Volare Cantare, Woo Woo

Volare Cantare, woo woo

It was a sweltering August day, and I was in my much-loved old 70s Plymouth Volare (silver with maroon top, big roomy flat maroon jacquard seats, Blaupunkt radio, lots and lots of room), driving all by my lonesome on a large highway in the northeast, heading south with a long road ahead of me, a long road behind me, and not much scenery in between. A prescription for doziness, and had I not had so much coffee that very morning, I'd have found a hotel.

I melted slumping into the seat in a sweaty languor as I drove with head back, one idle thumb on the wheel and hair whipping around my face, pale white legs parted indecently wide to avoid them sticking together under my thin Indian cotton skirt, right foot on the accelerator, left knee way up. I dislike underwear under any circumstances, but especially in summer, the season when I tend to be the horniest.

I kept getting quick shots of my own hairy snatch with a flash of the inner pink as the skirt blew all around, and I kept beating the skirt down and tucking it under my thigh so it wouldn't be a vision hazard. I was cranky and had been wanting a good pounding for days. Weeks maybe. My legs spread wider, unconsciously. The fingers of my right hand strayed down to my pussy and encountered slippery wet, a glance took in the beads glistening on the hairs. My fingers slipped between the lips, seeking the pea in its little pod, and I hitched the folds up a bit for better access. Rubbing along the shaft alternately on either side and flicking the clit with my finger, I felt my nipples swell and in the combined wave of sensation, the car swerved a bit. I pulled into the far right old lady lane so I could focus. I had to tweak my nipples with my right hand and then dip it back down into juices, trail it up to rub some more while keeping the lips spread wide with my other fingers, then back up to the nipples again with my slippery fingers.

The faintly cool breeze perked my rosy tips up even further, and I pulled one breast out of the low neck of my peasant blouse and let it salute the wind. I fantasized about a stranger seeing me, looking out his window, driving with me off to the side of the road, and sucking on them. Some cars drove by but they had tinted windows with air conditioning and no one noticed.

I entered a sensory tunnel in which all I could hear was a heavy muffled road rumble and my own panting. I couldn't spread my legs wide enough to suit myself, and the skirt was blowing wildly over to the right, showing everything, my moving fingers, my wet open pie, my white shaking knees...I wanted to be forcefully and repeatedly skewered by a big fat dick, but for lack of anyone or anything, I thrust three fingers up inside and started fucking myself. Faster and faster with greater urgency as I fought to keep the car in the lane. Suddenly there was a blinding moment where the road disappeared in a thousand brilliant suns, then a strange calm, except for the background rumble.

I sat, stunned in a liquid stupor, tit still pointing out the window, throbbing pussy drying swiftly in the air, and it was in that exposed repose that I was jerked straight up in my seat by an ear-splitting TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT! and saluted by the good-natured truck driver who had been watching the whole thing from one of his tilted mirrors. He honked again and winked to let me know it had been a good show, and then rumbled ahead of me with a wave out his window.

I was first mortified, then pissed. The least he could have done was pulled over and serviced me. Goodness knows I'd needed it.