Pam is three-and-a-half Long Island Iced Teas down to Jim’s one light beer, and she’s definitely winning as they sit crammed into a booth at Poor Richard’s with the noise and smell of beer and Meredith’s voice as she yells at the sports screen floating all around them. It’s Friday night, there’s a long weekend ahead of them, and life feels good. Pam is delightfully drunk and genuinely enjoying the atmosphere of the back-and-forth conversations between their co-workers, although she can’t make much sense of them as a whole, and seems to waver between listening to Oscar’s enthusiastic complaints about…something, she’s not sure, Gil’s mother, maybe…and Kevin musing on about…something band-related…something about drums and…why he can’t pick up more chicks…it’s all very fuzzy. But she’s happy, and Jim is next to her, their thighs pressed together under the table where nobody can see, warming her leg and her heart.

She’s in a good mood tonight, and very touchy feely, affectionate and grabby and enthusiastic. Already Jim has had to knock away her hands where they’ve tried to trace his jawline – anyway, she’s drunk and jabs her fingernail into his carotid, missing his jaw completely – and nervously laugh off her loud, “That’s what she said!” in response to something Michael had said (“I wonder how many guys have had their hands all over these nuts?”, said while petulantly picking through a disgusting bowl of bar peanuts), where she’d then turned to look at Jim with a cheeky grin, tongue caught between her teeth in delight, and made moon-eyes at him. He feels like he’s playing a dangerous game, but Pam is just so happy, and he can’t bring himself to inhibit her too much. It’s fun for him, too, to be out in public with her, to be spending time together, surrounded by their colleagues, knowing tonight he’s going to crawl into bed with her and nestle her against his chest. Well, if she doesn’t pass out first.

It’s just coming on 1:15am and Pam is circling her straw in the bottom of her glass, noisily sucking up the last dregs of alcohol where they’ve mixed with the melting ice (and that brings back another memory of a night like this, of Pam drunk against his lips for a brief second, of “Second drink!”, and his stomach warms), but laughing at herself as she does so, so a little bit dribbles out of her mouth and down her blouse. She whacks her hand over her mouth as she guffaws, her laugh so hard it’s basically silent except for her whistling draw of breath. Jim can’t help but laugh along with her. She’s cute as a button, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks. “Oh,” sighs Pam in delight as she comes down from her laughter, casting her eyes to Jim only to find him staring in adoration and good humour. Impulsively, she slips her hand across the booth seat and onto his thigh, and squeezes it.

Jim jumps in his skin and his knee hits the underside of the booth with a clunk and wobbles his empty beer bottle on the table. It goes mostly unnoticed amidst the general hubbub of the bar and conversation – Phyllis’ eyes flick down toward the bottle briefly but then return happily to Bob Vance, Vance Refrigeration sitting across from her – and Jim swallows. “Okayyy,” he decides, leaning over to take Pam’s empty glass, much to her chagrin, and move it to his other side, “I think you’ve had enough of those, Beesly.” Underneath the table, his other hand is furiously engaged in a surreptitious wrestling match with Pam’s as he fights to remove her hand from his thigh, and she fights to keep it, digging her fingers determinedly into the tender flesh on either side of his knee. “Come on,” she negotiates, too loudly, “I’m not even that drunk!”

Heads swivel in their direction. With a delayed reaction, Pam’s head turns too as she sets her gaze on Jim with an amused expression, pressing her finger against her pursed, smiling lips. “Shh,” she admonishes him, but can’t keep a serious face, and her stifled laughter giggles out against her finger as she obviously finds herself hilarious. “Alright guys,” Jim decides, “think I’m gonna call a cab for this one,” and jerks a thumb at a suddenly-pouting Pam, “and head off.” He scoots his way out of the booth, feeling his sitting-for-hours body protest at the movement, and tugs Pam’s hand – that he’s already half-holding anyway – behind him. Pam follows reluctantly, though he has to basically drag her out of the booth, and she’s floppy and exaggeratedly sullen like a toddler who’s not ready to leave play group yet, being led away by their mother. Pam is still drunk enough that everyone’s goodbyes and well wishes for a good weekend blur into a mess, and he helps her into her blue-grey coat – getting her arms through is like threading a needle with cooked spaghetti – and then slings an arm around her back to support her, her head falling onto his shoulder. “Are you really gonna call me a cab?” she pouts up at him suspiciously, eyes narrowed. He looks down at her with a fond smile, but has to then suddenly slap her hand away when she reaches out to try and pat his ass with a bubbling burst of drunken laughter, wobbling against him.

