Our next stop is for lunch, so we tidy up, change whatever clothes need changing, and go and linger for a while in a restaurant like two ordinary people who haven’t just had a wild time on the side of the road.
Engine refuelled, our stomachs filled and caffeine fix treated, we get back into the car, me driving, and hit the road again. Our mood has changed, the sexual tension has lessoned and we catch up on the little stories we normally would have told each other daily, but haven’t for the last few months. We aren’t talking about work, more about the people at work.
From there we move into memories and nostalgia. That leads us off of our road-trip CDs and onto the iPod where we choose songs that have specific memories, singing along lustily, seguing from the hardest rock to the schmaltziest ballads. It’s wonderful; relaxing and fun.
The light around us changes as magic hour settles: the setting sun anoints the already rich countryside with its golden-light blessing. It’s a perfect time of day, dreamy and soft, where you know only good things can happen.
Now you’re playing air guitar and singing along with Paul McCartney. We’re both waiting for the same moment – where he goes falsetto: you never could reach those notes, but that didn’t ever stop you trying – loudly and robustly. It used to be your favourite song to sing in the shower until our then-neighbours sent over a karaoke DVD to you and with a letter begging you to try something new. Remembering, we are already weak with laughter before the dreaded third verse even starts.
Why don't we do it in the road?
Why don't we do it in the road?
Why don't we do it in the road?
Why don't we do it in the road?
No one will be watching us
Why don't we do it in the road?
We’re almost there, comical anticipation building, when you look at me completely seriously and say the words as they’re singing them in the song. I don’t quite get your meaning as my intention is a bit divided between watching you and driving, so you switch the music volume down, look at me and repeat:
Why don't we do it in the road?
No one will be watching us
Why don't we do it in the road?
This time your intention is clear in your eyes, your body language and the sudden huskiness of your voice. Sex in the open had always been one of your fantasies, but I’d been a little shy. Now, looking at you, so sincere and at the beautiful landscape around us, I realise that there will never be a more perfect time for this. It won’t only be doing it to please you, I discover, surprising myself. I really want to do it, right here: have sex in the road, on this gorgeous countryside, under the setting sun.
The shocked look on your face as I nod and start to get out of the car is priceless – it makes my little attack of nerves worthwhile. We haven’t seen another car for about an hour, but doesn’t that mean we are due to see one soon? What will happen to us if a police car patrols by?
Still, I stand and watch as you spread a blanket on the hot bonnet of the car and lay a pillow on it. The air is cooling now and the warmth of the bonnet will be welcome. You turn to me, but I wave you to stay where you are. Slowly, I turn around. I don’t say a word, I just unbutton my shirt, drop my skirt, letting it pool in a marshmallow kiss at my feet, swiftly followed by my unbuttoned shirt.
Now I turn to face you, but I still don’t look you in the eye. Eyes downcast, I unhook my bra and shimmy out of my panties. You call to me – is it encouragement? A question? I raise my hand to block it. This moment is as serious as any religious ceremony and it demands complete silence and passivity from you, complete dedication from me.
Soon I am naked, bathed only in this perfect loving light. I lift my hands sinuously, high over my head, then bring them down, caressing my body with the light. I stroke my neck, cup my breasts and stretch my nipples. Then my hands flow over my stomach and hips until both meet in supplication at my neat little bush in a pose of unadulterated innocence.
Slowly, achingly slowly, I raise my eyes until I am looking straight into yours. The invitation in mine is unmistakeable – I am yours now, to love, to worship. The time has come.
You move swiftly, completely in tune with my own pulsing rhythm. You take me and lay me on the blanket on the bonnet with a warning to me to lie completely still. Your willing sacrifice, I obey without question. You return and I see that, unexpectedly, you are still fully dressed. Another second, and I understand – this is not a moment that is going to pass quickly. In your hands you have your little magic toy-box – its blood-red silk ropes are well-known to me, and now that I consider it, totally appropriate to the moment.
You start working on my right wrist and bind a gorgeously intricate bracelet onto it. Once done, you view your handiwork as an artist. Satisfied, leaving long pieces of the cord dangling loose, you move to the other hand and start there with a fresh cord. Here you are equally systematic, equally skilled. You instinctively ensure that the cord is flat against my skin, the knots tight and secure, trailing my arm in a distinctive pattern, firm, but not too tight.
