I park and see a bit off to the left a couple of rows in front a car I know. It belongs to the Wilsons. Mr Wilson is at the wheel. His wife must be inside the supermarket. I can see Mr Wilson but he can't see me. He's watching a group of young women chatting beside another car. He's also masturbating. Of course I can't see that because he sitting but I can tell from the way his right arm is moving that he's masturbating. Dirty old bastard. If those girls knew. If his wife knew. Mr Wilson the wanker. Society needs to do something about men like him, pretending to be so respectable and then masturbating in cars while ogling women. Although he's in a public place, he is so caught up in enjoying his wank he has no idea what's going on around him. I see the arm move faster and faster and then stop while his head sinks back against the headrest. He's cum. I don't believe it. He's actually cummed. The way he starts to move and look down at his lap I can tell he's mopping himself clean. You know, this would be the moment to run up to knock on the car window and innocently say hi Mr Wilson while he's getting rid of his cum. He'd be aghast, caught in the act with his little cock all shrunk like a wrinkled slug now. But I don't dare. What I'll do instead is write a little letter, unsigned of course, that says dear Mrs Wilson, do you know that at 3.30 on Saturday afternoon, your pathetic wanker husband was.... That'll pay him back. And I do it.

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