Space For A Footjob, Or More

Aaliyah strolled up the driveway like money was boredom she could afford, tapping the hood twice. "Big enough to fuck in?" she asked straight. You caught the hint, opened the back door, popped the seats flat, pointed out the headroom. She crawled in, heels off, skirt riding her ass. "Roomier than my husband's ego," she chuckled, spreading out. You laid down beside her, started the demo. Hands roaming. Fabric bunching. Leather creaking under weight. She tugged you on top, made the chassis rock in rhythm. "Still think it's big enough?" she teased, wrapping legs around you. You grinned, thrust once more, deeper, showed her the suspension didn't complain. She gasped, laughed, tried every angle, switched positions, knees to the roof, elbows to the glass, every awkward limb checked the limits. By the time she climbed out flushed, she wasn't bored anymore. You both had the receipt: it passed every spec she gave, including the one written in sweat.