank my full length, such as it was, into her without hesitation. I stopped all motion, because I knew in my eagerness I could lose control quickly if I wasn't careful. I was careful. I made sure to slow down or even stop if I felt myself building, and Marissa and I fucked and fucked and fucked. An hour later I was still fucking her, and although we'd changed positions a half-dozen times, I wasn't in the least bit tired. Neither was she, apparently, grinning every time I told her to slow down. She knew. She was a smart little fucker, and a horny one too, I guess. Finally it was time. Truth be told, it had been time an hour ago, but now it was *really* time. She was on her knees and I was behind her, grabbing at her tits while I banged into her backside, my dick sliding up into her, then withdrawing, then charging forward again. "Oh, lookout," I stammered. "I'm gonna do it." "Go on," she coaxed. "Go on." And my whole body began vibrating with the energy of a powerful blast as my organ erupted inside her. I took a tit in each hand and pulled her back into me, plunging as deeply as I was able while I shot my load into her waiting vagina. "AAahhhh," I called out. I withdrew and pulled her toward me again. "AAhhhh," I repeated. I looked at her. She had her head twisted around and was watching me go through my powerful sexual experience, which only made it more intense for me. "AAAhhhhh," I shouted again as another squirt of joy juice left my body and squirted into hers. I felt her nipples suddenly harden in my hands and she joined me in the mantra. "Ahhhh," she cried. I watched her eyes squint closed as she burst. "Ahhhh," I said. "Ahhhh," she echoed. We both rolled slowly down the hillside of ecstasy, not wanting to move or break the bond we had forged only moments before. My dick stayed hard inside her. She made no attempt to push me out. I could only look down at my rigid member and wonder with the wonder that I think all males feel at such a time. That's one that's definitely in the DNA. We cleaned up, and I noted that we hadn't added any stains to the upholstery. Not that it would have been easy to tell, what with the moire pattern of sperm that had quickly overtaken the light blue pinstriping of the factory installed material. We headed home, and I dropped her at the door. I got a kiss from her, and it was heaven. Hell was the next morning. I walked out into the parking lot to see my wonderful car completely smashed in on one side. Somebody had been drunk, I guess, and had rammed it good, right on the driver's side door. The door was completely useless, the window smashed, the windshield cracked, and there was some sort of fluid dripping from somewhere underneath. I was pissed. The guys in the dorm were pissed. One even put up a funny "wanted" poster, offering a $1,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and capture of the person who killed the pussywagon. The poster was even a hit in the girls' dorms, I heard. I didn't have insurance. I guess it hadn't been such an "unnecessary expense" after all. I couldn't afford another car. I went back to the bus. It wasn't the same, for me, or for a lot of guys on campus. The Corvette guy went back to just getting handjobs across the console. My roommate settled for the occasional blowjob behind the football stadium. I got laid occasionally at a frat party or something. Not that often, mind you, because you have to find the willing participant AND the convenient place. At our school that was tough. That was almost impossible. That was the benefit of the pussywagon. I really miss that car. It probably had 100,000 miles on it when Mom passed it along, and during it's short little life with me it probably got another 100,000 miles. Of course, I'm measuring in "dick-stroke-inches" while it was my property. I've never seen another one with the super duper fold down seats. I still can't figure out why. American Motors went out of business, of course. And then everybody started buying those tiny little Jap cars that you can barely squeeze into anyway, even when you're just sitting there driving. Christ, try to get laid in one of those things, you can end up with your dick in your own ear before you know it. Fucking Japanese. Fuck 'em all. Anyway, you see a Rambler station wagon on the used car lot, look for the little silver handle, and give it a yank for me. Just for old times sake. Best fucking car this country ever saw. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The automobile has done a lot more for me besides just get me laid while I was in college. It's made my whole life more convenient. For instance, I just came back from the store where I bought a dozen eggs, a gallon of milk, a pack of cigarettes, and a prostitute named Marcy. June's out of town for a couple of days, and I thought I'd help the local economy a little. It's the patriotic thing to do, and anyway Marcy's not Japanese. When I'm done with her, I'll probably saunter over to the computer and check my e-mail. I sure hope there's one there from you. No? You can send me one pretty easy, just by writing to M1ke@hilarious.com . If you'd like to receive future stories about my past, tell me you're over 18 and I'll send them to you. I'd send you Marcy, but she might be busy for a few days. You can also get stories on my webpage at . It's a faster trip than riding in some old beat up station wagon, but not as much fun, I have to admit. Still, some people do it over and over, so there must be something to it. It's a pretty high-octane site. Not as much as Mr. Double's used to be, maybe, which I would put somewhere in the area of "jet fuel", but still pretty good. And there are some new links to Taria's place, the Bear's Den, and some others. This story is Copyright 1997 by M1KE HUNT. Notice I still spell M1KE with a "one" (1) not an "eye" (I). I do that to fool foreigners, who have a hard enough time learning the English language without some asshole like me throwing numerals in the middle of words. Think of it as my "American Smut for Americans" program. OK, you Brits and Canadians can play, too. But keep those fucking Japs out of it. Scumbags. I almost killed myself trying to get laid in a Toyota once. You think I'm kidding? If the Japanese are so smart, why haven't they come up with something to replace the GODDAMN FUCKING CLASPs? Because it's a plot. They're still pissed about the war, and they're out to get us. And by the way, this time they're winning.