Motorway Rendezvous

At seven o’clock on a Saturday morning the autoroute was virtually empty. I’d left the convoy of trucks rolling off the ferry far behind me and the few dozen cars that had been on that first boat of the day had soon dissipated leaving nothing but kilometre after kilometre of open road. My trusty Transit van and I were on our way to the alps where a friend had asked me to help him move apartments. It perhaps wasn’t the most logical way of doing things -- vans were available for hire closer than the UK - but we hadn’t seen one another for a while, I wasn’t busy at home and I was planning on hanging around post-move for a few days’ walking and mountain biking.

As the minutes and the kilometres ticked away a few more vehicles joined the dual carriageway; a wheezing old Citroen here, a little white Renault van there. I wasn’t speeding -- in fact its previous owners had limited my van to 70 mph -- but I was moving faster than most of the local traffic so I’d pull out, overtake, then slot back in, my arm out of the window and stereo booming in true white-van-man style. Occasionally something more thrustingly aspirational would appear in my mirror as I overtook but, unable to speed up, I didn’t let it worry me so I’d complete my manoeuvre then pull over to the right while the powerful car roared past, keen to let me know just how irritating it was to be held up even for a moment, especially by a rosbif.

Somewhere south of Reims I pulled out to let a vintage Peugeot convertible join the autoroute. It was bright red and straight away it reminded me of one I’d spent hours on end gazing lovingly at on a baked campsite in the Dordogne sometime in the 80s when, with not much else to do, from time to time I’d put down my Asterix book and shyly wander over to admire the pretty little car parked a few pitches down from my family’s tent. It wasn’t a fast car or even particularly glamorous but it was a convertible and that made it exciting. On the final day of the holiday the owner finally took the not-so-subtle hint I’d been dropping and took me on a spin around the campsite letting me change the gears. It was without a doubt the highlight of the holiday. Probably the year.

There was something else about this particular 204 that caught my eye though. The car had accelerated in the inside lane and was keeping pace with me. I looked across to judge if I should ease off and slot in behind and found myself eye-to-eye with a smiling woman. She wore a 50s-style headscarf and sunglasses giving her a kind of retro film star look. We cruised along for a few minutes, side-by-side, my right-hand-drive van an advantage for once before another big German car appeared in my mirror and I reluctantly pulled over as the Peugeot driver gave me a grin.

Once the coast was clear I pulled alongside once again and looked down into the open-topped car where I was met with another smile. My new friend wore a thin, pale blue halter-neck dress that ended just above her knees and was cut low enough for me to see from my elevated position more than a hint of cleavage. She must have caught me looking though because the smile suddenly became an unreadable pout. I slinked back to the right-hand lane and told myself it wasn’t polite to ogle strange women.

Despite my crude staring the Peugeot soon slowed slightly and with nothing better to do for the next few hours I decided to ogle some more. I’d just be more subtle this time. I pulled into the left lane once more and drew alongside. She gave me another smile and I grinned back. Her dress had ridden up her thighs a little and was flapping in the swirling air. The position of the pedals meant her tanned legs were apart and I allowed myself as long a look at the tantalising space between her thighs as was safe. She was clearly teasing me, and I was perfectly happy with that, and as I allowed a faster car to pass I tucked in behind her, keen to play for as long as she was.

We carried on like this for a good few kilometres. I’d drive alongside when I could, we’d exchange smiles and I’d enjoy the view. I tried shouting a hello but my voice was lost in the wind and she simply shook her head and laughed. The hem of her dress was inching higher but she did nothing to pull it down. I’m sure the rushing air felt wonderful on her bare legs. My mind wandered, imagining what she looked like underneath the flimsy material. She looked to be a couple of years older than me, perhaps in her early forties but no less alluring for it. Underneath the scarf stray strands of light brown hair whipped around in the wind. I began to hope she was on a long journey south. Realising my top speed was limited she toyed with me, speeding up just enough to mean I couldn’t keep up then slowing just enough for me to be able to see into the car. Each time we were alongside her dress seemed a little higher and another inch of soft thigh was exposed. My thoughts were becoming lewder and my cock began to respond accordingly. I sat up in my seat and did my best to rearrange things causing a slight swerve which only made her laugh again. Once I’d regained my composure I glanced over again and what I saw strained my driving skill to the extreme.

