Caught by Car Wash Camera

Author's Note:

This is my

Literotica April Fools Story Contest 2025

entry. I appreciate your taking time to vote and leave your ratings and comments at the end. I do read all messages and comments, and appreciate the time you take to create and share them, even if I'm not able to promptly respond.

This a work of fiction; any resemblance to any person or event, past or present, is unintentional and coincidental. All characters are over 18 years old.

___________________

I was a good girl. Risk-averse, suitably modest in public, and generally unadventurous. Until I wasn't. In an unexpected twist of fate, what could have—and in most cases would have—led to disaster instead turned my life in a different and wonderfully surprising direction. I'm Sara. And this is my story.

*********

It was a warm, sunny day last summer. I filled my car with gas and selected "yes" for a car wash. I drove to the station's attached automatic car wash, a routine transaction I do every few weeks or so, depending on how dirty my car is. Routine until that day. I had no prior thoughts or plans; nothing about the day or my mood seemed unusual. Nothing I know of triggered any new behavior or feelings.

But on that day, in that car wash, something rose from deep in my psyche. A niggle, then an urge. Then, an irresistible sexual impulse.

I entered the wash as another car exited the opposite side. I drove slowly over the jets that cleaned the underside of my car, then stopped in the designated "stop" place. I shifted the car into Park. The garage-type doors on both ends closed as usual, and the wash cycle started—the "Ultimate" package, which lasted around eight or nine minutes. The one that included the extra "rainbow foam," the "super shine rinse," and "wheel blaster" features that set it above the inferior "Deluxe" or, god forbid, "Standard" programs.

I was in an enclosed, private place with the garage doors shut. I glanced around; no side doors, no windows. Just concrete block walls, entrance and exit doors, the automatic sprays and brushes—and me in my car. The initial soaking foam sprayed across my windows, creating a secret, cozy hideaway.

It dawned on me that no one could see me; no one would know if I did something naughty—if I touched myself. My eyes darted around furtively as I ran my hands over my boobs, which caused a flutter in my belly. I dropped lower and started to tickle my crotch through my leggings; my vagina quivered under my touch. My pussy wanted more—much more. An irresistible yearning materialized rapidly and forcefully.

I bit my lip and smiled mischievously. No one could see, and the car wash I selected was a long cycle. I slid my hand under my waistband and cupped my pussy, then ran a finger along and between my folds, feeling my wetness. My fingers toyed around my aroused clit and got coated with my fluids. The wash bay immersed me in a private bubble, a fantasy place where some debauched side of me could surface and thrive unfettered.

As I teased myself, myriad thoughts and fantasies swarmed my mind. The sexual ministrations, the secluded atmosphere, and the sounds of water and brushes created an intense feeling of euphoria and arousal. Suddenly, the challenge to see if I could cum before the wash finished popped into my mind, seemingly out of nowhere.

I needed direct and unencumbered access to my quivering pussy, which required getting rid of some clothes. Squirming in my seat, I awkwardly worked my leggings and knickers down and let them drop to my ankles, then kicked one foot loose. I sat with nothing on below my waist except my sandals and continued rubbing my clit and fingering my pussy. I was glad for the greater freedom of movement and reveled in the waves of sexual energy coursing through my body.

I peeked past the water jets and spinning brushes to see where we were in the cycle. Only halfway through—still plenty of time. I slid my seat fully back, freed my other foot, and put my feet up on the dash on each side of the steering wheel. My spread legs peeled open my pussy to the world—at least to my secret world inside my car. My trimmed, strawberry-blonde pubes caught the lights through the splashing water and shimmered with my movements.

Closing my eyes and pleasuring myself, I imagined someone seeing me like that. Wantonly exposed, offering my naked body to view... maybe as a passenger in a car, and a truck driver would see me and honk, pace my vehicle, and leer at my hot, wet pussy, like in erotic stories. Or like in porn videos where I would be parked somewhere where strangers could touch me. Maybe even fuck me.

The salacious thoughts sent shivers down my spine, and my belly fluttered with pleasure. I was swept up—lost—in the ecstasy and perversion of the moment.  I pressed a finger into my sodden tunnel and rapidly circled my clit as I roughly finger-fucked myself.

