B
BendyWendy
Guest
Some years back, I was asked by a colleague if I would entertain an American visitor who had expressed an interest in walking in the English countryside. I am a keen country walker, and so an obvious choice to ask: and I enjoy showing others the walks and places I love, so I was pleased to agree.
The man was very nice - genuinely interested in English places, habits and history - and we spent a full and very nice day walking, talking and generally enjoying each other's company. At the time I was not aware of it, but in retrospect we were quickly more intimate than I think either of us realised: nothing overt, but the casual brush of hand on bare arm, knees touching at lunch in the pub, a gaze held for a little longer than is usual. I was, I insist, not consciosuly aware of this - I do admit I liked him, liked being with him, found him fun and funny. And I admit that I thought he liked me. But nothing more entered my mind - it was a fun day with a nice man, walking, showing off my local knowledge, navigation skills and fitness, enjoying a day in the country.
That evening I drove him to the airport.
It was a pleasant drive, with the evening darkening into early night. We talked at first but then lapsed into a comfortable silence.
As I drove, quite out of the blue, he turned to me and in rather a tortured voice sort of blurted: "Wendy, I am so sorry but I really want to make love to you".
I was genuinely stunned - shocked. I had not even thought about him in that way at all, nor had any clue he might have such thoughts about me. I drove on in silence for a while - not so much thinking as sort of feeling: I did not let myself think, dared not.
I pulled the car off the road on a track to a car park behind a church: still without saying anything.
Then I got out of the car, walked to his door, opened it, and almost physically pulled him out of the car.
Until then - until I had his hand in mine, in the dark, by the car - until then I was quite calm. But then, quite suddenly, I was not calm at all.
I actually unzipped him - unzipped his pants, undid his belt, pushed them down, and took his cock out.
He was rigid - hard as a rock - and I just almost dragged him, by my hand wrapped round his cock, to the front of the car.
I had on a dark green skirt, and I hiked it up. He was hard as a rock. I did not take my panties off - I simply tugged the gusset to one side.
He went in very easily - I was very wet.
I remember the heat of the engine through the car bonnet (hood, to my American friends) - almost too hot, against my buttocks - and the way my juices lubricated not just the cock but the car hood, so that my body slipped and slid all over it, almost making me laugh even as I took the hard deep fucking and grunted as he did it to me.
It did not take long: my own orgasm was quick and intense, and triggered his. But it didn’t matter - I was so sated, so smug, I felt like a goddess of sex.
All the way to the airport, he apologized. He was sorry for saying what he said: sorry for doing it to me; sorry for not lasting. I wanted to scream. I wanted to dump him from the car so I could hug myself and hold that cum-filled sated - desired - feeling. He was sorry about everything, it was awful, he ruined it.
But when I escaped, dropping him at the ‘drop off’ zone, I forgot him, and rembered what we did. It was hot.
And cum stains car paint.
The man was very nice - genuinely interested in English places, habits and history - and we spent a full and very nice day walking, talking and generally enjoying each other's company. At the time I was not aware of it, but in retrospect we were quickly more intimate than I think either of us realised: nothing overt, but the casual brush of hand on bare arm, knees touching at lunch in the pub, a gaze held for a little longer than is usual. I was, I insist, not consciosuly aware of this - I do admit I liked him, liked being with him, found him fun and funny. And I admit that I thought he liked me. But nothing more entered my mind - it was a fun day with a nice man, walking, showing off my local knowledge, navigation skills and fitness, enjoying a day in the country.
That evening I drove him to the airport.
It was a pleasant drive, with the evening darkening into early night. We talked at first but then lapsed into a comfortable silence.
As I drove, quite out of the blue, he turned to me and in rather a tortured voice sort of blurted: "Wendy, I am so sorry but I really want to make love to you".
I was genuinely stunned - shocked. I had not even thought about him in that way at all, nor had any clue he might have such thoughts about me. I drove on in silence for a while - not so much thinking as sort of feeling: I did not let myself think, dared not.
I pulled the car off the road on a track to a car park behind a church: still without saying anything.
Then I got out of the car, walked to his door, opened it, and almost physically pulled him out of the car.
Until then - until I had his hand in mine, in the dark, by the car - until then I was quite calm. But then, quite suddenly, I was not calm at all.
I actually unzipped him - unzipped his pants, undid his belt, pushed them down, and took his cock out.
He was rigid - hard as a rock - and I just almost dragged him, by my hand wrapped round his cock, to the front of the car.
I had on a dark green skirt, and I hiked it up. He was hard as a rock. I did not take my panties off - I simply tugged the gusset to one side.
He went in very easily - I was very wet.
I remember the heat of the engine through the car bonnet (hood, to my American friends) - almost too hot, against my buttocks - and the way my juices lubricated not just the cock but the car hood, so that my body slipped and slid all over it, almost making me laugh even as I took the hard deep fucking and grunted as he did it to me.
It did not take long: my own orgasm was quick and intense, and triggered his. But it didn’t matter - I was so sated, so smug, I felt like a goddess of sex.
All the way to the airport, he apologized. He was sorry for saying what he said: sorry for doing it to me; sorry for not lasting. I wanted to scream. I wanted to dump him from the car so I could hug myself and hold that cum-filled sated - desired - feeling. He was sorry about everything, it was awful, he ruined it.
But when I escaped, dropping him at the ‘drop off’ zone, I forgot him, and rembered what we did. It was hot.
And cum stains car paint.
