When we got to the venue, it was a standard parking-lot-in-a-field situation, with tailgaters here and there. As soon as we were situated, I turned over, my head between the back seat and the door, my ass faced towards my pal in the driver’s seat. There were people fairly nearby, but I didn’t think they’d notice, except for maybe the guy who chose MHE’s car to pee next to—hate it when I look at someone at just the wrong time.
Anyway, I settled in and Mister Hazel Eyes alternated between spanking me and grabbing/massaging the underside of my ass-cheeks, almost between my legs, his fingers roving close to all kinds of supersensitized nerve-endings. I really wished it wasn’t a pad-plus-tampon sort of day so that his fingers could’ve gotten all up in everywhere, but he didn’t even have to, because with every impact and every smush, moans came out of me, big, voluptuous moans of joy and relief.
“Am I being a good, sweet girl?” I asked.
“That depends, what does a good, sweet girl do? I want to hear you tell me.”
I wanted to do a good job for him and tell him all kinds of pretty, wordy, slutty things, but my mind was a feathery, pillowy fog.
“I can’t find words. I just feel like a sleepy angel. Do I look like a sleepy angel?”
I turned around to kiss him and he said, “Well, you look like something.”
I turned back over to present myself to him again. Neither the spanks nor the squeezes were rough or harsh, just decisive, insistent, true. He spooned up against me and breathed on my neck, biting gently.
“Are you okay?” He asked “You’re kind of out of breath.”
It’s true. I think I would’ve come if we’d have kept going. I was gasping and overwhelmed, ecstatic. It occurred to me that I’d need a little aftercare before I could even think about getting up the hill to the show, so I had him stop spanking and start cuddling. “Just a little hug,” I said, and he held me for a few minutes, still breathless and stunned. Sleepy angel indeed.
Next: Die Antwoord, then romance.