The Trunk

Author's Note

This story ain't polished. It ain't soft. It's hot, messy, complicated, and damn near wrong in all the right ways. I wrote it to feel real -- like sweat on skin and breath in your ear.

If you're here for something romantic and sweet... this ain't that.

This is for the ones who like tension you can taste, sex that's a little too close to danger, and characters who love hard, fuck harder, and don't apologize for it.

Inspired by that Bonnie & Clyde energy -- but Black, Southern, and unapologetically raw.

If you read it all the way through, thank you. If you feel something, even better.

SCENE 1: THE TRUNK

Early 1990s. Cramped car trunk.

It was dark. Not regular dark -- the kind that pressed against your eyeballs. Thick and hot, like when you stand to close to the oven when you open it. The metal under their backs groaned every time they shifted, or at least tried to, but it was tighter than a set of twins. No wiggle room, no light, no escape. Just them.

"I'm not no fuckin' rookie," she snapped, her voice low and sharp. "I'm not your bitch, I ain't your child, and I don't need you holdin' my damn hand through every little thing. That was your green light move." She elbowed him, dead in the ribs.

"Man, fuck off me." He shifted but couldn't get away from her elbow.

"I don't even know what you complainin' about -- we did what we came to do. Lil' ass boy..." She whispered that last part like poison.

"See? You always do that shit, You always bring up that dumbass age gap like it means something. You only sixty-nine minutes older than me." He nudged her in the back with his knee, petty.

She twisted her neck, barely able to turn in the cramped space, and rolled her eyes hard enough to feel it in her teeth. "And you always make that dumbass joke. Every time." She kicked backwards, connecting with his shin. "If you wanna eat on my lil' cookie, just say that."

His nose flared up, and his lip twitched. "But, I'm allergic to seafood, and you know that."

That made her eyes go wide. Her mouth curved into a slow smirk. "Oh bitch, you got me fucked up. I know you lyin'." She laughed, half amused, half irritated. "You just yappin' now, 'cause you ain't never smelt my cookie stink."

That one hit different. He chuckled -- low and dirty. She felt the heat off it in the tiny space.

He shifted again anticipating another hit of some sort. The trunk creaked.

"Stop movin'." She jammed her elbow in his chest this time.

"Shut the fuck up," he gritted. "We wouldn't even be in this situation if it wasn't for you."

"Ohh, bitch--first of all, you shut the fuck up." She turned her head just enough to side-eye him in the dark. "Second, stop talkin' to me like that. Third, I saved your ass. Remember that?"

"You really didn't though," he fired back. "All you had to do was stay in the car, lookout, and drive the fuck away when I was done. Simple right? But nah, you wanna bust in loud and wild like we in a Spike Lee joint... Stupid."

They stared at each other in the dark. Breathing heavy. That trunk air thick with sweat, gun smoke, and unspoken shit.

"You irritate the fuck outta me," she mumbled.

He smirked. "So what? Cry me a river, boo-fuckin'-hoo, bitch."

She sucked her teeth and popped him in the chest with a closed fist.

"Stop bein' disrespectful. You'd love that, huh? Perv."

He grinned, then crotch-chopped toward her -- not that she could see it clear, but she felt the motion brush her leg.

The silence stretched.

He broke it. "We just gotta wait it out. Let 'em sweep and bounce."

"How long?" she asked, voice suddenly lower, tighter.

"A few hours, maybe. You got somewhere better to be?"

She said nothing, turning her face just enough to throw him a stare full of venom. "By then I'ma be done choked your neck. Don't even know how that's gon' work in here, but I'm figure it out, hoe."

"Your momma."

"We got the same momma, dumb ass."

He grinned again, teeth flashing in the dark like trouble. "Shuuttt the fuck up" he mumble, in a taunting tone.

SCENE 2: BARELY BREATHING

"Can you stop breathin' down my dam neck?" Not even turning her head to look back. Her voice was laced with irritation but low, and on the verge of defeat.

Long pause.

"... My bad," he said. Quiet. Cracked voice, not his usual. That crack? Red flag. She knew it. There were always signs. The way he swallowed, hard. The little click in his throat. The faint rustle of his fingers when they twitched near his thigh.

Then it came -- that noise. A half-hum, half-choked sigh that sounded like he was tryna keep the world from caving in on top of him. She didn't need to see him to know his anxiety was creeping up his spine like it always did when shit got too quiet. When the adrenaline wore off.

He was starting to slip.

She didn't say anything.

Long silence.

"... Girl?," he whispered.

