Cindy straddled the bucket seat of the '67 Mustang fastback she was in. She felt a deep connection with the car as it reminded her of a lover.
The jet black interior matched the exterior, and its lines - hard on the front, then sloping sexily to the back of the car - were beautiful. The intoxicating mix of the thick musky scent of leather and a mild hint of motor oil hung in the air, like a hint of sex the morning after an especially dirty and pleasurable night. She inhaled, absorbing the musk with every cell. The lines, the curves, the smell - even with the engine off and the car quiet she could envision what the car was for. Every inch of design pointed to the car's sole purpose - it was a machine of pure, unrestrained, passionate pursuit, and of speed and of power.
Silver pedals for acceleration and gauges for velocity and pressure. A gear shift, elongated, angular and erect, a decidedly phallic protrusion, culminating in a sleek, inviting knob the size of her palm. She was in the cockpit of an intoxication chamber of unadulterated masculinity, in a machine with the sleek ease of a jaguar poised and ready to pounce at the slightest encouragement. Like her men, it was a machine of capable, attention-stealing power.
Outside, a throng of men and women meandered between Camaros and Challengers and polished motorcycles, a swath of classic autos on a barricaded street. Spectators peered at massive silver engines and at hoods tattooed with serpents and flames and women. She enjoyed another breath, her nose basking in the machine's aroma, like a shirt discarded by a favourite lover.
Cindy's gaze fell on a particularly form-fitting pair of jeans and a white shirt that silhouetted a pair of masculine, well-formed arms. Brad Walloway felt her gaze and returned it with his own sly smile. He moved from sight into the mass of bodies. Cindy smiled. She could look at Brad's ass all day.
On her way out, Cindy sidestepped a leering forty-something man in a faded shirt and looked for her favourite pair of jeans in the crowd. There was a burble in the crowd, a commotion forty feet away. "Stop him!" The mass of people, hedged by curved metal bodies, an array of fat-tired sports cars, shifted to see the crier. Eliot Thompson, the car club's president shouted again. "That bastard gouged the Baron".
Cindy knew the Baron well - the president's beloved '66 Shelby Cobra. Thompson had rescued it from a rusty shell, and had persistently transformed the car to its former grandeur. The Cobra, full of round in all the right places, and showcased in a classic "Guardsman Blue" with broad white stripes, looked as though it had just come off the factory floor.
The crowd rippled as the culprit pressed through astounded onlookers, then parted and spit the boy out and over the outstretched leg of Brad Walloway. Cindy completed the maneuver, snatching the culprit's passing ear and wrenching it in the direction of Thompson's shout. The boy skidded, Cindy's momentum canceling his own, his body following his ensnared ear. A pry bar clanked at his feet. The crowd parted enough to allow her through, and while most of the the spectators stared angrily at the boy, Cindy noticed Brad's eyes searching for hers. Cindy smiled at Brad and brushed her chest along his as she passed. She inhaled deeply, inches away from his body, her receptors bathing in his aroma, her nose translating the scent into a minute pulsing in her thighs.
Cindy brought Thompson the boy. The crowd had assumed an awestruck, respectful distance around the Cobra, as though Cindy were a doctor approaching a human body collapsed on the sidewalk. A coarse oval the size of a pizza pierced the glossy finish on the hood, and the beginnings of another mark had been etched under it - an incomplete gang sign, made of jagged metal valleys and cracked flakes of paint. The boy, sensing her distraction, spasmed to loose her grasp, and Cindy regained her lock and ripped his ear toward her.
"What the hell was that for!?!" Thompson again. The boy shrugged, and Cindy traced his cool glance to a teenaged boy with cropped hair and plentiful facial piercings deep in the crowd. Sensing the dare that happened earlier, Cindy looked at the boy's features. Deep-set don't-give-a-shit eyes, framed by a rugged jawline and a crooked nose twice broken in earlier scuffles. He couldn't have been more than fifteen. Cindy stared a moment, then expelled her breath deeply.
"Young Offenders Act won't do shit about this." Almost a whisper. Then, to the boy, "Let's not tie up the courts needlessly."
Sensing another possible escape, the boy bowed his head, dramatizing deep remorse. Unfooled, Cindy pulled back and drove her knee, like a piston, deep into his testicles. The kid collapsed around his groin as if from gunshot. On the periphery Cindy saw the boy's accomplice, eyes wide, a laughing smile formed at his friend's misfortune. The pierced teenager bolted from the crowd. Cindy's prey shouldered people away and waddled quickly from the street.
Eliot Thompson gave Cindy a frank nod and asked Brad to move the car from the street. "I don't want anyone to see the Baron like this."
