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I do. But now..." She kissed me and latched her nails into the back of my neck. I grabbed her arm and tossed her into the car hard enough to make the alarm go off. Inside, Allie scrambled to turn it off. "I hate you," she said. "I fucking hate you." I kissed her now. I placed my hand on her vagina and she grinded against it. My hand went down her pants and she retaliated by striking me again across the back of the head. She kissed me again and bit my neck. I stretched her shirt. She tugged at my pants. I pulled her breasts out of her shirt and sucked on them. She unzipped my fly and my dick flopped out, already hard. I nearly tore down her pants and my dick was pressed in side of her. The following fuck rocked the car repeatedly. I had Mel with her stomach to the car, her large breasts pressed up against the cold glass in front of Allie's face. Allie, for her part, knew that this was a crucial moment in the relationship and stayed inside, masturbating to our animal grunts. I pulled. In the 1960s they were loops around congested town centres avoiding local traffic. These new stretches of tarmac were surrounded by fields, or lined with spacious suburban houses. Now swallowed up by further ribbon and infill developments, and themselves need to be avoided by more recent ring roads. The first bypass of note we reached was Basingstoke, which we soon discovered was almost gridlocked. We moved at funeral walking pace as cars at the front of the queue extricated themselves from the mess like corks from a bottle. We sat stewing in our glass and steel fermenter. The car started playing up. We were not alone in this. Littering grass verges, cars stopped, surrounded by more steam than the marshalling yards at Clapham Junction. Suspicious wisps began to seep from our bonnet, too, and Dad had the car heater fans running full blast deflecting heat from the engine, turning the saloon car’s interior into a dripping sauna. All our windows were open as far as they would go, why do.
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