The Last Mustang on Earth

excessica publishing

Heat Rating: Sextreme
Word Count: 71,400
0 Ratings (0.0)

Spandex rules MTV. Acid-washed jeans rule the mall. Muscle cars rule the Strip. On the last Saturday night of the summer of 1991, the Eighties are still in full swing for a trio of friends on the cusp of adulthood. Our narrator, his little brother and his best friend cruise the Strip in a ‘67 Mustang Fastback, racing against other cars, overzealous cops and looming adulthood. It’s their last weekend together, even if they don’t know it yet. Before the next summer gets here, they will have traded their muscle cars for compacts, Nirvana will have killed hair metal, and college, full-time jobs and the real world will have taken them in different directions in life. But for one last, hot, glorious Saturday night, they rule. Our hero’s self-appointed mission: to squeeze every last drop of youth out of that night and convince his uptight girlfriend (or better yet, her sister) to get out of her clothes and into his backseat before his curfew. Throughout it all, our narrator takes us on a constant series of vivid daydreams about explosive high-speed pursuits, superpowers, Nazis, cheerleaders, stage magic and zombies. Before they part ways, the friends have misadventures with bottle rockets, strippers, fast food drive-thrus and vengeful ex-girlfriends. And by the end of the evening, one of them accidentally grows up. The Last Mustang on Earth is about friends, cars, music, girls, family, speed, youth, freedom, the Bible, the South and sex. It’s a night in the life, as well as a night in the mind, of a 19-year old. And like the mind of a 19-year old, it is usually perverted, oftentimes hilarious and sometimes heartbreaking.

The Last Mustang on Earth
0 Ratings (0.0)

The Last Mustang on Earth

excessica publishing

Heat Rating: Sextreme
Word Count: 71,400
0 Ratings (0.0)
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Cover Art by Selena Kitt

Paul and I simultaneously stuck our hands in the front pockets of our jeans and strolled to the edge of the parking lot, pivoted on our heels and looked to the skies as if looking for the AirCare chopper. Then casually we walked back toward the Vette. Dorsey hung the nozzle back on the pump and was taking the woman’s cash. As he moved away, trotting into the office to retrieve the change, the car’s door swung open and out stepped a black-leather goddess.

An avalanche of tight, blonde curls spilled out from underneath a patent leather officer’s hat. She wore a pair of chrome Aviators despite the fact it was a good two hours after sundown. A bolero jacket hung open in front to reveal a studded leather bra and a toned, tanned bare midriff. And she was wearing the tightest pair of leather pants I’d ever seen. Her legs were dizzyingly long and those pants clung to every last inch of them like a gloss black paint job. Her thighs reflected the light like the fender of her Corvette. Around her waist hung silver chains of various styles, all adorned with dozens of random charms; crosses, stars, tiny handcuffs, a dollar sign. A section of one chain dangled down to the bottom of her ass and twitched back and forth when she walked.

Paul and I stood side-by-side, jaws dropping simultaneously. She stalked over to the trash barrel in her five-inch stilettos, the heels clicking on the concrete, and tossed in a crumpled-up pack of Camels. I had two thoughts: The first was to swear she looked like she stepped right out of a Judas Priest video, the second was to swear she looked exactly like Shelley Spencer. She went the long way back to her car, around the far side of the concrete island with the gas pumps, and then strutted right in front of us. Our heads swiveled in unison as we watched her shamelessly, eyes glued to the skintight leather stretched across her heart-shaped ass.

Suddenly she stopped, stood motionless for a moment before slowly pivoting on one of those spike heels to face us. She pulled the Aviators from her face, a blonde helix clinging to them before springing back into place, then regarded us with eyes the color of my dad’s Aqua Velva. We stood, frozen by her gaze. She studied us silently for long moment, me in particular.

She pointed her sunglasses at me. “You.” I could feel my heart drumming in my chest. “You went to West, right?”

I stared at her, helplessly speechless. I got this mental flash of her in my mind, on the 50-yard line at the Home of the Titans, bathed in the Friday night stadium lights, commanding the line of Titanides like a field general, sleek, tanned legs raised and ready to fire. Shelley Spencer.

Before I could respond she had taken me in her arms and sealed her crimson lips to mine. My eyes flew wide. I stared at Shelly in disbelief and then glanced over at Paul and Dorsey. They were as incredulous as I was. No one had ever kissed me that, not even Dawn, and it caught me completely off-guard. But the passion of it, the immediacy, I couldn’t help but respond in kind. I slid my arms around her, pulled her tight, one hand moving to that leather-sheathed ass, squeezing. I peeked, making sure Paul and Dorsey were seeing it. They were.

We ended the kiss and Shelley purred, “I’ve wanted to fuck you since you were a freshman.”

I stared, unbelieving. I had heard the words, but was having trouble comprehending that Shelly Spencer had just spoken them to me. She reached for my belt and adroitly unbuckled it as Paul and Dorsey stared on. She unfastened my jeans and opened them, kissing me again. She lowered my jeans, sliding my briefs down, turning the elastic waistband down, revealing the hard-on I had for her. She took a step back, admiring my equipment. I tried my best to hide my excitement, but my bobbing and weaving erection betrayed me.

