The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Triumphs of the Past

By Maximilian Cummings

Chapter 1

Can inanimate objects have feelings, emotions, thoughts? Self-evidently not, you would have thought—the clue being in the words, ‘inanimate’ and ‘objects,’ but what about Herbie, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, KITT or the Hal 9000? So, fair enough, the last two are artificial intelligence machines but… but a Triumph 2500 Mk 2 is not one of those. Anything but, you would have thought… but I am getting ahead of myself.

Let’s start at the beginning. My name being a good place to start:

So, I am ‘into’ cars; have been since a kid taking after my father and my grandfather, actually. You’ve seen the Brighton Run, ‘Genevieve’? Well, there’s a lot of their work to be seen there. Me, I’m more 60s, 70s, though I’ll do later or earlier work if I’m paid.

I had a friend, unfortunately the emphasis is very much on the ‘had’ as he is dead now. A tragic story which I shan’t go into. At least he was a lot older than me. You can’t say 61 was a totally bad innings but it was nowhere near a good one. He left a widow whom I really did not know. Had met Jane a few times but whilst Rob and I were great mates, Jane had not really fitted into what we did. Rob and I went around the motor shows together, you know the thing, loads of blokes (and they are mostly blokes) drive to a field somewhere and look at each other’s motors and buy bits and pieces, anything from a drive shaft to a gear knob. Rob said he had taken Jane a few times with him, but she had been bored out of her mind.

So, there Jane was without a husband, shocked and grieving and with a big double garage full of car parts, work benches and a couple of classic cars. A roadworthy Triumph 2500S Mk2 estate and a Morris Minor estate. Rob liked estate cars. We all have our little foibles and quirks! Useful to put stuff in but not exactly sexy! The Morris was in bits, but the Triumph motored nicely. I had been in the Triumph. Indeed, had gone to Rob’s last show with him in it. It’d gone well up the motorway, cruised nicely in overdrive. I liked that neat switch atop the gear knob. A flick and into overdrive. Not too bad fuel economy either. We talked a lot about the car and what Rob needed to do to it. He’d asked me what I thought about the interior trim, whether he should keep it as is or replace. The brown leather seats (an extra—not standard) were pretty badly faded and stained.

“I’m a bit suspicious of some of the stains—on the back seat you know. I wonder what previous owners got up to in him?”

I remember his words and the surprising pronoun. ‘Him?’ Surely cars were ‘shes’ like boats? I can remember joking with Rob about it. ‘Not given ‘him’ a name, have you?’ I said, or words to that effect, ‘what gives with the he?”

“Dunno,” he’d said, and had indicated the huge gearlever-knob with that overdrive switch mounted on its top. Got a pretty big knob hasn’t he?” That unnerved me a bit, seeing Rob grasping it and changing gear. It was vibrating away even in overdrive. Awful gearbox you know; sometimes vibrating so severely you can barely grasp the lever to change gear. The idea of it as a great big cock didn’t sit well with me. Not the sort of thing I would want to grasp! I’d made some joke about it being a bit homo-erotic and he had laughed and done something a trifle crude with his finger and thumb and the gear-knob.

“Dunno. Just always struck me since I bought it, that IT was a ‘he.’ No name, Eric, just I see the Triumph as a he not a she.”

Happy days, happy banter and with no thought that would be the last journey…

Anyways, back to Jane. She was stuck with all this ‘car stuff.’ She was sentimental about the Triumph and Rob’s love of cars. But,

“He’s too big for me.”

I kept a straight face though the phrase had amusing connotations. It was not the time for humour in any case, nor to notice that, for a woman of fifty, Jane was not unattractive. What I also noticed was Jane repeated the ‘he’ pronoun in respect of the car.

“Rob used to drive the car, not me. Fact I’ve hardly been inside. Very much his car, when it was on the road. We used the Mondeo for holidays and the like.”

She looked up at me. Yes, not an unattractive woman at all.

“What I’d like,” she continued, “is to have the Morris Traveller to drive and… I’m loath to sell the Triumph, Rob was so fond of him but… I wonder if you’d take the Triumph and restore the Morris in exchange? Then I can still see him—the 2500.”

I’d lose on the deal, the Morris Traveller needed a lot of work both time and parts, to say nothing of assembly, but I’d liked Rob’s Triumph and certainly wanted to do the right thing by his widow.


And that is why I found myself driving Jane up the motorway, some weeks later, in the darkness before dawn in the Triumph 2500 Mk2, the engine purring and that gear lever vibrating away to itself—in overdrive. We were off to an owners’ club autojumble to buy parts for both the Morris and Triumph and a 1966 Austin A 40 Farina Countryman (an estate again!) I was restoring for a client, but Jane did not know about that. Why was she with me when I knew she hated such meets? It was because of Rob of course. A feeling she should do it instead of him.

“I like the smell of the leather, you know, can I have that in the Morris?” she had said as she had settled into the old seat beside me. Old but generously sized and comfortable. Jane was asleep before we even reached the motorway.

He was good on the motorway, the 2000 Mk2s were better than the Mk1s in this and the 2500S better still. Good for cruising, not really sporty like other Triumphs—your Dolomites, Stags or TR6s—but good as a largish sedan, nicely set out, more cachet than a Vauxhall or Leyland’s Princess and not just a tarted up run of the mill saloon. The twin SU carburettors had most of the power of the not too good 2.5P.I. petrol injection model, all of the torque, but better smoothness, and it had higher, more relaxed, gearing than the 2000s plus decent levels of economy/reliability.

We were up early, middle of the night really, to get to the autojumble just as it opened for business and therefore get first crack at what would be on offer.

