I've said it before and I'll say it again, despite the evidence seeming to pile up ever more with every passing year; I do not live in a sitcom.

Time and time again life has thrown incident and anecdote my way that wouldn't seem out of place in a particularly saucy episode of Community. Albeit an episode wherein the simmering sexual undertone doesn't so much bubble to the surface as explode from a Pedro Pascal delighting pressurised seminal canister, and the cast is inexplicably naked throughout and jiggling for far more entertaining reasons that trying to jostle loose a missing pen...

But for all I may have drunkenly climbed back into the wrong bed following a hook up, offered to wank a guy off for his tube of Pringles and, through sheer stubbornness, performed genuine sex acts on stage in front of an audience, I believe I may have finally reached the peak of the ridiculous sitcom curve arc life has been inexorably guiding me towards.

Since the title has rather rendered any potential dramatic tension at this point moot, I'll save dragging out the direction this is heading;

Because after a recent date, I accidentally went dogging.

And, for once, it wasn't entirely my fault.

I'll not bore anyone with details of my day-in day-out life, but suffice to say it's been busy. I'm very lucky to have a job I genuinely love and a job that often gives me huge chunks of downtime in which to have all the fun I may desire.

The flipside of this otherwise idyllic setup however, is that it can often be countered with long periods of intense business where the workload is constant and near overwhelming. It's still fun to a degree, but it doesn't leave much room for the rest of life.

It's for *this* reason and definitely not -despite what any number of my friends may tell you - from any inane inbuilt fear of commitment, that I've spent a sizeable portion of my recent life sticking almost entirely to hookups, quickies and chance encounters rather than considering and aiming for something that potentially had longer potential.

All of which is a long way of saying; I was a little out of practice when it comes to going on actual *dates*.

The details of how it came about and of the date itself are probably best saved for elsewhere, as they're almost certainly several thousand words of nonsense too many. Instead, for now I'll limit myself to a few sentences to cover the essential details:

We'd been set up by mutual friends after several weeks of being separately told we'd allegedly be *perfect* for each other. We'd both agreed out of sheer necessity to allow the conversation to move onto something - or hopefully someone - else.

His name was Zac and he had the indecency to be almost two years younger than me. Needless to say this made me loathe him immediately. He was a beautiful man - I say beautiful rather than handsome, as he possessed incredibly soft and delicate features rather than the more chiselled and rugged of my usual 'type', but he was, by any definition, a phenomenally good looking example of the human form. He was tall, slim, and in possession of a veritable mane of hair that gave him the countenance of a turn of the century poet.

We met for our enforced 'date' in a a neutral food-serving wine bar. We were having tapas because I'm sometimes I'm so middle class it hurts. Zac was a near gibbering nervous wreck when I walked in to discover he'd arrived inexplicably almost half an hour early, and had been sat trembling ever since awaiting my apparently 'intimidating' presence.

I was delighted. If he'd been effortlessly charismatic too I'd have had to acknowledge our friends had been right about something.

As it was a 'date', I'd worn a classic HIAATAMT dress ('HI I'm Alice, and these are my tits). Which meant Zac, who was desperately trying to remain gentlemanly, spent the first hour near visibly straining to retain eye contact.

Once he'd got over his nerves and released some of the tension by actually allowing himself to glance at my cleavage, Zac was excellent company. He was also, to my surprise and delight, *utterly* filthy once he discovered there was no requirement to stay on best behaviour.

Suffice to say, the date went well. Very well. So well, in fact, that we decided to cut it short since, let's be honest, the bit that comes *after* a successful date is usually the best part.

Which was where we hit our first snag. Because neither of us were local to each other and so we'd picked a semi-'mid point' between us in which to meet up. Which meant we had a longer than was ideal trek back to one of respective homes in which to have some fun.

'Hath no fear!' declared Zac, because apparently on occasion he did more than just *look* like a turn of the century poet; 'I've got my car, we can drive back to yours...'

He then hesitated for a moment before adding; 'I was going to offer to run you home anyway, obviously, even if fun wasn't on the cards...'

Reader, he looked so earnest that I almost believed him. Almost. Not that it mattered. This was my ideal outcome regardless; Sex, and I got to avoid bus travel. Literal win-win.

So, like a pair of rampant teens, we hurried out of the bar and practically sprinted our way down the street. It would have been adorable had it not been so clearly lust-driven.

Which was when we hit our second snag. Because we kept running. And running. And fucking running.

I'd assumed in my naivety that Zac was in possession of an iota of common sense and that he'd have parked his car somewhere within a reasonable distance of his destination. I'd clearly failed to consider that would-be poets enjoy long walks in the balmy evening breeze in order to look windswept and interesting, as it transpired Zac had parked his car NEARLY FIFTEEN MINUTE'S WALK AWAY.

Needless to say I stopped running after two minutes. After ten it had long since passed being funny and we were barely on speaking terms.

