The Game and the Hitchhier

Debbie and I had been on the road for nearly two hours since we left the hotel. The last hour had been spent seeing how turned on we could get one another, without actually making any physical contact. The secret of this little game, of course, is that everything I say or do to get her turned on has the reverse affect of turning me on, and vice versa. Moreover, seeing the other getting turned on is, in itself, a turn-on. And so on.

“So,” I said in a half-accusatory but teasing tone, “I suppose ol’ whatshisname wasn’t getting a boner, then?”

“Yeah, maybe he was, but you men get a boner every time a girl smiles at you. Doesn’t take much.”

“As if you women don’t know just exactly what affect you’re having. Christ, I really think that you gals go to school or something to learn what to say and what to do, just to

give

a guy an erection. And then they teach you how to act dumb and say ‘

I did that?

,’ with this little-girl innocence.”

“Bill, you’re giving me far too much credit. All I did was dance with the guy—and his name was Larry, by the way. He asked, and you said okay. It’s not my fault if he’s got testosterone instead of sweat coming out of his pores when he dances. Like I told you last night—and

again

this morning—Larry had too much to drink and he was just . . . well, I guess he

was

a little frisky.” Debbie snickered a little, more to herself than for my benefit.

She went on. “And yeah, like I told you before, I could feel his

bone

poking me as we were dancing, but otherwise he behaved himself. Right?”

“Hell, yeah, like dry humping another man’s wife on the dance floor is good behavior!”

“Oh, come on. I’d hardly call it dry humping. We were dancing slow, and our bodies were touching, and it just happened that he had an erection—and I could feel it.”

“And just exactly where again was it poking into you?”

“Uh, I guess about here.” She placed her right index finger less than two inches to the right of her pussy, which at the moment was concealed beneath her brief cotton panties. She was wearing a loose-fitting dress, I think it’s called a sundress, which as she spoke was riding high on her thighs, exposing the crotch of her panties. With the warm Arizona weather, Debbie had opted for the lightweight and airy garment. She had omitted a bra, but kept the panties. The scoop neck displayed more than a little cleavage. If she had the occasion to bend over, like in a store or something, a passerby wouldn’t need glasses to see her pendular breasts, and nipples to boot.

“Okay, so he’s jabbing you within a cunt hair of your goodyheimer, and I suppose while you guys were swaying to the tunes it didn’t happen to jab you right on the money?”

“Maybe. So?”

“And that doesn’t qualify as

dry humping

? I mean, if you weren’t wearing anything, and he wasn’t wearing anything, he would have been flat out

fucking

you right then and there—standing up and dancing.”

Debbie laughed. “Okay, Mister Hypocrite, I guess you’re right. Hell, if I’d thought of that last night, I mighta been more turned on by it.” Sarcastic as hell.

“Oh, I think you were plenty turned on, regardless. And what do you mean by hypocrite?”

“That’s a person who . . .”

“I

know

what the word means. Why are you calling me one?”

“Because a little later, when you and I were dancing, I could feel little junior knocking on my door. And don’t try and deny it, you were hard too.”

“Yeah, but you’re my wife, and I was looking forward to getting you back to the room.”

“Okay. If it makes you happy, I admit that dancing with Larry got me wet. Fine, now you know. Tell me that you didn’t get just a little turned on watching us dance, and you suspecting that he did have a hard-on from it. You can’t say that didn’t have something to do with how gung-ho you were in bed later.”

“Not so fast. I seem to recall that you were soaked when you finally got to bed. I can’t believe that your ‘

Oh, God, fuck me hard!

’ stuff last night wasn’t more than a little bit attributable to dear old Larry.”

“Maybe. Do you blame me? Are you complaining? I mean if you’d rather I didn’t say things like that when we’re doing it, maybe I should just lay there and . . . well . . .” Her voice suddenly had taken on a smooth, seductive quality. My pecker was stirring with added vigor.

“I’m curious. Please, honey, tell me the truth. If things had worked out, and we were both in agreement, would you . . . would you have gone ahead and fucked Larry?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But only if you’d been all for it. It’s not something I . . .”

“Last year wasn’t very long ago. And I know that I’ve never seen you more turned on—

ever

—than you were with Chris. You’d only known him for a few hours, yet when he fucked you, it was like the fuckin’ Fourth of July.”

“Yeah, well . . . that was . . .”