As the light grew in the sky, I took the occasional glance away from the windscreen and the curving walnut dash at the figure asleep to my left. Because I could. Jane was fast asleep, I could tell, but restless. She was probably dreaming: but of what? Certainly not me! I wondered what Rob and she had been like in bed. Had he been a good lover: was she? Funny thing for me to be thinking of, given our age difference, yet she had something about her. Sexy, severe and uptight was how I saw her. Perhaps she mellowed in the bedroom; perhaps she had mellowed with Rob. I liked her rather boxy face, the way her—what colours do women call their hair—yeah, to me, ‘old leather’ coloured hair, was styled, curling in under her cheeks and with a long slash across her forehead over to her right, half obscuring her almost black eyebrows. Brown eyes, not that I could see them as she was asleep, and really rather appealing wrinkles around them; a nice mouth with a wide smile and I could just make out her pierced ears with their pearl earrings and attached lobes—I was making a bit of a close inspection! I returned my attention to the road—and rightly so.

But then Jane moaned. It was the sort of noise women make when… It was that sort of noise aroused women make in bed. Don’t ask me to describe it but it most certainly was! I glanced to my left. Jane was still fast asleep, but her denim clad legs were actually rubbing together. I swallowed, my thoughts suddenly exceptionally male. Jane was clearly having a rather pleasant dream, if she’d been a bloke it might well be what is referred to as a ‘wet dream.’ I knew all about those—was having them again quite frequently since the break-up. Was she wet inside those jeans, at the top of those rather shapely legs—jeans do tend to mould to women’s thighs, don’t they? Were her nipples hard? I had not really looked at Jane’s chest but now my thoughts were about what her breasts looked like. At fifty they would sag a bit but by how much—natural and, you know, perhaps sexy—certainly there seemed plenty of the pair. Her thighs moved again. Would she be natural or shaved—part shaven perhaps—the colour of old leather or almost black like her eyebrows?

Not good thoughts. I was driving up the motorway with my cock as hard and upstanding as the Triumph’s gear stick and knob. Constrained, it was not vibrating in the same manner. In reality my cock did not vibrate much at all—cocks don’t—though if it was receiving the same vibrations the gear lever was receiving from that not ideal gearbox I’d have creamed in next to no time! As it was, I had to sit there for miles and miles with a permanent hard-on trying to concentrate on the road and not the occasional moans and sometimes thigh movements next to me. It’d have been worse had Jane been wearing stockings—there might even have been crackling and blue sparks of static as the nylons were rubbed together; her skirt might have ridden up revealing a glimpse of white thigh above stocking tops with suspenders pulling at the nylon and taut against the soft flesh.


And I wanted to pee! Sexual arousal plus that other erection inducing sensation—a full bladder—did nothing to help me. I was really rather uncomfortable. Both aroused and uncomfortable. I should not have had that second cup of coffee before we set out.

Jane woke with a start as we bumped across the field of the autojumble, a momentary audible, “Phew…” marking, I suspected, the join of her recent erotic dream to reality, “…we’re here.”

A visit, first, to the bogs. I don’t thing Jane noticed me walking uncomfortably but why should she suspect I had just been fantasising about her, rather than just in urgent need of bladder release?

It was a good and successful day. Not only did I buy the parts I wanted but I met lots of my motor ‘chums.’ Even Jane, despite what Rob had said about her aversion to such things, seemed to meet a lot of wives of Rob’s friends whom she knew and seemed to be not bored at all. We met again for lunch and she was even a little forthcoming about her feelings, being there without Rob. Perhaps her guard was a little down. Perhaps it was a sign she was enjoying the day.

I wasn’t worried about the return journey. Jane would not be doing ‘that’ again. She was going to be driving in any case. The usual ‘turn’ approach. I had driven there.

Now some people do drive with their hand on the gear lever. Bad practice because you should keep both hands on the wheel: yet how many people do you see driving along with an elbow resting on the open window or with just a single finger on the steering wheel? Jane did not at first but after a time her left hand settled on the gear knob. I wasn’t going to tell her off—I might have got a sharp retort to that! What I wasn’t prepared for was when she began fondling the knob. She was staring out at the road in front of her, occasionally glancing at the dash and the rear-view mirrors—all very proper driving habits. We had started the journey back talking about the day, but the conversation had dried up—probably when I had launched into a long explanation of the welding jobs needed for the Morris and, a little, to the Triumph. Had I been looking at the road too I might not have noticed her hand, but the reality was I was transfixed watching Jane’s slender hand moving on the gear lever as if it was an erect penis—and of course it was almost instantly matched by my own, only nobody was touching that.

I wouldn’t have said the 2500’s knob was particularly phallic. Not like on some cars! It’s a bit difficult to avoid the shape really—its the sort of shape that fits well in the clasp of your hand, though I’m sure designers go to great lengths to try and make it not look like there’s a great big prick sticking up from the transmission tunnel: not so sure some don’t go a bit the other way too.

The 2500’s knob certainly has a nice shiny chrome corona to it, an impressive flare if you are being particularly penile, though it then has a sharp, concave curve down to the stick which is not really penis like at all. Nor is the flat top, with the overdrive switch mounted in it, penis shaped, glans penis shaped—leastways not like mine—but the thing entire is a big knob, and Jane was most definitely running the circle of her thumb and forefinger slowly up and down it. Moreover, her thumb was occasionally lazily stroking, with its ball, the overdrive switch. I imagined it lazily stroking over my urethral opening, the ball of her thumb moistened or lubricated with what I could already feel as a small wet patch in my boxers. It was not vigorous wanking but the sort of slow, teasing movements your girlfriend might do to you, if you were luck, before you really set to at the old ‘rumpy-pumpy.’

I swallowed and looked up at Jane. She was staring straight ahead but had her bottom lip between her teeth. It came to me that she was aroused, just as she had been in her dream of the morning. Aroused again? What was happening? It was hardly going to be my presence.

A stop at the MSA (motorway service area) for coffee and a sandwich and then back on the road again. Me driving this time, and with my hand only holding the gear knob when I needed to. I almost winced when I flicked the overdrive switch. There had not been a hint of anything in the MSA, no touch to my arm or anything like that to suggest an interest in me—a sexual interest. Yet once back in the car and heading onwards I could see Jane’s jeans moving and her thighs rubbing.

