The dress was scandalous, but no one seemed to mind either the fact that I was practically falling out of it, or that much of it was transparent. The other men seated at our table had actually behaved decorously, which had mitigated some of my embarrassment. The conversation was excellent, the food decent, and the murder mystery itself entertaining. And the fact that I had a jeweled plug stuck up my ass, and a very active and rather distracting vibrator pendant clamped to my clitoris, merely meant that I was wet, ready, and practically bursting at the seams, all with a desire to get fucked.
Who done it? I barely remember. I had more wine than was good for me. I distinctly remember us going up to the bar, asking for a Merlot or a Malbec, only to have the bar tender raise the single option of vino and tell me in a distinctly Hispanic accent, that all he had was this. I blinked and stared at the bottle an Oakwood Cabernet Sauvignon? Oh well, at least it was red.
I giggled my way with him back out to the front of the theater... or was it a restaurant? I get confused.
The valet brought the car. I admit, I was impressed. A 2015 Chevrolet Camaro, electric blue, with all the bells and whistles. He helped me in, which was good because I think I was very, very drunk and the five inch stilettos I was wearing weren't exactly cooperating with either my sense of balance, or getting into the low slung muscle car.
He got in and looked at me. "Girls who ride in my car drunk are usually naked," he informed me, a serious look on his face.
"I'm almost naked," I'd assured him with a silly grin.
He shrugged. "Almost isn't," he replied. The car hadn't even moved.
I laughed. "You want me naked? Is that a good idea?" I leaned forward and grabbed the bodice of my dress and pulled downward. "Wouldn't this be a distraction?" Both of my breasts fell out of my dress and the four valets, all of whom were still standing nearby, stared at me through the window, mouths open in delight.
"To a lesser man," my date assured me. Suddenly the engine roared and I was pressed back into the seat. Even as we sped down the deserted street, I shimmied until the slip of a dress was around my knees. It fell to my ankles and I kicked it aside. I fumbled with the seat, laying it back until I was practically horizontal. Thank God it was an automatic, because his right hand was on me in seconds, caressing my breasts, tweaking my nipples, and fondling me. I moaned, one hand on him, the other rubbing the vibrator pendant, still buzzing mind you, against my clit. The scent of my arousal filled the car.
His hand slid down my body and between my legs and I spread them for him. I was soaked and his finger dipped into me, pushing past the vibrator pendant. "Take that off," he ordered and I pulled the little clamp from my clitty and turned it off. It landed on my dress, right between my red painted toes. Then his finger found my tingling nub and began rubbing in wet, tight circles. I groaned, thrusting my hips up.
The freeway loomed up in front of us and the Camaro sped up to near eighty miles an hour and I can say I matched it. He slid his finger into me, weaving in and out of traffic, dodging slow drivers and obstacles like Mario Andretti. He went back to rubbing just my clit and I put a foot up on the dash, moaning as my body torqued, my own internal rpms cycling.
I took both hands and cupped my breasts, pushing my nipples toward the roof of the thrumming car. I pinched them hard, twisting the tips, my back arched and he plunged his finger back deep into me. "Oh my God!" I cried out, waves of sweet bliss exploding between my outstretched thighs, flowing through my veins. The engine purred just as I did.
I put my hand on his and he stopped, giving me a glance, just a moment's distraction from the road. "What?" He demanded. "I thought you were a nympho humiliation pain slut? Are you too sensitive?" He almost said it with scorn. I frowned and took my hand away. Was his touch intense? Oh God yes. But... he was right. And so despite the fact my clit was sore and sensitive, I spread my legs, and let him rub me more. And more...
I reached over and put my hand in his lap. "You know," I whispered darkly. "You should use two hands." I imagine me tied to the hood of his car, him leaning over me, thrusting his piston into my cylinder. I wanted more. I needed... more.
He looked over at me, his eyes glimmering. "Two hands, Breanne?" He asked curiously. "But how would I drive?" Then his finger slid back into me and it reminded me of a saying I once heard.
"If everything is under control, then you aren't going fast enough."