I was driving back from a weekend at my sister’s place, just about to pull back onto the motorway after filling up with petrol, when I saw a girl standing by the side of the slip road with her thumb out and a hopeful little smile on her face. I’d hitch-hiked a fair bit myself when I was younger, and I’d always felt that it was only fair to give back a little. My wife had never been that keen, worried that we might be attacked or something, but that ... well, that wasn’t a problem anymore.

I indicated and pulled over. Of course, the fact that she was young and pretty, and was wearing possibly the shortest little denim skirt that I’d ever seen, may have been a factor. Her cute face lit up when she saw that I was stopping, and the way her pert little breasts jiggled under her white T-shirt as she ran to catch up with me added to the swelling in my trousers.

I lowered the passenger side window. “Where are you going, sweetie?” I asked, and then instantly regretted the sweetie, probably a crime nowadays, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“Brighton?” she replied hopefully. “But anywhere south would help.”

“It’s your lucky day,” I told her, and she opened the rear door and threw her rucksack onto the back seat before getting in the front. Actually, I was thinking that it was my lucky day. Not that I thought for a moment that anything would happen between us, but just being able to chat to her and look at her lovely smiling face was a joy; her beautiful, long, slender legs didn’t hurt, either.

“I’m Paul by the way,” I said as we set off.

“Jasmine,” she replied. “Thanks for stopping.”

“No problem.”

We drove in companionable silence for a bit while she texted someone - presumably to update them on her lift. I couldn’t help the way my eyes kept being drawn to her lovely, coltish legs. Inevitably, she eventually caught me. “Sorry,” I said, while not actually feeling very sorry, “but your legs really are very lovely.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I didn’t choose this skirt because I have a problem with people looking at them.”

“People?”

“I like girls as well as boys,” she explained.

“Oh, right,” I said vaguely, while trying not to imagine Jasmine ... and another girl ... naked ... and failing miserably. Trying to change the subject, before my ... excitement became too obvious, I said the first thing that came into my head, “If I was your father I’d be terrified of you going out dressed like that.”

“If you were my father, and you looked at me like that... “ she said, laughing. “Never mind.” Jesus! Was she saying what I thought she was saying?! “Don’t look so surprised. Loads of girls have ... Daddy issues. Besides, I’ve never done anything. Apart from teasing him a little. Anyway, I have this,” she added, opening her handbag. Inside was a small black aerosol with a picture of a chilli on the side.

“Is that pepper spray?” I asked. “Isn’t that illegal?”

“Yeah, but anyone I use it on is hardly likely to report me, are they?”

“Fair point,” I agreed. “I don’t blame you in the least.”

She went quiet for a bit as we got to a major junction and I had to pay a bit more attention to the road.

“You look a bit like him, actually; you’ve both got that dad-bod thing going on.”

“Dad-bod?” I asked - not a term I’d come across before. My poker face must have deserted me again, because she hurriedly continued, “No, it’s a good thing, well mostly. Means you’ve got some muscle, but not the gym kind, and a bit of a belly to show you’re not trying too hard.”

“Erm ... thank you?” I’d kind of been distracted by the whole ‘dad bod’ thing, and then I realized that she’d said both that she had a thing for her dad, and now that I looked a bit like him. No way! No fucking way!

“I may have a bit of a thing for older guys,” she admitted, which pumped a little more blood into my already swollen prick.

“How old are you, Jasmine?” I asked, as casually as I could manage.

“Eighteen.”

I did some quick sums in my head. “I’m just about old enough to be your grandfather,” I said, even as my heart was beating faster.

“Well, the equipment still seems to work OK,” she said, and a quick glance confirmed that she was staring pointedly at my groin.

“Sorry about that,” I said, and then regretted that too: why are we English always fucking apologising? “You are very nearly flashing you knickers at me, and ... well, I can’t help it.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she said with a naughty-sounding giggle, and I saw out of the corner of my eye that she was kicking off her shoes. Then she put her bare feet up on the dash, showing off her slender legs even more beautifully. It also caused her already short skirt to ride up even more, and I could just catch a glimpse of the crotch of her white knickers.

“So, what do you do, Paul?” she asked, picking up her phone and peering at it.

“I don’t really do anything. I took early retirement.”

“Oh, OK. But how do you spend your time?”

I looked across at her and wondered if I should tell her the truth. No one, apart from my ex-wife, knew my dirty little secret. What the hell. She’s been amazingly honest with me. “I write ... a little ... just for fun.”

“Oh, yeah. What sort of thing?” I still had the impression she was only half listening to me.

“Erotica,” I told her. “Short stories mostly.” That made her pay attention and look up.

“Really? For money, like?”

“No. As I said, it’s just for fun.”

“Are they any good?”

“Some people seem to like them.”

“Can I read something that you’ve written?”

The nerd in me wanted to correct that to, ‘May I’, but I ignored him. “OK. If you want to,” I told her, and pulled in at the next lay-by. It didn’t take long to log into the site that I normally used, and go to my stories collection. I handed it over to her and pulled back onto the road.

“You wrote all these?” she asked as she scrolled through them, sounding amazed.

“Yep.”

“So, what should I read first?”

“I write about all sorts of themes. What do you fancy?”

“Girl girl?”

I thought for a few moments. “Try this one,” I said, suggesting a story about two BFFs who’d both developed yearnings for the other, but neither had dared to mention it.

She went quiet for a while, seemingly fully engrossed. As she did, she kept fidgeting her bum around on the seat, a movement I desperately hoped was trying to stimulate an aroused pussy, and her legs parted a little. Without thinking, I angled the rear view mirror downwards and got a perfect view of the V of her knickers; the white, polka-dotted material lovingly hugging her beautifully plump mound. My cock got totally hard as I kept taking my eyes off the road to have more little peeks, while somehow managing not to veer out of my lane.

I didn’t want her to catch me at it, but I didn’t want to stop looking. I figured, in the end, just to be honest. “You do know that I can see your knickers, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” she answered without looking up. “Do you like them?”

“A lot,” I said. “They remind me of a strip cartoon I saw once.”

“Oh, yes?”

She still seemed to be absorbed in my story, but I ploughed on anyway. “There’s this bloke laid up sick in bed, and his girlfriend’s trying to comfort him. ‘I know,’ she says, ‘let’s play a game.’. He’s not impressed, ‘What game?’ She ties a blindfold round his head, saying, “You’ve got to guess the colour of my knickers just by tasting them.’ Suddenly he’s all smiles. In the final pane, she’s shimmying up her skirt, and now it’s her that’s grinning like crazy: she’s wearing multi-coloured polka-dot underwear, just like yours.”

Jasmine laughed, just a little. “Not bad,” she said, and then I saw the edges of her lips curl up a little as she let her legs fall even further apart. “You’d like to do that, wouldn’t you, Paul?”

I could now see the faint outline of her crease, and my mouth watered as I imagined licking her down there. “I would,” I agreed. “I really, really would.”