Now it starts to get interesting. You hook my legs up, bending them at the knee, sliding me along on the blanket to place me just so: arms along the outside of my body, wrist to ankle. Once you are satisfied, you take the loose ends of the red rope and start securing me, right wrist to right ankle. The cuff you knot on my ankle is even longer than the one on my wrist, but equally artistic. Once finished on the right, you repeat your design on my left side faultlessly.
All the while you are doing this, I am incredibly aware of you. Of your sometimes firm, sometimes feather-light touch, of your controlled breath against my skin, of the exquisite torture I know is to come. You systematically ply your trade as you work to your extremely exacting standards.
By the time you are done, and I am spread and bound before you, the sun is almost completely set, but the dusk is long, so you will still have all the light you need.
Now you turn to your little box then return to me with oiled magnetic balls that you warm between your hands. I know them well; I love them, their warm slide against my skin. Their deep, penetrating and rich massage melts me.
Once warm, you part them, taking half in each hand. As you press them onto me, they mould into the shape of your hand, magnetically bonded, oilily slick and slippery.
Engine refuelled, our stomachs filled and caffeine fix treated, we get back into the car, me driving, and hit the road again. Our mood has changed, the sexual tension has lessoned and we catch up on the little stories we normally would have told each other daily, but haven’t for the last few months. We aren’t talking about work, more about the people at work.
From there we move into memories and nostalgia. That leads us off of our road-trip CDs and onto the iPod where we choose songs that have specific memories, singing along lustily, seguing from the hardest rock to the schmaltziest ballads. It’s wonderful; relaxing and fun.
The light around us changes as magic hour settles: the setting sun anoints the already rich countryside with its golden-light blessing. It’s a perfect time of day, dreamy and soft, where you know only good things can happen.
Now you’re playing air guitar and singing along with Paul McCartney. We’re both waiting for the same moment – where he goes falsetto: you never could reach those notes, but that didn’t ever stop you trying – loudly and robustly. It used to be your favourite song to sing in the shower until our then-neighbours sent over a karaoke DVD to you and with a letter begging you to try something new. Remembering, we are already weak with laughter before the dreaded third verse even starts.
Why don't we do it in the road?
Why don't we do it in the road?
Why don't we do it in the road?
Why don't we do it in the road?
No one will be watching us
Why don't we do it in the road?
We’re almost there, comical anticipation building, when you look at me completely seriously and say the words as they’re singing them in the song. I don’t quite get your meaning as my intention is a bit divided between watching you and driving, so you switch the music volume down, look at me and repeat:
Why don't we do it in the road?
No one will be watching us
Why don't we do it in the road?
This time your intention is clear in your eyes, your body language and the sudden huskiness of your voice. Sex in the open had always been one of your fantasies, but I’d been a little shy. Now, looking at you, so sincere and at the beautiful landscape around us, I realise that there will never be a more perfect time for this. It won’t only be doing it to please you, I discover, surprising myself. I really want to do it, right here: have sex in the road, on this gorgeous countryside, under the setting sun.
The shocked look on your face as I nod and start to get out of the car is priceless – it makes my little attack of nerves worthwhile. We haven’t seen another car for about an hour, but doesn’t that mean we are due to see one soon? What will happen to us if a police car patrols by?
Still, I stand and watch as you spread a blanket on the hot bonnet of the car and lay a pillow on it. The air is cooling now and the warmth of the bonnet will be welcome. You turn to me, but I wave you to stay where you are. Slowly, I turn around. I don’t say a word, I just unbutton my shirt, drop my skirt, letting it pool in a marshmallow kiss at my feet, swiftly followed by my unbuttoned shirt.
Now I turn to face you, but I still don’t look you in the eye. Eyes downcast, I unhook my bra and shimmy out of my panties. You call to me – is it encouragement? A question? I raise my hand to block it. This moment is as serious as any religious ceremony and it demands complete silence and passivity from you, complete dedication from me.
