Southern Girl Fantasy

We left my boss's party, me sober and my wife Sandra solidly drunk: I was driving us home. She was talking loudly as I opened the door for her, and I could hear her continuing on as I walked around the back of my red sedan.

But when I opened my door, I realized that my Massachussetts-born wife was talking in an exaggerated Southern accent.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" she slurred with a serious twang.

"You're talking in a Southern accent."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"I am? I don't know why I am."

"Well, it's no big deal," I said as I put the car into drive. "In fact, it's kind of hot. It's triggering all these latent fantasies about Southern girls."

"Oh, yeah?" she drawled. "What do they do that I don't?"

She had a point. My wife had never disappointed me sexually. She loved sucking cock, she'd do any position, she could have multiple orgasms in a row, and she had a nice collection of lingerie that she was happy to put on display. I never got tired of fucking her, and with her coppery curls, green eyes, and 5' 3" hourglass body, I never got tired of looking at her.

Still, I couldn't help but be tempted by her inebriated state and her odd new accent.

"Well, I imagine them as easy, loose, and so horny that they'd start acting naughty even while I'm driving, just to make sure I'm hot and hard by the time we get home."

"I can be naughty, and I am actually kind of horny," she continued to say in her affected tone.

"Yeah? Well, why don't you feel up those gorgeous tits of yours if you're such a horny Southern girl?"

"I don't know. On the road like this?"

"See. Southern girls wouldn't care about that. Besides, it's dark. Even if there were cars here, they couldn't see in."

"Hm, that's a good point." She giggled and started to squeeze her 36D breasts, kneading them through her sweater. I glanced over, and she asked, "Like this?"

"Yeah, that's hot, honey. Do you like that?" I could only sneak glances, since I had to keep my eyes on the road, but I was getting hard watching her feel herself up.

"Oh, yeah. Is this how you picture things in your little fantasies?"

I decided to push it further. "Well, actually, in my fantasy the girl wouldn't be wearing a bra."

"Oh, I should've known," she laughed, continuing the Southern accent that had come from some deep part of her drunken subconscious.

She kept working over her breasts for another 10 seconds or so, humming loudly to herself: I'm sure she thought she was being quiet. Then she sat forward, reached her hands behind her back, and unhooked her bra. She pulled an arm into her black cardigan, wiggled it up and down to remove the bra strap, and then repeated the process with the other arm. She reached under her seater and pulled the lacy green bra out.

"Yee haw!" she yelled as she waved it in front of me.

Holy shit, I thought. She's really going for it.

"Oh, my little Southern belle, you are incredible. Let's see you play with your tits now that I can really see them move. And keep talking in that sexy little accent of yours. Tell me how you feel." She reclined her seat a bit, and put her hands to work again.

"Ooh, my breasts feel so good. I can really squeeze them together now without my bra in the way. My nipples are getting so hard they're getting scratched by the wool." I glanced over, and saw her mounds squishing back and forth under her sweater.

God, I was so hard. And we still had forty-five minutes left in our drive . "Poor baby. You know how Southern girls avoid the scratching?"

"No. How? I want to be a good Southern girl for you."

"Well, they don't close as many buttons as you do. Maybe you should undo a couple of buttons and loosen up your sweater."

"I see what you're trying to do," she slurred, "and I like it."

She fumbled one button open: Her coordination wasn't great. Then she worked on the second one, leaving a fair amount of cleavage visible.

"You've got to do more than that if you're going to act like the Southern girl of my fantasy."

"Sheesh, these girls are loose," she said. But she undid the third button, right between her breasts, and then she undid the next one down. I glanced over just as she pulled her sweater open a little. I had a great view of her right breast as it sat pert and full in front of her, and I could see a fair amount of her left breast, too. Her quarter-sized aureoles formed a perfect backdrop to her hard, pink nipples.

We started to pull onto the main road, and I thought for sure she'd button up and sit up. But she had closed her eyes and was so blitzed that she didn't notice. Cars whizzed by, but it was dark enough -- and she was reclined enough -- that none of the other sedans' drivers would be able to see in.

"Keep playing with those tits, honey. And keep talking in that accent. This is straight out of my fantasy."

She massaged her breasts as she continued her monologue. "Oh, my tits feel so good. The skin's so soft and smooth. I'd love to feel your cock right between them, pushing high enough for me to get my tongue on it."

I wanted to take the next exit and fuck her tits right then: I could just imagine her creamy, freckled mounds wrapped around my dick until I came all over them. But I decided to keep pushing it.

"I'll bet that rubbing is making you all wet," I said.

"God, yes. I can't wait to get home." Neither can I, I thought.