"What?" Her voice was short, clipped.

He didn't answer.

Instead, slow -- like his muscles were moving through molasses -- he inched his head forward, brushing it gently against her back.

She didn't pull away.

Actually... she slid back into him, just a little. Enough to let him know it was okay. She was there. She was with him. She understood the assignment, and was down to ride it out with him. Like she did since birth. She could feel his skin now -- his bare chest sticky with sweat, pressed against the back strap of her bra. They were damn near glued together, body to body, breath to breath.

His lips, dry and cracked, brushed against her drenched back.

She felt the whisper of it. The slight drag as he licked them, trying to soften them, and she could feel that too.

His head slipped lower down her back, moving against her like a slow, heavy heartbeat. She stiffened.

"Damn..." she hissed under her breath, annoyed, but didn't stop him. This time it felt different... for the both of them. It wasn't sexual but it felt that way. He needed something. Maybe just not to lose his shit.

He slid one arm around her waist, fingers fumbling for her belt loops. She felt it immediately -- that subtle tug, the way he always did that when his nerves were bad. She reached back and guided his hand gently, helping him find the loops.

It was his version of breathing into a paper bag.

"... Girl?" Her called, in whatever was softer than a whisper.

"Yes, boy?" Her tone was softer now. Calmer. Trying to slow his pulse.

He exhaled long and low. His voice was barely above a whisper, close to her ear.

"I'ma get me a little farm... have like five kids, a wife, couple horses. You can come be part of it. I think. Maybe. I don't know... 'cause you be pissing me the fuck off."

"We can't do this forever, you know that, right?"

"I love that for you," she said, eyes half-closed, fighting to hang in there. "But I live the life of an outlaw, baby. I'm goin' down in history. Bonnie n' Clyde type shit." She said dramatically, full of charisma she didn't normally have.

The silence stretched again.

His anxiety still rising -- she could feel it in his grip. Fingers digging into her hips without meaning to, nails pressing into her belly.

Then suddenly -- too loud -- he buried his face in her ass. Stayed there. Breathing heavy. Raw. Shameful. Needy.

She didn't say a word.

Neither of them did.

For a minute, it was like the outside world didn't exist. Just heat, sweat, exhaustion, and the pounding of their hearts in sync.

She finally turned over to face him.

Pressed into each other. Lips almost touching.

And then... she sang. Soft. Off-key. For him.

He closed his eyes. Breathing calmed.

"You sound like shit," he whined. "And ya breath smell like it too. You don't even know the words. Shut up."

Her mouth hung open with disbelief, laughing through her nose. "Well, why you all up on me then? I guess I should stop tryin' to be nice to you lil' ass boy--"

"No. Don't." His voice broke.

His hands slid under her waistband. She didn't stop him. She caressed his wrists, rubbed his palms. Kept singing. He shifted lower, pressing his mouth against her neck, her collarbone... until he found her chest. A comfort move, not a sexual one. But her bra slipped anyway.

His lips landed on her areola. Hot breath. Skin to skin.

Neither flinched. Neither said a word. She cradled the back of his head, looking down at him, shook her head, and smirked.

"I don't know how this wife of yours you speak of gon' take it. I feel sorry for the bitch when she see how clingy to me you are. You still on my titty -- literally -- on y'all lil' farmhouse with all them damn kids."

"... She'll never get to see it," he said. Calm. Calculated.

She grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his face up. "What the fuck that mean? Don't play with me."

He stared at her calmly.

"It means by the time that happens... you'll probably be dead."

"... Bonnie." He snatched away from her. Then they both burst out laughing. Quiet, muffled, but still too loud.

"Shhh!" she said, hand over his mouth, still giggling.

They were supposed to be low.

"I'm just sayin' -- don't ever think you gon' put no bitch before me. That's where we gon' have a problem. I don't care how much we beef. You belong to me, lil' ass boy. We two halves."

He looked at her.

"Girl."

"Yes, boy?"

"So what?"

"What you mean?"

"You said I'm still on your nipple. What's wrong with that? We two halves... Right?" He squeezed her tighter.

"... Yeah. So what."

She kissed his lips. Slow. Pressed, not pecked. Suddenly the heat rose a bunch of degrees.

Right as they were about to fall into it--a noise outside.

They pulled back fast.

"Shhh... they close," she whispered, her finger over his lips. His mouth stayed open under it.

"What if they catch us?" he asked, eyes wide, pupils blown.

She didn't answer. Just gave him that look. He already knew.