Shelly stripped off her bolero jacket and dropped it to the oil-stained concrete. Gazing at me with those Aqua Velvet eyes, she peeled open the front of her skintight leather pants, exposing the top of her dense blonde bush. I went to her, matching her stare, my cock swaying before me and leading the way like a divining rod. I pressed my body against hers, crushing my hard-on between our stomachs. Her mouth moved over mine and then down onto my neck. She nibbled and licked at my Adam’s apple, then pulled back my shirt and did the same to my collar bones.

I clamped my hands on her shoulders before spinning her around and bending her over at the waist. She reached out in front of her to catch herself against the fiberglass hood of her Corvette. I yanked her pants down over her ass. A pearl of semen glistened at the tip of my cock and I smeared it with my thumb, making the head wet and slippery. There was no other preamble. She was wet and I was hard. It was simply time to fuck. I set my feet, took Shelly by the hips. My cock pointed straight at her wet slit. I ran my cock into her like a blade, the suddenness of it forcing her breath out of her in a long, continuous moan. I began to thrust into Shelly, my legs slapping her bare ass loudly. Her palms squeaked against the hood as I fucked her. I moved my hands around her chest, fucking her faster as I cupped her breasts.

I could feel Shelly’s chest rising and falling as she panted, and I gathered her supple leather bra in my hands and pulled it up to her neck, revealing the full curves of her nude breasts to Paul and Dorsey. I buried my cock inside of her, pressing her against the car with the full weight of my body, her breasts flattening against the hood.

I pulled my cock from her, and turned her to face me. I stripped the studded bra from her, and clutched her under her arms, lifting her off her feet and setting her on the car. She climbed up the hood, and I followed her on my hands and knees, until she reclined on the windshield. She wrapped her legs around my waist, and pulled me in tight. I watched her eyes close as I sank my cock back into her, pinning her between me and the Corvette’s windshield, her ass bumping against the glass in the same frantic rhythm as my thrusts.

“Fuck… fuck,” Shelly was mumbling as I fucked away. I reached under her and took her leather pants in my hands and tugged them the rest of the way down. She kicked and I pulled until the pants were off, exposing her from the waist down, her naked ass on full display for my friends to see. Shelly clung to my neck, riding my skewering cock, her mouth hanging open, barking, “Fuck me!”

I imagined the view from the behind the wheel, inside the car: Shelly’s ass pressed onto the windshield, two splayed disks, whitened against the glass, morphing and shifting shape as her body rocked up and down. She bucked her hips up against me hard, gasping. I held her by her waist and pistoned into her furiously. Her thighs quaked with each thrust. I could feel my cock deep inside her, straining into her further still. Shelly rested her head back on the glass and slid a hand between her legs, clutching at my cock.

Dorsey and Paul watched it all, dumbfounded, mouths agape. Shelly was letting out little sobs, begging me to fuck her harder, faster, deeper, all of which I granted her. Her pleas drove me on, and I pulled my cock out and shoved it back in, each entry more violent that the last. I dropped the full weight of my body down on Shelly with each thrust, compressing the front suspension of the Corvette every time. Shelly squirmed and writhed beneath, a snake on hot pavement. She sobbed and begged me not to stop and wished to God she could remember my name so she could cry it out loud. I stabbed into her, pressing in to the hilt of my cock. She was coiled like a contracted spring, and she exploded in a ruinous, toe-curling orgasm. It surged through her like a tsunami, her entire body shivering in ecstasy. She babbled incoherently until her breath ran out.

I let Shelly slide down the glass until her ass rested on the cowl and I slumped into her arms, exhausted. I dropped my face into her shoulder until I realized I couldn’t breathe there.

“Dude,” I heard my brother whisper.

I didn’t have enough breath to respond. I felt a dull poking in my side. Maybe my exertions had made me cramp up.

“Dude,” he said again. “That’s Shelly Spencer.”

Again there was a series of dull pokes in my side. I looked down to see Paul’s elbow jabbing into my ribs. I wasn’t hunched over a prone Shelly Spencer. And Shelly wasn’t on the hood of her car. And I hadn’t been drilling her until she came. I was still standing off to the side with Paul, watching.

Without so much as acknowledging our existence, Shelly slipped back into her Corvette with one swift movement of her long body. She closed the door behind her just as Dorsey bounded back with her change. He handed it to her through the window and the car started with a muted growl. She drove past us and the three of us turned to watch, leaves and debris fluttering by our feet, caught in the slipstream of her car. As we stood dumbfounded, I noticed her license plate: GGGGGGGG

She drove off, into the darkness under the bridge, and we watched until her taillights disappeared around the bend.

“I think she likes me,” Dorsey said. He was being serious.

“What’s the license plate mean?” Paul asked.

“She’s a stripper,” I said.

“How do you know?” Dorsey demanded. “G-string,” I said, taking a bite of my Slim Jim.

Paul and Dorsey nodded appreciatively as they realized I was right.

“Do you know who that was?” I said to Dorsey.


“Shelly Spencer.”

“I thought she looked familiar,” Dorsey lied.

Paul and I hung out in the office for the next forty-five minutes, Dorsey coming and going to pump gas. He also installed one pair of new wipers. At ten o’clock he disappeared into the back to cut off the lights, the station falling into darkness, only the red glow of the Coca-Cola sign at the top of the reach-in cooler lighting our way. We stepped outside and Dorsey locked the door behind us, pulling it once to test, then we all walked out to our cars.

Dorsey slid in behind the wheel of his ’82.

“Shotgun!” Paul called.

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