Distracted Driving

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I was traveling 700 miles to my aunt’s funeral in Indiana. Since my aunt was 13 years older than my father, and she had mostly raised him, and she had no children of her own, she had always been more like a grandmother to me. And I had lost my dad just six months earlier. So I was in a very strange frame of mind as I drove, alone, across country.

I had started the trip on a Thursday evening after work, and driven until midnight and I thought I wouldn’t be able to keep my eyes open anymore. Then I checked into a roadside Best Western, where the only room they had left was clearly a party room mostly likely to be used by the students of the nearby college. They only charged me the regular single-room rate, since I was just one person and I came in so late, and would clearly not be having any parties.

The room was cavernous, with a pull-out sofa, a California king bed, and a Jacuzzi right in the middle of the room. A swanky hotel in Las Vegas might have made the design work somehow, with marble floors around the tub, a big-screen TV, and a fully stocked bar. But this was West Virginia. The whole floor was commercial-grade, low-pile carpet. The wall art was mass-produced pastel in white frames. The furnishings were standard cheap hotel.

I did use the Jacuzzi, because you have to, and I was in such a strange, numb, frame of mind. I sat in the tub in the boring room, and imagined a party of 40 or so fraternity boys and their dates. I imagined they would be partying after a formal dance, and all the girls in their formal dresses wouldn’t have thought to bring bikinis, so after a few shots of tequila, they would slip out of their dresses and into the tub. The boys would probably keep their tightie-whities on, until eventually, one thing would lead to another.

I looked at the sad pull-out sofa and imagined a 20 year-old with a 9-inch hard-on stretching out his jockeys until his slender young girlfriend liberated it, and started sucking his dick right in the middle of the room.

That’s what this room was designed for. Not for a single 30 year-old with an aching shoulder and a broken heart.

Maybe it was sleeping in the orgy room that got me so charged up the next day. Or maybe it was the dread of going to the funeral and dealing with the reality of the loss. Maybe it was just that empty sadness in my heart.

Things in my love life back home were pretty weird. I had a casual boyfriend, but he was obsessed with recording a music CD. I tried to support him, but I knew the odds of his musical success were pretty limited. And he had bahis firmaları no job. He was older than me, and it’s hard to start a music career from scratch when you have wrinkles and gray hair. I knew it was over; I just hadn’t told him yet.

I started part two of the long drive early in the morning. It was a fine fall day, with a bright blue sky and just a few high cirrus clouds. It was warm enough to wear a skirt and sweater, and to open my car’s sunroof, and so off I drove. I was in a strange frame of mind—sad about my aunt, confused about my so-called boyfriend, feeling generally lonely and yet very much alive. I still had the visuals in my head about the party room I’d stayed in the night before, and I was reflecting a little on my own college days, and remembering when boys seemed to have those perpetual erections. My lover was older, and although he loved talking about sex and looking at pictures of naked women, he had performance issues, a skinny penis, and he didn’t like to give or receive oral. To sum it up, I had a lot of things to fantasize about.

Long drive, beautiful day, trying to distract myself from thinking about the funeral and my real-life issues, eventually I became aware that I was starting to feel pretty horny. I knew that once I reached my destination, I wouldn’t have another moment of privacy for three days. I tried to calm myself down, but there were only a few things my brain had to focus on as I drove and none of them were very appealing. So eventually, I settled on fantasies as I drove down the long, straight and very boring interstate. With about 250 miles to go on my trip, I took my right hand off the wheel and just let it rest in my lap, between my thighs. The warmth from my hand seemed to warm my pussy just a bit more, and then I wondered, could I do it? Would it work? Would anyone notice? And even if they did, did I care? I was hundreds of miles from my home and my destination, in the middle of nowhere, where there was no one I knew.

So I started to gently massage my pussy through my skirt and underwear. I spread my legs a little wider, keeping my right foot on the gas. And then I slowly rubbed my clit through my clothes. I could feel the heat and moisture already. I did have several changes of clothes in my suitcase, but I didn’t want to get my skirt so wet that it showed through, so I slid my hand down my thigh, finding the bottom of my hem, and then slipped a hand under my skirt, and found the edge of my panties.

I bent my left knee and propped my left foot up on the dash, just making a little more kaçak iddaa space. Plenty of people drive with one leg up on the dash. It wouldn’t look that obvious, would it? It wasn’t super traficky, but the occasional car and truck passed me. When the trucks passed, I knew they were higher, so I’d move my hand away from my pussy until they passed on.

