The Driving Lesson
By Michelle
I turn up at the driving school at 10am precisely and look for the dot. They always tell me to turn up on the dot, but I’ve never found it yet. I can hear noises from the instructor’s room. Apparently there’s a competition to see who teaches me. They draw straws, and the winner is the one who picks the shortest. I’m real flattered.
George appears. I like being taught by George, he’s dishy. Also he doesn’t cover his eyes like the rest of them. It’s real distracting when they put their hands over their eyes and scream. I dab at my make-up and feel glad I decided on the short miniskirt this morning.
‘Good morning Miss Bright,’ he says.
‘Oooh, George, call me Michelle.’
‘No, I prefer to call you Miss Bright. My wife prefers that too.’
‘Was she the woman that watched me get out of the auto a week or so ago? Why was she so mad at you?’
‘Never mind that, Miss Bright. Congratulations, by the way, this is apparently your hundredth driving lesson with us.’
‘Yes, I was advised to take your “Teach you until you pass” deal.’
‘Who advised that?’
‘My last driving school.’
He gives me an odd look. ‘OK,’ he says, ‘let’s get started. Er...’ he blushes, ‘you have been to the er... washroom?’
‘Oh yes. Your receptionist said I ought to. She says it’s bad enough cleaning up the puddles that the instructors...’
‘Fine,’ he interrupts quickly, ‘now, let’s get into the car.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Sorry, I forgot. I mean, let’s get into the auto.’
‘Oh, I know that. But it’s not here.’
‘OK, OK, my fault. Let’s go outside and get into the auto.’
I bend over and give the seat a dust. Not that it needs it, but there’s no point a girl spending a fortune on short skirts and nice undies if she doesn’t bend over whenever she has the excuse. From across the road I hear the squeal of brakes. Really, people ought to look where they’re going. I slide into the seat, giving George inconvertible proof that I’ve got longer legs than his wife.
‘Miss, Bright,’ he explains patiently, ‘you’re supposed to get into the driver’s seat.’
‘Oh, I keep forgetting. Why are the seats the wrong way round anyway?’
‘Because in the UK we sit in the right hand side of the car... auto and drive on the left of the road, sorry pavement.’
‘But I’m American.’
‘You’ve still got to drive on the left hand side of the road... er, I mean...’
‘Pavement,’ I supply. But last week Mr Brown told me not to drive on the pavement. Is he OK, by the way?’
‘He’s out of the padded cell and on to sedatives. In this country we call the sidewalk the pavem... Oh, never mind. Now adjust your mirror. OK, OK, now adjust your make-up. Now adjust your mirror so you can see behind you. OK, out of gear, turn on the engine. No, use the key. Good. Into gear. CLUTCH FIRST!! Look behind you. Ease up the clutch and off with the handbrake. STOP!! I SAID LOOK BEHIND YOU YOU DIM BIMB... Er, sorry, I mean Miss Bright. My fault really. You look behind you and start if the road’s clear. OK. YOU CAN LOOK IN FRONT OF YOU NOW! Sorry, don’t cry, I promise I won’t shout again. LOOK OUT!!’
‘Oh God, get me out of this and I’ll never be wicked again.’ He’s mumbling under his breath, but I’ve got real good hearing.
‘When were you wicked, George?’
‘WATCH THE ROAD!! I know the cones are in a silly place but you’re supposed to go round them. OK, Miss Bright, pull into the side. WATCH THE LAMPPOST! Handbrake on, turn off the engine. I think we’ll stop for a few minutes and I’ll try and explain the difference between the brake and accelerator again.’
‘OK, but when were you wicked? Back in the States my Mom always said I was wicked if I let the guys at school take my panties off, or if I had an accident in them. Kept telling her that if I kept them in my purse I wouldn’t wet them. Ooooh. Ooops, wish I hadn’t said that.’
‘Miss Bright... Oh, surely not! Didn’t you visit the washroom?’