"Well, my fantasy Southern girl wouldn't wait. She'd hike up her skirt and pull down her panties. Then she'd start rubbing her clit and get herself off two or three times. She'd want to be nice and wet for me so that I could fuck her as soon as we got home. You can do it, honey. I don't mind."

"You are quite the gentleman," she said. And, still inebriated enough to play along, she lifted her skirt until the hemline was just above her crotch, giving me a good look at her white stockings and their garter belt tops and a peek of her green lace panties. She reached her hands up her skirt, hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties, and pulled them down, kicking them off her feet.

Up ahead, an SUV was driving the same direction. Suddenly, the moon came out from behind the clouds to light the highway with a silvery glow. I smiled to myself and began to speed up. My wife's eyes were still closed.

"Remember, honey. A good Southern belle would have her hand up between her legs, and she'd be working herself into a frenzy." My wife got to work on her pussy, her right hand sliding up and down between her legs.

"Lift your skirt higher, honey. I want to see you fuck yourself." She was already moaning, and she moved her left hand down to her skirt hem. She lifted her ass off the seat and tugged her skirt hem up above her waist. She stopped masturbating and used her right hand to help. I glanced over to see her neatly trimmed curly red pubes just before she covered them again with her right hand.

As we approached the SUV, I came up with an idea. "You know the Southern girl fantasy is a girl working to get me rock hard before we get home, right?"

"Yeah," she said, panting slightly.

"Well, it would get me really hard if you took your hand off your pussy and sucked the juice from your fingertips."

"She lifted her hand and I sped up slightly. As she sucked noisily on her fingers, saying things like "I taste so good now. I can't wait until I can taste your juice, too." We came alongside the SUV, and the driver, a balding man in his 50s, glanced down. Then he did a double-take and looked straight down. My wife had her sweater mostly unbuttoned and had it open far enough for both her tits to be visible from his vantage point. Her skirt was lifted high, and with her hand sucking on her fingers, her pussy was exposed as well. He smiled, and gave me a big thumbs-up, and I smiled back.

Sandra pulled her fingers from her mouth and put it back to work on her clit, rubbing and moaning. She was still speaking in her Southern accent, but she was doing more panting than talking. The SUV kept pace as she brought herself to her first orgasm, her body shuddering as she came. The SUV driver and I kept glancing over at her, and occasionally our eyes would meet and we'd exchange a big, goofy smile. But then he turned off at an exit, and we were mostly alone again.

She came once more on the drive home, pausing after her first orgasm to knead her breasts some more. She played with her nipples, moaning as she did. She dozed slightly after her second orgasm, having tuckered herself out.

When we pulled into the garage, she woke up, stretched, and said, "Your Southern girl fantasy is all about getting you hot and hard by the time we get home, so now where does it go?" The accent was fading, but she was obviously still game to play.

"Hop out the car, and as you walk through the kitchen door, take off your sweater and toss it on the counter. Then stop at the living room door, take off your skirt, and leave it on the floor. Leave your stockings and heels on, though. Wait for me in the living room on all fours."

She walked ahead of me, and I saw her arms pull open her sweater just as the door between the garage and kitchen swung shut. I locked up the car and walked inside. There was the sweater, and there was the skirt, like a trail of bread crumbs. I walked into the living room and saw the tasty treat waiting for me: My wife on all fours, as I had said, her back arched in and her head turned to look at me over her shoulder. Her firm, rounded ass stuck up in the air.

I didn't wait. I kicked off my shoes, pulled off my shirt, unbuttoned my pants, and tugged them and my boxer briefs down in one motion. I knelt behind her and drove my cock into her sopping wet pussy. I pushed in and out, grabbing her shoulders so that I could get in deep. Sandra moaned more loudly with each thrust, until I came inside of her and she screamed in orgasm.

"God, what a rush," she said as we lay on the carpet, her arm around me and her head on my shoulder. "That was incredible."

"Why were you talking in a Southern accent, anyway?"

"Ha. You've mentioned your Georgia peach fantasy before, and I thought I'd give it a whirl."

"Really? I am so in love with you for saying that."

"Well, what's next in your fantasy?"

"I'm making this up as I go along, but I want to slide my hand into your cunt and have you lick all the juice off my fingers."

She rolled on her back, opened her mouth, and spread her legs. I couldn't believe it. I reached my hand down and tucked it easily into her slick pussy. I held up my hand to her mouth and moaned as she began to lick my fingers clean.

"You know what?" she asked when I had finished.

"Hm?"

"I had my eyes open a tiny bit. I know about the SUV."

I froze. Getting her to perform for me was okay, but exposing her to other people had never been part of our deal.

"It was so fucking hot," she said, reverting to her faux Southern accent. "I want to do it again."