With about a hundred miles left to cover, she hitched up her skirt to around her waist and sunk a hand between her legs. I focussed on the road, aware only peripherally of the steady movement of her wrist, the slight writhe of her body as she wriggled back in her seat.
“Does this count as entertaining me while I drive?” I said lightly.
Her voice was breathy, tight. “I’m getting myself warmed up for you. I want to really want it when we get home. Be really wet.”
“Cute,” I said. Still not looking. “You could make yourself come twenty times before we get back.” This was true. She was one of the most easily orgasmic women I had ever known at that stage in my life – able to make herself come within the space of minutes, no matter what her mood.
“I won’t.” Her hand was still at work between her legs. She always wanked with a sort of up-and-down motion, her fingers sliding along the whole length of the slit of her cunt. “I’ll wait for you. I want to wait for you.”
“You’ll be waiting a while. Ninety-eight miles to be precise.”
“That’s okay. I’m patient.”
“Hah.” We had spent much of the weekend driving, threading our way from Land’s End to John O’ Groats and back again. She didn’t drive, and so she’d made herself useful in other ways – talking, navigating, or reading out loud to me from the paperback copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy we had shared over the weekend. Several times she had, somewhat tentatively, offered to go down on me while I drove. I had declined; not because she wasn’t good with her mouth, but because I have a general dislike for having my cock bitten off in fatal road accidents.
It only took about five miles for her to reach a peak. Even without looking in her direction I could sense it. She leaned forward in her seat, the hand between her thighs moving faster and faster. The faint rustle of her clothing just audible over the noise of the engine. She gasped, bent forward, bit her lip. Then leaned back again, her breathing slowing, her hand motionless. Regaining the control she’d almost lost. After a few moments she awkwardly hitched up her skirt, slid her underwear down her legs and wrangled it over her shoes. She stuffed it into the door pocket, then lay back, shut her eyes and breathed.
“Eighty-eight miles to go,” I said blithely.
“That’s okay,” she said. “I can wait.”
And she did, for a minute or two, before putting her hand back between her legs and resuming her steady rhythm. Again she peaked after a few minutes, but stopped short of letting herself come. She gripped the edges of her seat, clenched her fingers, gritted her teeth. Waited, studiously not touching herself, as though letting her cunt cool off. Then, once her climax had receded, she would begin masturbating again just as intently as before.
For the most part I ignored her. The road rolled by. The sun dropped down behind the horizon and I flicked on the lights. Eighty miles to go. Then seventy-five. In between bouts of masturbation she would read to me, or check that we were still following the fastest route… but she would return to stroking herself soon enough, fingers at work in a wetness so thick I could practically hear it.
Although I didn’t give any outward sign of it, I wanted to fuck her. I had felt it – a sharp spike of arousal – when she had first, unbidden, started masturbating. Slight, but significant. And now, enclosed in the tiny space of the car with her, I was sunken in the scents of her fluids, in the soft murmurs and moans of her arousal. Seventy miles to go. Then sixty-five. The peripheral nature of it was maddening. That she was there, but isolated from me. Untouchable. Ready and all but begging for me, and yet there was still almost an hour until I’d have her.
It was full dark now, and we were driving down a rural road somewhere deep in the Norfolk countryside. I took an exit and trundled down a tiny side road for a half mile or so, before pulling over in a layby. I killed the engine. Not a sound. No other car for miles.
She opened her eyes. They had been shut as she pressed herself back into her seat, hips rolling as she pleasured herself. She sat still, motionless, fingers on her cunt. “We’ve stopped,” she said, quietly.
“Get out of the car,” I said.
“Out.” I undid her seatbelt for her and pushed her gently but firmly towards her door. She went, her skirt falling back into place as she stood. I went out of my side, and the night beyond the car was softly quiet. Trees folded overhead like a roof, blocking out the stars. It was darker than dark without the headlights. She was a shadow.
I was hard already, and as I moved around to her side of the car I freed myself from my jeans. By the time I got to her she had figured out what was happening, and she turned to face the side of the car and bent forwards a little. I hitched her skirt up again, bunching the hem of it and forcing it into her mouth for her to bite. She did. Her ass and legs were dimly pale in the dark. I reached down between them and felt her wetness there, slick and almost dripping.
I was inside her in a couple of seconds. It was a brief, breathy, rough fuck. Her hands against the roof of the car squeaked faintly, and she moaned around the handful of her own skirt in her mouth. Wet enough that I could slip in easily. I wrapped my arms around her and pressed her against the car, bucking into her hard and steady. She came before I did. Once. Maybe twice. I felt her insides clutching me. Wetness coating and dripping down my cock.
With a shudder, I came inside her. We stayed for a few minutes like that, her body pinned between the car and me. Then I pulled out and, without a word, returned to my side. I climbed in. So, a little unsteadily, did she. I fastened my seatbelt, started the engine, flicked the lights. Turned the little car around and set off back towards the main road. There were sixty miles still to go between us and home.
This is a true story from a couple of years ago. If you enjoyed it and want to read more about my sex life, consider picking up a copy of this book, which features over a hundred pages of filthy, philosophical, 100% true smut.