You've been a perfect gentleman up until now, shepherding me around this Sonoma wine festival, recommending this and that, only occasionally touching me, placing your hand lightly on my back to steer me to the next wine tent along your pre-planned route. You're friendly, talkative, expressive, and I'm enjoying the banter between us, on this, our first real face-to-face. But I'm unsatisfied with the long lines and the small samples, so after listening to the sales schpiel at the 5th stop, I buy us a bottle of Cab Franc and we look for a quiet place to sit and drink it.
We spot an empty picnic table under a tree and sit next to each other. It's partially sunny but unseasonably cool. The stiff breeze is lifting my skirt and the red and white tablecloth is tickling my bare thighs, inciting goosebumps. I'm glad I'm wearing my cashmere sweater to provide some warmth. I've got it buttoned up appropriately enough, but I've caught you more than once with your eyes at half mast resting on my deep decolletage peeking out from under that third button.
You pour us each a glass, which we ceremoniously and so British-like clink together in a toast, although these are complimentary glasses, thick, and not likely to crack under even the roughest handling of the bourgeoisie. Don't get me wrong, I hate snobs of any color. But I'm guessing if a Ford F150 pulled up to a restaurant in Sonoma, there would be a fart-like collective gasp expelled from the elitists at the wine bar.
We commence with the sipping and the smiling, but eventually our eyes meet and hold, our minds meld, and the talking abruptly stops. It's apparent we've just entered Phase 2 of the conjugal visit, and there's no point delaying the purpose of the trip. It's not like we don't know each other - intimately.
I move my right hand to your left thigh and squeeze before I slide it towards your groin. You respond, manspreading for me so I can get to what I want more easily, and I palm your limp pistol and reach my fingers lower to massage your boys. You lift my right leg over your left and rest your warm hand on my upper thigh, drumming it with your fingers. Then, like heat seeking missiles, those fingers lock on the damp target and your middle finger slides under the elastic edge of my panties and penetrates my quivering quim.
All of a sudden the world mutes, and everything and everyone beyond our picnic table blurs. It's as if I'm stricken with hearing loss accompanied by severe near-sightedness. The only thing audible is our elevated breathing, and the only thing in focus is the burgeoning Bob Dole I've brought forth beneath your blue jeans. I want it in my mouth so badly, I begin to salivate. I suck in air to keep from drooling.
An obscure stranger raises his glass to us as he walks by. Perhaps the ferocity of our pheromones have wafted his way. I attempt to raise my glass to him in response but I'm trembling so terribly, I have to put the glass back down before I can complete the gesture. I feel your right hand rest on mine to steady the glass and I turn my gaze back to you. You squeeze my hand hard against the base of the glass, demanding my attention before you begin to penetrate me again with the long middle finger of your left hand. And just when I think I might actually cum right here in the middle of a crowded field, filled to capacity with cabernet-captivated winos, you extricate your paw from my voracious Venus Fly Trap and run the randy tip of your middle finger around the rim of my wine glass, then stick that finger in your mouth.
My heart stops. I'm going to faint. I'm going to slip from the seat and slide under the table and plant my face in your lap. I don't care what the consequences are. If I don't get your Moby Dick in my mouth right now, I'm going to scream blue bloody MURDER!
You're smiling. You like the way this wine weekend is turning out. It's apparent you have a power over me you weren't expecting, and that gives you great pleasure.
Is it my imagination or is the sky darkening too quickly, like the universe is speeding up this scene. The wine tents are flapping and snapping. Folks are gathering their chairs and blankets and rushing towards the ocean of parked vehicles. "Holy shit," you say, "Look what's coming." I follow your gaze, and see the wall of rain about to press its power into us. You take my hand in one hand and grab the two glasses in the other. I reach for the half empty bottle of wine, not taking the time to re-cork it, and we dash towards your camper van. You get the side door of the van open and I crawl in on all fours. Despite the shitnado swirling around us, I notice you take just one moment to enjoy the view up my skirt. And I'm thinking I may have some power of my own.
You step in after me and slide the door shut, just as the curtain of water wraps the vehicle and the wind almost lifts us from the grass.
"Man that was close," I say, a little shaken. I'm sitting on the van floor now, removing my boots. You sit in a captain's chair and do the same.
I wonder if you'll offer me another glass of wine. That would be a mistake. I'm pretty sure we've just entered Phase 3 of the conjugal visit, and I certainly don't want to take the edge off the experience. But surprisingly, you don't offer, and I know for sure we are on the same wavelength.
You stand and pull me to you and kiss me for the first time. It quickly crescendos from a delicate brush of my lips to a frantic tonsil tickler, and I'm reminded how dangerous kissing can be. I pull back and press my hands against your chest to slow down the action. I can feel your heartbeat racing up my arms but thankfully, you step back and put some space between us. I'm guessing you're fighting to compose yourself, determined to make this trip, which you arranged, worth my while.
You ask me if I like the van, and now that I'm taking it all in, I say, yes I do. I didn't really get a good look at the interior from the front seat when you picked me up at the airport, but it's a quality vehicle. The layout is pretty standard, but I'm intrigued by the mirror trim. It covers the narrow closet door and surrounds the queen-sized bed. I'm guessing you paid extra for that extravagance. I turn to ask you what this seemingly unnecessary addition has cost you. You pull me to you and wrap me in your arms and say,
"The dealers threw it in as an incentive."
I welcome your lie, because I understand the dynamics of our non-relationship, and compared to the anarchy of Mother Nature's minions storming the metal barricades of the ubiquitous Land Rovers and various versions of environmentally-friendly, coal-powered electric vehicles surrounding this camper van, I prefer what I can predict and control.
I wrap my arms around you and we waltz to the rhythm of the wind and rain. You nibble tenderly at my earlobe, and when I respond with a tug on your zipper, you dance me around and backwards towards the closet door. You take your sweet time inching my skirt up to my waist, and I know you're looking over my shoulder at my ass in that mirror. I wrap my left leg around your calf and grind up against you a little while you work my panties down around my upper thighs. Unexpectedly, you give my plump white ass a SMACK, then look at me with concern and say, "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you or hurt you." I assure you I liked it and ask for one more SPANK on the opposite cheek. You smile and comply, and my fleshy bottom tingles as the blood rushes to the surface and reddens me.
"Do you want to watch?" you ask as you face me to the mirror and press your hips against my ass. I nod yes, and reach behind me to tease your trouser trombone back to life. I know you've been waiting patiently to get your mitts on my money makers, but once again you show restraint, slowly wrapping your hands around and across the soft cashmere, almost like you're petting a kitten. You unfasten the next few buttons of the sweater with practiced precision, then work the sweater down and under my push-up bra. My pink nipples are just under the edge of the fabric and you gently coax them into view and roll them in your fingertips. My head falls back against your shoulder and you lift my left leg and place my socked foot onto the bed before moving that left hand back into picnic table position, tormenting my tinkleflower before pushing your middle finger up deep inside that deadend street.
I'm groaning and moaning and I think I hear you say "Damn you're tight," but I can barely hear us for the wind and rain whip-slapping the vehicle, and the crack of thunder immediately following the ever-increasing lightning strikes. You take your right hand from my breast and open a little drawer next to the closet and expose a stash of condoms, some lube, and a couple of blunts, and I think oh yeah, he's done this more than once, but I don't care. There's no commitment here, and no relationship, except the inappropriate one we forged in a chat room that hooked us up across the 3,000-mile expanse between the Pacific Coast Highway and AIA.