When there was no one in the lane next to me (or if it was another passenger vehicle), I slid my hand back under my skirt, and up under the elastic of my panties. I wanted to make it last, so I rubbed my clit through my labia, slowly, up and down, up and down, just getting it nice and warm.

A few miles passed, and I wanted more, so I took my middle finger and slid it between my labia, finding my clit, and I started drawing circles with my finger, feeling my clit get harder and hotter as I went.

When trucks passed, I stopped. I moved my hand away. I took my middle finger and brought it to my mouth, and I sucked on it as the trucks passed, sliding my finger in and out, tasting my pussy juice and thinking about sucking on a cock. The trucks drove by, and I slid my wet middle finger back to my clit. I imagined a big cock stretching out my pussy, and watching it go in hard and purple and throbbing, then watching it slide back out all wet and shiny.

I needed more space to maneuver, so I shifted my hips up and slipped my panties off. I put my foot back on the seat, now naked under my skirt. I was getting pretty hot and I didn’t want to come yet, so I slipped my hand up under my sweater and slid it under my bra, pinching my nipples until they turned hard, and imagining someone sucking and biting on them.

My pussy was not to be ignored, though. I had left her wet and hot and ready. My brain was working on all kinds of visuals, and as soon as I thought about getting my hair pulled as someone fucked me hard from behind, and grabbed my hips to slam their cock deep inside, I was ready to come.

I moved my hand back to my pussy, and slid my first two fingers inside. I was so wet—I pulled my dripping fingers back out and rubbed my clit a little more, making slow, delicious circles. Then I plunged my fingers back in, in and out, fucking myself and curling my fingers up to find my G-spot. It was hard to do in the car’s seat. I wished I had a merciless man with me, who would just keep finger-fucking me as fast as possible, until I bucked and wriggled—but I had this car to drive, and there was no one else around but me. From the position I was in, the best I could do was to reach into my pussy and curl kaçak bahis my fingers up, rubbing hard against the top wall until my forearm muscles started cramping.

Pussy juice was now running all over my hand, so I brought it back to my clit, and rubbed as fast as I could with my hot, wet, and well-lubricated fingers. I pressed harder and faster into my clit. I wanted to throw my head back and scream, but I had to keep driving. So I kept my eyes on the road, but I did let myself moan and whimper until all my muscles finally contracted into a beautiful orgasm. As I came, I kept pressing into my clit to sustain the waves of contractions—wave after beautiful wave.

I finally relaxed and released, and started to be aware of more than just my body and the road immediately in front of me. I looked right, saw cows, looked left and saw a blue pickup truck in the lane next to me. Guy about my age. Very attractive. Cowboy hat. Mustache. Blue-collar type. Big grin. He gave me the thumbs-up and nodded enthusiastically. He drove along right next to me until traffic wanted to pass.

We drove like that for about 20 miles. I would pass him, then he’d pass me. As time passed, I started to get a little weirded out by it. I mean, he was a good looking guy, and if this were a fictional story, I would tell you about how I pulled over, and he bent me over the bed of his pickup, and all my problems were solved by a thorough pounding from a total stranger on the shoulder of the interstate as semi-tractors and family sedans sped by, honking.

However, this is a true story. And for all I knew the guy could be an ax-murderer (admittedly, a good-looking one), a thief, or rife with STDs. So eventually, I pulled off at an exit. And I was a little startled when he also got out at the same exit. Once I arrived in the town where I had exited, I made a sudden turn into a Wal-Mart parking lot, and I managed to get myself lost in the shuffle. I grabbed my bag, used the restroom, washed my hands, changed my clothes, and went on my way.

I’m not saying everyone should masturbate in the car while driving halfway across the country for a funeral. I mean, sometimes you will have other people in the car. Some people just aren’t that horny, and some can’t come that easily. (I feel sorry for the last two types). But for me, it was a much-needed release. I often wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t lost the guy in the blue pickup truck. We could have had anonymous sex in a Wal-Mart parking lot, or even worse, a highly awkward conversation in which we said things like, “Hi. How’s it going? I saw you getting off back there. Can I have your number?”

Sometimes the fantasies are better than the reality. And I’m pretty sure that on that day, things worked out exactly the way they were supposed to.

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