I didn't stop to question why or if I should be there doing such things. My body burned with sexual power, and all I focused on was my irrational need to rub, smoosh, finger, and stroke myself until I came. I longed to cum. I pressed against the dash with my feet and lifted my pelvis to further stretch my pussy. I increased the intensity of rubbing and fingering my clit and vagina as I contracted and released my pelvis as if pumping in sync with a cock fucking me. Wetness gushed from my pussy in response.

As the car wash's final rinse started, hot sexual churning deep in my groin signaled my approaching climax. I focused all my energy on furiously rubbing my clit—it was a race to the finish between my orgasm and the car wash cycle.

I came hard and loud; I arched my back and then contracted forward as orgasmic tremors tore through me. I moaned without concern about being heard as I rode the tide of a massive orgasm for an indeterminate time. It could have been ten seconds or thirty; I was oblivious to the reality of time. Finally, I shuddered and limply fell back on my seat. I had won the race—I finished just before the final rinse did.

I vaguely heard the car wash's giant dryer fire up, then snapped to attention when I realized that it meant my wash cycle was complete, and I had to drive forward. Both garage doors had lifted; the exit before me through the blowing dryer and the entrance behind me, from which another car had started entering. The signal board with the wash's instructions told me to drive forward. I didn't have an option—I also didn't have a way to pull my bottoms back on first.

My pulse raced, and my naked pussy twitched as I pulled myself together and moved forward as directed. I slowly drove out through the dryer without my leggings or knickers on; the next car entered behind, and daylight awaited me ahead. My adrenaline surged, and my breathing quickened. I looked nervously around and in my rear-view mirror. Though I knew intellectually the driver behind me couldn't possibly see me, it felt exposed and daring to pull out into the bright sunlight while naked below the waist.

I pulled over to the far end of the parking lot with no other cars and sat, catching my breath. Something had come over me in the car wash—I'd never done anything like that before. Swiveling to check my surroundings and ensure I was unobserved, I felt naughty and adventurous and contemplated even more daring behavior—the antithesis of who I'd always been. I pondered whether or not to drive home bottomless.

The drive home was short, just three miles or so—about five minutes—so I reasoned the odds favored my not getting caught or being seen. But my lack of experience with things like that made it a big step for me. As I sat in my car in a public parking lot on a warm summer day, newly manifested primal urges overwhelmed my rational hesitation. Against all odds, I was leaning towards the kinky.

What am I thinking here? I can't seem to control myself.

The thrill of doing something so risky, naughty, and public kept me excited and wet. I imagined what would happen if I were stopped for some reason. Or got in an accident, god forbid. All the people would see me and know I was a pervert or kinky. Would some get turned on by me? Or disgusted? I liked to think they would get off knowing how hot and horny I was—maybe wish they could be so brazen and brave.

A little smile played on my lips during my uneventful trip home. I left a large wet patch on the seat of the car from my dripping pussy juices. I considered it a badge of honor for bravery, audacity, and downright risky business. That was when I first realized I had a kinky and no longer dormant exhibitionist streak.

******

Three weeks later, I returned to the gas station, filled my car, and paid for a wash as usual. But the machine didn't print the receipt with the car wash code. Instead, it said to see the cashier inside. I sighed, slightly annoyed but generally resigned. I parked my car in front of the station building so I wouldn't block a pump, and went inside.

As I entered the station, a man greeted me, saying there was a problem with either the printer or my card and that I should go with him to the office for a minute so he could figure out the problem. I followed.

In the office, the man closed the door and told me to sit. Confused, I complied and sat. He turned a screen on his desk to face me. Played a video. My stomach sank, and I broke into a cold sweat. It showed the INSIDE of the car wash. The front of my car. Me in the car.

The video had been taken the last time I was there. Not a fuzzy, black and white, old-time security camera quality, but full-color, high-def, crystal clear resolution. Showing me in the car—clear images of my face, my movements, my trimmed, reddish-gold pubes against my pale skin, my swollen labia pressing around my thrusting finger. Everything showed in high-quality detail.