The hem of her dress was now scandalously high, barely covering her modesty. She smiled and pouted yet again then coolly lifted the material and the mystery of what was under there was solved: nothing. Nothing but parted thighs and closely trimmed pubic hair. I stared hard, trying to work out if what I could see was merely a shadow or if the beautiful stranger in the chic little car next to me really was showing me her pussy but there was no doubt. She let me look, the corners of her pouting lips twitching as she tried not to smile.

The blare of a horn broke the spell and my mirrors were filled with angry black Range Rover, left hand indicator flashing as a warning to inferior motorists. The Peugeot driver threw back her head and laughed then accelerated away. I let the livid Belgian man overtake and tried to stop my boxer shorts from doing actual physical harm to my erection.

It seemed as though her flash marked the end of our encounter as the little Peugeot drew further and further away. I tried stamping harder on the accelerator but to no avail and I cursed the previous owner who had installed the governor and thus thwarted my chances. Of what, though? Madame was just killing time on a long journey. She was probably doing exactly the same thing with a driver up the road. My hard-on subsided, I stored the mental photograph for later use and my thoughts returned to the road.

It wasn’t long afterwards that the fuel light pinged into life and with it, thoughts about breakfast. The autoroute was heading up a long hill and had grown a crawler lane. I was able to keep at 70 mph whereas the gradient slowed less powerful vehicles. A sign told me there was a service area in a kilometre; what I really wanted was an ideal little French café where I could relax for half an hour. However, as I neared the exit I saw in the distance a red dot move to the right and pull into the aire de service. It may or may not have been a Peugeot 204 that I’d seen but suddenly my tolerance for instant coffee in a plastic cup jumped a few notches and I decided to find out.

The service station was really a set of pumps with a kiosk and a block of toilets all set within a large wooded area. A handful of trucks were parked up and the car park was dotted with a few cars but I couldn’t see a red Peugeot. I filled up and bought a terrible coffee and a microwaved croque monsieur then got back in the van and drove towards the shady woods to enjoy my breakfast. In a few hours the rows of picnic tables would be heaving but for now it was still almost deserted. I was almost at the slip road before I saw what I’d only half-thought would really be there -- a red convertible parked in the furthest corner, a lone figure beside one of the tables. My heart was pounding as I drove across but a stirring of the loins spurred me on.

Clearly not someone who made do with motorway food my sexy friend had laid out a tartan rug on the grass beside the table and was unpacking things from a wicker hamper. She had taken off the scarf and was using her sunglasses to keep her hair off her face. She gave me a little wave as I pulled up that sent blood rushing to my groin and as I walked towards her she settled onto the rug and smiled. She was beautiful; elegant, poised, and had a wicked smile.

“Bonjour,” I said, suddenly wishing I’d paid more attention at school.

She laughed and patted the rug. “Bonjour. Un café?” She didn’t wait for an answer and poured two tiny cafés from a stainless steel flask into china cups complete with saucers.

“Merci beaucoup.”

She laughed again. “De rien, monsieur”.

I sat down and took a sip. Of course, it was delicious. She opened a box of pastries that were works of art in their own right and took one, biting into one corner and chewing slowly as she looked at me. She was very attractive, with a twinkle behind her dark eyes and full lips always somewhere between a pout and a smile. She had taken off her ballet-style shoes and sat with her legs tucked under her in a rather more demure position than the last time I’d seen her. In jeans shorts and an old t-shirt I felt scruffy in comparison. I took a bite of almond croissant and showered myself in icing sugar, making her laugh again.

“Parlez-vous Anglais?” I asked.

She had her head to one side as she looked at me. “Non,” she replied.

“Oh,” I said.

She shrugged a little Gallic shrug. It looked like we wouldn’t be chatting much.

“Comment t’appelles-tu?” I asked. This was literally the last of my French unless I was to start telling her about my brother and how many distractions there were in my home town.

“Isobel,” she said. “Et tu?”

“Matthew,” I said. “Matt for short.”

Isobel gave me an already familiar pouting smile. “Tu es beau, Matthew,” she said, pronouncing it ‘Matchew’.

From her reaction I think I probably blushed.

“Tu est tres jolie,” I said. God, I was hopeless.

Isobel found this very funny and made no attempt to hide it. “Merci, Matchew,” she laughed.

We ate and drank in silence for a few moments and my mind raced as to her motivations. She took another bite of pastry and held me in her gaze. All the while her mouth flickered in a state of constant semi-amusement. I wondered where she had come from and where she was going to with her picnic for two. Leaving one lover and making her way to see another? Well if she was, I was eating his breakfast.