“It’s warm in here isn’t it?” she asked, or said, opening her window.

I wouldn’t have said so but…

She was definitely restless, even muttering to herself.

“Tired?” I ventured, and she acquiesced to my suggestion to rest. She let her seatback down and tried to go to sleep whilst outside the sky began to darken. Miles further on I noticed, to my astonishment, she had begun to massage her groin through her jeans. Out of character or what? On I drove with the unusual feeling (again) of having a gear lever in my own jeans.

Flustered, not quite herself she made her ‘goodnight’ and hurried into her house leaving me to unpack the Triumph in her garage, load the stuff for the Austin into my car—I only got to keep the Triumph when I’d finished the Traveller. It was not yet mine, only promised. Turning from my car I looked up at the house and saw just a bedroom light on. Jane had not wasted time in going to bed. Given her performance in the car I very much wondered what exactly she was doing in bed. Not reading an Agatha Christie I rather thought! What was she wearing—perhaps nothing, just warm and damp from a shower. Was she lying there under the covers with her thighs apart frigging herself thinking of gear knobs, big thick gear knobs with chrome coronas? Unsurprisingly I walked a little stiffly back into the garage and looked at the Triumph 2500. What had been going on there—what had been going on in that car?

I unzipped. Yep, I got my cock out, there and then in my old friend’s garage workshop alongside his pride and joy of a motor car. No chance, leastways very little indeed of Jane returning that night, and I had been cooped up with a ‘raging’ hard-on much of the day. Frankly it was good to get it out of my fly and into the open. Free, unrestrained and, yes, peeled. What would Rob have thought? Had he got his cock out and had a wank in his garage? I sat down in the driver’s seat of the Triumph, my cock sticking up as it had been whilst I drove but now out in the open. Had Rob perhaps sat there and wanked? Men do funny things. Sex incites odd behaviour. Perhaps he had, perhaps he hadn’t: all men wank, and you have to do it somewhere. Yeah, of course in bed; perhaps sitting at the PC (and we all know why); perhaps down the garden, even in a shed; or out in the country on a walk, quietly and privately feeling the warm sunshine on ‘it’: so why not in the workshop or car? Perhaps some of the stains on the leather seats were Rob’s. I opened my legs and looked down at the leather past my cock and balls. Well, if some of that staining was Rob’s semen I hoped it had been a ‘good one.’

I wasn’t going to stain the leather; I got back out of the car and walked across the workshop with my cock still at attention out of my fly, a little surprised at what I was doing, and ripped off a couple of sheets of the workshop blue roll; perhaps Rob had done the same from the very same roll for the very same purpose. It was an odd sort of feeling of oneness with my old friend. I hoped he didn’t mind me having a wank in his old car, in his old garage and with his roll of blue paper: moreover, thinking about his wife as I did so. I settled back in the car and my hand grasped my penis, as Jane had grasped the Triumph’s gear knob, and did very much the same thing, my fingers sliding over my dark purple corona as hers had slid over the chrome.

My cock did look more like a penis—it was one after all—but the Triumph’s knob was bigger. I reached and held it, even stroked it as Jane had done before returning to my own. Probably the most gay thing I’d ever done—yes really! I had to accept he, the Triumph, had a thicker cockhead!

Positioning the blue sheets strategically I settled back and thought of Jane. Haughty, perhaps a bit cold, but sexy in spades: I really wouldn’t have at all minded if we had f…d. Had she been wearing a dress that day in the car and had undone it and let her boobs out, perhaps pulled the dress upwards and removed her knickers and just frigged there and then, wouldn’t that have been good? I’d have enjoyed watching—not good when driving though. My hand moved happily up and down my cock. Could I have helped her, just a bit, taken my left hand off the steering wheel for a short while? What if she had reached across as I drove, her free breasts wobbling and let me out. Got my cock out from inside my jeans and done what she had done to the gear knob or—my hand moved faster at the idea—dropped her mouth over my knob and sucked. Made me cum as I drove down the motorway, unable to do anything but cum in her mouth—forced to cum!

And cum I did, dollops of the stuff splashing all across the blue paper, showing as darker, rounded patches—and plenty of them. My mind full of the idea of being fellated. Around me the silence of the workshop garage with just the sound of my heavy breathing and the pattering of semen onto the blue paper. I dropped my cock and sat there a little stunned and breathing hard. If Jane looked out of her bedroom window, she would wonder what I was doing and why my car had not yet gone.

“Sorry Rob,” I said out loud. Perhaps he had done the same right there, but I certainly had not got any of my stuff on his leather or even on my jeans. I wrapped up the blue paper, popped it in my pocket and readied myself to leave, tucking my dick away as well. It had all been a bit embarrassing really. Not the sort of thing I did—well, yeah, I certainly wanked, quite often, but not in somebody else’s car and garage. Rob, though, sadly was not around to embarrass me. Imagine that, being caught openly wanking in a car!

Thunderstruck! There was no other way to describe it: well, I suppose there are a lot of words or phrases—‘well, fuck me,’ or ‘blow me down,’ might have done—but I was astounded. I had come around to Jane’s to work on the Triumph again, had a key to the garage, but I had not needed that as the side door had been open and I had just walked in. I had not seen her, not appreciated anyone was there and had just come up the near side of the Triumph and casually looked in. Perhaps I should have noticed the windows were wound down, but I didn’t.

What I did then notice, could hardly miss it when I did glance in was Jane crouched, knees on the two front seats and with, yeah undoubtedly with, the Triumph’s gear knob up her quim. I was rooted to the spot, my mouth hanging open as I stared at Jane naked as the day she was born, the gear lever disappearing up between her thighs, her bare breasts hanging, and her brown eyes wide and staring back at me. We were both momentarily frozen. Me in disbelief, she no doubt in utter embarrassment. It was quite a few seconds before anything was said, before there was any movement at all. I was about to beat a hasty retreat when Jane blurted,

“Oh… how awful. I can’t believe you’ve caught me… I’ve never… I mean. Oh, this is awful, I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t be, please, Jane,” I raised my hands, “I’m not laughing or anything. You look just so sexy like that.” Was that the right thing to say? How do you reassure someone in such a position, that it’s OK really? “Please, you look great, really great. So sexual. I mean it. We all have our little secrets. If it makes you feel better, I did just the same. No, not with the gear knob, but sat there in the driver’s seat after our trip when you had gone in and had a wank. A nice one, all the way to cumming, right there.” Reassurance by revealing a fellow feeling?