If he hadn't been so beautiful I'd probably have killed him and stashed his body in his abandoned car. I'd have got away with it too. They'd not have found the corpse for months given it was NOWHERE NEAR HIS SUPPOSED DESTINATION.

As we departed, suffice to say the atmosphere had turned a little frosty. I had, after all, just spent the better part of ten minutes providing evidence as to why our mutual friends had labelled me 'intimidating', 'argumentative' 'probably better off avoided'. However, I was damned if I was going to have walked fifteen minutes to not receive an orgasm, so I set about reestablishing a mood.

Long time readers will know by now that, in practice, this means; despite still looking furious, I waited until we were just about far enough out of the town centre that we wouldn't be spotted and swiftly arrested, and reached over to get his cock out.

Which brings us neatly to snag three. And a repeated bane of my life. Men's trousers with buttons instead of zips.

Honestly, it would have been easier to get his cock out of a chastity belt.

Jeans manufactures. Mr Levi. If you're reading this. Please, *please* go back to using zips. Spare a thought for we horny few who wish to extricate the contents with deft swiftness. I'm not prone to hyperbole but I genuinely believe you're responsible for lower worldwide birthrates. By the time someone has wrestled their way through four buttons, they're either long dead or their desire is.

It became quickly apparent I'd not managed to unleash his tumescence (Great band name) this side of the heat death of the universe (two for two) while he was driving. However, my eagerness had apparently re-stoked the fire in his loins too. Which was something of an issue given we were still over half an hour away from my bedroom. Or 29 minutes away from my hallway, which would have been equally sufficient.

Zac was heroically decisive, determined not to let the urge abate for a second time. He spoke the most beautiful poetic words he'd uttered all night;

'Shall I just find a quiet car park, somewhere?'

My response was equally sonnet worthy;

'Fuck yes!'

Following an expedient search for nearby car parks on his sat-nav, we identified a candidate that seemed both reasonably secluded and, crucially, that we could get to in under five minutes.

It was the slowest five minutes of my life.

The car park itself turned out to be barely more than an oversized lay-by, with space for a little over a dozen cars at most. A turn off from a busy main road ensconced on three sides by tree cover, and a surface of dirt and gravel. The sort you'd occasionally pause at for a poorly timed family picnic on a broken bench on the way back from a seaside day out, for anyone who had the pleasure of growing up in England at the turn of the century.

When we arrived we spotted there were two other cars parked, but it was getting dark and neither had any lights on - internally or externally - so it seemed they were uninhabited. It would probably have been prudent to check more thoroughly, but both Zac and I had rather more urgent plans on our mind.

Besides, it's not like anyone would just be sat in a car, in the dark, in a random car park at night, would they?

Foreshadowing is a powerful tool.

Finally free of our restraints - both metaphorically and literally as the seatbelts snapped off - I wasted no time in finally unleashing Zac's cock - albeit after he'd undone the stupid inaccessible buttons.

Like most tall, lanky men, Zac's cock lacked girth, but sweet holy fuck was it long. I could get both hands round it and there was *still* some spare. I realised even if I had been able to wrestle open the buttons on the road, there was likely nothing else I'd have been able to do; the cock would have been practically tucked into his sock.

With a delighted smile on my face - and an even bigger satisfied smirk on his - I finally took his cock in my mouth and got to work.

My lips wrapped themselves firmly around the head to lock him in place and my tongue licked, flicked and danced rapidly across his frenulum. Despite only just getting started I could already taste the tell-tale signs of precum; entirely understandable given how long we'd been cruelly deprived of the moment. My hands also busied themselves; one cupping his balls and offering intermittent encouraging squeezes and jiggles, while the other took great delight in indulging in some of the longest shaft stroking I've had the pleasure of.

Zac also wasn't idle. Though, being all but entirely pinned in to the drivers seat there wasn't much he was able to contribute to proceedings. Despite his long arms he'd given up at attempts to reach around and under my dress to stimulate me back, so had instead settled for taking a handful of my tits and was apparently attempting to manipulate and mould them like a potter at a wheel.

I'd have been happy to continue in just such a position until I'd claimed my reward, but Zac's head filled with notions of chivalry, and he insisted I should be the one to cum first.

I'd normally have painstakingly outlined that it's far better for the guy to cum first, as then he has incentive to fill his time usefully while he recovers (ideally with his tongue, but fingers and quality kissing can do just as well), before we can both work together for a mutual effort. However, in this instance, I was much to aroused to pause for a discussion, so I I allowed him to ease me off his cock, wind my seat back into as near a horizontal a position as the design would allow, and reach beneath my dress to remove my underwear with little to no resistance.