It’s bitterly frosty and black out in the parking lot, and Jim and Pam cut a (swaying, wavy) line to his car while the muffled pulse of music carries on the night air. Jim pours her into the passenger side of his car and closes the door carefully on her, running around the front of the car to open his own door. He falls down into the seat heavily and puts his key in the ignition before he does anything else, rotating it forward a click to turn on the battery, and sets the heater going at the highest speed to fast-track the blow of hot air. “Mm,” says Pam, closing her eyes and lolling her head back on the headrest as the droning rush of the heater fills in around her. They sit in a tired, comfortable, end-of-the-night silence for a few minutes as Pam half-dozes in her seat and Jim enjoys the sensation of the warmth growing around him, filling the car before they leave for home. When he turns the heater back down to a medium setting, and the blowing air knocks back a degree, Pam blinks awake with a start and rolls her head on the headrest. “Mm,” she groans again with a tiny frown, slowly coming back to her body. “I’m too warm now,” she complains sulkily, trying to shrug out of her trench coat, and it would have been a simple manoeuvre if she hadn’t been:

1. Still preeetty drunk

2. Sitting entirely on the coat, and

3. Still tied into it with the quick little bow that Jim had worked as they’d stood next to the booth, Pam palming lovingly at his shoulders, Jim dressing her hurriedly under the gaze of their co-workers.

“You’re drunk, is what you are,” Jim tells her with a smile, watching her with some amusement as she tugs at the knot in the waistband, shakes it open (“Get this…fuckin’ thing off me”), then shimmies her whole body out of the coat, twisting and turning and panting until the coat is in her lap and her hair is tumbled halfway over her face. She flicks the hair away with a toss of her head and a puff of breath, and turns to him.

“You’re drunk,” she slurs after a delay, leaning over in her seat to point a finger into his face, where it pokes his nose. Then she collapses back into her seat with a huff, out of breath from the apparent strain of removing one item of clothing, and closes her eyes again.

Pam hears the rustle of clothing as Jim shifts his arm up to reach for his seatbelt, obviously getting ready to start the car and go. She blinks her eyes open and turns her head, swimmingly trying to find his eyes in the haze of her drunkenness. “No, don’t,” she reaches a hand out to grasp his forearm, all heavy-like, and he stares at her expectantly as she collects her thoughts, just watching her beautiful, flushed face as she tries to piece together her next words.

There’s a beat, and then she asks, “Have you ever had sex in a car?”

Wow, he blinks. Where did that non-sequitur come from?

“Beesly!” he exclaims, his mouth falling open in a breath of shocked laughter. He averts his gaze and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, but there’s a blush creeping into his cheeks that Pam suspects isn’t completely born of embarrassment. When he returns his eyes to hers, there’s so many emotions flickering over it – amusement, desire, hesitation, a tiny touch of shame and guilt – that it makes her dizzy.

“Roy tried to take me parking once in high school, up at the lookout by the water tower?” Pam’s staring at him with big moon eyes, laughter playing on her lips, while Jim tries to tamp down the usual feeling of jealousy that comes with any mention of Roy, and concentrate on the (his) gorgeous woman sitting next to him. “He went to lay the seat back but,” a pause to giggle, “he jammed his thumb under the lever and,” another pause, a stifled laugh, “I totally had to take him to the hospital!” She pitches hilariously up in tone as she finishes the sentence, fighting through her laughter to get it out, then dissolves into breathless giggles, which slowly peter out as she comes to stare at him with a little, mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Don’t take me home yet…” she stays on him, reaching out to rub the back of his hand sensually, where it rests in his lap, with her thumb. “I wanna talk some more.”