Soon I am naked, bathed only in this perfect loving light. I lift my hands sinuously, high over my head, then bring them down, caressing my body with the light. I stroke my neck, cup my breasts and stretch my nipples. Then my hands flow over my stomach and hips until both meet in supplication at my neat little bush in a pose of unadulterated innocence.
Slowly, achingly slowly, I raise my eyes until I am looking straight into yours. The invitation in mine is unmistakeable – I am yours now, to love, to worship. The time has come.
You move swiftly, completely in tune with my own pulsing rhythm. You take me and lay me on the blanket on the bonnet with a warning to me to lie completely still. Your willing sacrifice, I obey without question. You return and I see that, unexpectedly, you are still fully dressed. Another second, and I understand – this is not a moment that is going to pass quickly. In your hands you have your little magic toy-box – its blood-red silk ropes are well-known to me, and now that I consider it, totally appropriate to the moment.
You start working on my right wrist and bind a gorgeously intricate bracelet onto it. Once done, you view your handiwork as an artist. Satisfied, leaving long pieces of the cord dangling loose, you move to the other hand and start there with a fresh cord. Here you are equally systematic, equally skilled. You instinctively ensure that the cord is flat against my skin, the knots tight and secure, trailing my arm in a distinctive pattern, firm, but not too tight.
Now it starts to get interesting. You hook my legs up, bending them at the knee, sliding me along on the blanket to place me just so: arms along the outside of my body, wrist to ankle. Once you are satisfied, you take the loose ends of the red rope and start securing me, right wrist to right ankle. The cuff you knot on my ankle is even longer than the one on my wrist, but equally artistic. Once finished on the right, you repeat your design on my left side faultlessly.
All the while you are doing this, I am incredibly aware of you. Of your sometimes firm, sometimes feather-light touch, of your controlled breath against my skin, of the exquisite torture I know is to come. You systematically ply your trade as you work to your extremely exacting standards.
By the time you are done, and I am spread and bound before you, the sun is almost completely set, but the dusk is long, so you will still have all the light you need.
Now you turn to your little box then return to me with oiled magnetic balls that you warm between your hands. I know them well; I love them, their warm slide against my skin. Their deep, penetrating and rich massage melts me.
Once warm, you part them, taking half in each hand. As you press them onto me, they mould into the shape of your hand, magnetically bonded, oilily slick and slippery.
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And so you start massaging me, positioning yourself between my legs but otherwise completely ignoring my exposed sex. You rub the oiled balls wherever you can reach on my arms, my legs – but I barely notice it. All my attention is focussed on those moments when the crotch of your pants brushes up against my exposed sex. I long for the touch, anticipate it, but cannot move towards it. I lie there, at your mercy.
You are thorough in your massage, the little nodules penetrating deeper than bare hands would – nothing will rush you and you won’t leave a spot unattended. You set an achingly slow, restrained pace as you bend over me, stretching to reach my stomach, my breasts, brushing more definitely against me as you do so. My shoulders and neck are pulled taut by the bonds and you pay them extra attention. Eventually, achingly slowly, you roll down back over my highly sensitised skin, my breasts, my stomach, my hips towards my pubic area, rolling the little beads over the front, into my curls. I know you, and although I am dying to, I daren’t strain towards you. Predictable, you don’t enter the damp, exposed zone between my legs. It prickles and aches, weeps for you, but still it is denied any touch other than the odd, incidental brush of cotton.
There is an awkward moment as you flip me, trussed, onto my knees, a pillow under my head. Once again you place me exactly, ensuring that my legs are well spread as before. My groin muscles are starting to ache, but I know the ache will be much more if I dare disobey you.
I hear you warming your magnetic balls and the oils between your rubbing hands again. This time, as you step up to me, I don’t even have the joy of knowing it is your crotch rubbing against me. Instead, with my butt in the air, my crotch is at the same height as your stomach. Still, it welcomes any touch, any stimulation.
You are working the back of my legs, doing an even deeper massage on my butt, sliding up my back, down my sides and up again, high up my neck and onto my scalp. You own every part of me and you visit every part – pay homage to every part – except that part that calls the hardest. That you ignore like a frugal monk.