Her eyes dropped for a moment downwards to the driver’s seat. My eyes dropped too and there was yet another stain added to the driver’s seat. An oval wet stain. It came to me that Jane must have been sitting there in the driver’s seat for quite a time getting quite worked up, perhaps fingering the gear knob, as I had seen her do whilst driving, before summoning the courage—would it be that—to fuck the thing.

Jane hadn’t moved a muscle—and how I wanted to see her move upon the thing. I had watched her wriggle in her dreams the day before, had admired her legs through her jeans, had admired the shape of her breasts: but now, all at once I was seeing Jane entire. Her breasts had that gentle sag that comes with maturity just as I had expected, making her nipples not so much perky—yeah, like little piggies’ noses—but pointing a little downwards. Erect and hard—oh, yes—but without having had children there was not the fullness of well suckled nipples—more peas than cherries. Not exactly a flat stomach, though not that much extra to get hold of, and below was delightfully unshaven and full: delightful for a man who likes his women ‘natural.’ Not, though, the dark brown I was expecting, nor the old leather colour of her hair but a lighter shade carrying on down to where I could see the gear stick. I had wanted to see Jane naked and I was certainly seeing that! I was ‘up’ inside my overalls, rock hard and sexually aroused.

“I didn’t mean to… I just came down to get my mobile, I’d left it in the side pocket, and… I just sat and, um, thought.” Jane went on.

Nice thoughts clearly, the wet patch showed that. Had she actually come down the garden and through the garage door naked?

“I’d just taken a shower…”

She had. She had! The image of Jane coming out of the house naked, and walking in the early morning sunshine down to the garage more than a little pleasing. Never done it myself, but always liked the idea of being outside naked.

“It’s… I don’t know… Eric, there’s something about this car. I wasn’t feeling um, fruity, in the house but when I sat here. It was like yesterday. You wouldn’t have noticed but I got very um…”

“Aroused? Wet? I noticed. That was why I had to have a wank. I’d been sitting there driving with an erection for so long.” That did not quite explain why she had walked naked down the garden.

“Had you, have you now?”

This was not the usual Jane talking. Amazingly she finally moved: not off the gear knob but on it. She lifted herself upwards and then descended. I was seeing her fuck that big knob. I just stared and stared.

She spoke again. “You have, haven’t you. Show me.”

One of my more unusual habits, and I probably have several, is I don’t wear anything under my work overalls. Maybe a tee shirt in cold weather but no pants or boxers. Why? Well, it’s a matter of practicalities. In my job I get oily hands, yeah on top of the barrier cream, and it gets a bit of a bother to wipe them clean before I take a leak—and being a keen ‘Builder’s Tea’ drinker I do ‘go’ quite often. My ex-wife pointed out how difficult it was to get greasy finger marks off white or coloured cotton underpants or boxers resulting from when I had been fishing for ‘John Thomas’ and so I had found it easiest to wear nothing and just pull the blue material of my overalls or boilersuit open. My preference was for ‘poppers’ as that made the whole process easier rather than with a zip (and without the zip’s risk of trapping the foreskin—ouch!) or buttons.

Jane had said the magic words, ‘show me’ and I was more than happy to do that. A quick tug at the two sides of my overalls and ‘Bingo’ there I was out in the open. What an opportunity, being able to present one’s cock to an attractive woman—to be asked to display.

“Gosh,” she said, “that was quick. Nice one.” That would do me as a compliment.

Was Jane going to touch, treat me like the gear knob in her quim?

“I’m not touching, let alone…”

I swallowed. That brush of her tongue across her lips had not been accidental.

“You just wank, and I’ll watch whilst I… oh, fuck. I want to be fucked.”

So much not words I had expected to hear from her mouth. She must have been holding it back because, all of a sudden, her thighs were in motion, really going up and down on that knob. Wonderful squelching sounds; her breasts bouncing and a look on her face I had not seen before. Erotic? Fuck, yes! And I did as I had been told. I reached and wanked, pulling the loose skin of my foreskin back and forth over my knob whilst inside Jane that big, blunt black knob (with the chrome corona) was doing much the same.

Fantastic to watch and experience. What a sight, the car itself had even picked up Jane’s motion a bit, there was a definite movement of the springs—even the back off-side rear, which really needed replacing. Jane naked, voluptuous and making noises: me with my erect cock poking through the driver’s window and her eyes so on it. How do you wank in a visually pleasing way for a woman? A strange tableau, a silent tableau but for the squelching; Jane bouncing, me wanking—simply wonderful. And I was in no hurry to finish. I’d keep going until she came. A couple of minutes passed by with not a word spoken until:

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Not the Beatles song—Jane was not singing but gasping and coming. I could tell that, could see how her fingers were really frigging her clit—no doubt just as she had been doing in bed whilst I wanked in her car the night before.

“I’m coming, I am, I am, yes. You do too, Eric, show me.”

I stepped forward, plonked my balls down right on top of the window opening and pulled at speed—and came. Jane had been staring at my cock, she was no doubt doing just that when it spurted. I was half leaning on the car’s roof, just letting fly with no concern through the window—as I had been told to do. Not seeing what I was doing. The electric build and then the release—spurt, spurt, spurt towards naked Jane. A free ejaculation straight through the window.

Only when I stepped back could I see the result—streaks of cum across the brown leather of the driver’s seat. Tell-tale shapes of an ejaculation, not quite reaching the naked and still impaled woman. More stains to the leather, crossing the wet stain already there.

