The Blue Dress, pt. III

You're good together, there's no denying that. You find yourself thinking about her when she's not with you, wondering what she's doing, and when you'll see her next, so you can find out more about what she does when she's away from you. She's become the kind of woman who can be found smiling to herself throughout her day, recalling the things you've said and done together. A weekend away seems the next logical step.

She fascinates you. She is, by turns, empathetic, sweet, funny, and clever. She delights you with her thoughts on the world, politics, love, food and life. And her capacity for pleasure leaves you breathless - in bed, she behaves like a woman who knows that life can leave you without an expression for desire, and so enjoys every moment of erotic sensuality completely without reserve. She has never said no to anything you've suggested, and has acted so as to provide you with your fantasies made flesh. She is willing and enthusiastic. The woman is a sex kitten - she's the girl who will give you a blow job when you get home from work, just because it's fun. She is unashamed in her sexuality. She is fresh, and beautiful, and leads you when you're unsure, taking you to new and intensely pleasurable highs. The idea of an entire weekend away from the minutiae of ironing work shirts for the coming week is erotically charged. You've found yourself squeezing your aching cock surreptitiously throughout the week when you imagine the weekend to cum...

You'd arranged to leave at lunchtime on the Friday, beating the peak, but she is her usual shipwreck self, arriving late, and still needing to sort 'one tiny thing' before you can leave. Your innate sense of punctuality is offended, but she is so vibrant in her chaotic organisation that you can't help but laugh and relax. 2pm was always going to come, whether you were well underway, or just heading out. You can't argue with her cheerfully presented logic. But you do manage to get the two of you, with luggage, into the car, paperwork for the hotel in hand, and the radio tuned to her satisfaction. Even the traffic, gridlocked as Sydney demands, is no problem. You talk, and touch, and tease - she 'accidentally' flashes her knickers at you while looking for something in the backseat, her skirt sliding up her legs, you 'unintentionally' graze her nipples while adjusting the wing mirror on her side of the car. She may have run late, but for magnificent reasons - she has packed snacks and drinks to make up for your missed lunches, and you have a picnic in the stop-start traffic, pressing treats into each other's mouths, licking fingers...

It is hot in the car, and after finishing lunch, she begins to doze in the soporific warmth. You do not have the heart to wake her, but listen to the radio and wait for the traffic to start behaving itself. Typically for Sydney, you're on the outskirts before you can even consider the speed limit. She sleeps sweetly. Things clear up when you leave the highway to cut thru the National Park, and out to the coast. You're moving along now, but still, what should've been a two hour trip door to door will be almost doubled, with another 90 mins of driving ahead of you. Oh well. You have a beautiful woman in the car, and a sweet long weekend ahead of you. You can deal with it ;)

She wakes in another half hour, gasping and suddenly conscious. This is unusual - she is a woman who loves her sleep, and spends Saturday mornings coming to consciousness slowly, accustoming herself to her own wakefulness. Still, the front seat of a car isn't the most relaxed place to rest, as she seems to be finding out, shifting in her seat and crossing and re-crossing her legs. She's in that vaguely dopey state that daytime sleep encourages, looking around slowly, and attempting to catch up with the day.

'Where are we?'

'National Park, babe,' you reply, stroking her leg as you're unable to take your eyes off the road.

'How long are we going to be?' She asks, re-crossing her legs once more.

'About another hour, I guess - the Sydney traffic was pretty exceptional today.'

'Oh, okay.' She is silent, and returns to staring out the window.

Over the next 25 minutes, she becomes more and more restive. The leg-crossing is alternated with her bouncing her legs up and down, and pressing her thighs tightly together. Soon, she is fiddling with the seatbelt, trying to sit it somewhere other than her obviously aching midriff. When she tries to slide a hand between her thighs discreetly, her discomfort becomes so apparent, you wonder how long she'll be able to wait before asking the inevitable.

The further 10 minutes she waits passes in silence, leaving you to wonder why a woman who's prepared to engage in anal sex on a first date (even though the way you tell the story it was your second) is too shy to mention this. Not that you're complaining - for some reason, you're finding the whole situation arousing. Perhaps it's the continuous leg-crossing that has pulled her skirt up, or the fact that's she holding herself, or just the continuous wiggling, so reminiscent of her movements in bed, but somehow inexplicably, she is sexy in her need.

'Babes, can we take a break?' She asks suddenly, attempting to be still as she talks to you.

'We're in the National Park, baby - there's no place really to have a break.' You don't know where this badness came from, this desire to tease her a little bit. It has the desired effect.

She bites her lip, resumes squirming in her seat. 'I don't really care,' she replies quietly, 'I need the bathroom pretty badly.'

'We'll rejoin the highway in about 20 minutes, baby. Can you wait?' Her writhing increases, pulling her skirt higher, with both hands now between her thighs. Inexplicably sexy.

'No,' she finally replies. She is shy in her assertion. 'Can you find me somewhere quiet to pull over?'

You do as she asks, finding an overgrown track leading to a small stopping bay abut 20 metres back from the road in the next couple of minutes. Since asking you to stop, she's no longer trying to hide her desperation, and openly has her hands under her skirt, holding and squeezing herself. You feel yourself growing hard, vaguely disturbed that you find the sight of her struggling so arousing.

But, it becomes clear, her squeezing was more than a relief from the pressing need. No sooner have you stopped the car, pulling it out of sight of the road, than she is moving your seat back, and pulling her knickers aside to straddle your lap. She is tighter than you've ever experienced, and wet with arousal. You sense this won't be a long session, but set about fully enjoying it while it lasts. Gently cupping her arse, you note her thighs are trembling with the strain. She's moving up and down on your lap, moaning, 'Ah ah ah!' Her vice-like tightness, the sneaky, dirty arousal you experienced while driving, the obvious tension in her body - you're turned on enough by the kinkiness of the situation you find yourself racing to an orgasm. The sensation of you cumming inside her is the final straw for her, she's throwing her head back, and contracting around you - you find yourself whimpering at the sensation - before quickly sliding off you, and opening the door. She doesn't bother to close it, but just steps out of view. You hear her skirt slide up her legs, then she's squatting down, her sigh of relief not drowning up the noise of her obviously intensely pleasurable wee. After a minute or so, she stands back up, pulling her knickers and skirt back into place. Returning to the car, she leans over to kiss your cheek, murmuring, 'Thank you for that, I feel a million times better,' before sharing her general sense of good feeling by cleaning you up with her tongue.