If He Only Knew...

There’s just something about cars and sex. While I’ve never been fond of having sex within the limited space of your average sedan, reaching across the center console to enjoy my wife’s body is a great way to make a long drive interesting. I’m both an amatuer mechanic and timid exhibitionist. That makes owning a classic convertible satisfying on multiple levels.    Sunny weekend afternoons often find us exploring country roads in our 30-year-old ragtop. My wife enjoys unbuttoning her blouse so her breasts can enjoy the breeze, or hiking her skirt to let the sunshine warm her lower lips. Our unusual convertible often draws a wave or a quick thumbs-up from passing motorists. I get kick knowing they’d be even more excited by what’s happening just out of view. However, a long drive that ended with sharing my wife’s natural lubrication was something altogether unexpected and stimulating. The weather was perfect for a convertible ride to a nearby Boy Scout lodge where the troop I lead would soon be camping. The mission involved meeting the camp ranger to make final arrangements. I carved through the winding country roads, downshifting before the turns and then calling on the turbocharger to come alive with a whoosh of power and pull us the rest of the way through the twists. When the road straightened, my right hand was free from gear shift duty so I put it to use elsewhere.    My wife’s straw hat protected her freckled nose and shoulders from the sun, but it blazed down full-force on her blondish-red snatch. My fingers traced her warm thigh up to her forest of public hair and slipped between her fully moistened folds. She shifted slightly in the passenger seat, opening her legs to encourage me onward. Just 10 miles lie ahead before reaching the camp. The road was mostly straight. I slowed slightly to give us more time. Soon her eyes were closed and her clit was firm. My fingers slid around her nub, teasing and building tension but refusing her the direct stimulation she needs to cum. Pressing lower, my fingers found her well of slippery love potion. She was wetter than normal today. I’m a tall man with large hands and long fingers. Even with the challenging angle, I could dip inside her and brush against her pebbled G-spot. She loves that. The miles passed and my fingers danced. Her hips shifted again, pressing her mound against my palm in a way that told me she was ready for her release. I gently gripped her clit between my thumb and index finger and started a delicate version of the motion that most men use. She was ready, indeed. A mile or two was all it took for her to crest the mountain. She shivered across the peak, and then fell back to relaxation as her body descended on the other side. Her timing was perfect. Her orgasm came ¼ mile before we turned onto the Scout camp’s gravel lane. Moments later, around the first sharp bend, there was the camp ranger standing beside a tractor. Fortunately, my wife had fully restored her composure, but I was flustered as the ranger came right up to my door and extended his hand in a warm greeting. Mine was still damp with her excitement. What now? I paused, then went for it. I gripped his hand and shook it firmly. Her slipperiness in the valley between my fingers was still fresh and that sparked a rush of devious sexual thrill. My hand, still wet with my wife’s orgasm, was pressed against the rough, calloused palm a total stranger. He gave no indication of noticing either her scent or her wetness. My eyes locked on his hand as he casually pointed the way to the lodge. As we drove away, she said, “If he only knew…”