“That was a

major

turn-on for both of us. And for Chris, I’ll bet. Hell, he musta dumped a year’s worth in you that night. You were leaking his shit for three weeks.”

“Hardly. Honey, you know we were

all

so turned on we couldn’t talk straight that night. And your little eruption wasn’t all that small, if you recall.”

“It’s not easy sitting there and watching all that going on without building up a full head of steam. Jeez, I amazed myself that I was able to hold off until you got your mouth on it. Of course, what with you getting your socks knocked off by Chris right then, it’s lucky you didn’t bite the head off it!”

This brought a giggle from her. I’m sure she was picturing the scene, with all its heat and chaos. It was an incredible experience, and I’m surprised we hadn’t made an effort to arrange another similar scene in the ten months or so since then. Debbie and I hadn’t talked about it all that often afterwards, except alluding to it when we were making love, which certainly added to the pleasure of the moment. In fact, this most recent trip out of town had been an undeclared opportunity to reprise the forbidden fruit of wife-sharing—neither of us had brought the subject up in relation to this trip, but I have no doubt that it was very much in the back of her mind. And I think last night with Larry was an overture in that direction. It just hadn’t jelled properly, is all.

“You know,” Debbie said, “I have to admit that I . . . oh, never mind.”

“Go on. You have to admit what?”

She sighed and exhaled through her nose. “I suppose that maybe I was kinda hoping, you know, that maybe something like that . . . what happened with Chris, I mean . . . you know.”

“That maybe we could’ve done something like that this time?” I interjected.

“Yeah. Something like that.” She turned and looked hard at me. “Does that sound awful? I hope you don’t think I’m some kind of a slut or something, you know, even thinking about that.”

“Hardly. Come on, honey, you

know

I’ve never said anything or acted like I was in any way disappointed in you, or even thought less of you for what happened with Chris. I was thinking just now that it would have been great if another Chris had happened this trip. I really was.”

“Really? You’re not just saying that?”

“Honey, I’ve never been so stoked as I was that night, and last night I started imagining you and Larry . . . I guess I was a little disappointed that it didn’t work out that way.”

“So was I,” she said in barely a whisper.

It appeared that our game was beginning to lose its entertainment value. “Hey, could you tell while you were dancing if Larry was . . . you know, if he was really hung?” I asked this as lightly and as uplifting (forgive the pun) as I could.

“Well, it kinda felt like it, but I’m not sure.” She sounded tentative, but willing to contribute to the theme of the conversation.

“I bet you wish you coulda found out for sure. I mean, he probably ended up stroking that bad boy for all he was worth after he got back to his room . . . after dancing with you. I can just imagine that it was long and hard, and he was jerking that sucker with nothing but you in his mind. I bet he damn near hit the ceiling when he let it fly!”

“You really think so?” Debbie said this in the form of a question, but I’m sure she was probably thinking that Larry probably did just that. Not a near-miss on the ceiling, but all the rest of it. I hoped that she was getting back into the swing of the game.

“Look,” I said, “you had me to take your sexual frustration out on. He didn’t have you. What would you have done if I hadn’t been there, if you had gone to bed alone last night? And who would have been your main fantasy while you were fingering yourself? I know, my dear, that it wouldn’t’ve been me.”

“I suppose.”

“And when you came, it would have been pretty terrific, wouldn’t it?”

She gave a little snort of amusement. “Yeah. Probably.” Debbie was beginning to exhibit a trace of a glow about her face, which was a fairly good indication that the game was again afoot.

“Would you have

wanted

me to be with Larry?” She didn’t look in my direction when she said this, but was toying with the hem of her dress.

“I think so. Yeah, if he was someone you wanted to be with. Rather than, of course, someone who just happened to be there at the right place at the right time. I thought he was a good looking guy, and he turned you on, so why not?” She was pausing before speaking, apparently mulling over her words and their affect on me. “So, do you think you would have been as excited this time . . . with Larry . . .?”

“You mean, as excited as I was with you and Chris?”

“Yeah. Would you have gotten so turned on watching him . . .

fuck

me?”

“Oh, I think I probably would have.” I tried not to sound so blasé about it, but it was obvious to me that she knew it would.

“Would it have turned you on as much to see me enjoying it?”

“That’s the main reason I enjoy it myself, watching and hearing you getting off on it. My God, Debbie, in my entire life I’ve never been more turned on than when I saw you and Chris together. If it had been even half as hot with Larry, I would’ve hit the ceiling myself, or bruised your tonsils!”

