The Zipper & The Highway

 That summer of 1996, I had a new toy: a bigger, better motorbike. I needed an excuse to test it on a long ride, so I decided to visit Clara. She was still working at a campsite in the south, near the ocean.

The plan was simple: spend the weekend in her tent. The reality was trickier: she was sharing the tent with a friend.

The first night was a lesson in stealth. Her friend was sleeping just two meters away from us, breathing rhythmically in the dark. It was a high-stakes game. We wanted to fuck, but we had to be silent. We skipped the foreplay that involved mouth-noise. No sucking, no wet sounds. Just hands.

I undressed her slowly, the sound of fabric rustling sounding like thunder in the quiet tent. We lay on our sides, spooning, and I slid inside her from behind. The restriction made it hotter. Every time the sleeping bag rustled, we froze. In my head, a fantasy started playing: What if the friend wakes up? What if she watches us?

She didn't, of course. We finished in silence, sweating and suppressed.

The next day, we thought we had the place to ourselves. Her friend was gone. We rushed back to the tent after the beach, eager to make some real noise. Clara went down on me immediately—God, I had missed that. Her mouth was warm and skilled, erasing the memory of the Cashier’s laziness.

I pulled her into doggy style, pounding into her wet heat, feeling the freedom of the empty tent.

ZZZZZZIP.

The sound of the tent zipper opening was like a gunshot. Sunlight flooded in. "Hello!" A friendly face popped through the opening—another girl from the campsite, maybe eighteen, grinning. Her smile vanished instantly when she saw my ass and Clara’s face mid-moan.

"Go away!" Clara shouted, furious. "Get out!"

The girl stammered an apology and vanished. Clara was pissed about the disrespect, but I just laughed. It was the hazard of the trade.

A few weeks later, the season ended. I drove down to pick Clara up and take her home. But this time, we were in my parents' car. Long drives are boring, and boredom leads to horniness.

I started a game. While keeping my eyes on the road, I let my right hand drift. I touched her leg, then higher, slipping my hand under her top to find her tits. Clara fought back. She reached over and unzipped my jeans.

Suddenly, I was driving down the highway at 100 km/h with her head in my lap. The sensation of a high-speed blowjob is unique—the vibration of the engine, the danger of the road, and the wet warmth of her mouth.

It was too much to finish safely. I pulled off onto a deserted side road. I didn't even turn off the engine. Clara climbed over to the driver’s seat, pulled down her panties, and straddled me. She rode me with urgency, cumming quickly. I exploded inside her a minute later.

We arrived home happy, but the old patterns returned. We spent New Year’s Eve together, but by early 1997, the monotony won again.

We broke up. This time, it felt permanent.