Tire Stud — Jeremy Edwards

As a hardcore environmentalist, I’ve always felt weird about my obsession with big-ass automotive tires. I never wanted to buy into the Great American Motor Vehicle Fetish . . . to glamorize these machines that are, at best, a mixed blessing.

But I had to spend a lot of time on the road when I was a traveling saleswoman. My hilarious friends used to kid me about my alleged romps in the hay with farmers’ sons. Meanwhile, the reality was that I was fucking truck drivers northbound and southbound on I-95. Inhibitions were broken down in many a breakdown lane, and very little rest was obtained at rest areas.

As for the truck stops: I knew them like the back of my clit. Like anyone who travels for a living, I kept track of the best places to pee. But I also kept track of the best places to give or get head, get screwed against a wall, or do a set of pantyless knee-bends onto some fresh driver dick.

Jesus, I loved the way those places smelled. The aroma of hot truck tire permeated the parking lots and even the insides of the buildings. All around me, I could sense rubber that was as hot as I was. The rational part of me knew that what I was inhaling couldn’t possibly be good for the environment. But I couldn’t control what it did to my senses—nor, to be honest, would I have wanted to. It acted on me like a drug, making my pulse race and my pussy throb; and I reasoned that as long as I didn’t unnecessarily contribute to all this intoxicating toxicity, it couldn’t hurt for me to enjoy it for all it was worth, as I slid wetly out of the car in search of my next trucker ride.

By the time I hit 30 I had settled down a lot. I’d taken a job with a local nonprofit, as I’d always wanted to, and I’d traded in my road-weary Honda for a shiny new laminated bus pass. And though I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a celibate, I was on a moderate fuck diet of one or two poets/musicians/activists a month, rather than one or two truck drivers a week. I kind of liked getting old.

But the scent of tire rubber always spelled sex to me. One whiff of a delivery truck on a summer day could take my cunt straight back to my favorite Interstate parking lot, and I’d have to head for the nearest ladies’ room to do something about it.

The house I rented after I gave up the road life came with a small, shady backyard. And one of the first things I’d done after moving in was install a tire swing on the biggest oak. Recycling, you know. I had total privacy back there, and that tire was my favorite place to jill off. Gently swinging and underwear-free, with the evocative perfume of the rubber wafting into my face, I’d let my fingers find my groove slot, and I’d soon be pounding my ass up and down against the thin air that tickled me from below.

So it wasn’t just my environmental conscience that made me an early adopter when those sandals, belts, and other accessories manufactured from recycled tire rubber came on the market. The only problem was that I couldn’t wear, carry, or even look at these items without getting instantly horny. This was a girl who could smell old tire rubber from across the room.

It’s remarkable that I didn’t smell Mitch from across town, given what he was wearing. When he walked into my neighborhood granola-crunchy café, I practically creamed my favorite junkyard-rescued couch. The dude had tire tread all over his slim, hipster body. From his sandals all the way up to his fucking fedora. Did I mention creaming the couch?

He had obviously crafted most of the outfit himself. (Believe me, if tire-tread jeans and shirts and fedoras had been available through the normal retail channels, your girl would have known about it.) Yep, this guy had lovingly assembled slivers of used tread into a jersey and a hat and an ass-glorious pair of 30×36 pants—how, I couldn’t even imagine. The thought that he had personally created this costume made me even hornier, and I could feel my bud twitching like a tiny, excited animal. Even as he stood magnificently at the counter in his ensemble, I could see him naked on a wooden floor, surrounded by fragrant rubber, diligently tailoring his masterpiece. I wanted to suck him and fuck him on all that rubber, in all that rubber, around all that rubber.

I decided it was time to order another espresso.

“Your clothes smell great.” I couldn’t believe I’d blurted that out, right at the counter. Well, yeah, maybe I could.

“Thank you.”

I wasn’t sure whether or not I should be surprised that he didn’t look surprised by my abrupt compliment. Did he hear this stuff all fucking day, from tire-crazed vixens in burnt-rubber heat? I had thought this was a quiet town.

“I’m Mitch.”

As always, I was fascinated by the fact that the tire rubber, which looked so black from a distance, revealed itself to be a handsome gray when viewed up close.

“Hi, Mitch. I’m Ruth. Do you mind if I feel your tread?”

He smiled. “Why not. After all, I don’t have any biceps to speak of.”

He bent an elbow and offered me a forearm. I ran my finger, with slow ecstasy, along one of the sensuous grooves. The soft, squishy sound of my fingertip dragging along the rubber seemed thunderous in my ears, and I could swear I felt his skin warming through the rubber, beneath my touch. My panties were so damp I was sure they’d soon start dripping like a percolator onto the black-and-white checkerboard floor.

“There are empty seats back there where I’m set up,” I said, cocking my head in the direction of my knapsack and my novel and the couch I’d nearly anointed with my arousal. Thank god, I thought, for cafés that are conveniently crowded in the front and attractively empty toward the back.

