She dances in the dark, at a rest area where the only amenities are tables with benches and a hut containing lavatories. Their holiday ending, the last act requires a big climax.

Lights pierce the dark as a lorry illuminates her; the white dress unbuttoned far enough to allow her breasts to swing free, a thin silver chain round her neck, white stockings, and above all the shiny red knee boots with twelve-inch heels.

She shimmies slowly to the left, rolling her hips enticingly in front of a different lorry, moving to music only she can hear. Its lights come on, providing a new stage for her as she sways, running her hands down her thighs, turning to bend over and wiggle her behind as she pulls the dress up to expose her buttocks, then turning again to cup her breasts as if offering them to the man in the cab.

As she dances on, lorry after lorry floods her performance with light; fourteen lorries lined up side by side. Reaching the last of them she gestures, pointing at the red boots which sparkle in the light, repeating the invitation in front of every vehicle as she dances her way back down the line.

Nothing is lost in translation. By the time she reaches the table and benches, every one of the drivers is following her, like hungry rodents spellbound by the way she moves to the tune only she can hear. Her man is in their car, turning on the lights as she sits on the table, planting the red boots on the bench, illuminating her as she rubs her breasts with the palms of her hands, smiling as stiff cock after stiff cock is exposed to her gaze.

Only when the men have surrounded her, all with their ready meat in a firm grip, does she shift, lowering herself so that she’s on her back, pulling her feet onto the table and spreading her legs. With the dress pulled up she touches herself, only too well aware that if the drivers want more fun than she’s offering, there’s precious little she, or her man, can do to stop them.

Is it this sense that anything might happen that makes her so wet, or just the act of showing herself off? Sometimes such questions are best left unanswered. She dips two fingers into herself, pulling them out to reveal a string of secretion stretching from one digit to another. The looks on the men’s faces vary from grateful to predatory. Even if no-one will take as much advantage as they might, surely they might take a little? Taste her salty peanut nipples, for instance. She’d like that.

What happens next is even better. There’s a voice. “I leek poosy, yes?”

“Yes!” she breathes, before she even has time to think, scanning the surrounding men, all of their hands moving as their wanton eyes molest her.

There’s a coarseness to the man’s eager tongue as it lashes at her delicate parts. She pinches a hard nipple, her other hand on the man’s head, pushing him into herself. She leaks on his tongue where it teases her hole. What was once an eerie silence is invaded by the sound of meat-slapping. “Yes!” she gasps again as the coarse tongue flicks her clit. Then she moans out loud, feeling her own arousal swallow her up.

Eyes closed, she hears expressions of pleasure. She doesn’t need to look; in any case, the mouth adding its own moisture to her wetness is too delicious, the tongue circling, lips opening wide and closing on her as if trying to ingest her entire sex. Her ears flooded with masturbatory relish, she feels the strangers’ eyes on her as her head begins to swim. Dimly aware of gasping around her, all she cares about is the contraction that breeds a new contraction, and another, and on, with relentless intensity.

There are loud grunts. Recovering from her climax she opens her eyes. There are men standing on the benches at her sides, tugging their cocks, aiming at the shiny red boots that are already awash with white. As sensitive as she is, she can’t help but touch herself, quickly rekindling her lechery as the men take turns adding their semen to that already coating the red plastic.

Last of all is her friend the “poosy” licker. She watches, her clit tingling between her fingers, as his powerful spurts add yet more icing to her red boots. No sooner has he finished than she pulls her legs up, bending herself double. There’s dripping, from the shiny red onto the wooden table and her dress. She doesn’t have to look for her man; he’s there, climbing onto the table.

The lorry drivers aren’t going anywhere, they remain, watching as he takes his place above her. She tries to catch his eye, but knows she won’t. He has eyes for only two things as he thrusts every last inch of his unrestrained lust inside her: the red boots with their white glaze. Still holding her legs up she moves her hands, sliding her fingers along the red plastic, through the slippery seed, her arousal turned up a notch by his peculiar obsession with her footwear, happy to see his eyes glued to the sloppy mess on her red boots as his hard cock moves inside her.

She knows he won’t be long about it – just watching will have brought him close to the edge. After that, who knows? Out of the corner of her eye, she can see that one or two of the lorry drivers are preparing themselves for a second round. She can only guess at what they have in mind as her man screws up his face, stuttering incoherently and erupting inside her, staring mesmerised by the way she runs her hands up and down the shafts of her red boots, sticky fluid slipping between her fingers.