Debbie confirmed that she was well into the spirit of the game when she lifted her hips and slid off her panties. Her fingers went straight to the center of her excitement, her eyes closing as she scrunched down on the car seat, her knees parted, and began to strum a tune on her clit. Her shoes were off and her toes gripped the carpet.

I alternated my gaze from the road ahead to what she was doing. My prick was straining against my Levis. I debated with myself whether to keep feeding her lascivious remarks, or to just let her use her own imagination to accomplish her present goal. I opted to remain quiet, other than to gently caress her left shoulder. Within two minutes, she contorted through a shuddering release.

As the orgasmic dust settled, Debbie remained in place, her eyes still closed, her active hand now resting idle on her tummy. My erection remained, but was not as turgid as before. My need for release was ever-present, but the feeling it provided was so delicious I didn’t mind holding it at bay.

For the time being.

I know it sounds far too coincidental to be true, but just as Debbie was basking in her afterglow, the highway slowed from freeway speed to nearly half that, as we passed through a series of signal lights which accommodated the city that surrounded them. It took at least ten minutes of stop and go before I saw the city limits sign ahead, along with a sign that restored the speed limit to what it had been before. Just as I started to apply some pressure on the accelerator, I noticed a person standing next to the boundary marker, facing oncoming traffic. He was apparently hitchhiking.

The town we had passed was best known for a small but popular state college that had comprised the hub of the community for many decades. It was a rather common sight to see students hitchhiking, although I was not a proponent of the practice, so I had never obliged a hitcher with a ride on the many occasions I had driven through.

Perhaps I was under the influence at that moment, from the sexual intoxication that permeated our car, but I found my mind racing—at the same time as I eased off the gas pedal. The wheels were still turning—in my head and on the road—as I passed the young man who held a crude but neatly lettered cardboard sign that said

ONLY 100 MILES—PLEASE.

I was probably three hundred yards beyond him before I braked to a stop on the shoulder. Debbie had broken out of her reverie with a quizzical expression.

“Honey,” I said, “would it be all right if we gave a college student a ride for a little ways? He looks all right, not like a serial killer or anything.”

She turned around in the seat, searching for the subject of my question, finally seeing him a goodly distance away.

“What . . . you never pick up hitchhikers.”

“I know, but he looks okay. It won’t be far. His sign says a hundred miles, so it won’t be any more than an hour-and-a-half or so. Come on. I’m sure it’ll be safe.”

“Whatever,” she said resignedly and nestled back into the seat.

I put the car into reverse as I saw him in the mirror begin to run toward us, spurred on by the prospect of a ride. As we closed the distance between us, I saw that he carried a small tote bag. Probably taking a break from school and going home for a few days.

He reached the car as I thumbed down Debbie’s window.

“Hi,” he said, “I’m just going a ways up the highway. Sure appreciate a lift.”

“Hop in,” I said, as trite as that sounds. He pulled open the rear door, slung his bag over to the left side of the seat, and slid in. As I slipped back into traffic, I kept glancing at our new passenger in the rear-view mirror. He looked to be maybe twenty, twenty-two at the most. He was clean shaven, his hair a little tousled but cut in a conservative style—not overly long, or shaved, for that matter. His clothing was pretty much what one would expect of a college student: faded blue jeans and a dark blue T-shirt bearing the school’s logo.

“My name’s Ben,” he volunteered.

“I’m Bill, this is my wife, Debbie.”

“Pleased to meet you. Thanks again for the ride.” I didn’t point out to him that he needn’t have thanked us

again

for the ride, since he hadn’t thanked us before. “Sometimes I’ve had to stand there for a couple hours, waiting for someone to pick me up. I’m going home, over in Needles, for a week. Finished finals, so I really need a break.”

“You a senior, or . . .” I inquired.

“Naw, just a junior. This time next year I’ll have my degree and I’ll really take a break. Thinking about maybe Europe for a month or so. Just to get schoolwork out of my system.”

Ben sounded fairly squared away. From what I could see, he was a good-looking young man, slender but athletic in stature. Mom and Dad’s pride and joy, I’m sure.

Debbie had apparently begun to tune in to the same frequency as I was on, finally realizing why I had picked the young man up. She sat up and turned to face him.

“So what are you majoring in?” she asked.