Amazing seeing Jane slowly pulling off the gear stick. Having got it in she had to get it out. I could see her entrance had rather closed around the thinnish stick, but then as she drew upwards the flaring of the concave cone opened her wider and wider until the chrome corona appeared and out it all popped, overdrive switch and all.

“It’s all a bit big,” she gasped. “That was, good, if unexpected.” She looked down at the leather driver’s seat. “And didn’t you do well! Nice to see. You can come in for coffee later if you like, when you’ve sorted yourself out and I’ve made myself respectable.”

I was standing back by the car looking in at her, my cock still out and up. I opened the driver’s door, but Jane chose to ease herself out the other side. Perhaps to avoid sitting on or kneeling in my cum: perhaps just to retrieve her mobile ‘phone. I watched her exit via the side door to the garage, her feminine buttocks rising and falling as she walked.

“Phew!” I breathed out. “That’s the closest we’ve got to a fuck for a long time, eh John?” I tucked John Thomas away and clicked the poppers together. “Well…” I looked at the Triumph. He just sat there with a new stain across a leather seat. Stains really: my semen trail crossed Jane’s oval wet patch. Was that the closest her wetness and my semen would get? Things were rather looking up. I turned and reached for the blue paper.

Things might have looked on the up, back in the garage, but coffee was taken half an hour later in an atmosphere almost icy, certainly with not the slightest indication that a further episode, perhaps upstairs in bed, might be in the offing.

“I’m sorry about… that. And I don’t want to talk about it.” We did not actually talk that much at all and I spent the rest of the day alone in the garage, happily actually, with my hands rather oily.

What was it about that car?

I did the work on the Morris Traveller. Got it resprayed as well. It was a 1954 Series 2 Traveller, a lovely little estate car with an external structural ash frame for the rear bodywork and two side-hinged rear doors. I had to take down the frame and revarnish whilst the respraying was done. I don’t normally do woodwork! Lovely little estate car if it wasn’t for that 30bhp 803cc engine. It was the original and didn’t push the car’s 17cwt unladen weight along very fast. On the whole, perhaps that didn’t matter. Jane was no speed merchant but the miserably inept gear ratios gave an awful experience. The three lowest ratios were so very close together (and the overall ratios very low) that there seemed one enormous gap between third and the top making driving difficult. Even then, the top itself was so low as to feel like it should really be advertised as third! Simply awful. Rob and I had discussed that, and he had suggested the addition of a Minor 1000 gearbox, manifold and carburettor but keeping the original engine would transform the vehicle. He was right. Although the back part of the old gearbox has to be transferred onto the replacement to keep the original longer direct-acting gear lever—complete with its large, flared rubberised knob.

I most definitely wanted to keep the long lever and original knob. Two reasons, of course, I like to be authentic and have the right parts or at least the right appearance to the model and, well, the events in Jane’s garage had rather awoken me to possibilities. If Jane had a passion for shapely gear knobs, it was something I rather wished to encourage! So, I wasn’t missing keeping that knob, nor the long lever.

Not the round Bakelite knob from the contemporary Minor 1000 gearbox I had salvaged, with rubber insert and white engraved gear-position legend, but an all-rubber Series II knob which had a proper bonded-brass thread-insert and raised legend moulded in the rubber Much larger than either of the Minor 1000 types, it was a similar shape to that of the Triumph—a fact I very much noted. Unfortunately, the original knob was worn to the extent the legend was barely visible and, as usual, the outside edge was cracked and distorted by sunlight damage. To my pleasure, and I sort of hoped Jane’s I was able to locate a knob in exceptional condition, a virgin knob indeed! The outer diameter, at around 1⅝″—I know, I measured it with the Vernier, was slightly greater than the Triumph’s. Its curved undercut was pretty much the same. Being made of rubber with similar hysteresis (hardness) to that of a modern radial tyre I found, if I squeezed it, I could feel it give slightly. It did not worry me that I was gently squeezing a rather black knob, feeling its ‘give’ and rubbing the ball of my thumb over the raised diagram of the gear positions. I was not at all imagining stroking and wanking the, unusually flat but still convex, and certainly very long, erect penis of a black gentleman set at a forty-five degree angle—not at all my interest or style, though it might be Jane’s—but I was certainly imagining Jane engaged in interesting contortions, her naked body shining with sexual arousal, her thighs spread wide, perhaps even with her soft nether lips quivering and slick with necessary lubrication, seeking to take that gear knob’s virginity, seeking to line the knob and lever up with her wet and needing vagina and push the firm and rather blunt ended big knob into her.

And what if I started the engine with her impaled? The whole thing rather difficult to imagine given the cramped interior space compared to the T2500, the austere Minor’s 45-degree lever, but assuming successful contortions, Jane managing to kneel on the two front seats, then the very pre-war gearbox layout (it’s only an Austin Seven ‘box with added-in minimal synchromesh) means that ever-so-long lever would make a splendid vibration-amplifier—yeah, a fucking long vibrator! Would she be able to change gear when I put the clutch down? Imagine a drive in the old Traveller like that! Better on an old WW2 deserted airfield runway than a public road I should think! Not Hethel then—a Morris Traveller is not a Lotus 7.

I could imagine, and my penis was out of my overalls by now as I sat in the driver’s seat, me naked there as well and doing the driving as Jane changed the gear as the long lever made the no longer virgin rubber knob vibrate inside her. No reason why she should not hold onto my cock or, in for a penny, in for a pound, why not have Jane’s supposed black gentleman friend equally naked in the passenger seat. My long lever pointing forwards at forty-five degrees in Jane’s left hand, Jane riding the backward pointing rubber knob between us and then his, probably longer, cock jutting forward again at forty-five degrees in Jane’s right hand.

An awful lot of masturbation, not solo or mutual masturbation in a lay-by, but on the move. Ejaculation at seventy mph—would the Morris be able to reach that with three people in it? Certainly, it would not make eighty- eight mph. It was not that sort of car!