“You sure it’s talking you’re interested in?” Jim asks in a dubious tone, arching one eyebrow at her. He can see in his peripheral vision Pam’s other hand has begun to slowly rub up and down her own thigh absent-mindedly, and he’s almost certain she doesn’t realise she’s doing it. “Cause I’m getting kind of a different vibe from you, here.”

She rolls her head toward him with a big grin, invading his personal space for a moment. She pauses for dramatic effect, then busts out with, “Got me!” falling back into her seat with a giggle. She’s still clutching onto his hand, and against his it feels burning hot, her skin so soft. He gives a little shake of his head and tries to ease her hand back into her own lap, telling her quietly, “You’re drunk.”

“So what?” she bristles, rejecting his attempt to shake her hand from his own, and doubling down, clutching onto it and pulling it further into her lap.

“So,” Jim cuts himself off with a small note of frustration, then tries to gentle his tone, “so I don’t think you’re in the right frame of mind to be…calling the shots.”

“Jim, you had your head between my thighs for like an hour last night,” she reasons exasperatedly with her eyebrows raised and a stern look on her face, though the effect is ruined by the little hiccup that pops out of her mouth at the end of her sentence. “Just because I’m drunk – which I’m totally not, by the way – doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want.” She tugs his hand between her warm thighs, squeezing them tight around his wrist with a soft little, “mm,” to trap him. “And what I want is for you to touch me, because I’m feeling really good right now.”

His arguments are crumbling away by the second as she pushes her heat against his still-motionless hand, urging him to help her, touch her. “Please, baby,” she sweettalks him, giving him the look from underneath her eyelashes, and he knows full well she’s turning on all the tricks to manipulate him, but he finds all of a sudden that he doesn’t really care. He’s always fancied himself a gentleman, never wanting to take advantage of a woman when she’s incapacitated, but when he thinks about it, Pam’s not exactly wrong. She’s demonstrated to him time and time again over the course of their relationship that she wants him always, rain, hail or shine, first thing in the morning or last thing at night, and he feels the same. If he could live between her thighs, with her gentle hands stroking through his hair, he’d be a happy man for the rest of his days.

He resigns to his decision – rather, her decision that she’s made for him – and lets out a measured breath, turning slowly to fully look at her. A slow, coquettish grin spreads across her face as she takes in his expression, and she tilts her head back against the headrest again, closing her eyes and insistently pressing his hand lower, pressing it harder. “Mm,” she sighs again, “Thank you, baby.”

“How far do you want to take this?” he murmurs, slipping his left hand out from between her thighs and splaying it on her headrest to support his weight as he leans in to her, replacing it with his right and beginning to work her slowly, leisurely, at a better angle, enjoying the way her mouth parts open on a little gasp of pleasure. He can smell the alcohol on her breath, but she’s happy, and she wants this, and he does too, so he just goes with it.

“I don’t know,” she says thickly, not really there, lost in the movements of his fingers where they’re massaging her. She’s rubbing her hand up and down the cotton of his shirtsleeve distractedly where it covers his forearm, enjoying the sensory pleasures of his warm skin so close to hers, while the heater continues to pump all around them. The windows are like black ice, pitch dark and fogged in the end recesses of the parking lot, and it’s like they’re all alone in a hidden world. “I just want you to keep touching me…”