I hear the rubbing of your hands again, this time it sounds wetter and less metallic – oil being warmed, no magnets? There – you drip a few warm drops at the top of my bum crack – it creeps its way down so, so slowly, those few miserly drops. Down it slinks, around my little rosebud, down further, creeping along until it melts into my other natural pussy oils. Slowly a little burn starts spreading in the trail of the oil – this clearly wasn’t just a massage oil, it was one of your special mixes, one of your few secrets from me. It tingles and prickles, stimulating me to an almost painful sensitivity.
I am so lost in the sensations of the oil that I hardly hear you return to your box, return with your next toy, so the pressure on my anal ring surprises me as you firmly press one highly lubricated bead inside. The warmth of your oily spices immediately spreads right in, diluted by the other oils, but still there, and I flood myself with pussy juices as if I had just had an orgasm. I drip. I can feel it running down my thighs, this surprise, non-orgasmic flood. You use my distraction to ease in the second bead, then again distract me by running a ticklish feather lightly up and down my over-sensitive body. It drives me over some invisible barrier up to an even more intense level of sensitivity – a new threshold where I welcome the pleasure-pain. I no longer have erogenous zones on my body, I am one erogenous zone – one integrated whole, all screaming for your touch.
And in slips another bead. So you continue, until you have all 5 beads in. I can’t bear it anymore, I know I will be punished, but as you push in the last bead I push myself against your hand. I have to have your touch.
Your smart smack on my arse is expected; the crack loud in the quiet of the almost-night, but it is so hard that it still comes as a shock. I cry out and you smack me again, on exactly the same spot … and again. It is harder, harder than you have every smacked before, but you rub it afterwards, gently and lovingly, soothing me slightly.
I feel you bend forward and think you are going to kiss me on my butt in true remorse. What I don’t expect is that you have taken the feather in your mouth and aim it unerringly between my lips, stroking it from my straining rosebud, down, past my dripping wet hole, all the way around to my achingly engorged clit and back. Its soft feathers turned delightfully liquid in my juices, but it’s long little core staying hard and firm … ooohhh, the contrast. Your hot breath so close to me as you move the feather down, right there where I need you.
Again I strain against your mouth – it is impossible not to – and earn another swift slap for me efforts. After that, for a little while, in punishment, you don’t touch me at all, then suddenly you flip me over onto my back again. The beads are pressed together inside my anus, pushed into my muscle walls by my body’s weight. Tears leak from my eyes: it is all just too much, too intense.
Then, for the first time since you had started, you looked me in the eye again, and I know that, at last, we are on the final stretch. Now you are connecting with me as a person and no longer as your subject.
You kneel on the car’s bumper and put your lips against my clit, sucking wildly. You lick and suck so hard I feel I’ll come off right there, but your eyes haven’t left mine, and they don’t give me permission. I hold myself together for longer through sheer force of will as you pull out the beads one by one, still sucking avariciously at my clit … and still you don’t break eye contact with me, not even to blink.
My focus has narrowed so that I am unaware of the gathering darkness around me. I am in such a haze of passion I can hardly see your eyes, am unaware of you dropping your shorts until you push yourself into me, up to the hilt in one hard shove.
All I know is that in that moment, your eyes give my strung-out body permission, and I burst into a million shuddering pieces on you and around you, unaware of anything except the golden glow that invades my entire body.
The light that I had stroked and celebrated on the outside of me when we began now washed the inside of me aflame. And so, I, the sacrifice, become the goddess, and you, spurting your equally hot seed into me, are the worshipper at my shrine.
You are thorough in your massage, the little nodules penetrating deeper than bare hands would – nothing will rush you and you won’t leave a spot unattended. You set an achingly slow, restrained pace as you bend over me, stretching to reach my stomach, my breasts, brushing more definitely against me as you do so. My shoulders and neck are pulled taut by the bonds and you pay them extra attention. Eventually, achingly slowly, you roll down back over my highly sensitised skin, my breasts, my stomach, my hips towards my pubic area, rolling the little beads over the front, into my curls. I know you, and although I am dying to, I daren’t strain towards you. Predictable, you don’t enter the damp, exposed zone between my legs. It prickles and aches, weeps for you, but still it is denied any touch other than the odd, incidental brush of cotton.
