Thumbing … a ride

“Please? Can you come help me get home? The stupid car broke down, I got it towed to the shop, but will be walking home the rest of the way.”

“Of course, I’ll be there in a few….” I say, grabbing my things.

woman with vintage suitcase near asphalt road
Photo by Ali Karimiboroujeni on

I head out and am heading down in the direction of our neighborhood, just past the shop. I slow, seeing you on the side of the road, walking along in the direction of home.

That sashay you’re pulling off, without really thinking about it probably, is mesmerizing. I slow so I can watch just a bit… but then figure I should probably get with the program and get you home. It’s been a long day.

“Hey good loookin’,” I yell out the window in your direction, “need a lift?”

You flash your thumb at me and make a sarcastic smile. It’s clear you’re aggravated, and for good reason. I stop next to you on the side of the road and, before you open the door, I wag my eyes at you comically.

You stop for a minute and burst out laughing. I swing the door open to you and you stand there just bit before pulling your skirt up to mid-thigh, and showing off your leg. “Hey sailor, can a girl get a lift,” you ask, grinning back at me.

I can almost literally see your stress melting away – with a ride in-hand and getting home away from the stupid car, the end is in sight.

“You bet,” I say. “Hop in.”

You do, pulling your skirt up a bit more as you settle in. You muster up a terrible southern accent and flash your eyes at me.

“I’m so sorry, but I just don’t have ANY money to pay you with for the ride, sir. Is there anything, anything at all I can do to repay you for your kindness?”

We both glance at each other, then snicker a bit. You run your hand up my leg as we pull away, and I tell you that I’m sure I can think of SOMETHING…

As we pull into the garage, you reach over, close the garage door and then run your hand up my leg again, this time much more… thoroughly. “It seems I owe you a debt, fair sir.”

“Maaaaaaaaayyyybbbeeeee….” I sputter out.

I feel myself start to respond faster than I can adjust. “Seems someone agrees,” you say.

“But alas. I believe someone is mistaken,” you say, pulling back slightly. You give me a long, passionate kiss, then pull back.

“I do believe there has been some mistake…” you say in that awful southern accent. “You see, it’s you who should be thankful for the opportunity to bring me home!”

I grin, run own hand slowly up your leg and pause. “Yes, yes I believe you have a point.”

Then I look up at you and you hand me your panties. “Well, sir, I believe you should get busy, and pay me back for my hospitality then, here, let me help you with that…” you take my hand and place it precisely where you want it.

“Yes,” you say, “that will do just fine…”

Wicked Wednesday

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