“I can do that,” Jim whispers against her lips as he closes the distance between them, angling his head against hers so that he can lick into her parted mouth. Their kiss is slow, uncoordinated and a little breathless on her part, but it bothers neither of them, and Jim uses her distraction to draw his hand away briefly and smooth it down Pam’s thighs to find the hem of her skirt. He grasps it and flips the material up against her midsection to give him more access to her. It’s erotic, to have her sitting exposed and aroused in his passenger seat, skirt bunched up around her waist, moaning against him, while he sneaks his hand underneath her pantyhose and panties and sinks it against the bare heat of her. She makes a broken, gasping sound and spreads her knees apart, allowing him to extend his long fingers down the silken crease of her pussy. He tries to work a finger into her but the angle is all wrong, and his hand is constricted by the tight clutch of her pantyhose, and Pam grows more vocally frustrated against him until she pushes him away with a hand on his chest, panting and petulant. “What are you doing?” she huffs with a pout, looking up at him with the most adorable, putout expression, like she’s waiting for him to solve all of her problems. “These…pantyhose!” he cries in explanation, withdrawing his hand with some difficulty and gesturing to them in exasperation. “Can you take them off?”

She grunts in affirmation, apparently satisfied by his explanation, and toes her shoes off in the footwell, huffing and puffing as she wriggles around in the seat. Jim sits back, wrist cramping, to watch her. It’s halfway between cute and sexy, the way she presses her shoulders into the seatback and lifts her hips to tug the combination of her pantyhose and panties down her legs, then doubles over in her seat to smooth them down her calves. The illusion is ruined when she gets them caught around her ankles, and the curls tumbling in her face block her view, and she has to scissor her feet in irritation with a few curse words before she’s finally able to kick them off. Pam sits back in her seat with a victorious, triumphant grin, all flushed again.

When she looks across at Jim, ready to share her success, his head is down in business-like concentration and he’s unbuttoning his shirt cuffs, rolling his sleeves patiently and methodically up to his elbows. The sight sends a sharp bolt of desire rocketing through her loins, and she can’t help the small moan, “oh,” that slips out of her. He looks over to her at the noise and his eyes are dark, his jaw set. “That’s better,” he says quietly, giving Pam a lewd once over, naked from the waist down, legs spread apart on the seat, a kind of stunned look on her pink face. “Climb over here,” he demands darkly, patting his knee, and her heart is positively pounding as she sits up and manoeuvres her way over onto him, all loose limbs and grunting breaths, gripping the headrest for leverage and support as he grabs her hips and tries to help her. Finally, she settles wobbly and half-unbalanced with her bare bottom against his thighs, her head spinning from the sudden movement and change in position.

“Mm, wait a second,” she murmurs, eyes fluttering closed, hands pressing against his chest as she fights that internal feeling, “’m dizzy.” He watches her silently, smoothing his hands down her skin and the milky outside of her thighs, which bracket him in his seat, her knees squeezed between the car door and the belt buckle. It’s comforting and sensual, and she comes back to herself in only a moment or two, opening her eyes to find his. She feels a touch less drunk and more like she’s whirling down an eddy into a place that’s thick, warm, muffled, her skin humming against his touch. “You good?” Jim asks her with an underlying note of concern. She leans her forehead against his, blinking heavily, and sighs a long sound, “mhmmm,” into his tender face. “All better,” she breathes on a giggle, and then wriggles her bottom against the smooth fabric of his slacks, feeling her motor start up again, the wheels begin to turn again. Jim senses it too, because he nudges his nose against hers to tilt her chin up, and dips his head to lay slow kisses against her neck, drawing her back into the mood that had half-slipped away during the transition from her seat to his. His fingertips are trailing tickling, electric paths up and down the skin of her bare thighs, feather-light.

Pam tosses her hair lightly over her shoulder and tries not to lose her balance on his lap, leaning her weight into Jim heavily as she gives into the pleasurable sensation with a moan. “I love your mouth,” she sighs absently, reaching with both hands to clutch his head to her, turning it this way and that as he sucks gentle marks against her neck. The words spill out of her mouth without thought as she sinks into the bodily pleasure of his mouth on her, and while Jim is distracting her with his tender lips against her neck, his fingers are working methodically and patiently at the buttons of her blouse. She doesn’t even realise what he’s been doing until he slips his tented hands inside her blouse to spread the two sides apart, all the buttons from collar to hem undone, smooths his palms along the undersides of her delicate lace bra, and tugs the soft cups down underneath the swell of her breasts to fully expose her.