Ejaculation at speed. Not that day! Ejaculation whilst stationary, with the engine off and in the privacy of Jane’s garage; my hand at speed, not Jane’s; most certainly without another bloke keeping me company and, alas, without Jane at all. A nice one, though. Those blue paper towels are jolly useful.

The Morris paintwork was in Empire Green, but it desperately needed work to rust and a respray. Jane wanted British Racing Green. My mistake really. I should have stuck with the original colour and not told her, not given her the choice. I don’t like changing colours on cars. Silly really, but it upsets the authenticity to my sensibilities. I shouldn’t have given her the paint chart and revealed just how many colours Morris Minors had been produced in over the years; it took her a couple of weeks to decide, which held things up. So, eventually Jane had the Traveller and I had the Triumph.

What was it about that car? Had it all been some sort of coincidence or unrelated sudden arousal on Jane’s part; some sort of reaction to the loss of Rob and having me there for a long journey in the car (was I flattering myself?); was it something to do with her hormonal monthly cycle (a weirdness I did not understand) or the menopause—presumably it would be coming on for Jane about now (again, feminine things I did not know about). I showed another pal, Vince, the Triumph and he was ‘well impressed,’ as the young people say, and we drove all the way to Beaulieu and back. It had no effect on him, certainly!

I am not a feminist—anything but: yet have no problem with a girl wanting to be a motor mechanic if that is what interests her or anything else for that matter. Can’t though, for the life of me, see why there is any need to ‘encourage’ girls to be car mechanics, engineers, coal miners or commandos. If they want to, that’s fine, but I can’t see why they need to be ‘encouraged.’ Hmmm, not so sure about the commando bit. Anyway, young Heulwen is an apprentice mechanic with a big firm up the road from me but she has an interest in classic cars (nothing wrong with that and I might even say it’s a shame more women don’t, though, as I said, I wouldn’t see any need to ‘encourage’ an interest, but it’s a shame more aren’t interested), so Heulwen comes to see me sometimes on a Saturday to tinker and learn.

Now Heulwen is a sweet little thing, she brings out both my paternal and, well, other instincts. When I see her leaning over and into the bonnet of a car I have thoughts—and they are of the ‘other’ variety. Curly dark hair, freckles, about five foot six and probably, it seemed to me when she started visiting, with nice little boobs, not that you can tell inside those rather too large blue overalls.

One of the cars I was working on was that Triumph 2500 Mk. 2. A bit of work here, a bit of work there, in between the paid jobs. From the beginning Heulwen seemed to take a shine to him.

One Saturday I was sitting in my ‘office.’ A rather over grand name for the space inside the pedestrian door but there is a desk there and an old PC for the Internet to search for parts and materials and the like. There happens to be a knothole in the matchboarding separating the lobby cum office from the workshop. Usually there is some piece of paper—a bill or photo of a car—drawing-pinned over it but, moved to one side, the hole gives a view of the workshop. Was I playing the voyeur subconsciously, just being nosey or just wanting to see how Heulwen was getting on? I don’t know, but once I started watching her waxing the car I kept looking—peeking—and got an erection doing so. It was not as if the girl was waxing the car naked or anything. Why would she be like that?

I had enjoyed looking at Heulwen before but there is one thing looking at a girl when she might at any moment turn and see you and quite another to be watching secretly—Peeping Tom like. Good to watch her figure, even obscured by the rather generous overalls, an asexual garment really, but it was the way she was polishing that did it for me. There was something definitely sexual about it, almost as if she was caressing the smooth paintwork. I sat there glued to the knothole, my penis hard inside my overalls. I think it even popped its knob out from the gap between the poppers but I tucked myself back in again. Just not the done thing to sit and wank in my office whilst ogling the young apprentice.

Not that day anyway. I don’t normally go to the workshop Sundays but I had something I needed to finish. Mid-afternoon I rolled up and let myself in. The door was unlocked which sent a chill down my spine. Silently I sat down in the ‘office’ and peeked through the knothole worried about what I might see. Had I been burgled—was I being burgled? Fuck no!

I had imagined what Heulwen had under her overalls but all at once I did not need to imagine—I was seeing it all for real. Heulwen knew where the spare key was hidden (not under the doormat or under the brick next to the door) and had clearly let herself in, perhaps to do some work—most likely to do some work—but why was she polishing the Triumph again and why was she doing that naked? I could see her overalls discarded on the floor and a pair of light blue knickers and seemingly matching brassiere on top (so, not a lot worn underneath, then. I had wondered—of course I had!). Again, that sensuous rubbing across the paintwork with the stockinette cloth: but she was not just buffing the paintwork with her hands, she was rubbing her flesh against his bodywork.

I watched in disbelief as she raised one leg over the bonnet from the side, stretching it out over the expanse of the body and began buffing the curved wing, not with the stockinette but her soft, dark pubic hair. She was facing towards my spyhole and I could see her fine vee of curls being brushed up and down the wing’s paintwork. Heulwen was not rubbing her sex, not making long wet streaks, but leaning forward and using her fur to buff. Her sweet little breasts hung, and I could see by the way her tongue moved over her lips just how turned on she was: and so was I. Two hands to the material over my cock and I pulled, opening three press studs all at once. Pop, pop, pop! I didn’t have to look, I knew exactly what was there, my own gear stick—joy stick—standing with the knob all swollen. I grabbed and wanked—lovely! What a sight to be seeing through the knothole.

Almost tempting to pull all the poppers undone, drop the overalls completely and walk naked and gloriously erect (in my opinion anyway) into the workshop and ask, ‘young lady what do you think you are doing?’ Not awfully likely, really, that in such a situation she would drop to her knees and apologise for her display by sucking my cock, or turning and leaning over the bonnet of the Triumph, and offering her tail for me to fuck. So, best to just watch and enjoy.

