We were headed to Kinkfest and I was well-rested, fed, and flirty. I took off my shoes and put my newly pedicured feet on his dash. My skirt rode up to show — just a peek — that I was not wearing panties to match my pink tank top.
“I think you should take your skirt off,” he told me.
This was not the response I was hoping to elicit. “But what if people see?!”
“Oh, no one is going to be able to see. Look at the other cars. Can you see anyone else’s laps?”
He was right, of course. And that was a phrase with which I was becoming very familiar.
“What if we pass a toll booth?”
“Don’t be silly,” he replied. “There are no tolls in Washington state.”
He had the hypnotist’s gift of saying ridiculous things as if they were eminently reasonable. You knew they weren’t, and you could protest that they weren’t, but you found yourself going along with them anyway, as if it were all your idea and you could stop at any time.
I tugged at my skirt. “Can I just pull it up, instead of taking it off?”
“No, no, take it off.”
I prevaricated, pouted, and blushed but gave in. He glanced over as I worked the skirt down over my thighs and kicked it onto the floor.
Reflexively I’d crossed my legs. He tugged my near leg to him, like he might use it for an armrest, and put his hand on my thigh. I inhaled. We were still so new to each other that his touch was electric. I held my breath, but instead of drifting up to warm and welcoming climes, his hand settled near my knee.
I squirmed in the bucket seat. I thought longingly about touching myself but decided I didn’t have the brass. We rode listening to the music for a while.
“That outfit looks unbalanced, with a top and no bottom,” he said. “Don’t you agree? I hate to see you so unfashionably dressed. I think you should take your shirt off.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to.”
“That wasn’t really a suggestion.”
I hesitated and looked out the window again. We were on a four-lane highway, cars drawing up beside us as they fell behind. A few of the passengers made eye contact as they passed only feet away. The windows were clear. My tits were at eye level to what seemed an expanse of glass.
“I really can’t.”
“Sure, you can,” he said pleasantly.
I considered it as I surveyed the road. I wanted to believe him. I imagined the taking off of the shirt several times — slowly, quickly, bashfully, with fuck-you insouciance. Each time it ended in angry drivers pulling alongside to yell at me about The Children.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “How about if you just take it off, but you can drape it over yourself? The more quickly you do it, the less time you spend with it off.”
He laughed as I lost a wrestling match with the seatbelt and my nipples bounced to the sky. Without a body to stretch around, my shirt was pitifully scanty.
“Hey, now, what’s the rush?”
I glared at him, pink in the face.
“I’m bored,” he said presently. “Give me your shirt.”
“No way. Nonononono.”
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
He tried to tug it away, but I refused to let go. Quite casually he grabbed me by the jaw, put his thumb in my mouth, and squeezed. I yelped and let go of the shirt. He snatched it away, where the little pile of pink and white lace fell in a crumple on his lap.
It was broad daylight on the highway and I was naked. I crossed my arms tightly over my breasts and slumped down in the chair. Although it was cool, I was covered in a sheen of sweat. My heart was beating so fast I felt light-headed. I couldn’t look out the window. I was certain I would die of shame right there in the passenger seat.
He laughed at me. “Sit up,” he said. “Look straight.” He reached over and lifted my chin, peeled my arm off my tits and held it to my side.
I realized this was going to happen all along. I was mad and mortified and how dare he be smiling and drumming on the steering wheel to the music?
He smiled at me and despite myself, I cracked a smile too. It was pretty ridiculous. The car sped forward, and there was sun on my nipples, and we hummed another mile south to Portland.