Pam tilts her head back on a gasp when he tweaks both of her bare nipples between his thumb and forefinger, and then sets to playing with her, tugging the stiff peaks, rolling the pads of his thumbs against her in circles, his tongue flicking teasingly in the sensitive join of her neck and shoulder. Pam reaches blindly down with both hands and finds one of his, and smooths her hands delicately against the sparse hair that covers the back of his, dragging it up to her face. He obediently lets her. Pam’s two thumbs on either side of his large hand flex it open as he continues to kiss and suck at her neck, and she lays breathy kisses against his open palm, nuzzling her face into it.

When Jim nips at that delicate junction with blunt teeth and pinches her nipple in a tandem move that has her seeing stars, she moans and tugs his hand down a little, drawing his index finger into her mouth, a hot, wet, tight tunnel. She swirls her tongue around the tip, then sinks her mouth down around the entirety of his finger, drawing up with a tight pull. Jim leans back to watch her, the obscenity of her desire roiling in his belly, and a panting breath slips from his lips when she massages her thumb up the length of his middle finger to straighten it, then sucks that into her mouth as well. Her tongue working smoothly between his two fingers is slippery, warm and muscular, and she blinks heavily and flicks her eyes down to watch his avid face, slowly slipping them from her mouth with a slick sound.

“Your fingers are so long, baby,” she pants in a thick voice, grinding herself slowly in his lap. “Oh, that’s what I want,” she groans, like the thought has only just occurred to her.

“My fingers inside you?” he confirms in a low voice, his stomach flip-flopping at the thought of sinking his digits into her silken heat. In Jim’s eyes, there is nothing more beautiful, nothing that gives him more satisfaction and pleasure, than bringing Pam to the brink of ecstasy, of building her up and up and up just to send her tumbling down in pieces around him. The feeling is primal and masculine, and only emphasised by the long wait that they had both endured to get to the point they are now, but he suspects deep down that his satisfaction is born of her joy, her happiness, the way she loves to be with him, delights in and thrives on being with him.

“Oh yeah,” Pam breathes.

He doesn’t even miss a beat. “Get them nice and wet for me, then,” Jim murmurs, gaze flicking between her sultry eyes and her shining mouth, and pushes his fingers obscenely between her lips again. She draws them in with a lascivious moan, clutching at his ring and pinky finger to keep his hand close to her face, sinking down to his knuckles again before pulling slowly up. She tries to keep his gaze but her eyelids flutter closed as she laves his fingers with her tongue, rolling her hips against him, breathing hard through her nose. Their lovemaking has been many things over the months-long course of their relationship so far – fast, rough, slow, passionate, stolen moments in time, pockets of love – and sometimes the tenderness almost chokes Jim when he thinks of them together, when he sits with the thought that Pam is his, finally, forever, and he doesn’t need to hide his celebration of her. That she might want to celebrate him just the same, well, he can think of no greater gift. To have her in his lap, half-naked and mostly drunk, getting so much pleasure from merely sucking his fingers into her warm mouth while he plays with her nipple is incredible, and will always be incredible, as will every manifestation of her love.

Jim withdraws his fingers from her wet mouth and she lets go of his hand, a thin line of saliva connecting him to her beautifully-parted lips, and Pam blinks open hooded eyes to stare down at him darkly, breathing hard as she takes in the adoring, determined look in his eyes. “Sit up,” he encourages her thickly, hand falling away from her breast and behind her to pat and then squeeze her bare bottom, and she raises up on her knees, dropping her hands to his shoulders to support herself, realising with a start that her breasts are pushing into his face, that he’s ducking his head, closing his eyes with an eager expression of pure lust.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” she purrs, lifting her restless hands again from his shoulders to sink into his hair, and she strokes her fingers through the soft waves lovingly as his tongue rolls over a nipple, “oh, suck me.” The liquor has loosened her tongue tonight, and given her the confidence to let her inhibitions go somewhat, something Jim has been gently and kindly encouraging her to do in the safety of their bedroom. He had told her on that first night, only weeks ago, though it feels like forever, that he would take anything she could give him, and delight in it, so tonight, she does. She can be embarrassed in the morning, if she remembers any of this tomorrow.

