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If the Goddess hadn’t intended me to constantly fuck, she wouldn’t have endowed me with a body built for glorious sin, instilling constant, dripping arousal into that mortal coil. If the designers of the Porsche hadn’t intended us to drive fast, the speedometer wouldn’t go up to 180 miles per hour. It was the perfect day for speeding down the highway. The sun was shining, but not so brightly that it blinded; recent, gentle rain had cooled the air, bringing a mild summer temperature. The stereo was blaring hair-metal, perfect for driving, at eardrum-damaging volume, and very few drivers felt the need to litter my highway.Dressed casually but seductively in a frilly, short, patchwork skirt and threadbare t-shirt, my usual lack of undergarments was obvious. With my hair tied back into side braids so my long tresses didn’t whip about in the wind, I had both windows down, never once noticing that I was cruising at the low, safe, comfortable speed of slightly over ninety miles per hour.I crested a small hill, more of an incline, really, with a sudden drop-off. Airborne for a second or so, the tires of the sports car slid a little when they met the pavement. Skidding into a right-hand turn, I slowed down just enough to regain total control as an incendiary guitar solo erupted on the sound system. Deciding that my husband didn’t need to know about me jumping and almost losing control of his vintage Porsche, istanbul travesti I thought, at first, that the sirens were part of the music. The flashing lights in my rearview mirror alerted me that the sirens were not cool musical effects.Downshifting to tame the roaring engine, I put the car in neutral and coasted off the road. I do love a manual transmission; nothing’s more thrilling than having a hard gearshift in your hands and giving it a throbbing workout. I came to a stop between some large roadside shrubs, the police officer pulling up behind me. At least I had the decency to turn the stereo down and to put my hands on the wheel at ten and two, although it was more like 9:53 and 2:27. I watched him sit in his cruiser, all mirrored glasses and authority, for a very long-seeming time. He was running the license plates. Finally, he exited his vehicle. I put on my seductive, slutty smile, thrust my boobs out, and readied myself to be sweet and sexy.He was cute in his uniform, sexy even. His taupe uniform fit him well. Even in the rearview mirror, I could see a bit of a bulge at his crotch. His imperial jackboots matched his gun belt, and his wide-brimmed hat accented his close-cropped brown hair. Mirrored wayfarers hid his eyes, which I imagined would be hazel. He popped the retaining snap on his pistol, just in case I happened to be a crazy delinquent. istanbul travesti I am, of course, just not in that sort of way.Grasping the top of the door, his arm muscles bulging nicely, he leaned into the window, his face showing no emotion.“License and registration, ma’am,” he said. His voice was strong, stern, and commanding, and it made my pussy twinge with desire.Slowly handing him my new license while shimmying my shoulders to bounce my breasts had the same effects as flashing a blind man from across the room, none.“The registration is in the glove box,” I said in my husky, fuck-me, voice. “I’ll grab it for you.”The State Trooper just nodded slowly, his right hand dipping under my field of view, presumably onto his firearm. I slowly leaned over to the passenger side, feeling the cool, summer breeze caress my nude ass. I hadn’t intended on flashing him, but my pussy didn’t care if it was intentional or not. Trying very hard to not smile, knowing that he was staring at my round, firm, hard-on-inducing butt, I slowly opened the glove box, giggled at the condoms sitting on top, and pulled out the registration.I handed him the registration, my body suppressing chuckles, which made my chest undulate with each swallowed guffaw. He looked it over, his big, hard nightstick thumping against the door.“Is this your car, ma’am?” as if he didn’t know the answer; the istanbul travesti registration was in my husband’s name.“It’s my husband’s car.”“Does your husband know that you like to drive sixty-nine in a fifty-five?” Was that humor in his otherwise stoic voice?Good thing I hit the brakes coming out of that turn! “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was grooving to the music and got a little carried away.”He took off his sunglasses in a quick, smooth gesture and stared at my tits, my exposed thighs, the condoms, then my smiling face. “1990?”“Huh?”“The Porsche, is it a 1990?”“Oh,” I said. “It’s an eighty-eight or eighty-nine, I keep forgetting. I just love to drive it.”“Pop the hood, ma’am,” he ordered.I complied, confused. He opened the hood, spent a few minutes making appreciative “oohs” and “aahs” over the engine, then closed the hood. He walked around to my door, again.“I’m going to let you off with a friendly warning,” he addressed my nipples. “Just drive safely and under the speed limit, please. Not all the other officers appreciate a fine automobile.”I breathed a sigh of relief. The first time I drove my husband’s car, I nearly smashed it into a tree; the second outing resulted in my first, ever, speeding ticket. As he took a step back, I noted that his staring at my boobs had given him an erection. He turned to go.“Officer, wait,” I cried seductively. I opened the driver’s side door and swung my legs out. The quick action spread my legs, my bare cunt on display as he turned. “What if I’m a dangerous criminal? Shouldn’t you at least frisk me in case I have a concealed weapon?” In case he didn’t get the meaning of my words, my fingers caressed my soaked pussy lips to convey my intentions.
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