It is pitch-black and darksome and poorly lit outside; outside of the car that is. The clouds too, just like the sky, are tenebrous and overcast and dusky and gray. I breathe out and suspire deeply and acutely as I look at them. Yes. Stian Elberd is perched and settled in this car of ours right next to me in the driver's stall, and when I gaze at him, he strikes me as being studious and reflective and cogitative; ruminative and cogitative of what? I am not acquainted with that either.
"Stian," I whine and rumble out his name, swigging and swilling saliva down my throat as I do so. Uhmmnnn! My voice sounds to some degree craggy and rugged and two-fisted. Like I am in a gone-bad and embittered state and frame of mind. Am I genuinely? I don't know...verily...
"Yes, Ragnhild," he responds serenely and coolly, gazing and gawping at me in a not so impolite or insulting or unmannerly way. Damn me for that! I feel ashamed and remorseful and conscience-stricken for having been so uncivil and discourteous and ill-mannered with him. Crap. Shit me to hell if you feel like it.
"Aren't we going back home?" I query him kindheartedly and nicely thoughtful this time around, "I mean we are finished and over with all the shopping and buying things that ushered us our way here to this mart and supermarket, is not it so?"
He first looks at me vaguely and imprecisely and then expresses the following to me, "You are on the right lines, Ragnhild. But we aren't going back home anytime soon until after we have...have...fucked each other up in this dingy and nonpublic or in-camera car of ours, my beloved bride. Don't you like the plan and strategy of mine?"
My goodness! We are having what I must put in words here as 'shopping sex.' You can dub and mark it out as 'sex at the end of purchases and buys' if you feel like it. Holy goodness! What is this queer proposition and recommendation and theory of Stian? Is it too logical and sound to you? To me, it hell way too far is—I without question and definitely want to have sex with him right here inside our car, inexorably and beyond the shadow of any doubt. He is my spouse and hubby after all. And I am his revered and cherished and intimate wife on the other hand. We both have a rightful place and fit in with each other, don't you believe so? Obviously!
"Now, slip off your panties off you, will you, my most favorite and dearest sweetheart," Stian lures ad entices me in a very playboy and lady-killer like tone and power of speech. My goodness! That on its own is sufficient and as much as is needed to get me all damp and soaked and drenched inside of my vagina. My emotions and sentiments themselves are all sugary and sweetened and icky. Yeah. For real!
Of course! He is all too wary and circumspect and on the qui vive and up on his toes. He studies and notes and monitors every move and man-oeuvre of mine that I transact, sweeping and scrubbing his glad, merry lips with his jolly and over-elated tongue. My goodness! Is he also going to lick my vagina?
"Excellent!" He at last exclaims to me once I am all finished and accomplished through with the uncomplicated and straightforward assignment and chore that he as of lately and not-long-ago allocated and assigned to me. "Now shut your eyes. I have got a small surprise and package for you."
I am cudgeling my brains and asking myself on what that could be when the words abruptly and all of a sudden make their way out of my mouth—yes—even without my consent and go-ahead and authorization. Damn me for that! Fuck me to hell for it instead! "What is that pygmy surprise and Lilliputian package of yours to me, Stian?"
He grimaces and scowls at me promptly and unhesitatingly, whirling and reeling his eyes at me in annoyance and vexation as he does so. "Just close your eyes, Ragnhild—my darling and babe. Is that rocklike and intricate Chinese merely for you to empathize with and act out? Is it, Ragnhild, my sole sweetheart and babe?"
"Fine, Stian! I will do just what you have demanded and decreed of me." And that is what I precisely and scrupulously do. I shut and make barred fast my eyes, breathing in and at length out inchmeal and at my very own pace and good time. Who-ow-wie! What astonishment and wonder of his is he keeping under wraps from me? What exactly? I marvel and sit dumbstruck and filled with awe and curiosity...I can only be in awe and wonderment.
Holy spanker! Is that not his hand that I feel stirring and budging up my thighs and humongous, attractive legs themselves? Yes. It surely is his hand beyond any misgiving or lack of conviction, but then he is gripping and latching on to something, something that brushes and skims past my skin, filling me with chiming and jingling and jangling jollies and beers and skittles. My goodness! I pray that his catch-napping and come down on me like a bolt from the blue turns out to be treacle and honeyed and icky like the dingy and darksome sky and heavens about me...I entreat so...
Unexpectedly and on the spur of the moment, he is inside of my vagina—not him specifically, but that device and body and item that he is bracing and cradling in his hand. I can feel it smoothly and warily and charily smack and whack and flog the inner sides and interior of my vagina and clitoris. Great! This is so stunning and sensational and eye-popping. No. I don't open or unclose my eyes because of its breath-taking and gee-whizz stroke and knell and strapping thump. I still have my eyes shut and fastened. Don't you? Toot-sie!
Arghhhh...This gadget or gizmo or doo-dah that Stian is grasping is twisted and crooked and angled. I mean it. I can feel its tortuous and crippled-like and out-of-shape upper flange or contour or threshold worm and slink about—both inside and outside of my contented cunt pleasurably and enjoyably—buzz-kicking and flushing me with just too much excitement and stir and titillation and vibration. As my womb auspiciously and gleefully and blithely vibrates and fluctuates and oscillates and judders, my remainder and rest entire-self pulsates and throbs and reverberates too—all in counterblast and response to the droning and humming and thumping and reverberation of that whatsit and thingummy and doo-dah that Stian is whisking and rustling and stimulating about my vagina and pussy. Damn him! Triple crap!
"Ragnhild," he whoops and yells out my name, murmuring and hissing in soft tones a bit too loud in other words.
"Yes, Stian," I answer back with all speed and like greased lightning, shivering and vibrating and palpitating as I do that.
"Ragnhild, how delectable and delicious is this thing inside your vagina?"
"So; so; so delicious and pleasing; Stian."
"Must I give you more of it or quit doing all of this right this moment?"
"No, don't break off doing all of this, Stian! Gimme more of this...gimme more of this, honey!"
"Boffo then! Here comes more."
He rams and pokes and prods the gadget and whatsit more and more deeper into my pussy and cunt, and as soon as he is finished and over with that, he starts smacking and cuffing and flogging it all the more faster and quicker and pleasant into me, and I give my word, I feel it deflect and warp and incurvate inside of my vagina.
