After a couple of days at the vacation cabin in the back woods of Maine (see "On the Dock," which is a story that I posted previously), and plenty of titillation and hijinx with my new friends from the neighboring cottage, I have run out of groceries, so I've gone off to the market in town. I'm on the way back now, and I am really enjoying the wild and free feeling that comes from zipping down the dirt road in my Miata convertible. Wind flows through my long blond hair, which streams out behind me. My thin silk blouse is pressed against my chest, and I can even feel the pressure of the wind buffeting against the super-sensitive nerve endings in my nipples. They are becoming quite erect, and looking down, I can see all the detailed topography of my nipples and aereola: the swells and bumps and even a hint of the pink color showing through the sheer material. My attention to the road is tenuous at best, and my arousal leads me to mentally relive some of the moments I have spent during the past few days here in Maine. That first day watching the clean-shaven neighbors through squinted eyes as they played each other's bodies like finely tuned instruments. Mmmm.

As these images cavort around in my mind, I'm feeling sexier and sexier. I just have to play with my breasts for a minute. The silk is plastered to me like a second skin, and it feels unbelievably sensuous as use my left hand to massage the firm and plump flesh of first one, and then the other breast. The nipples get some needed attention, being prodded and pinched and tweaked. I can feel tickles of muted sexual energy radiating down into the depths of my belly, and eventually I let my hand slide down from my breasts, and then my fingers thread themselves around the buttons and poke gently into my belly button, stirring up more passion.

I'm struggling to keep some small portion of my attention on the road, and I let my speed drop to a more controllable rate. But I can't resist letting my hand continue to slide further "south" until it hooks around the hem of my short skirt, and upwards toward the moistening target. My thighs part as much as they can under the cramped circumstances, and the edge of my skirt blows up in the wind so that I have free access to the crotch of my panties. Even before my fingers reach all the way up to my satin-covered cunt, I know that they will be greeted by a spreading wet spot, and that certainly turns out to be the case. If it wasn't for the wind, I surely would be inhaling the sultry aromas of my juices.

I start by sliding my index finger up and down through the separating outer labia. The combination of moisture and the red stain creates an incredibly friction-free lubricant. And I discover that I can hook my finger down and in so that the tip of my finger traces all the way up from my asshole, pushed against the seat, and then up into the entrance to my vagina, over my urethra, and then finally popping over my clitoris. Repeating this motion several times, I find my entire body twitching each time that my fingertip bobbles my clitoris, and this results in a little swerve of the car. Fortunately, this road from the village to my cabin is deserted and fairly wide, for I am straddling and swerving around the imaginary centerline of the gravel road.

Jeez, this is feeling good, and I am tempted to just pull over to the side so that I can really masturbate with vigor, maybe using both hands, one on my cunt and the other massaging and twisting my tingling nipples. I know that my clitoris and my breasts would feel connected to one another in a triangular vortex, and the raw sexual energy would echo back and forth among these erogenous zones, strengthening with each reverberation until I reach the crest of my orgasm. As I think about what that would be like, and as I continued to teasingly pluck at my clitoris as if it was the string of a standup bass, I suddenly notice that I am coming up on the driveway to the cabin, and I need to pull my left hand up from my crotch to the steering wheel so that I can turn my little sports car into the driveway.

Once I've got it about 30 feet away from the road, I turn off the ignition and tilt my head back on the headrest, staring up though the thick branches of the birches around me. The sound of the leaves rustling in the wind, and the birds chirping away, is so relaxing and mesmerizing. I'm just about to fulfill my preconceived notion of masturbating when I hear another car rumbling down the dirt road. I know that I am hidden away here in the driveway, but then I am even more surprised when the sound of the car and the gravel let me know instinctively that the car has pulled into my driveway, right behind me. I whip my head around, simultaneously pulling down my skirt, and look at the car that has intruded on my space, and on my intended auto-erotic plan.

It is a state police car. What the hell is happening. I know that I wasn't paying very close attention to all of my surroundings while I was driving, and it dawns on me that the cop has been following me, and probably is very upset at my erratic driving skills.

Several minutes pass, and I know from having gotten speeding tickets that he is probably checking my plate number through his computer. But it makes me feel tense and fidgety to just sit there waiting, especially as I have been so abruptly interrupted in my self-loving lust. I try to relax by gazing down my driveway, wishing I was safe in my home where I could continue my plan in peace and quiet. Finally I hear the car door open and close. When I slowly turn my head to the left, I am staring right into the black shiny belt of the cop, and then I let my gaze scan upwards to his face way above me. These little sports cars are so low, and he is a magnificently tall and well built specimen of a law enforcement officer. When my eyes find his, I can see that they are not locked on my eyes, but are instead wandering downward to my chest and my breasts which are straining against the white silk as my head tilts back. Surely my nipples are jutting out and can be clear to his sight. Now his eyes sweep further down and he must be looking at my skirt. When I too glance down at myself, I can see that my attempt to pull down my skirt was only partly successful. My panties are not visible, but most of the rest of my thighs are. And I am startled to see streaks of moisture tracing down on the surface of the skin, refecting the bright sunlight. These were obviously painted onto my thighs by my fingertips as they were hurriedly pulled away from my cunt. Is that what he is looking at? Does he know where that liquid originated? Is he imagining where those tracks of moisture lead as they disappear under my hem?