She glanced at her watch, swallowed the last of her croissant and drank the rest of her coffee and put the cup and saucer in the hamper then took mine and did the same. I felt a lurch of disappointment at such an abrupt end to things and stood up.

“S’il te plait?” she asked me, holding up her right hand to allow me to help her up. Her skin was soft and her nails were immaculately manicured. I pulled her to her feet and felt a ring under my thumb. It was on her wedding finger but on the wrong hand. Did that mean she was married? It seemed possible. What a shocking flirt this enigmatic woman was! I sighed inwardly and picked up the hamper. She sat on the bench and slipped on her pumps as I went to her car. I was behind the open boot lid when Isobel spoke.

“Would you like to go for a little walk in the woods?” she suddenly asked. Her English was perfect. Taken aback, I managed not to drop the wicker basket and closed the lid to see if she was teasing me again. Isobel’s legs parted briefly and she toyed with the dress’s hem. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth. Her hand lifted the dress again and she opened her legs wider, exposing her inner thighs and her perfectly groomed pussy.

I stared. “Oui,” I eventually nodded, unable to tear my eyes from Isobel’s lascivious display, my erection instantly straining at my shorts.

“Ooh!” she suddenly squealed in laughter and snapped her knees together then leapt up. “Please bring the blanket.”

Now probably unable to stop even if I’d wanted to I followed Isobel as she picked a route between the pines, somehow maintaining her effortless poise even while ducking branches and stepping over tree stumps. She stopped a few metres in, that was enough cover evidently. “Alors, c’est bon,” Isobel said and turned and lent against a tree, her hand running down her hip and playing with the edge of her dress.

I watched her for a second then dropped the blanket and pinned her against the tree, my hands feeling her body. I went to kiss her but she put her hand to my puckered lips.

“No kiss,” she said with a shake of the head. I paused. Shit, was I going to have to pay for this? That would explain a lot. Isobel seemed to read my thoughts. “I’m not a whore!” she giggled in my ear then kissed my ear, licking it, kissing then biting the lobe. I shuddered at the intense feeling and grabbed her bare bum in both hands and squeezed.

I kissed down her neck, my tongue and teeth biting and licking as I made my way onto her breast. I bit at her tits through the material and closed my teeth around her hard nipple. She gasped as I dropped to my knees and pushed the dress up. I was face-to-pussy and her labia were already parting, their dark skin contrasted with the glistening pink of her sex. I looked up and she lifted her leg and put a foot on my shoulder. I held her by the thighs and licked along her petals, sliding my tongue between them. Isobel squealed and jerked as her knees went weak. I grinned and licked again, more firmly this time, opening her wider, tasting her. My tongue probed at her hole and then I licked up and onto her clit.

Isobel squealed again and as I began to lick at slurp at her hard little clit she grabbed my head, her nails raking my scalp. “Fuck!” she gasped. “Matchew, you lick good pussy!”

I glanced up and winked. “Merci. Je sais,” I said, then grazed her clit with my teeth. Her heel dug into my shoulder and I pressed her by the thighs against the tree and worked my tongue across her again and again and again. I kneaded her bum, drawing her closer to my face and devoured her hot cunt.

I was so hard it was painful but it made the need to make Isobel come on my face all the more pressing. I looked up from her dripping hole and our eyes met. As I slid a hand between her thighs and my finger inside her Isobel’s eyes closed and she groaned. I fucked her with my finger then dived for her clit, sucking at the hard button as her juice soaked my hand. A few moments later and Isobel began to jiggle and whimper. I licked her clit hard and rammed my finger in and out. She suddenly shrieked and began to buck against me. I sucked and licked as well as I could against her writhing body until she squealed again and gasped, her hand easing me away.

“Oh my God, that was incredible,” Isobel panted.

I stood up and allowed her dress to fall back down and held my finger to her mouth. She gave me a wanton look and sucked it into her mouth, working her tongue around the digit, enjoying her own taste and making me think how good her mouth would feel doing that to my raging erection. As if she read my mind Isobel’s hands darted to my waistband and she undid the zip and button. With that same naughty, lustful gleam in her eye she pulled my shorts and boxers down and finally freed me from the agonising restrictions of my shorts.

