This step was the natural conclusion of a long road. A total absence of rules, absolute freedom, where the only law left was our mutual trust and our passion for openness. We struck this agreement over dinner at a restaurant, and the air between us fairly crackled with the realization of what a boundless reality had just opened up. My wife Natalie was burning from within, her eyes glittered, and we both itched to test this new freedom in action at the first convenient opportunity.
The opportunity presented itself the moment we stepped outside. We called a car for the ride home, and a well-kept dark sedan rolled up to the restaurant. Behind the wheel sat a young, good-looking guy with strong hands and a confident driving manner. The simple male assurance he radiated instantly resonated with the mood we were in.
I deliberately opened the rear door and settled onto the spacious back seat, immediately tipping my head back and closing my eyes, pretending the restaurant wine had finally knocked me out. My wife, catching my plan from half a hint, sat down in the front passenger seat with a light, promising smile. She wore an emerald silk dress that rustled softly in the cabin’s half-dark with her every movement.
The car pulled away, carrying us into the depths of the night city. Quiet, unobtrusive music played in the cabin, and streetlights flickered past the windows. My wife played it bold. She crossed her legs, letting the hem of the dress ride up above her knees, and struck up a casual, slightly ambiguous conversation with the driver, now and then throwing quick glances at the rearview mirror to make sure I was watching. Under the cover of my even, feigned breathing she slowly reached her hand toward the gearshift and, as if by accident, touched his thigh.
The guy froze for a second but didn’t slow down — only gripped the wheel tighter. Understanding that the barrier had been crossed, my wife acted decisively. Her palm moved surely to the driver’s groin, covering his flesh through the dense denim, soft but insistent. At that direct, unexpected touch from a beautiful woman the driver’s breathing quickened audibly. He cut her a darkened glance, and under her tender fingers his shaft began to swell rapidly with force, bulging distinctly under the seatbelt. My wife lazily squeezed and stroked his hardening cock by turns, feeling the guy start to lose his grip on the road.
“There’s… a quiet lane up ahead,” the driver said in a hoarse, broken voice, turning off the main avenue into an unlit blind alley between buildings.
The car came to a smooth stop in dense shadow, the engine still murmuring at idle. The guy instantly dropped his seatback, freeing up space, and with quick, impatient movements unbuckled his belt and the fastening of his jeans. His thick, hot cock, already fully awakened by her caresses, sprang free of his underwear, heavy and taut.
My wife didn’t linger. She climbed gracefully over from her seat, settling her knees on the floor mat at his feet. Her silk dress pulled tight across her hips, opening a perfect view from the back seat, where I went on sitting motionless, holding my breath, drinking in every nuance. In the dark of the cabin her face came level with his heat-radiating flesh. Catching his heavy breathing with her lips, she leaned in, mouth opening, and slowly, deeply took his dense head inside. The first wet sound of her caresses carried through the cabin, mixing with the long, gut-deep exhale of the stunned driver.
The guy jerked back against the headrest, his fingers locking dead onto the rim of the steering wheel. My wife moved smoothly and confidently, bracing one hand on the dashboard and holding him by the base of the shaft with the other. In the cramped front row, under the quiet rumble of the engine, the wet sounds of her mouth were unbelievably loud and frank. The emerald silk stretched across her hips, and from the back seat I had a perfect view of every curve of her, every breath, and the rhythmic bobbing of her head.
The driver breathed loudly, raggedly through his nose. After a couple of minutes of that pressure he couldn’t hold out — his hand slid off the wheel and settled on the back of my wife’s head, gentle but commanding, guiding her movements and making her take his flesh even deeper. She didn’t resist; on the contrary, she stubbornly opened her eyes and, through the gap between the front seats, caught my fixed, burning stare in the rearview mirror. In her eyes, lit by the sparse lights of the night street, I read pure, absolute delight that there were no prohibitions left between us.
When the guy growled low, signaling that the finale was near, my wife carefully pulled back, leaving his cock glistening wet in the cabin’s half-dark. She drew a ragged breath and, turning her back to him, settled onto his lap facing the windshield. The silk hem flew up, baring her smooth, round thighs completely.
“Come on… right here,” she breathed in a wrecked whisper, pushing back herself and guiding his hot flesh to her opening.
The driver caught her by the waist with his strong hands and, with one powerful pull, seated her onto himself. Her loud, rich moan rang through the dark cabin, whipping against the glass. The guy set a fast, ragged pace at once, lifting her body and dropping it onto his hips. My wife clutched at the sun visors convulsively, her head swaying side to side, the silk of the dress crumpling between their bodies.
I sat behind them, leaning forward, breathing hard, only thirty centimeters from the scene. The car rocked steadily on its springs in time with their whipping, wet strokes. My wife no longer held anything back: she cried out, loud and throaty, taking a stranger’s strength right before her husband’s eyes.