And enjoy I did, watching her perform. Lovely to see her use her body to buff, but frankly the act of polishing with a cloth did it enough for me. Her body beautifully on the move, her muscles at work, her so exotic, erotic—young—conical breasts, her buttocks all firm but generous, her pretty, freckled face and curly dark hair and, of course, her genitalia; and I saw that too, not just her furry mound and peeking pink lips but rather more. It was when she was buffing the other wing—again with her pubic hair. A back view this time, firm buttocks on display and her crack opening and closing a little as she moved. Then she cocked her leg even further up and across the bonnet, leant forward to the windscreen and brought a hand back and between her legs. I saw two fingers pushed there and then into her quim—inside herself. Fuck, fuck, fuck—did my fingers move! How I wished it was my cock not her fingers. How I wished to be closer or have a pair of binoculars!

I thought what I was seeing pretty good. Too good, in fact. Frantically I looked around. The roll of blue paper was in the workshop not, of course, on my desk. I grabbed a sheet of paper with my spare hand, dropped it in my lap, and returned my eye to the knot hole and to my ears came the sound of—well, it could have been the sound of heavy drops of rain falling upon a paper invoice from Cummings and Co. for a reconditioned screw fit injector—only it was not rain, but it was that invoice.

A lovely ‘cum,’ a lovely erotic sight to come to. What was it about that car? It had to be something about it. Heulwen was the second female to have been seemingly ‘upset’ by it. Had it been a big, sexy E Type Jag with its penile shape, I could have perhaps understood a bit. That would have been something, seeing Heulwen perhaps, getting ‘friendly’ with its old leaping Jaguar mascot. Carefully done it might just fit—a bit! But a Triumph 2500 Mk 2?

I sat there, no longer moving my penis, it beginning to lose its firmness, my cum spattered across the invoice and just watched the girl. She was one sexy little thing. I hoped he, the car, was enjoying the attention as much as I had enjoyed the watching (and wanking). He sat there with what I saw as his ‘Wallace-like’ grin radiator—OK, so Wallace and Gromit had an Austin A35 van, but that does not affect the simile—as if the car was really enjoying the attention. Had the engine been running (not a good plan in an enclosed space) its big gear stick would have been throbbing.

Quietly, and with my penis tucked away, I let myself out, invoice carefully folded in my pocket. What I needed to do in the workshop could wait. What I would have to do, though, was spread that invoice out to dry somewhere. I needed that, cum spattered or not!

Somewhat difficult when Heulwen bounded into the workshop the next Saturday; difficult to forget what I had seen; difficult not to look at her overalls without thinking of what lay beneath; difficult, at first, talking ‘shop’ having seen her the Sunday before buffing the Triumph… in the buff. Not easy seeing her rest a hand on the Triumph as she talked, nor see her give a little shiver. His Wallace wide grin had not changed. But, of course, whilst I am pretty interested in sex and members of the opposite sex, let’s face it, I am car obsessed and after a slightly strained, on my part, start we were soon talking ‘shop.’ Not easy, later, seeing Heulwen wiping her greasy hands on the blue paper towels. An association, you see, in my mind though obviously not in hers.

Heulwen appeared again Wednesday evening. “Saw you were still here,” she said (probably my car parked outside was a giveaway). She was not alone but had a young man in tow. I was introduced to the boyfriend. She had mentioned him once or twice before to me. Nice lad and a mechanic at her place. Properly spoken, polite and knowledgeable about cars. I took to him. A fine young man. I left them looking around at the shop and what was going on. Very different activities from the computer aided analysis gear over at the modern garage down the road. Not a lot of places to plug diagnostic tools into Austin Healeys.

Of course, when I got home and started cooking my supper, I found I had forgotten some papers I had left out to take back with me. Heulwen and Paul’s visit had a little thrown me from my leaving routine. It was not too much bother to return but was surprised, when I got back, to find the door still unlocked. Surely, they were not still there? I sat and looked through the knothole, papers and my going home for my tea suddenly forgotten.

Heulwen was not polishing the Triumph, but that did not mean she was not polishing something else. I had thought the lad ‘a fine young man,’ I was right, a fine ‘upstanding’ young man, indeed. I settled into my chair, my eye glued to the knothole and my penis rising once more in my overalls. Young people copulate a lot. Heulwen and her young man were not doing that yet, but well on the way. Paul was resting his bottom—his naked bottom—on the bonnet of the Triumph and Heulwen was leaning forward, her perky, little, fully revealed, conical breasts hanging and had Paul’s cock in her mouth. I was watching a blow-job going on in my own workshop by my own Triumph 2500, and do I like to see blow-jobs? Actually, I had never seen one in the flesh before. I was very happy to add this to my experiences. Lucky bugger, I thought, as I watched Paul’s penis being treated.

Of course, I would have liked to have had a similar treat from Heulwen, but it was pretty good to watch—in the flesh—and wank. A nice little show. What had possessed them? What had led up to this? I was missing the backstory. The front doors of the Triumph were open—had they been sitting there and perhaps kissing? Their clothes, their overalls, a couple of tee shirts and miscellaneous underwear were a little strewn about the floor—seemingly with little worry about any oil on the concrete—had they thrown their clothes from them or had, perhaps Paul stripped Heulwen and then himself. I’d like to have seen that.

Once again, I released myself from my overalls in the office. My eyes followed the movement of Heulwen’s lips up and down Paul’s cock; my hand moved on my own in time with them; my brain imagining her lips upon my penis and sliding. I wondered what her tongue was doing.

Heulwen straightened and raised her head up and Paul’s lips met hers. An embrace such as you might see in the street or park, only not with the lovers naked, not, perhaps, with the boy’s hand on the girl’s bottom rather than back as he pulls her to him, and certainly not with a visible penis squashed against the girl’s stomach. A long kiss and then Heulwen stepped backwards. I smiled, recognising a good image. A shame I hadn’t a camera ready or there—but I did have the camera on my mobile. I grabbed it from my overall pocket and pressed it to the keyhole seeing the image on the screen. Click and the click again. What were they doing now? They had disappeared from the screen.