“Ooh la la!” she said, her eyes widening as she looked at my cock then she grabbed it and ran her hands up and down the shaft, massaging the sticky end and squeezing my balls. I groaned at her expert touch. She held my balls tightly and firmly ran her hand up and down me, wanking me hard, gripping me, grazing me with her nails, teasing me exquisitely, taking me to either side of a knife edge of exquisite pain. For sure, she knew what she was doing.

“Oh, fuck that’s good,” I said with a shudder. Isobel bit her lip and squeezed a little bit harder.

Partly to take my mind off the unbelievable sensations in my groin I undid the knot of her halter top and pulled the front down so her tits were finally on display. The sight of her heavy, soft breasts did little to calm me down. I held one in each hand and squeezed hard, feeling the weight, squashing them against her chest. Her nipples pressed hard into my palms and I rolled my hands against them then bent to suck first one then the other. Isobel groaned and momentarily slowed her hand job to hold my head to her as I sucked and toyed with her nipple.

“God, I love your tits,” I said, and sucked hard. I could have carried on all day.

“Phew, it’s hot! Let’s lie down,” Isobel said. She pushed me away and ran her hands through her hair, holding it away from her neck while she tried to fan herself. The movement made her tits jiggle and I laughed to myself as I took in what was going on between two strangers in a motorway rest area. The trees were deflecting the gentle breeze and it was stifling and sticky which only made me feel all the more insanely horny. I pulled my t shirt over my head and stepped out of my shorts. I glanced down at myself, thinking how with my cock standing straight out in front of me and my trainers still on whilst on a picnic blanket a half-naked slut rubbed her breasts and pouted at me this whole scene looked rather like a European porn film. I lay down next to where Isobel was kneeling and as she took my fat, hard cock into her mouth and began to suck, it felt like one too.

If Isobel’s deliciously rough manhandling of my cock had felt exquisite then the sensations brought on by the soft, hot confines of her mouth were close to ecstatic. Her tongue slurped and slipped all around me as she bobbed her head and rubbed her hand up and down the shaft. I stared upwards, squinting slightly at the bright sky far above the thick covering of pine trees and let the pleasure flood throughout my body. An unseen bird took off from a branch somewhere above as Isobel sucked me, lavishing my cock with attention, as naturally skilled with her mouth as the bird was with its wings. The moment was perfect and as she took me deep into her throat I groaned deeply as an orgasm began to well up from my loins and I let myself go.

Suddenly my cock was back in the open air, no longer in its wet little confine of delight. “Non!” Isobel shouted. “You can’t come yet!” She pressed firmly on the end of my cock and held her hand there. “Don’t you dare, Matthew,” she warned me. She’d pronounced my name properly so I took her seriously and did my best to think unsexy thoughts and held my breath. After a tense thirty seconds she released me and I exhaled, the moment of danger passed. She really was a very talented lady. And one who clearly wasn’t going to be satisfied with a pussy-licking alone.

“Sorry, I got a bit carried away then,” I said. “You’re really amazing!”

Isobel laughed at my unguarded honesty. She held my cock in her hand again and examined it in detail, feeling the thickness, teasing the oozing tip. “You have a lovely cock, Matchew. I didn’t want to waste it. Maintenant, I want to put it inside me.”

That was the kind of offer worth giving up a blow job for. Isobel straddled me, her dress lifted up around her waist. She ran her hands across my chest, grazing my nipples with her nails then held my cock, lifted her hips and rubbed her sopping pussy against me. The end of my cock popped between her lips and as she lowered herself onto me, her eyes closed, and she sighed contentedly. As she sat on me, my cock deep inside her, she squeezed me tight, making me sigh in sympathy. She moved her hips back and forward, and in little circles, sucking me further inside her velvety interior and then began to move up and down. My hands held her hips as she gently bounced and as she began to rise higher on each stroke I watched my thick, hard erection spread her labia wide and her hole form a perfectly tight seal around me. Isobel leant forward and presented her magnificent tits to me. I devoured one then the other, greedily sucking at the engorged nipple and squeezing the soft flesh. Isobel had found her perfect rhythm and angle and she was already whimpering quietly with each movement, her clit pressed hard against my pelvis as she fucked me, her strokes getting harder and more insistent by the second. I couldn’t resist ramming my hips upward with every bounce, forcing myself deeper inside her. Isobel’s whimpers became louder and she leaned back, clutching one breast as she worked her hips and fucked me hard.