Myriad feelings of horror, anxiety, and an unwelcome hint of arousal flooded my psyche as the two of us sat and watched me expose my pussy and masturbate. The steering wheel partially blocked my crotch, but when I thrust my pelvis with my feet on the dash, my pussy would flash in and out of unobstructed view. Everything I did, including driving out without pulling on my pants, was evident. Part of my mind screamed that I should be freaked out and stop watching, but I couldn't peel my eyes away from what I was seeing.

The show finished, and I just sat, stunned. Overwhelmed. Helpless. I experienced firsthand the big difference between kinky fantasy and reality.

Panic surged through my gut as I turned to the man. "Wha—what... why do you have this? Why am I here... what do you want from me?"

He smirked, "Well, I'm not sure, but possibly you've broken the law; indecent exposure, probably." My eyes widened with fear. He continued, "And I can't imagine the embarrassment, the chaos in your life that would overwhelm you if something like this ever went public." His smug expression was as disturbing as his words.

"Oh, GOD, no," I cried. "That can't happen; are you saying you would do that? How could you be so cruel?"

The man looked sternly at me and took my hand, which I allowed. I couldn't read his emotion or intent, which I found unsettling. "No, of course not; that's not what any of us want," He said. "I'm just saying that we have to protect you—and us potentially, since it happened in our car wash." The barest sliver of hope ran down my spine.

Maybe things will be all right.

"And, you must know that these videos are not only here on the premises; often, there are remote servers and network computers that they pass through. Sometimes, videos are stored in other places." His words hinted at some degree of compassion, but no empathy reached his eyes. He had total control of the situation and appeared to enjoy toying with me. "It is possible, but not a simple task, to recover all copies."

I felt sick. Hopeless, distraught. Tears welled in my eyes as I looked at the man. "I don't understand now... what is happening, what we're doing here. Am I in trouble, or are you trying to help me somehow? I'm so confused." I finally broke down and sobbed.

The man pulled me into his arms, and in my distress, I didn't resist and leaned into his chest. He stroked my hair and told me not to worry, that things usually find a way to work out. As he murmured, I began to settle down and control my breathing. Then, an icy chill swept through me as he spoke again more directly.

"You are a lovely young woman. So sexy, so brave. I admire your mischievous side and admire your gorgeous, sexy body. I'm sure we can figure out some way to prevent a disastrous reveal of this video."

I bit my lip and stopped breathing. Unmoving against the man's chest. The sick feeling returned as I dreaded the direction he seemed to be going. I was not even slightly flattered by his compliments—terrified would be a better word. I pulled away from him. Thoughts ranging from exposure to rape flashed through my mind.

Fuck, I see where this's going. He's gonna blackmail me with this. Oh, fuck, oh, no. Shit.

"I can see how aroused you were, how turned on you got exposing your pussy out the window," He jeered. "You were fantasizing that people were watching you, weren't you? That crowds of people saw you finger your wet pussy in public." His tone was both taunting and condescending.

My mind raced.

What do I do here? He's toying with me, messing with my mind; I know any second he's going to switch to scaring and threatening me, get me to do things—sexual things—to avoid publicly destroying my life.

I wanted to be angry, to push him away with righteous indignation. But part of me knew he was right: I

was

turned on and had fantasized like that. Memories of the erotic thrill I felt from the risky exposure of my naked body fought the pragmatic fears of the current situation.

"Tell me, poppet, how you feel, deep down, not how you think you're

supposed

to feel. Admit that you are aroused now after watching yourself get off. Next to me, with me; turned on that I caught you. That I saw you." He pulled back and lifted my chin so our eyes met. "That you are more horny right now than worried."

He grinned. "I think we can work something out here—we both want the same thing; you just haven't admitted it yet." He knew I was helpless and was tormenting me instead of coming right out and demanding sex for his silence. He leered at my body, running his eyes up and down me, openly ogling my breasts in my tight t-shirt. My treacherous nipples pressed visibly against the thin fabric against my will.