I pulled my ‘phone back and re-applied my eye and watched in delight as Paul chased Heulwen around the workshop. The games lovers play! I hoped they didn’t slip. It was not really the most sensible thing to do. A shame to bruise Heulwen’s flawless skin; a shame if one of them got hurt—not least as it would end my ‘entertainment’ too soon; a shame if Paul fell badly and kinked his fine young erection! Worse still, I would have to unexpectedly appear to help if it was a really bad fall. Broken bones and all that. Mega embarrassment all round.

Well, I like car chase scenes well enough and well remember a porn film I watched where a naked girl was chased by huntsmen on horseback. I’ve giggled at Benny Hill being chased by the girls; but this was something different, yeah, still both sexy and funny, yet with darker overtones more like the huntsmen intent on their ‘prey.’ I’m not a great one for naked men but I found it pretty arousing to see naked Paul chasing naked Heulwen with his cock at full stand, swinging all over the place and his balls jumping as he chased the girl. And she looked fantastic. I had enjoyed watching her muscles moving, her boobs—not really wobbling like Jane’s had done, too fresh and not grown enough to wobble or bounce but there was a definite movement to her chest, certainly her nipples atop those fleshy cones were not pointing in the same direction all the time. Her buttocks rose and fell and, of course, it was great to see her thighs moving either side of her dark, curly vee shaped patch. Despite the no doubt generous ‘oiling’ going on between her legs I thought it would still be delightfully hot between them—but, there again, that heat would not be the result of friction… and I thought there would be more friction to come!

And, I was right. Paul caught Heulwen, grabbed her and lifted her up onto one of the workbenches in a clear space between the water pump assembly of an Austin Healey 3000 MkIII, I had in for work, and that reconditioned screw fit injector, and, very clearly, pushed himself straight between those thighs of hers. She did not run the risk of an oil stained bottom because Paul had, very wisely, grabbed and placed one of those useful disposable thick paper carpet covers we mechanics put in the footwells of cars to avoid getting dirty boot marks on the carpet, down on the bench. Useful too, for putting on the bench when working on anything delicate. Well, Paul was working on something delicate and there was a couple of those large sheets of paper to hand.

Not such a good view for me but the scene very arousing. I wished it was me ‘giving her one’ like Paul, though, him being taller than me, I doubted I would reach Heulwen’s, no doubt at that moment, nicely stretched vagina, without getting a box to stand on!

Time for another picture, albeit of Paul’s buttocks flexing. A good enough picture implying so much, what with Heulwen’s knees either side of Paul’s bottom and her hands clasping his naked back.

I stared at the camera’s screen. Fuck! Paul had lifted his girl right up in the air off the bench and was turning with him still intimately connected—he was fucking her whilst standing and carrying her. I’d never done that—more’s the pity. Click again, with a back view of Heulwen with Paul’s erection clearly inserted into her. Click once more and, then, it was time to put down the ‘phone, reapply my eye and just gloriously wank.

Where were they going? Was he going to lay Heulwen across the bonnet, across the Triumph’s big radiator grin—big ‘cheesy’ grin (‘Wensleydale’ of course!)—and fuck her spread-eagled perhaps there? But no, the lad carried the girl, still fucking, all the way to one of the back-passenger doors of the Triumph. I smiled, more staining to the leather!

Unfortunately, that meant I could not see very much at all. Just the occasional glimpse of Heulwen’s feet up in the air: but that didn’t mean I couldn’t still wank as I watched them testing the Triumph’s suspension and wish it was me plunging my cock in and out of what I hoped was Heulwen’s really wet vagina. My hand moved as I wondered what that was like. Tighter than Jane’s, not that I’d had the opportunity, but I’d seen that big knob of the Triumph in her and knew she had some ‘capacity,’ I couldn’t see Heulwen being able to take his big knob, though, clearly, she could take Paul’s not insubstantial organ and no doubt mine… oh, for the chance!

What a wank. My eye pressed to the knothole was watering a bit with the effort of monocular vision and that wasn’t the only single eye watering—if you get my drift—clear fluid gathered at the tip but not yet overflowing.

It was probably time to go, sneak out because I would not want to be discovered. Time to come and go, indeed. Perhaps I should just tuck myself away, grab the ‘phone and walk stiffly and silently out, go home and finish the wank there looking at my new photos. But I wanted to come then and there, wanted, though, to do it when I could see ‘something.’ A cry came from the workshop—it sounded like a female orgasm. That certainly was stimulating. I pulled my hand away—yeah, on the edge. Did that sound mean Paul would come too and then I’d have the chance to see Heulwen again? Yes, indeed.

Not so sexual but good enough for me. Two naked young people getting out of a car’s back seat, a little ungainly given one had to be getting off the other in doing so. Charmingly natural, in a very ‘natural’ state! Heulwen very definitely looking freshly fucked, Paul with his, shall we say a bit messy, half erect penis, both coming around the car towards their clothes. I was going to have to be quick.

It was, unsurprising really, Heulwen bending to pick up her knickers that did it for me. I could not stop my hand moving at speed as I stared at Heulwen’s suddenly fully revealed pudenda and anus. A swollen and very obviously recently fucked pudenda right in front of me not two yards away from my spy hole. My semen shot from my penis as I stared at where I would really like to have had my cock. My cum splattering my overalls as I stared at Heulwen’s vaginal opening complete with Paul’s cum. What an ejaculation, what electric pleasure, what a fantastic wank but—in the cold light of immediate post orgasm—I did not want to be caught like that. I grabbed the phone, stood, felt my penis pull inside the overall’s covering and let myself out as quietly as I could and was in and starting the car in seconds and was away.

What if Heulwen and Paul had come straight from the fuck to the office for some reason, catching me sitting there with cock out of my overalls, perhaps even cumming. And had I cum! I glanced down. It was all over the front of my overalls, no careful use of an invoice this time. I hoped I didn’t have an accident or get flagged down. What I had been doing was very clearly displayed up my front. It was time those overalls had a wash anyway.

What was it about that car?