A virtual stranger beside me with wandering hands, a horny taxi driver eyeing me up in the mirror, and a husband spouting on about the new Audi, blah, blah, blah. That was our journey on the way back from the wedding reception. Where would his hand stop? What could the driver see? What would I do if my husband looked over? Fortunately, I was sat right behind him, so I opened my legs wider. The hand got the hint, and he circled his fingers in a tender caress to the inside of my right knee. I placed my own fingers on his, to encourage him. We have a rule that when bubbles are on offer: I enjoy the wine, which usually does things to my libido, and he drives, but as this was a special do, he was too far gone by the end of the evening, for anything other than a taxi. When it had eventually arrived, he nonchalantly opened the rear door for me, just as another guest asked if he could cadge a lift share back to the same town, where we had a hotel room. How could we refuse? I had seen him before, at the reception, obviously and indeed at the church, where he had merited a double take in my scan of all the smart fashion, hats, and well, men. Not that I have ever strayed, but not that I have not at least thought of other cocks. What would it be like? My fingers traced to the back of his hand, and then to the Rolex on his wrist. He wound his circles further up my thigh, and then I smiled directly at him. My gaze returned to the mirror where I caught the momentary glint in eyes of the driver. I licked my top lip. He coughed. At that point the hand found my panties. I shifted slightly to loosen their hold on my thigh, but the fingers merely crossed and edged down the triangle to my left leg. My right hand found his leg and straight away he held it onto his cock. Firm but not rock, a worthy promise. I got the impression that the car slowed, and that my husband had nodded off as his head was slumped against the window. I smiled at the driver, a thirty something Asian, smartly dressed. I peeled the zip and found the outline of the stranger’s cock. God, was I really doing this? His own fingers were probing, probing the point of my clit outside my pants. The blood was up, his cock hardened, and my own wetness was obvious, to me, at least. He pulled the front of my pants away and fingered my slit, tracing down into my juice and back up to my clit. OMG, I could smell my own sex! What would I do if dear old hubby turned around? The taxi driver glanced at my husband, slowly reduced his speed and pulled into a quiet layby, noiselessly bringing the taxi to a halt, but he kept the engine running. My husband slept on, but the driver turned to us. He released his belt and felt up the inside of my right leg. I had no option; I took out the cock, in my hand and bent down over it. The stranger’s knob was already covered with pre-cum, and as I tipped my tongue onto his nectar, he almost lifted me onto my knees. He slid back into his corner, and I took him into my mouth, licking the underside of his glans. His hands were now all over my back, running his nails lightly over my shoulders, and then around to release my boobs, working his magic on my nipples. I looked into the driver’s face and whispered, “Come around”. He followed my meaning and got out, came to my door and opened it quietly; my husband still silent. His hands went under my dress and onto my back. He stroked my skin. He found the waistband to my panties and eased them straight down to my knees. As I felt the twitch of the cock against my tongue, I also felt prying fingers stroking my intimate flesh, prying, probing fingers sliding over my slippery slit. With a wet thumb, he slid into me and rubbed my clit with rapid movements of his finger. It was good, but I wanted more. “I want more!” “I can only fuck you with my fingers, lady; there, you like that?” He slipped three fingers in, back and forth, and then he squeezed my clit! “Oh, Jesus….”, I grasped the back of the seat and shuddered my orgasm. Then I went down into the lap of the stranger. “God, I need to be fucked!” The stranger told me to turn around, and it was then that I saw that my husband had got out of the car. “Yes, turn around, you lovely slut,” said hubby, who stood where the driver had been. “Now, get your tongue around mine.” “You don’t mind?” I gasped breathlessly. And, as I took him in my mouth, he called me all the dirtiest things. But he knew what I am like when I have had champagne, and he knew it was only a matter of time before his suggestions and inuendoes would get the better of my deepest filthiest thoughts. But he didn’t know what it felt like. A different set of fingers working my clit, and now, “Oh yes,” a different cock working its way inside me, “oh God, that’s wide…oh yes, stretch me, oh yes, oh yes…” At which point, I saw the driver wanking his own enormous cock. Had I been missing out for all the thirty years with my husband’s meagre offering? Bloody hell, I thought, as the stranger grabbed my hips and pounded his knob deeper into my cunt than hubby had ever touched. He pumped and grunted his come into me, as my husband ground himself into my face. But I am a woman, who never really gets off on a cock. What I love is to be stroked and stroked and stroked. So, it all went a little flat, really. The stranger had been bigger than hubby, but all he had done was deposit his load. I saw, but never got to touch the driver’s impressive erection. And my husband knew better than to come in my mouth, as he knows that would be the last blow job he ever gets off his slut of a wife. So where did it get me? Ok, my husband would let me play, if I am mildly drunk and safe. Would I do it again? Maybe, but let’s take it for what it is, a moment, a magic moment, unplanned and probably very silly, but fun. My husband knows my body and much, much more. I’ll stick with him, he makes me smile and makes me come by stoking, stroking and stroking, whatever the size of his cock! The taxi driver told us that he only recently got married, had never done anything like that before, and only worked the late shift at weekends, to make extra for his mortgage. The stranger was away from home and single, which was all as well, because he would have a devil of a job explaining the come stains on his suit! But I will always remember his ‘Rolex’, in more ways than one. We didn’t exchange numbers. He was staying at a different hotel, so we never did find out what arrangements were made for the fare!