There is an awkward moment as you flip me, trussed, onto my knees, a pillow under my head. Once again you place me exactly, ensuring that my legs are well spread as before. My groin muscles are starting to ache, but I know the ache will be much more if I dare disobey you.
I hear you warming your magnetic balls and the oils between your rubbing hands again. This time, as you step up to me, I don’t even have the joy of knowing it is your crotch rubbing against me. Instead, with my butt in the air, my crotch is at the same height as your stomach. Still, it welcomes any touch, any stimulation.
You are working the back of my legs, doing an even deeper massage on my butt, sliding up my back, down my sides and up again, high up my neck and onto my scalp. You own every part of me and you visit every part – pay homage to every part – except that part that calls the hardest. That you ignore like a frugal monk.
I hear the rubbing of your hands again, this time it sounds wetter and less metallic – oil being warmed, no magnets? There – you drip a few warm drops at the top of my bum crack – it creeps its way down so, so slowly, those few miserly drops. Down it slinks, around my little rosebud, down further, creeping along until it melts into my other natural pussy oils. Slowly a little burn starts spreading in the trail of the oil – this clearly wasn’t just a massage oil, it was one of your special mixes, one of your few secrets from me. It tingles and prickles, stimulating me to an almost painful sensitivity.
I am so lost in the sensations of the oil that I hardly hear you return to your box, return with your next toy, so the pressure on my anal ring surprises me as you firmly press one highly lubricated bead inside. The warmth of your oily spices immediately spreads right in, diluted by the other oils, but still there, and I flood myself with pussy juices as if I had just had an orgasm. I drip. I can feel it running down my thighs, this surprise, non-orgasmic flood. You use my distraction to ease in the second bead, then again distract me by running a ticklish feather lightly up and down my over-sensitive body. It drives me over some invisible barrier up to an even more intense level of sensitivity – a new threshold where I welcome the pleasure-pain. I no longer have erogenous zones on my body, I am one erogenous zone – one integrated whole, all screaming for your touch.
And in slips another bead. So you continue, until you have all 5 beads in. I can’t bear it anymore, I know I will be punished, but as you push in the last bead I push myself against your hand. I have to have your touch.
Your smart smack on my arse is expected; the crack loud in the quiet of the almost-night, but it is so hard that it still comes as a shock. I cry out and you smack me again, on exactly the same spot … and again. It is harder, harder than you have every smacked before, but you rub it afterwards, gently and lovingly, soothing me slightly.
I feel you bend forward and think you are going to kiss me on my butt in true remorse. What I don’t expect is that you have taken the feather in your mouth and aim it unerringly between my lips, stroking it from my straining rosebud, down, past my dripping wet hole, all the way around to my achingly engorged clit and back. Its soft feathers turned delightfully liquid in my juices, but it’s long little core staying hard and firm … ooohhh, the contrast. Your hot breath so close to me as you move the feather down, right there where I need you.
Again I strain against your mouth – it is impossible not to – and earn another swift slap for me efforts. After that, for a little while, in punishment, you don’t touch me at all, then suddenly you flip me over onto my back again. The beads are pressed together inside my anus, pushed into my muscle walls by my body’s weight. Tears leak from my eyes: it is all just too much, too intense.
Then, for the first time since you had started, you looked me in the eye again, and I know that, at last, we are on the final stretch. Now you are connecting with me as a person and no longer as your subject.
You kneel on the car’s bumper and put your lips against my clit, sucking wildly. You lick and suck so hard I feel I’ll come off right there, but your eyes haven’t left mine, and they don’t give me permission. I hold myself together for longer through sheer force of will as you pull out the beads one by one, still sucking avariciously at my clit … and still you don’t break eye contact with me, not even to blink.
My focus has narrowed so that I am unaware of the gathering darkness around me. I am in such a haze of passion I can hardly see your eyes, am unaware of you dropping your shorts until you push yourself into me, up to the hilt in one hard shove.
All I know is that in that moment, your eyes give my strung-out body permission, and I burst into a million shuddering pieces on you and around you, unaware of anything except the golden glow that invades my entire body.
The light that I had stroked and celebrated on the outside of me when we began now washed the inside of me aflame. And so, I, the sacrifice, become the goddess, and you, spurting your equally hot seed into me, are the worshipper at my shrine.
