Enhanced Feel Up

Here is an article for the state loving pro sex crowd. Seems that the TSA at Boston Logon airport are implementing a palms up frisk policy. As opposed to the subtle back of the hand feel up, all for “passenger safety” of course. Yet strip bars, private property, must maintain at least six feet of distance from two consenting adults.

But I guess its only the state that can molest you without consequences.

I guess the next time I fly I will make sure I stuff that cucumber in my crotch.

~Jay

Interstate Hard Drive

So we had a bit of traveling to do this weekend, shuffling off to drop our kin with seldom seen loved ones. Such is summer, a time of adventurous excitement in some far off mysterious place. Even if that place might be less than a 100 miles away; at least we went to another state, which is entirely like a whole other country. Passing into a picturesque valley complete with a decaying red barn beside a dilapidated white house. Rusting farm equipment stood as quiet sentry over the highway. We felt nostalgic and free as the radio took us on a trip through the laid back seventies, we enjoyed the sunshine on our face as we turned our heads smiling at each other through dark sunglasses.

Georgia looked every bit like a postcard-island-paradise,  in her orange sarong, topped with an orange tiger lily bloom tucked into her hair. She laid back in the seat, stretching out her long legs as much as she could providing me a tease of the matching thong hidden underneath. She lay back in her seat feeling quite relaxed, free, elated.

The sarong was seductively exposing her the orange pink line of her thong, a soft mesh center hid the small mound of her reddish bush. She reached a hand up to stroke the back of my hair as we swooped down into the same valley, that looked the same as the valley before. I laid my hand on her slender leg, feeling the muscle of her upper thigh, dancing my fingertips along her knee, tracing a line back to the intersection between her legs.

The traffic was flowing by, truckers, bass boats, bikers all drifted passed us. Unaware of the exposed woman in the passenger seat of the car they were passing. My hand was now stroking G’s moistened clit, her hips were grinding against my hand as she writhed and ground against me with all the urgency of the passing 18 wheeler loaded with fruit. She used my hand as both vibrator and dildo, regarding not as a piece of flesh with its own determination, but a device for her instant pleasure. She came delightfully, excited by the possibility of a passing truck looking in, seeing her exposed flesh for a quick moment; providing mental fodder for those lucky enough to see her enjoying herself.

Bathing in the afterglow of her own relief, she looked at me smiling, telling me she loved me. I smiled back, enjoying the freedom of it all, the highway, the music, the woman I love. Wishing that for a moment there was no end to our journey, wanting the road to go on forever.
~Jay