“Psychology. My dad’s a psychologist, and I figure he’ll be a big help, especially when I go for my PhD. He’s got a private practice, but I guess it’d be smart for me to try for a position with an institution somewhere, just to get started.”

“Fascinating,” she replied. “Bill and I were just talking about psychological stuff, like motivation, and stimulus and response, and whatnot.” I surreptitiously poked her in the thigh with my knuckle. As I did that, my eye caught sight of her panties lying against the firewall of her foot space, well within Ben’s view if he merely leaned forward. Our car is a Honda Accord, which has plenty of passenger space, but is not particularly spacious.

“Oh, yeah? Well, that’s, uh, part of it, all right.” He was patronizing her—he knew it and she knew it. But that didn’t dissuade her. I had the sneaking suspicion that she was becoming predatory.

“Yeah, in fact, we were talking about human sexuality, and how different people react to the same stimuli. Like when a man, or let’s say a woman, is feeling especially . . . horny . . . how sometimes she reacts the same way in one situation as she did in a similar one that occurred before.”

“Uh, yeah, I suppose . . .”

“And if they do, how predictable is that? I mean if, say, the woman had

fucked

a guy while her husband watched, and he enjoyed it and she enjoyed it, then what is the probability that when another guy came along who turned her on, and her husband gave her the green light, that she and this new guy would end up

fucking

each other in front of the husband again?”

“Uh, well, I suppose it would be a matter of . . .”

“I mean, would it be expected? Would it be no more . . . what? . . .

trashy

of her to do it than it was the first time? Or any more perverted for the husband to

cream

like a stud stallion from the sheer excitement of it all?”

“I, uh, suppose not, but . . . well . . . I guess it wouldn’t be all that unusual, under the circumstances . . .” Ben was squirming around in the back seat. Debbie had to turn a complete one-eighty to look directly at him, since his bag was on the seat behind me, and he was sitting exactly behind Debbie.

“Look, Ben,” she continued, “I’m sure you’ve gotten turned on before. Maybe it wasn’t because your girlfriend was

fucking

your best friend in front of you or anything, or you were

fucking

her best friend in front of her, but from a man’s perspective, and not just a psych major, don’t you think that any man or woman in this situation would behave predictably, and act on their impulses?”

Before he had the opportunity to respond, Debbie raised the ante.

“Hey, I’m getting a stiff neck here. Why don’t we move that bag so you can sit behind Bill, and I won’t have to strain my neck to talk to you?”

She raised up on her knees as she said this and leaned over to grasp the bag in the back seat. I knew—I

knew

—that the cut of her dress allowed her tits to be intentionally displayed in all their glory to Ben’s gaze. A glance in the mirror at his image and visual focus confirmed it. Debbie lifted the bag as Ben slid over behind me, then plopped it down where he had been sitting.

I don’t mind telling you that I was as hard as the proverbial rock, and I had no doubt that Debbie’s inner thighs were getting slimed, knowing what was developing. I didn’t have to see it for myself to know that Ben must have been straining the seams of his zipper. Unless he was a . . . oh no, he’s

got

to be

straight

! He just

has

to be.

Debbie remained on her knees, facing Ben over her backrest. “Ben, I know I’m asking a lot of an undergraduate, but I’m also relying on your judgment as a

man

. Don’t you think that a woman deserves to satisfy her needs, as much as a man, and that she shouldn’t be made to feel

dirty

if she’s only behaving in a natural way to satisfy her urges?”

All of this verbiage was certainly not Debbie’s style, but I recognized that she was talking this way as part of the role she had assumed, that of a woman talking to a shrink, seeking guidance. It was pure

theater

, and was not intended to be taken or interpreted as anything but. Ben was still squirming, although I did detect more sustained eye contact with Debbie as she ranted on. I read this as a connection: he was paying attention and he was

hearing

the message. I was hearing it all too well, as the miles zipped past with nary a notice. We might have traveled ten miles or sixty miles; I was transfixed.

Debbie must have divined even greater insight from their interaction, as she apparently felt the time was right to make the next overt move. She maneuvered her right leg, then her left through the separation between the front seats and made her way into the back seat. I could only imagine how much of her lower female anatomy was exposed in the process, considering that she was wearing a loose-fitting dress with no panties. In any event, Debbie was now sitting alongside Ben. She had pushed the bag down into the space behind the front passenger seat into the foot well, freeing up the length of the rather short bench seat on which she and Ben were positioned.