Every time we go away on holiday by car, I have the egg inside me. The rule is simple: every tunnel we enter, my husband presses the remote. He normally drives fast, but through the tunnels he deliberately slows down so the vibration lasts longer.
We make this trip often, heading to our apartment on the Basque coast. In just an hour and a half there are more than thirty tunnels, some nearly three kilometres long. In the longer ones I usually end up coming several times in a row.
To avoid staining the seat, I always wear a loose miniskirt with nothing underneath and keep a towel beneath me. There’s nothing I can do once we’re inside a tunnel. I can’t ask him to stop or close my legs properly. I just sit there, gripping the door handle and trying to stay quiet while he keeps his finger on the button until we finally exit into the light.
By the time we arrive at the apartment I’m always soaked and trembling. He looks quietly satisfied. And no matter what we do, the smell of my pussy lingers in the car for hours afterwards.
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