He’s sucking tight against her nipple, pressing it roughly into the ridged roof of his mouth with quiet grunts that make her belly tense and tighten hotly, and his hand disappears from view, her hips humping forward in anticipation. There is really no preamble, he just curves his fingers below her mons and along the wet folds of her slit, working his fingertips in amongst her to find her opening, and pushes smoothly up into her in one steady thrust. Pam’s arms wrap around the back of his head with a moan and hold him to her breast as he begins to pull out, push in, building up the pace and force and soon she’s lost again, head feeling heavy where it’s tipped back, mouth open, breasts rising and falling against his face, swimming in the dark sea of her pleasure as the world tilts all around her.

Her pussy is tight and clutching at his fingers as he sinks them in and out of her, flexing at her upper wall with strong, rhythmical pulls that have her groaning and gasping like she’s in pain. He comes up for air, her tender nipple popping out of his mouth with a wet and obscene pop, and she wastes no time at all in tilting his head up to hers with the hands gripped in his hair, seeking out his mouth urgently, needing to be kissing him, feeling him all over, in her, on her. Pam lets herself sink a little on his lap, melting into his hot, attentive touch. Their foreheads pressed together, she wriggles her body against him where she can feel the insistence of his hard cock, still trapped in his pants, and undulates against his thrusting fingers as a string of helpless moans fall from her lips, growing louder, louder. “Do it, Pam, come on,” Jim pants, pulling away to stare into her face with a hungry expression, “ride my hand.”

The creep of a hot fog is climbing into the corners of the car windows, filling the windscreen from bottom to top like a rising flood, as she works her body against him desperately, rising and falling in his lap faster now, her lips parted in pleasure and concentration. There’s a sheen of sweat glistening between her bared breasts, a pink flush crawling up her neck. “That’s it, baby,” he urges, knowing how much it turns her on to hear him talking dirty to her, to hear his dark encouragement and affirmations, “god, give it to me.” He clutches at her ass with his free hand, his fingers pressing tightly into the pliant flesh of her cheek, as he holds her tightly against his rough, insistent hand, where he’s rubbing up into her so forcefully his breath is faltering and stuttering on each inhale and exhale. She lets her head tilt forward, her body feeling heavy, exhausting herself on his fingers, whining in an increasing pitch, nearly there, nearly there. They don’t kiss but their lips brush and bump together like whispers as she pants rhythmic, trembling breaths into his mouth in hot bursts, broken little whimpers. Her chin quivers, her eyebrows tent, and each exhale is a moan, dragging out of her as she spins out of control.

Her hands fall to his shoulders, squeezing the muscles there in a delirious clenching and unclenching grip. She’s whimpering, alternating between pressing her lips tightly together and crying out. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” she grunts desperately through gritted teeth, eyes squeezed shut with her head thrown back as she grinds down spasmodically on his wildly pumping fingers, “I’m gonna come, Jim,” and gasps a strangled noise, “unh –!“ He hooks his fingers against the spongy upper wall of her pussy and grunts as he drives home to the broken sound of her high-pitched, surprised cry, like a gunshot in the night. She hasn’t come like this before, from just the insistent pumping of his fingers inside her and no other stimulation, and she climbs higher and higher as if in disbelief, reaching the ecstatic point, tumbling, tumbling.

A number of things happen in the span of a few seconds as Pam comes, panting and surging and gripping roughly at the strong muscle of his shoulders, one bouncing under her hand as he fingers coarsely, harshly, into her. Jim feels one, two clenching spasms from within her walls as she clamps down and chokes his fingers, and she rapidly drops right down in his lap with a cry and then raises right back up on shaking knees like an undulation, like her body doesn’t know what to do, hips jerking forward and back. In the next breath, she bows her body away from him with an almost-pained sob, writhing, and a burst of warm fluid gushes out of her and over his palm, down the inside of his wrist to the sound of her harsh, rapid breathing. Immediately her hand shoots down to blindly grip at his forearm and she roughly pushes him away from her, his fingers slipping out on the tail end of a powerful muscle contraction, and she clutches her own hand between her legs instead, riding the intensity of the crashing wave, trembling violently against him as she whimpers and moans.