"License and registration, please," he says, and I think I detect a little catch in his voice. Perhaps this situation makes him nervous too. I lean over to the glove compartment, and I'm sure that he can see from the smoothness of the silk stretched over my back that I am not wearing a bra. Most men notice these things. I pull the required items out of the glove compartment, and reach upwards with my left hand to give them to him. As he grips the papers, I can see him take a deep breath, and it seems likely that he can smell the strong odor of my cunt on my fingers. Am I imagining that his eyes are twinkling with his insights about my behavior of a few moments ago. After all, it was only 3 or 4 minutes ago that I was firmly stoking my entire cunt, and now I am giving strong hints to a perfect stranger that I was just masturbating.

Handing my papers back to me, he proceeds to give me a lecture about my poor driving, and he explains that this could be very dangerous. But his tone of voice is not harsh, or scolding, or condescending. He is actually very gentle and compassionate, and his words sound like sweet honey as they drip off his tongue. I'm also becoming certain that he is going to let me off without a ticket, which is a relief since I already have too many other tickets. But then I am surprised when he tells me that he suspects that I have been drinking, and that it is his responsibility to check that out. I feel like telling him that I am intoxicated by wild sexual fantasies, but not by alcoholic beverages. But I bite my tongue. He asks me to step out of the car so that he can check for open containers of booze. He steps aside as I open the car door, and there is no way to avoid giving him a big flash of my wet red panties as I swing my legs out onto the driveway. When I pull myself up into a standing position, he is so close to me that I can't help but brush my breast against his arm. My nipples are still hard little nubbins, and they shoot little jolts of sexual charge back into my tummy as they pop over his sleeve one by one.

As I stand over to the side leaning languorously against one of the big white birch trees, I watch him slowly circle the car, and when he gets around to the passenger door, he opens it and bends down and picks up a stack of papers from the floor of the car. As he flips through the pages, I am trying to remember what those papers are about. Oh yes, I remember!! Those are the printouts of all of the erotic fantasies that I have posted to alt.sex.stories on the Internet. Is he reading closely enough to get the drift of the narrative?

He tells me that he is sure that this is my writing, since my name "Sue" is on each of the stories as well on my licence. Then he surprises me further by telling me that he has been an enthusiastic admirer of my stories as he has been reading them on the 'Net ever since I started posting them. I'm not sure whether to be embarrassed or proud, but it certainly brings a hot flush to my cheeks. Before I have a chance to figure out how to respond to his revelation, the officer starts asking more questions about my bad driving. He asks if I have any explanation, or do I always drive like that? I start by telling him that my mind was preoccupied, but he claims not to be convinced. Most people have a lot on there minds when they are driving. He says that still doesn't explain the sudden little jerks of the car that appeared almost rhythmic. God! I'm becoming more certain that he knows what I was doing, for he has had plenty of hints: the smell of my fingers;... my hard nipples;... my raised skirt;... the streaks of my cunt juices on my thighs;... the stack of stories that reveal my fascination with wild and erotic sex;... and of course the details of how badly I was driving. Of course he knows - cops aren't stupid, are they? He knows, but I realize that he wants me to admit it out loud. He's not going to let me just slink away to my cabin. What the hell, I'll give him what he wants, and maybe more than he knows!

So I tell him. About how my mind was fixated on some wild sexual escapades that I had experienced recently. How the wind and sun pouring into the convertible had made me feel so aroused. How I had fondled my own breasts and pinched my nipples. How I had then reached under my skirt and caressed my cunt through my panties. How I had been so wet. How the strums of my fingertip over my clitoris had caused me to jerk the steering wheel around. How I had finally reached my driveway and had expected to have the chance to complete my masturbation.

"I'm sorry that I interrupted you," he says with a kindly grin on his face. Of course you should be sorry, I think. For now I'm feeling thoroughly frustrated and impatient with what has happened.

"Well," he says, "it is my sworn duty to the state of Maine and all of the people therein to serve in whatever ways are needed. So please let me serve you so that your frustration can be relieved."

It's about time you offered, I say, and with that I reach out to him and give him a deep-throating French kiss, wrapping my arms and one leg around him. Everywhere that I touch him he is all muscles and equipment. Gun, badge, belt, nightstick, handcuffs,... and underneath, there is obviously a wonderful hunk of a man. Trim and strong, clean-cut and young. Just the way that I like them (or at least half the time. Sometimes I like the wild and scruffy looking. but that is another story).