A Car Ride

3 min read

photo: SexArt

The setting sun shafts down through the window across your bare lap, making the fine blonde-white hairs on your thighs glow against bronze skin. I can’t help but to steal furtive glances at this tableau: your skirt hiked up slightly from sitting in the cramped back seat, your golden legs slightly parted, shadows deepening between them, drawing my gaze to forbidden places. The windows are down, the evening summer wind billowing through the car.

We’re about an hour from our destination, a campsite where we’ll meet up with other friends and acquaintances for the holiday weekend. The four of us have known each other a few years now, have become something of a clique. Both boys up front clearly have crushes on you, and I’m fairly sure you’re finally returning some interest — when he poured you a second glass of wine at dinner just now, you certainly didn’t object… but then again, neither did I. In fact, we’re all glowing some from the bottle, save for our intrepid driver, naturally.

Your teeth flash white as you laugh at some joke; I laugh along, though I’ve missed the punch line, mesmerized as I am by the sight of you, cursing myself inwardly for falling for yet another straight girl. A bump in the road jolts the car — old shocks practically turning the back seat into a carnival ride — and is it just me, or can I perchance now glimpse the baby blue cotton of your underwear… before you catch me peeking.

My eyes go wide and I smile stupidly, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment before turning to look out my window, praying you haven’t figured out what I was up to, or that you’ll write it off… I’m fairly sure you’ve begun to suspect that I’m at least a little interested, despite my attempts to veil my flirtation in charm, my advances in playfulness… I figure I’m still safe when you demand your favorite song and insist I sing along at the top of my lungs as the sky deepens to twilight.

The boys launch into some discussion about the band in question and we stop following the conversation, the music and the wind together drowning out their words. I’m content, tipsy, blissful… and suddenly acutely aware of the slight brush of your pinky finger against mine, our hands just barely meeting on the middle seat. I wait — surely another bump will sever the contact. But with the next jostle your fingertips land lightly on the back of my hand… and begin slowly to trace the lines between my fingers. I risk a glance in your direction and note your smirk in the dim light. You stare straight ahead, and is that mischief or oncoming headlights glinting in your eyes?

You take my hand in yours and guide it, slowly, discreetly, to your bare thigh. Your skin is hot and soft under my palm, which, thanks to the gusting wind, is mercifully dry. I shift my position to make our movements less obvious — for once grateful for the cramped back seat — and take deep breaths, trying (moderately successfully) to contain my astonishment… and (in vain) to moderate my excitement. With painstaking slowness I let my fingertips stroke your thigh, hovering here and caressing there, raising goosebumps on your skin. Between my legs I’m already simmering. All the while we stare ahead, or out of our respective windows, pretending nothing is happening.

After what feels like ages I reach the hem of your skirt — and feel you tense slightly. I think resignedly that I’ve reached some unspoken limit, that this was already too good to be true. I’m even more sure of this when you reach down to ruffle in your backpack; I move my hand back to the seat and begin to revel in what just happened… only to feel the silky fabric of your scarf drape over my skin, your hand beneath it pulling mine back into place, though your skirt is hiked up significantly more than before…

Thinking this must certainly be a dream, I slide my hand slowly up your warm skin as you part your legs, greedy now that our movements are somewhat concealed. My fingers find your inner, upper thigh, slightly damp with sweat; I take my time arousing you here, knowing how sensitive the area is, knowing few if any have thought to linger in this spot, to meet your urgency with patience, unhurriedly stoking your desire. You’ve gone rigid in your seat, barely able to suppress the shudders I know must be wracking your lower belly.

When at last I press my fingers into your cunt you can’t help but to quiver, your mouth parting as you choke back a gasp. You’ve soaked through your underwear — in fact you’re so wet even I’m surprised… and I cross my own legs against the burning flood that’s overtaking me. You grip my thigh under the scarf and I instantly regret wearing jeans as you press the edge of your hand between my legs.

I stroke your clit through the damp fabric, pressing rhythmically, feeling your hips swaying subtly, eagerly, into my touch. Still playing over cotton, I trace my fingers down to your lips, caress and coax them side to side, easing pressure into your slit. You stifle a moan and squirm in your seat, legs spreading wider, and though I know I need to be careful I’m desperate to give you what you’re craving. I shift your underwear to the side and plunge my fingers into that plump wet mess, feeling my own cunt throbbing as I find your clit again to circle and press and stroke, building you up quickly now, knowing you’re close… and impossibly you manage not to make a sound as you throw your head back in blazing ecstasy.

You nearly give us away bucking forward: we freeze as our driver asks whether you need more room, offering to adjust his seat. You manage to croak a no thanks, and we relax as they resume their conversation. I slowly withdraw my hand, my fingers glistening in the light of passing streetlamps. Your smile is one part bliss and three parts devious — which is when I remember that we’re sharing a tent.

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