(In the same style as my earlier story, "Will she or won't she?" This one comes to a more powerful conclusion, following some of your comments, although I believe the earlier story should remain as it is.)
Early September evening in Montreal. We are returning from a pleasant dinner in one of the trendy new restaurants that always seem to pop up, last for a few years, and disappear along St-Laurent boulevard. The food has been good, the surroundings and ambiance suitably glamorous, a bottle of overpriced super Tuscan wine has been consumed.
Now we are driving back in my little two-seater sports car, the convertible top down to enjoy the still warm weather. We are going north on St-Laurent, two lanes of traffic going one way between the other two lanes of parked cars, both sides of the streets lit up by more restaurants, bars, clubs and fashionable boutiques. Between the cars double parked or waiting for someone to vacate a parking spot, and the people watching, the traffic is slow, sometimes stopped and then just creeping forward at walking pace.
Nobody seems frustrated by the leisurely pace of the traffic; watching the people on the sidewalks and on the terraces as we drive slowly by is part of the reason for taking that particular street to begin with. I certainly am not in a hurry, admiring the glow of the sodium yellow light from the streetlamps reflecting on the smooth bare legs of my girlfriend sitting in the passenger seat. They look freshly shaved, smooth from the hem of her mid-thigh length skirt in a nice reddish brown color, down to the pretty strappy sandals in white leather studded with little sparkling crystals, toenails painted in a beautiful mother-of-pearl polish. Her legs still tanned from the summer sun, matching the tone of the leather of the seat. Savannah Beige, for those who care.
The pace of traffic is slow enough that I don't need to use the gear shift lever, just gently easing out the clutch with the engine at idle in first gear to keep up with the stop and go. So instead I rest my hand on her left thigh, and gently stroke the inside of it with my fingers. So soft yet firm. We haven't been talking much since getting in the car, we've had had a few hours of pleasant conversation. Now we are both enjoying the quiet drive while watching the bustle all around, on the sidewalks.
Her left hand comes up to rest on my shoulder behind the headrest, her fingernails gently tracing the back of my neck. She often does this while I drive, but now I notice that the rhythm of her finger's caresses on my neck seem to match my own slow strokes on the inside of her thigh.
My hand squeezing a little more as it creeps up closer to the edge of her skirt. Her fingernails digging deeper in the back of my neck in response. If we had been cats we would both be purring.
Now my hand is slowly creeping under the hem of her skirt as I stroke her thigh. My pinky gently grazing the satin material of her panties. Her own hand squeezing my shoulder and neck in response. Her eyes now closed, a gentle smile on her lips.
The sides of this car being fairly high relative to the low seating position, and with the windows up even though the top is down, you would have to peer over the door to see well inside the car. Or from a second or third floor window. Or be standing between the parked cars on the right side, waiting for a gap in the slow traffic to cross the street.
My fingers are now against her crotch, and my pinky under the edge of her panties, slowly caressing her pussy lips through her pubic hair. The massage on my neck is also more intense now, sometimes pausing when I touch a particularly sensitive spot in her pussy. Her eyes remain closed, her mouth slightly open as she enjoys these caresses, both private and public at the same time.
"Take your panties off." I say, not looking at her but at the cars ahead of us. Normal tone of voice, not an order, not a question. Sounding as if I am taking for granted that she will comply.