‘Yes. It’s a real pretty pink. I checked out all the stalls.’
‘Did you, er, use the facilities.’
‘Yep, I fixed my make up and washed my hands. The sign said “Now Wash Your Hands”’
‘But didn’t you er, um, empty... relieve...’
‘Do a pee? No, the sign didn’t say anything about that.’
‘Oh. OK, Miss Bright, I’ll drive. You look out for public facilities.’
He drives me round very carefully, avoiding bumps on the road, while I try to work out what a public facility is. ‘There!’ I cry.
‘No, Miss Bright, that’s a public library. Oh, OK, I mean a public washroom. Somewhere you can er, oh hell, somewhere you can pee.’
‘I don’t pee in public! Well, not all that often.’
‘OK, never mind, I know what I’m looking for.’
If I ever saw a guy that knows what he’s looking for, it’s George! You see, I’ve been getting kinda desperate, and squirming a bit, and kinda pushing my hands between my legs, and it ain’t easy to do that and maintain maidenly modesty, even in pantyhose. Not that I’m wearing pantyhose. George has a boner! It’s all but bursting the front of his pants. It seems I’ve found out what turns him on. Don’t think I’ll tell his wife though. I wiggle and squirm some more, and moan a bit, and it’s not all acting either. Suddenly I see the prospect of relief.
‘George,’ I purr.
‘Y-y-yes?’
‘You gotta do what road signs say, don’t you?’
‘Of course. ‘OH NO! STOP!’
‘But...’
‘The P stands for Parking, Miss Bright.’
‘Oh. Oh well, I only did a little. Oooh, look, George, it’s made my panties go all transparent. Aren’t you going to drive round that truck, George. Ooooh, eeeeek! Is that what they call an emergency stop? I’m afraid I did a little more there. You’ll really have to find somewhere soon.’
‘All right. It’s quiet here. Look, there’s bushes by the side of the road.’
‘Not using a bush. There’s snakes and bears and...’
‘Not in this country.’
‘OK, come with me then.’
‘Are... are you sure?’
Of course I’m sure. Look, I might not know much, but I do know I’m a bimbo, fully paid up member of the bimbos’ union. Bimbos have two qualities. They ain’t bright, and they’re oversexed. Now maybe, just maybe, I act a bit more dumb than I really am, but the latter qualification I have in abundance. An erection like George’s just ain’t to be wasted. Besides, I’ve had the hots for him for ages, but I never knew his turn-on until now.
I take his arm, wiggle, wriggle, writhe as he helps me to the undergrowth, and allow a tiny, lady-like rivulet to escape down one sheer stockinged leg. His cock is bobbing up and down under his stretched pants. I free it. He moans, unprotesting. I’m on my knees, thighs wide, as I rub his pulsing glans against my breasts. With one hand I fondle myself thru soaked, filmy panties, while the other caresses him, stroking, teasing. And now my naughty, mischievous little tongue, licking him from tip to scrotum, anointing his pulsing, thrusting organ. I hold back my pee, the pressure in my bladder exciting my clit and g-spot from inside as my clever little fingers tease them from without. Now he’s right in my mouth and I relax my throat for full fellatio, gulping him right inside me. We reach a slow, erotic wonderful rhythm. He holds back. So do I. Faster. More urgent. I squirt, unsure whether my bladder or g-spot is responsible. I pee gently, try to hold back, my sphincter muscles fighting the warm, golden flow in a glorious erotic synergy. Faster still. He groans, roars. I let go, the pee pouring thru my inadequate panties as he fills my mouth with his creamy, hot, fecund seed. We slow. He pulls out. I lick up every precious drop, swallow and luxuriantly empty my bladder thru my sopping underwear. I sigh. He helps me to my feet.
‘That was nice,’ I say. ‘I like the public facilities in this country. And I was a good girl, too.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I obeyed the sign.’ He looks puzzled until I point it out to him. It reads, “No Dumping”.
‘Just as well,’ he says
Michelle
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