An Invitation to Play

Being a passenger when John Brownstone drives comes with very definite advantages. Getting to watch the scenery, being his helper as we drive (I’m the navigator), and not feeling the road rage that comes with our local traffic.

But there are other perks, too. Perks I haven’t been able to enjoy in a long time but a girl can dream…

We speed down the highway, music blasting, sun at our back, headed off into the distance, away from responsibilities for a while. Your hand rests on my knee, warm and strong. It’s a reminder that I’m yours — to love, to care for, to protect, to control, and (best of all) do with as you please. No words needed.

You would probably sit just like that for most of the drive, but the skin to skin contact sends my mind elsewhere. I love the feel of your hand on my body. Just looking at them turns me on. The veins and callouses prove these hands work hard.

And right now, I need them to work in a different way. I need those weathered, rough fingers touching me in dark, secret places.

I know better than to demand what I want. It’s more effective to shift a bit and part my knees, hoping you’ll see the move as the invitation it is.

If I’m too demanding, your inner sadist will say no and delight in the denial. If I push you too fast, you’ll slow down, draw it out, and make me beg. Even then, you’ll likely make me wait even longer. My masochistic side loves the torture, but the greedy girl who wants the orgasm you’ll give me craves the pleasure. It’s not easy to sit still and wait, but I manage.

You indulge me and accept the invitation.

Eyes glued to the road, your hand slides up my inner thigh, your fingers trailing paths in sensitive spots most people forget exist. Behind my knee, under my thigh, even the top of my leg. You take your time, smooth and controlled as ever.

My eyes dart to the left, curious if I’ll catch a reaction. Is your cock swelling? Was that a twitch I detect in your pants? I chance a look at your face. If you’re affected by this, you hide it well. Your expression gives nothing away. To anyone who passes, you’re concentrating on the road.

Only we know that your hand has moved higher, shoving my skirt out of the way, stroking the crease between thigh and pelvis.

I moan.

“Shhh, babygirl. I’m concentrating on driving.” Your voice is calm and soothing. You give nothing away.

Your message is clear. Stay quiet. Let you play. If I do, I’ll be rewarded.

A fingertip lightly strokes my slit through my panties. I’m not ashamed to admit they’re already damp. They were the moment I spread my thighs apart. Your touch is so gentle that it would be easy to dismiss, but I can’t. Every cell in my body is aware of that small back-and-forth motion, the pressure slowly increasing.

“Hmmm, it’s too bad you wore panties today, babygirl.” I don’t hear sorrow in your voice. “I could stroke that hard little clit of yours if you hadn’t. Maybe then you’d get to come right now.”

I’m ready to shuck them off and toss them out the window if that’s what you demand of me. That light little stroke has turned into something more insistent and teasing as you speak.

I turn to offer, and you interrupt.

“Shhhh, girl. I told you that I need to concentrate.” Your eyes never leave the road. “Maybe next time you’ll be better prepared when you issue an invitation like this. For now, this will have to do.”

The scent of my desire and need fills the air around us, teasing and torturing me, reminding me to be careful what I ask for.