Passengers - Sex Stories

Passengers

... beckoning, some gesturing to stay away. Or maybe it's just me. All psychological, the surrounding landscape taking on more ominous shapes the farther we drive. I squeeze your hand this time and look over at you. We've been silent most of the way. With no radio playing, we just share the quiet together, listen to heater's faint hum, the whirling crunch of tires spinning along the gravel. I've always liked that about you, about whatever this is between us, that we can share the quiet together for seemingly endless stretches and every wordless moment is still somehow so comforting. And now, when your hand squeezes mine again, your thumb caresses back and forth, something you love doing. Those little gestures, like when we hug goodbye and your fingertips stroke the back of my neck or when we share a deep kiss and you plant smaller ones over and over on my cheeks and forehead. They're all so much more than the words we can string together. Your hands, fingertips, eyes, and lips speak endless volumes to me. Countless intricacies and notes wrapped up together and passed along through your affections. Your thumb stops, hand pulling away as you slow the car down, reaching the trail's end where the gravel pours out into a wide pool. Beyond that, nothing but tall and thick rows of trees towering over us like still sentinels. You cut the engine and lights off because, even though it's highly unlikely, we don't want to risk being seen by anyone who may drive through here or come out from ...

... the woods tonight. Once the vehicle stills, we become a frenzy of motion out here in the cold, moving to the backseat. Seeming to race one another there, clothes a whirlwind of cotton of zippers, your perfume furiously pushing through the air from your coat and blouse fluttering away, hair like a silk auburn curtain whirling in a steady breeze. It makes a flowery warm wind rushing at me through the freezing air. Each second I inhale you make my blood feel like low-burning coals run through my veins. Oxygen pulled into my lungs carries your essence in every particle of the air and is made to cause the heat in me to rise, to become impatient fires that will burn me alive if I can't have you. We're cramped in the cold space of the backseat, turning our velocity on another to help free us from what few articles of clothing we still have on. I hear and feel the metallic clinking of my belt being undone as I unclasp your bra. The belt sounds like a whip flying through the air when traveling away from every loop on my pants. The more of our bodies we reveal, the more the cold sweeps over our skin and into our pores. At the same time, there's already a heat beginning to overpower it. Time always seems slow here to me, crawling between the moments of fevered initiation and joining. Those moments when one can still turn back, when we're on the cusp of abandoning what control remains. Because I can map you, ignite and soothe all the soft places along your body, the delicate textures of ...