“I have a thing for rubber,” I confessed after he’d settled into place next to me on the couch, at my invitation. My gaze was locked on the artificial six-pack created by the texture of his industrial-strength shirt.

“You don’t say,” Mitch replied affably. He took a sip of his coffee, then he laughed. “I knew we had something in common.”

I’d been so fixated on his clothes that I hadn’t given enough attention to his face. Now I saw how his brown eyes glowed at me from beneath the brim of the fedora, and how his smile sang boyishly from inside the confines of his Vandyke.

So I helped myself to two handfuls of tire-clad torso and kissed Mitch, hard, breathing a cocktail of rubber and aftershave. Within moments, we were giving new meaning to the term rubberneckers.

As our bodies heated up, I could smell the sweetness of his fresh perspiration leeching the essence of the tires. I could imagine the slick sensations he must be feeling across his skinny chest as the warm rubber suckled his skin. I was making his entire body wet, the way my own ravenous sex was wet, and the only thing I wanted in the world was to jam his cock inside me while our senses snaked together in a rubber-infused fog of pleasure.

He had somehow sewn a zipper into the front of his pants, and I was on it, with little concern for the fact that we were, technically, in a public place. I hadn’t done anything this brash since my I-95 days; but I was officially a woman out of control at this point. And I wasn’t hearing any complaints from Mitch.

Whenever time constraints force me to choose between eating and being eaten, I’ll usually vote to have my pussy tongued till I scream. But I’d known from the moment I first saw Mitch that I wanted to snack on his dick, to lick along the length of it like my saliva was a dribble of mustard and his cock a sizzling hot-dog, protruding trigonometrically from a charcoal-tinted rubber roll.

As I went down on him, it made me feel ticklish to sense the contrast between his naked flesh—so delicate yet so rigid—and the rugged lewdness of the pants. The treads looked like cartoonishly exaggerated corduroy wales, and I gripped them for stability as my head bobbed and kissed and nurtured its way up and down the pale, stiff prize. He was sensitive, and he cooed for me like a twee-pop singer as I brought him closer, moment by delicious moment, to delivering a coffeeless cream into my mouth.

“Are you guys done with your drinks?”

Frankly, I was glad we’d been thrown out right after Mitch’s pretty dick exploded for me, because the café was beginning to cramp my style. I wanted to sprawl naked for him on my futon, to feel him roll softly over me in his tire treads, to sense the chemistry of flesh and rubber fusing me to him and melting my entire body into Campbell’s cream of cunt soup. While Mitch glanced backwards into the place we’d been ejected from, I was looking forward to all of this.

I may be an unapologetically promiscuous adventurer, but it’s a quaint social nicety of mine that if I bring a boy home to fuck him silly, I make a point of exchanging full names. After the café, it felt a bit anticlimactic; but a rule is a rule.

“I should tell you that my birth certificate says ‘Ruth Obergard,’” I volunteered a little shyly, just as we were crossing under the local I-95 overpass.

“Mitchell Lynne,” he responded, extending a handshake hand with mock formality.

We walked on quietly. My Michelin Man, I thought inanely. I laughed without explaining, and he seemed to like that.

I’d been jonesing for the futon, but it was a beautiful day, and so I decided to introduce Mitch to my tire swing first. He sat for me there, his cock proud as a stick shift in its glossy black condom, and I peeled down my juice-stained panties and straddled him. Under my flimsy skirt, my naked thighs rode a tarmac of cheeky rubber. I loved feeling how it was sort of hard and soft at the same time when I pressed into it.

Once I was sure our positions were stable, I let myself go wild on him. As my flesh slapped down more and more frantically, I could no longer tell where Mitch’s pants ended and the tire swing began. All I knew was that rubber kissed my soft ass with every thrust of my hips. And while our combined momentum made the swing move faster than I was used to, my crazy snatch gushed onto the rubber-sheathed prick and the rubber-clothed lap. When Mitch released his come and daintily touched my clit, the little backyard spun around us faster than tractor-trailer wheels.

In my bedroom, Mitch was soft in his rubber pants. So he simply rolled over and over me, like I’d imagined, and his kind eyes watched my face as I fucked myself beneath him—relishing his texture, absorbing his smell, practically crying because I had what I craved and craved what I had. I came like a romantic—now actually sobbing with joy—and I fell asleep beneath a blanket of masculine rubber.

For all those years, I had come again and again on the Interstate. Now, at last, the Interstate had come home to me.

And I didn’t even need a fucking car.

____________________

Read Jeremy’s other sexy stories published here on Every Night Erotica; The Secret to Perfect Fondue, You in Your Apricot Panties,  The Ass-Pajama Lottery, Le Petit Déjeuner, The Fabric.

Jeremy Edwards is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off and the erotic story collection Spark My Moment (both published by Xcite Books). His libidinous short stories have been widely published online, as well as in over forty anthologies. His work was selected for The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, vols. 7, 8, and 9, and he has read at New York’s In the Flesh and Philadelphia’s Erotic Literary Salon. Jeremy’s greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile. Find Jeremy here: http://www.jeremyedwardserotica.com.