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Careening down the hill, clinging tightly to every curve, the car's wheels screeched in mechanistic horror. I could picture the occupants—their skin stretching smooth with the speed, tightening against their pounding skulls. I could almost feel their bowel-contracting, pants-pissing, hand-shaking, pure delicious panic. Sitting back, I took another swig of my beer, my tongue slipping out to lick thick traces of foam off my lips. I put the beer down and picked up the binoculars. The driver had almost lost it on the last turn but, unfortunately, seemed to have regained control. My pulse was raging. It wasn't often an asshole came this close to crashing. He had me hot—aroused and steaming. If he made it down alive, got me this close without the payoff, I'd run down the hill and kill him myself. Right hand down my pants, I mindlessly rubbed my clit in repetitive circles, but the edge was off. The fucking bastards were probably going to make it after all. I put the binoculars down and looked around. I was alone on a cliff overlooking the San Marino freeway. The black asphalt of the road was laid over hairpin turns like skin on a slithering snake. The rocks mirrored the ones behind me, a jumbled mess of colored graffiti staining their surface.
I lay back against the rock and waited, licking the pussy juice from my fingers and washing the blood-taste down my throat as police sirens started ringing in my ears.
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