"... Yeah. No, you right." He nodded, breath shaky. "Long time."

"Really long," she whispered.

"... Girl?"

"Mmm hmm?"

"... I love you." He barely said it. Like it hurt.

She looked at him dead in his eyes.

"Show me," she shot back.

"... How I'm supposed to?"

SCENE 3: SEAFOOD PLATTER

He was still staring at her when she leaned forward.

"Shhh..." she whispered again, but slower this time.

His lips parted, barely. A breath. A tremble.

She traced her finger along his bottom lip, soft, almost playful. Then, casual like she was flipping channels, she slipped her fingertip onto his tongue.

He flinched, but didn't move away.

Her finger danced gently -- side to side -- across the tip of his tongue.

Then he flicked his tongue against it, just once.

Then again, slower.

Then he closed his lips around her knuckle and sucked her whole finger in.

She tilted her head, smiling just a little -- but not teasing. Focused. Curious.

She slid it in deeper. Then started slowly fingering his mouth like she was working him open.

He paused, lips still wrapped around her finger.

"Wait--hold up now," he said, pulling back suddenly.

She laughed.

"You don't like it?" she asked, voice calm but wicked.

He blinked. "I... I don't know about that."

"It don't mean you're like, you know..." she flicked her wrist with a grin, mocking him gently. "I like it. So do it for me."

He hesitated. She watched it all happen in his face. That tight jaw. The masculine pride wrestling the vulnerability.

She pulled her fingers out of his mouth. Let him sit with it while she touched herself. Then slid two back in.

He didn't fight it.

The inside of his mouth was wet, warm, the texture gritty from dehydration. She could feel the scratch of his teeth. He sucked slow. Like he was still deciding how he felt about it.

He caught her watching him and raised an eyebrow.

She smirked.

"I thought you was allergic to seafood," she said.

They both cracked up quietly.

She leaned into his ear. "I got a lil' seafood platter if you hungry."

He smirked, shaking his head.

She nervously unzipped her jeans. Not knowing how he would react.

"If you want me to eat on your lil' cookie, just say that," he teased back.

He was already sliding lower when she pulled away. Quick.

"Wait."

He froze.

"... What's wrong?" he whispered, already knowing the answer. Knowing damn well they we're doing the unthinkable. What was forbidden in most households all across the world. They we're doing what their parents would certainly be proud of. If it we're some type of weird, sick, twisted Literotica book.

"This..." she exhaled. "This ain't it. What the fuck are we doing, for real? I think this heat and being in this fuckin' trunk for hours is startin' to mess with us."

"You right," he agreed quickly, trying to reel himself back. "Ain't no way I was 'bouta--"

"You really was, though," she cut him off, raising a brow. "You liked how my lil' cookie taste."

He was still laying on her lower stomach, half-hardened, half-caught in shame.

Silence.

Then, flatly, he mumbled, "Probably lookin' at eight... ten years just for this alone. Never mind the rest."

"Yeah," she sighed. "We knew what we signed up for. Bonnie and Clyde in a lil' farmhouse with a wife, kids, and some damn horses. How that sound?"

He hummed into her stomach. Long, deep. The kind of hum that could've been pain or laughter or both.

Then... he dipped lower.

"Mmm."

She gasped.

"Wait--what the fuck--"

He covered her mouth with one hand. His tongue slid warm and wet between her legs, slow and strong. She nearly screamed behind his palm.

"Shhh," he grinned against her.

Then -- fingers in her mouth. She sucked instinctively, teeth grazing his knuckle as he worked her open.

She laughed through his fingers. "What is this -- your lil' get back?"

"Yup," he said, tongue still working. "It don't make you..." He flicked his wrist.

She choked on a laugh.

"You do know I'm a female, right? That don't apply the same."

She rolled her hips, face twisted in something like warning and invitation.

She ended up on top of his face -- not rough, but purposeful. Her knees straddled his jaw, with her stomach on his forehead. She rocked slow, but steady. With a specific rhythm.

His hands gripped her thighs, firm, but he let her control it.

Then she gasped -- this time loud.

Liquid heat burst from her, soaking his mouth. Her thighs trembled. He flinched, pulled back just a second, eyes wide.

She looked down at him, still panting, her chest rising with every breath.

"You good?" she smirked. "Don't drown on me now."

He blinked. Nodded slowly, face drenched. He looked... stunned.

Then he gave her that look. That suggestive one. That we're not done look.

She narrowed her eyes.

"You do know I'm not suckin' your lil' ding-a-ling, right?"