He watches it all, feeling stunned and burningly aroused by the strength of her orgasm, by the twisting ecstasy on her face, by this new…development that is soaking wetly into his crotch and his shirt just over his bellybutton, sticking it to his skin. Jim has never seen her come like that before, almost in pain, and she’s certainly never gushed out like that. Pam is panting like she just ran a marathon and her whole body has come to rest slumped onto him, her forehead rolling against his shoulder, her breath hot in Jim’s ear. She’s boneless and utterly spent, her blouse sticking with sweat at the small of her back, drawing in deep, uneven breaths. Jim gives her a moment, then lifts her head with a finger under her chin and smooths the hair back from her glistening forehead, cupping her rosy cheek tenderly. Pam’s eyes open hazily to meet his and his aching cock twitches in his trousers at the sated, half-confused look within them, her pupils blown wide in the darkness of the parking lot and the shadows of the car. “What…?” she asks dazedly, not able to finish her sentence, and he has to support the weight of her head in his hand when her eyes fall closed and she leans forward again into his body with a moaned sigh, arms sliding around the back of his neck to hang there limply, her bare breasts pressing into his chest.

Tucking her head tenderly under his chin to keep her in place, Jim reaches down to his belt buckle and damp fly, unfastening both with deft and practiced fingers, and pulls out his stiff cock through the slit in his boxer briefs. It’s trapped between his belly and Pam’s, and there’s not much room to work with, but he’s so close already that he knows it won’t take him long at all to come, the pressure built within his groin almost painful. He spits into his hand then fists it around his prick, and begins to jerk himself in a fast rhythm, his knuckles rubbing against the warm, smooth skin of Pam’s bare stomach, her belly trembling and quivering at the touch. The memory of her writhing and moaning is fresh and hot in his mind, her body hot and pliant against him.

Pam is slowly shifting and sighing and coming to life against him again, her hands drawing back to smooth against the sides of his shoulders and down his chest, nails scratching at the cotton of his shirt, and they come to rest finally between their bodies. She feels his hand bumping rhythmically against hers where he’s masturbating, and though she’s operating by touch alone, too exhausted and drained to open her eyes, the thought of what he’s doing makes her breathless, and she wants to help him. She reaches her hand between her thighs and works at herself for a moment, whimpering through the ache and sensitivity, shifting her chin to press lazy kisses against his neck. Though she can’t see it, Jim can, and the sight of her fingers coming away wet and glistening makes his stomach flip over.

Pam knocks his hand away from himself and replaces it with her own, wrapping her fingers around the thickness of him and coating him in her slippery fluid. She peels herself away from his body limply and sits back on his thighs, supporting herself with one hand fisted in his shirt, just below his collar. Her other hand starts to jerk him loosely, but the pressure’s not there, not enough, so he folds his hand over hers and guides her hand in a firm, fast rhythm. She’s exquisite, a goddess sent from heaven, sitting in his lap, pulling at his cock with her head lolling drowsily. He grips the back of her neck and pulls her down to his mouth for a breathless kiss, grunting against her lips.

Pam slides forward on his thighs and raises herself up slightly on shaking legs. His breath is stuttering into her in the same rhythm as their tugging hands and he finds himself unable to speak, feeling the hot surge rising already within him, the tightening sensation in his balls, he’s so close, so close. “Come in me,” Pam moans weakly as she jerks his prick, pressing his meaty head against the slick hole he had fingered open just minutes earlier. “I want to feel it.”

