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Our next stop is for lunch, so we tidy up, change whatever clothes need changing, and go and linger for a while in a restaurant like two ordinary people who haven’t just had a wild time on the side of the road. Engine refuelled, our stomachs filled and caffeine fix treated, we get back into the car, me driving, and hit the road again. Our mood has changed, the sexual tension has lessoned and we catch up on the little stories we normally would have told each other daily, but haven’t for the last few months. We aren’t talking about work, more about the people at work. From there we move into memories and nostalgia. That leads us off of our road-trip CDs and onto the iPod where we choose songs that have specific memories, singing along lustily, seguing from the hardest rock to the schmaltziest ballads. It’s wonderful; relaxing and fun. The light around us changes as magic hour settles: the setting sun anoints the already rich countryside with its golden-light blessing. It’s a perfect time of day, dreamy and soft, where you know only good things can happen. Now you’re playing air guitar and singing along with Paul McCartney. We’re both waiting for the same moment – where he goes falsetto: you never could reach those notes, but that didn’t ever stop you trying – loudly and robustly. It used to be your favourite song to sing in the shower until our then-neighbours sent over a karaoke DVD to you and with a letter begging you to try something new. Remembering, we are already weak with laughter before the dreaded third verse even starts. Why don’t we do it in the road? Why don’t we do it in the road? Why don’t Şişli escort bayan we do it in the road? Why don’t we do it in the road? No one will be watching us Why don’t we do it in the road? We’re almost there, comical anticipation building, when you look at me completely seriously and say the words as they’re singing them in the song. I don’t quite get your meaning as my intention is a bit divided between watching you and driving, so you switch the music volume down, look at me and repeat: Why don’t we do it in the road? No one will be watching us Why don’t we do it in the road? This time your intention is clear in your eyes, your body language and the sudden huskiness of your voice. Sex in the open had always been one of your fantasies, but I’d been a little shy. Now, looking at you, so sincere and at the beautiful landscape around us, I realise that there will never be a more perfect time for this. It won’t only be doing it to please you, I discover, surprising myself. I really want to do it, right here: have sex in the road, on this gorgeous countryside, under the setting sun. The shocked look on your face as I nod and start to get out of the car is priceless – it makes my little attack of nerves worthwhile. We haven’t seen another car for about an hour, but doesn’t that mean we are due to see one soon? What will happen to us if a police car patrols by? Still, I stand and watch as you spread a blanket on the hot bonnet of the car and lay a pillow on it. The air is cooling now and the warmth of the bonnet will be welcome. You turn to me, but I wave you to stay where Escort Sultangazi you are. Slowly, I turn around. I don’t say a word, I just unbutton my shirt, drop my skirt, letting it pool in a marshmallow kiss at my feet, swiftly followed by my unbuttoned shirt. Now I turn to face you, but I still don’t look you in the eye. Eyes downcast, I unhook my bra and shimmy out of my panties. You call to me – is it encouragement? A question? I raise my hand to block it. This moment is as serious as any religious ceremony and it demands complete silence and passivity from you, complete dedication from me. Soon I am naked, bathed only in this perfect loving light. I lift my hands sinuously, high over my head, then bring them down, caressing my body with the light. I stroke my neck, cup my breasts and stretch my nipples. Then my hands flow over my stomach and hips until both meet in supplication at my neat little bush in a pose of unadulterated innocence. Slowly, achingly slowly, I raise my eyes until I am looking straight into yours. The invitation in mine is unmistakeable – I am yours now, to love, to worship. The time has come. You move swiftly, completely in tune with my own pulsing rhythm. You take me and lay me on the blanket on the bonnet with a warning to me to lie completely still. Your willing sacrifice, I obey without question. You return and I see that, unexpectedly, you are still fully dressed. Another second, and I understand – this is not a moment that is going to pass quickly. In your hands you have your little magic toy-box – its blood-red silk ropes are well-known Taksim escort to me, and now that I consider it, totally appropriate to the moment. You start working on my right wrist and bind a gorgeously intricate bracelet onto it. Once done, you view your handiwork as an artist. Satisfied, leaving long pieces of the cord dangling loose, you move to the other hand and start there with a fresh cord. Here you are equally systematic, equally skilled. You instinctively ensure that the cord is flat against my skin, the knots tight and secure, trailing my arm in a distinctive pattern, firm, but not too tight. Now it starts to get interesting. You hook my legs up, bending them at the knee, sliding me along on the blanket to place me just so: arms along the outside of my body, wrist to ankle. Once you are satisfied, you take the loose ends of the red rope and start securing me, right wrist to right ankle. The cuff you knot on my ankle is even longer than the one on my wrist, but equally artistic. Once finished on the right, you repeat your design on my left side faultlessly. All the while you are doing this, I am incredibly aware of you. Of your sometimes firm, sometimes feather-light touch, of your controlled breath against my skin, of the exquisite torture I know is to come. You systematically ply your trade as you work to your extremely exacting standards. By the time you are done, and I am spread and bound before you, the sun is almost completely set, but the dusk is long, so you will still have all the light you need. Now you turn to your little box then return to me with oiled magnetic balls that you warm between your hands. I know them well; I love them, their warm slide against my skin. Their deep, penetrating and rich massage melts me. Once warm, you part them, taking half in each hand. As you press them onto me, they mould into the shape of your hand, magnetically bonded, oilily slick and slippery.