She hurries toward him, away from the lavatory, in her yellow, short-sleeved dress. It comes down to half thigh, and is tight enough to embolden her conspicuous curves. It must be abundantly clear to any of the other people at the rest stop that she’s not wearing a bra. Her nipples are like peanuts and the sun’s rays penetrate the thin material with ease.

In spite of all this, his eyes are directed at her red shoes. He doesn’t even look up when she says, “Let’s go!”

The car door slamming shut closes off his view of her feet. He rounds the vehicle and gets in, glancing at the neighbouring footwell as he pulls out onto the motorway. A sign informs the pair of distances to towns with umlauts. The traffic ahead being sparse, he reaches out a hand, laying it on her tanned thigh.

She takes his hand, moving it away, placing it on the gear lever. “Hold your horses,” she says with a little smile.

Frustrated, he speeds up a little, glancing at the footwell, at the eight inch heels, ankle straps and red patent leather. She sits, feeling his frustration, with plans of her own, letting the minutes and the kilometres tick by until they’ve passed the next junction. Then she tilts her seat back before resting her feet on the dash. Without looking at him, she says, “I hope I’m not proving too much of a distraction.”

The traffic’s thicker here. So is his voice. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

What he means is that it’s better this way. He can easily see her red shoes while still keeping his eyes on the road. She shifts slightly in her seat, not having to say a word for him to understand that her excitement is a match for his arousal. It always is.

She chooses the exact moment he overtakes an elephantine articulated lorry to lift her buttocks, pull up her dress and spread her legs slightly.

“Did he see?” he asks, indicating to pull in front of the lorry.

“My shoes? Who could miss them?”

“You know what I mean.”

She doesn’t know if the lorry driver has seen, but a white lie can’t do any harm. “I’m sure of it.” She loves that it excites him when strangers see her. She couldn’t be with him if he didn’t. Crossing her ankles she reminds him of her red shoes, thinking how strange it is that his eyes are more attracted to her footwear than to the naked offering between her thighs.

As he negotiates the traffic she runs fingers over her dress, explicitly attending to the clear and unambiguous outline of her nipples, anticipation bubbling within. When he indicates to change lanes and overtake another grimy lorry, she lets one of her hands descend, giving a quick rub before separating her labia.

He slows, keeping the car level with the lorry in spite of the traffic behind. She glances up. At first the lorry-driver appears focused on the road ahead, but then he looks down, and she can see the shock on his face. Immediately she slides a finger into her hole, the space that’s been growing increasingly moist ever since she felt men grope her with their eyes over breakfast in the hotel restaurant.

“Is he watching?”

“You betcha!” She drives two fingers inside herself, watching the lorry-driver intently as his eyes flit between the road ahead and her. “Do you think I should cum for him?”

“There are other lorries up ahead.” He speeds up, pulling into the inside lane to allow a stream of cars to pass, then accelerates some more, a new juggernaut in his sights. She moans softly, rubbing her clit with harsh fingers, not being one to go easy on herself; moaning loudly as her fingers dig deeper. “Too bad all my toys are in the boot,” she breathes.

“You know what to do,” he says, his voice somewhere between a suggestion and a command.

Why not? She leans forward, briefly abandoning her pleasure to unfasten a buckle. Shortly she has one bare foot up on the dash next to the one still nestling inside red leather. The other shoe is in her hand. As they approach the lorry, she grazes her clit with the heel. The coarseness is electrifying. He flicks on the indicator, pulling out. She uses her free hand to hold herself open, then angles the shoe, prodding at her hole with the toe.

Once again he pulls alongside the lorry, adjusting his speed to it. She pushes, feeling herself yield. “Oh yes!” Looking up she sees the driver looking down, as if wondering why they aren’t passing. “Yes!” she gasps again, forcing as much of the point into herself as she can.

Two pairs of eyes are torn between her and the road, gazes drawn to the red shoe where she’s working it inside herself so that she widens and stains the seat. How delicious it is to have salivating eyes on her as she twists the shiny red leather. Her lips have parted. She stares up at the lorry driver and mouths, “Yes! Oh yes! Look at me!”

The stranger stares, his mouth hanging open. The sight makes her moan out loud. It’s not the only sound. Her wet pussy is drowning out the sound of the air conditioning as she shamelessly abuses herself with the red shoe for the entertainment of the two men, and consequently her own pleasure.

There’s the blast of a horn from behind. He speeds up, so does she. A line of cars passes as she extracts the shoe, turning it, inserting the heel, having her own fierce way with herself. There’s a new lorry up ahead, but she’s in no mood to wait as she squeezes her clit between two fingers. There’s no need to draw anything out. One climax won’t be enough. It never is.