#this is essentially JG Ballard fanfiction as much as anything else

[freeuselandonorris]

would simply expire to read your take on mechanophilia, free choice pairing but i feel like it fits mark?? <3

🙏 thank you r one thing about me is that if i am prompted to write carfucking i will. really run with it.

mark webber/his porsche 918 spyder. one interesting thing about these cars is they have a top pipe exhaust design, where the exhaust pipes are either side of the rear window instead of at the floor.

Maybe he’s a silly, sentimental old fool, but Mark loves his cars. More than some people, if he’s honest with himself, although he’s sensible enough not to admit that in public. It’s not that unusual, in his line of work. They’re all obsessives, to some extent. They all love their cars.

It’s just that for Mark, it’s physical.

He spends time with them all. Runs his hands over the sensual curve of a headlamp, down the arc of a door panel. Presses his stomach against the 997 Turbo S, smoothing his cheek against the spotless cool of the window architecture. He’s half-hard already, nudged up against the seam of his jeans. He breathes a cloud of mist across the pristine enamelled surface, wipes it with the cuff of his fleece.

The Spyder waits for him, resplendent in red with her Salzburg livery glowing faintly in the dim light. Mark’s cock twitches as eagerly as it had for any woman he’s ever bedded.

“Hello, beauty,” he murmurs, reaching out to touch her bonnet.

He’s doing the thing properly today. The weather’s been fine and dry, no rain or muddy splashes to mar her paintwork or dirty the windscreen. Took her out for a spin after lunch. She’s warm, still.

Mark groans, lets his hips roll forward. His jeans are digging in now. He burrows his hand beneath the hem of his fleece, pops the first button on his jeans, then the second. His cock flexes as the cool air hits him through his boxers.

This is almost the best bit. The thrill as he glances back to check the garage door is locked, cups himself through his boxers, showing the heft of his cock to his waiting car. It makes him feel like a dirty flasher, somehow, showing himself off like this as the Spyder waits to take whatever he gives her.

There’s a sticky wet patch over his cockhead already. He’d been horny just driving her, letting the rumble of the engine soak through his tensed thighs and tickle the soft skin behind his balls. Foreplay, his hand curved around the gearstick, rubbing the smooth shaft while he idled at a traffic light.

He tucks a thumb beneath the waistband of his boxers, tugging them over his cock. It bounces jauntily once it’s freed, sticking right out from his opened jeans.

“There you go, girl,” Mark says, soft. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Mortifying, really, but Mark’s always talked to his cars. Why should it be any different now?

He cups himself in one hand, steps in close. Presses the spongy head against the unforgiving edge of the door trim, tracing the aerodynamic curves and undulations. There’s a chamois in his back pocket to clean things up after. He’s prepared.

His cock fits perfectly into the depression meant for his fingers to unlatch the door. He rubs himself against the smooth dip, jacking himself until a few droplets smear across the pristine surface. Anointment complete, he moves on to the air inlet notched above the wheel trim, pushing his cock into the small gap so hard it hurts, faintly. He’s never been afraid of the pain his cars can cause.

He’s breathing fast already, thighs shaking and hands fumbling. The perils of middle age. He’s not got quite the endurance he might once have enjoyed; less still when he’s with his favourites. He needs to be canny about it now, spend his limited pleasure only on the parts of his girl most worthy of worship.

He gets to his knees. His jeans are a bit tight for this, really, but he likes to stay fully dressed for this.

It’s a terrible angle, but if he shuffles sideways, he can rub the length of his cock, more or less, against the channel that runs along the bottom of the door. He’s come into this channel more times than he can count, watching his semen paint the deep red white.

But that’s not what he wants today.

He fumbles the condom out of his back pocket with uncooperative fingers. It’s heartbreaking, really, that he has to suit up for this bit. He’s wanked about it endlessly, imagining his seed working its way inside her, mingling with petrol and engine coolant. But he can’t risk messing up her insides, never mind the health of his own manhood.

He stands on wobbly legs, walks his way around to the back of her. She’s resplendent, open and waiting for him as he toes off his shoes.

The biggest act of sacrilege is when he climbs on top of her. Every time, he’s terrified he’s going to leave scratches, or worse. But she’s tough. She can take it. That’s why he loves her.

He’d wanted to fuck her from the minute he saw her. The twin exhaust pipes mounted on the rear assembly, three or four feet off the ground, stirred him the same way a dirty magazine would. There’s something obscene about her, holes open to the world. She wants it.

It takes a bit of awkward manoeuvring until he’s in position, but once he’s settled into place, it’s like he’s made to be on top of her. Knees nestled into her dips and curves, socked feet braced against the rear spoiler.

She’s hot inside when he slides into the waiting exhaust pipe. He breathes out, shuddery and grateful, resting his forehead against the curve of her roof. The condom is lubed, and he slips in right to the hilt without resistance, the machined edge pressing into his swollen balls.

“Oh, girl,” Mark breathes, and presses his mouth to cool metal. She tastes of wax and metal.

He moves his hips, careful, and she groans beneath him. Her suspension bounces as he fucks her.

He presses his cheek to the wet patch his mouth had left, traces her body with his hands. He fits perfectly inside her, like she was built to take him. Cold exterior, hot as any wet cunt inside, a secret space meant for him to worship.

It doesn’t last long, but she doesn’t mock him for it, doesn’t sigh and make a barbed remark. He gasps sweet nothings into her grilles, drives his hips into her as it builds and builds until he’s cresting, emptying himself inside her.

As he comes, he prays the condom snags on some poorly machined burr of steel and splits, spilling his tribute into her, but of course there isn’t, and it doesn’t. She’s too well-made for that.