On the Road

I’m driving us back from an out-of-state conference; she’s dressed up a bit from the conference, wearing a dress rather than the usual jeans.  I had a tie on earlier, but that’s in the back seat now, with the jacket.  She’s tired, somewhat morose because she’s tired and it all starts to seem pointless when she’s tired.  She won’t talk, doesn’t like any of the music I pick, and the radio goes to silence.  We say a couple of things that don’t matter, and then fall into silence ourselves.  She leans back, turns her head to the window to watch the sunset, and I think she’s falling asleep.

I get lonesome; I rest my hand on her knee for company, and we drive on.  Something sly and wayward comes over me as I quietly touch, enjoying the softness of the skin that I love, barely touching her knee.  She must be asleep; I take liberties with my right hand as I drive.  Touching the skin inside her knee, brushing along the hem of her dress, resting my hand higher on her thigh.  She doesn’t make a sound but now I know she can’t be sleeping, so she doesn’t mind.

I knead the skin of her thigh gently enough to give her plausible deniability; to give both of us deniability because we’re going to the slightly seamy place where we can do bad things.  We maintain the fiction that nothing much is happening.

I like the feel of the fabric moving between my fingertips and her thigh, the soft brushing that must bring pleasure to her skin.  I move to the right lane and set the cruise control just under the speed limit.  There aren’t many cars on the road, and the speeders are welcome to pass me.  I stroke her softly for a couple of miles, a couple of minutes, and she still doesn’t move or make a sound.

As I finger the hem, pulling the edge up a little, just a little, touching her there and inside her thigh, I begin to hear her breath deepen.  I only take my eyes off the road for the occasional glance at her leg, exposed now.  My fingers move to the soft cloth, the soft mound, and touch the cleft, barely discernible to my fingers.  I touch her there, moving along the crack, pressing in where it deepens and soaks the fabric.  I cup her pussy firmly and squeeze her, rubbing against her clit.  Her legs move apart slightly, and she still doesn’t make a sound.

An eighteen wheeler passes us slowly, and I know she hears it.  My hand goes inside her panties, she spreads her legs farther, her pussy is wet, her clit is up and erect, her skirt is pulled up so that the truck driver passing us could easily see what we’re doing, if he looked.  I’m watching the road; she’s looking off to the right; we don’t know for sure if anyone is seeing anything, but I know she wants to be seen like this by a stranger.  Better not to know for sure.

Jesus, she’s wet.  I finger the clit, circling, tweaking, rubbing.  She moves against my fingers, panting now, and then makes the sound she always makes when she comes. She cries out, rests her hand over my hand, pushes up, moving the skirt higher, exposing her pleasure, providing a show for anyone who wanted to look, thrusting and then resting back on the seat, holding my hand clutched around her, moving slowly in the aftermath.

The dusk deepens, and her face is still turned away, but I feel her smiling next to me.  “You’re crazy,” she says.

I’m crazy?