His kissing was all tongue and no finesse, however I was willing to forgive this lack of talent as his *long* fingers were doing exceptional work beneath my dress. He teased and toyed with my clit remorselessly for what could have been hours - each nuanced pass sending tingles and shivers throughout me almost every time - before he finally deigned to slip one inside.

Well, I say one. He clearly teased himself into as much of a frenzy as me. I'm reasonably certain he went straight in with three.

Readers; I was not quiet about this development. I let out an exhale of joy and surprise that could have been heard from miles away.

I then, in no uncertain terms, and at an almost equally matched volume, told him to fuck me.

Which leads us to snag four. Something that I'm sure plenty of you may disagree with. And everyone is entitled to their own opinion. But, in this case, I'm afraid I'm right and you're wrong.

Car sex *SUCKS*.

Argue with me all you like; there isn't a single good or comfortable angle you can fuck in a car that couldn't do far more satisfactorily elsewhere. You're either attempting to lie flat on uneven and uncomfortable seats for disappointing missionary or badly angled riding, or you're pressed into all manner of weird angles attempting doggy wherein theres barely enough space for an adequate thrust.

Which is why, once I'd told him to fuck me; I immediately opened the car door.

Zac looked genuinely perplexed until he saw me get out and bend over leaning into the car, my elbows resting on the passenger seat and my dress still bunched up around my waist.

A clearer invitation to fuck me from behind there has never been.

Zac positively pounded out of the car, and practically skipped around to the passenger side - his own pants quite literally around his ankles.

He took a firm hold of my hips, and began to fuck me.

I've said before I'm normally more a fan of girth than length, but let me tell you; once in a blue moon length alone can really get the job done!

It helped that Zac showed delightfully little restraint. No coaxing or easing in this time around. He slammed his cock into me like it was resuscitating a heart attack. And he maintained the same force and intensity throughout.

Until.

Snag five. And this is where you'll be ahead of me.

Zac and I were having a lovely time. I can't speak for him, but I know I was nearing a truly momentous climax, oblivious to all the world being pounded from behind, my upper half inside his car.

But Zac had spotted that a light had gone on in one of the other parked cars. And, in his words, 'it seems to be swaying a little'.

To his credit, he didn't *stop* fucking me as he explained this, but he certainly slowed down a little.

'I'm so far beyond caring,' was just about all I managed to gasp out as a response.

Because of our positioning, that was the only one of the two cars in his eyeline. But, having already hesitated, Zac turned himself a little so he could see the other parked car. Thankfully the lights were still off.

But the driver's door was wide open.

Now I only have Zac's description of what happened next, and I'm sure he's exaggerating and embellishing for dramatic effect, but he swears the following is true.

Having noticed the car door open, he swung his gaze back around to the lit and 'shaking' vehicle. No sooner had he done so than a figure popped up from behind it. In order have been hidden from his view until this point, he must've been bent or crouched on the far side of the car, very near to it.

But now, stood, he was making his way over to us.

"FUCK!" declared Zac, loudly and in a panic.

Which, dear reader, is where we hit snag six. The most ridiculous of the lot.

Because here's the thing. Whether I like it or not, it seems i've been conditioned in an almost pavlovian style, to associate a loud and urgent declaration of 'Fuck' whilst fucking, to usually signify that a guy is either about to imminently ejaculate, or that he has begun to do already.

It's not true in *every* case, often true in *most* cases.

Therefore, oblivious to all other external stimuli, while I was happily being pounded from behind in a car park, when i heard Zac suddenly and loudly shout 'Fuck!', I assumed he was about to cum.

And not wanting to spend a thirty minute road trip home uncomfortably leaking, I did what I so often do at such a moment;

I slid off his cock and spun round ready to take the load in my mouth.

I now can't help but imagine the ensuing sight from the perspective of the enthusiastic voyeur upon his approach toward us. Sighting the occupants of the car that couldn't have announced its intentions more clearly - parking in the centre of the car park, lights on the entire time, making loud and unmistakable sexual sounds of encouragement before *getting out of the vehicle* for an easier viewed finish.

And what does he see?

A terrified looking lanky streak of beautiful poet with his pants round his ankles looking terrified and panicked, while a smug looking redhead with one singular tit having been shaken free of her dress, the remainder of the garment bunched up around her waist squats in front of him, wrestling to take his lengthy cock in her mouth as though trying to swallow him whole.

Zac would later tell me it was least satisfying orgasm he's ever had. In his words, he "barely noticed I'd cum, I was so busy trying to get you back into the car before this psycho murdered us"

I thought he was just being rough with his ending. I wrestled his cock and swallowed his load before I even noticed the guy approaching.

"Hot!" said the guy. "This your first time having fun at [name of the carpark redacted for decency]?"

Zac still looked like he thought the guy was going to murder him. Thankfully, I'm a little more experienced at being caught.

"Yeah," I said, manhandling my tit back into the dress and flashing my most innocent and polite of smiles. "Brave choice for a first date!"