The van

The bar let out and I was done being twenty-two in a room that wanted to buy me a second drink and a nickname. Ned was twenty-nine. He did not sign my hours. He did not work my crew. He had said so when I asked, plain, no joke. I told him the van was mine and the fuck would be mine and he could walk after. He said that sounded better than the nickname. Good.

I opened the back of the plain work van and stood there in the flannel and the dark work pants, short black hair, the simple line of ink on my forearm with no letters in it, boots on the bumper. No logo on the shirt. No pass in the pocket. I let him look at me dressed in my own doorway before I let him in. Then I climbed up, told him to sit on the wheel well, and shut us in enough to kill the wind. I said do not touch the wheel. This is not a drive. He put his hands on his knees and waited, which was the first correct thing he did.

I opened his jeans and pulled his cock out. It filled my fist, hot, a drop at the tip I smeared with my thumb. I shoved my pants down and straddled him. My cunt was wet. I rubbed the head of his cock along me and then sat, taking him in one slide that made me grip the shelf. I told him not to thrust until I said. I rode him. The van smelled like clean cable and cold metal, not a job, a weekend. His cock reached deep. I fucked myself on it, flannel open, the line of ink flashing when I braced. I said now you can move. He fucked up into my cunt, still not touching the wheel, hands on my waist because I put them there.

I came with my forehead on his shoulder, cunt gripping his cock, a sharp sound I did not apologize for. I stayed down through it, then lifted off. I told him to cum in the rag on the shelf, not in me and not on the panels. He wrapped the rag around his cock and stroked, cum soaking cloth, his breath loud in the box. I watched, satisfied, and took the rag from him when he finished. My mess to toss. My van.

He asked if I would drive him to the east side. I said I drive me, and he walks. I meant it. I opened the back, hopped down, and pointed at the sidewalk. He zipped up, laughed once like he respected it, and walked. I locked the van, went down to the basement room, and lay on the mattress with my cunt still full of the feeling and empty of him. Impossible to manage. That is not a flaw in the bed. That is the point.