"... Yup," he nodded. "No, you right." He coughed a little, before clearing his throat.

She laughed again, letting herself fall back beside him. The sweat between them stuck skin to skin again.

Both of them laid there, chest to chest, silent now.

Outside, the night stretched. Sirens in the far distance. A dog barked somewhere. Maybe another car passed. Or maybe the fear was just building again in their heads.

Their breathing slowed.

She stared at the roof of the trunk.

"... We really gon' die in this bitch?" she asked softly.

He didn't answer. Just reached for her hand.

And held it.

SCENE 4: MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

The trunk creaked open just past 3 a. m.

Heat spilled out first -- then them. Limbs tangled, sticky with sweat, pants half-down, shirts misaligned, hearts still racing like sirens were close.

But there were no sirens now.

Just the sound of crickets and gravel crunching beneath worn-out sneakers.

He helped her up. She shoved his hand off halfway.

"Don't touch me unless you tryna finish what you started," she said, eyes still blazing.

He smirked. "Bet."

They drove in silence, window down, air cool on their damp skin.

No headlights behind them. No chopper above. Just them, the road, and the kind of high you only get from barely making it out alive.

After twenty minutes of nothing but broken yellow lines and Southern darkness, he cut the lights and pulled over.

They sat in the middle of the road -- wide, cracked, empty -- like God had left it just for them.

She stepped out first. Looked up.

"Damn near forgot what stars looked like," she whispered.

He didn't answer. Just came up behind her.

His hands slid around her waist.

Then lower.

Then he was kissing her -- finally kissing her -- hard, no buildup, no play.

She turned into him, bit his bottom lip, and tugged it.

Then her hand was between them, palming his dick through his jeans.

"I told you not to get used to this," she laughed.

He grunted, already pulling at her jeans.

"I'm not used to shit, but I need this."

The next second they were on the pavement.

Her back against the warm tar.

Jeans around her knees again.

His tongue had already been there. His fingers too. But this was different.

This was everything. This was the world on fire.

He spit in his hand, stroked himself once, and lined up with her entrance.

Paused.

"... You good?" he asked, breath shaking.

She looked up at him, face dead serious.

"Shut the fuck up and do it"

He grinned.

Then pushed in.

Slow. Thick. Deep.

She gasped -- loud. Didn't care.

The road caught her moan and threw it to the trees.

He grunted, sinking deeper. The stretch made her eyes roll back.

"Fuck..." she exhaled.

He growled, hips grinding deep into her.

He didn't wait long. He started fucking her. Rough, hard strokes, the kind that made her body scoot on the asphalt, legs wrapped tight around his waist.

Her moans got louder. One hand clawed at his back. The other dug into the gravel beside her.

The sky above was spinning.

His strokes were fast, but not sloppy. Focused. Deep. Like he was trying to leave something in her.

Her head tilted back, mouth wide.

"Shit--keep fuckin' me just like that--don't stop--don't fuckin' stop--"

"Not goin' nowhere," he panted.

She slapped his chest.

"I own you, lil' ass boy."

He grinned.

Then flipped her over.

Face down on the warm road now, ass up.

She braced herself on her elbows, hair wild, body gleaming in moonlight.

He slid back in, groaning louder this time.

She cried out.

"Shit--"

He grabbed her hips tight, nails digging in, and slammed into her.

The rhythm changed -- harder, deeper, faster.

Her hands slipped on the road, palms scraping.

"You takin' this dick now, huh?" he growled in her ear.

They both pause, and laughed at the awkwardness of it all.

She looked back at him, eyes glazed.

"Fight back!"

"Don't act like I wasn't just ridin' your face like a queen."

He slapped her ass. "Say thank you."

"Thank me," she spat.

He choked on a laugh and fucked her harder.

Her ass bounced with each stroke. She was dripping again -- he could feel it. Hear it.

"Say you love this dick," he grunted.

She looked over her shoulder, sweat on her top lip.

"... I love this fuckin' dick."

He grabbed her throat. Not tight. Just enough.

She moaned so loud it echoed off the trees.

Then her legs started to shake.

He felt it.

He wasn't far either.

"You bouta--?"

"Yeah," she gasped. "Don't stop--don't--"

He reached around and rubbed her clit with purpose.

That was it.

She came. Screaming, body convulsing, road burning against her knees and hands.

He pulled out just before he finished, groaning loud as he spilled on the ground beside her.

Breathing heavy. Arms shaking.

They both collapsed on the middle of the road like it was a motel bed.

Staring at the stars.

Silent.

Alive.