I stared back, speechless, not from shock or inability but because I wasn't sure how to answer. The flutter in my belly told me the man was right—I

was

horny. I got horny watching myself masturbate in the car wash. Not because I liked seeing myself but because someone else—the man—liked seeing me. Maybe others had seen me—possibly hundreds.

As I sat trying to work out my feelings and how I should respond, the man ran his fingers through my hair and pushed a lock behind my ear. A gentle, intimate act—an unwelcome act under the circumstances. By a total stranger. However, I felt unsettled rather than repulsed. I should have been creeped out, threatened, outraged—something more defensive.

I was angry, confused, and threatened. Exactly what he wanted me to feel. Maybe. It was clear to me from his tone and words that he was angling towards something sexual. But he didn't seem to be pressing things or making demands. He either had some modicum of compassion or was a sadist who was stringing me along.

"It's ok—what you're feeling is ok," The man said. Then, he told me—statements, not questions. "You liked that I saw you—want me to touch you. Let your feelings out, and don't hide from your true self. No one else has to know about this video; tell me how you feel and what you think should happen now. It's just us here—a safe place."

I looked at him and digested his words. What he said made no sense about things he knew nothing about. Personal feelings I didn't feel and that I'd never even hinted at.

He's way out of line but doesn't care; what do I do? Is he going to demand a blowjob? Something worse? What do I do if he does? The mere thought of being forced to do something like that against my will makes me sick.

And it was laughable to claim I was in a safe place. I was a captive, essentially captured and in the process of being blackmailed, albeit indirectly. The man was being careful not to threaten me or explicitly demand sex.

Clever of him. He's trying to trick me into suggesting a "solution" to buy his silence. To be the one to propose some form of sex.

The man waited with patient confidence. He held all the cards. I was his pawn to use, sacrifice, and play with. He openly adjusted his crotch like a baseball player about to make a play. The bulge in his pants and leering smile confirmed my worst fears.

The following silence was heavy with consequence. I considered my situation. My primary immediate goal was to avoid being raped or forced sexually. Not only because it would be unimaginably horrible in itself but also because nothing would stop the extortion from being ongoing, which was unthinkable. But I was at a loss as to what I could do. I had to do something; I couldn't fall into his trap. I lowered my eyes as a tear escaped and slid down my cheek.

The man pressed on. "So beautiful," He murmured. I was mesmerized by his voice. "So brave. Deep down, you're glad I caught you—like me seeing you. You want me to see more of you and do things to make you feel better. That's true, isn't it?" He wanted to dominate me, take me by exploiting my emotional weaknesses. And I did little to stop him; I just sat silently, mentally bewildered.

How is this happening? Why am I not stopping this? There must be an alternative to coerced sex.

In hindsight, I'd like to think I cleverly conceived of a counter-manipulation to deflect what was almost certainly going to be some form of coerced sexual act. "Suck for silence," or worse. But mainly, the unexpected twist I came up with evolved because the man had unwittingly tapped into nascent urges I had already been experiencing—sort of a kinky compromise that would save me from sexual blackmail.

I waited for him to push more forcefully, for the right moment. I had to tread carefully to make my idea work. I didn't have to wait long.

"Tell me," The man said, pressing to embarrass and keep me off-guard—trying a new approach. "Tell me how you felt, touching yourself, getting off, spreading your legs open, and cumming on your fingers. Driving out of the car wash like a slut with your pussy exposed." His confident posture indicated he expected me to crumble and beg for some way to prevent making the video public—the "I'll do anything" response.

However, instead, I replied with what had to have been my least expected response: a 180-degree twist from his expectation that redefined our entire interaction. I answered truthfully. "I, um... felt naughty. And sexy. It turned me on, thinking I could get caught, and I loved spreading my legs and displaying my open pussy. It was thrilling, fun, and outrageous." I flushed, amazed at my own salacious reply.

The man's eyes widened, and he moved his mouth silently in consternation, looking confused. I'd thrown him off-balance with my unexpectedly direct and sexually explicit reply. He didn't expect me to agree with him; he received sexual confidence and daring instead of a timid victim.