He closes his eyes and gives himself into the toe-curling sensation, her hot hand around him, her wet centre pressing down onto the head of his cock, and opens his mouth with a cry against her lips, pushing up into her grip and shooting thick ropes of come into and against her pussy. It seems to go on forever, the pulsing of his prick satisfying him deeply down to his bones, until Jim is shuddering in his skin and drained dry. Pam rubs the head of his softening cock up and down through her slit, dripping wet and sticky with him, as he comes down slowly. He melts against his seat as the world starts to come into focus again, Pam’s warm, naked weight pressing on top of his thighs, her hand now loose around his penis where he’s let go of it with his own, releasing the tight pressure.

Jim inhales and lets out a long, satisfied breath. He struggles to open his eyes, lulled into a drowsy state by the heater that he realises is still pumping around them, and the satisfied, hazy afterglow of an incredible orgasm, his girlfriend functionally naked – her open blouse is falling off one shoulder, breasts still swelling out over the pulled-down cups of her bra – and similarly spent in his lap.  She looks half-conscious, head rolling on her shoulders, body limp and slumped as the liquor catches up to her.

Over the noise of the heater, Jim hears a gurgling noise bubble its way up Pam’s throat. Her breasts surge forward. “Oh no,” he hears her moan lowly, and then she’s twisting her nude body on his lap to clutch desperately for the doorhandle, her other hand still fisted in his shirt. He can only watch as she pulls urgently at the handle, face paling, and hinges the door open – the sudden influx of cold air from outside is incredible and refreshing – just in time to extend her head out over the car’s edge and vomit onto the asphalt with a wet splash. Outside the night is black, and the distant, muffled thump of music carries on the still air. The contraction of Pam's rippling muscles as she retches expels a thick string of his come out of her, where it pools wetly on his thigh, unpleasantly cool.

“Well, that’s flattering,” Jim deadpans, and closes his eyes again.

--

The Saturday morning sun angling in through Pam’s bedroom window is bright and harsh, and a singular ray warms a thick stripe over the side of her face where it peeks in through the drawn curtains. She cracks one eye open and immediately closes it again, moaning at the sharp pulse that cuts through her aching head. She manages, after a brief and painful struggle, to open her eyes again. Her bedroom swims into focus. She’s stretched out on her belly right at the edge of the bed, and in her peripheral vision, right below her head, she can see a red bucket placed on the floor by the side of the bedframe. She flops her arm down to touch the rim of it, comforted by its presence as her stomach roils and turns, even if she’s unsure whether or not she will have to use it.

As she lays there in the morning silence, her comforter tucked up around her ears, the night slowly returns to her in flashes of broken fragments. Seemingly bottomless Long Island Iced Teas. Her twisted trench coat. Jim’s mouth around her nipple. Their twined hands, pumping his cock. 

There are muffled footsteps outside her bedroom door, then it slowly swings open and Jim pokes his head in, checking on her. “Morning, sleeping beauty,” he says quietly, teasingly, when he finds her awake, and she groans and flops over onto her back with a huff of breath, immediately regretting the sudden movement as her brain sloshes about heavily in her skull, making her stomach turn. “Don’t talk to me,” she rasps, pressing her palms against her eyes. “You let me drink too much.”

Jim sets a tall glass of water and an aspirin on her bedside table. “You let you drink too much, thank you very much. I tried to stop you, like the kind and responsible boyfriend I am,” he corrects affably, sitting down on one corner of the bed and settling a hand onto her foot lovingly, over the blankets, staring down at her fondly.

When she pulls her hands away from her eyes and squints at the glass next to her, where she hears him put it down, a sudden memory swims into the forefront of her mind, and she slowly turns dubious eyes onto Jim.

“Did I pee on you?” she croaks.

A pleased, satisfied smile just stretches slowly over his face, like the cat who got the cream. “Beesly, I don’t know what that was,” he tells her, quirking his eyebrow good-naturedly, thinking of the stain of her fluid, of his come, on the pants that he’d shucked off in the bathroom in the early hours of that morning, on his way to collapse into bed with her, “but you do owe me a new pair of pants.”

She groans, and buries her head under the covers.