I caught it by putting my two hands over my tits, then closed my eyes, massaging my breasts with my palms, and moaning.When I looked at her through my slitted eyes, I could see her smiling even more broadly, yet resolutely focusing on the road ahead, while taking glances over towards my tits every once in a while. I knew she knew what I was doing, but she was enjoying it anyway. And so was I.She deliberately swerved the car, causing me to tip slightly, and I raised my hands in mock surprise, allowing the bra to fall. I picked it up, looked at it, then casually tossed it behind her.That left my frilly pink panties. I slouched down in my seat, and put my feet up on the dashboard, then slowly worked my panties, inch by inch, down my legs to my ankles, a naughty smile on my face, watching her.I kept my legs tight together so my shaved pussy wasn’t fully on display. I finally pushed my panties down so they were over my toes, then quickly flipped my feet up, tossing my panties in the. There hasn't been a streetcar through here since at least 1966; I remember my boyhood sadness...Boyhood?...as the last of the cream-and-red beauties left the car barn that one final time. Yet here was a Route 64 flyer, matter-of-factly turning away. Bell clanging, big as life.I looked around trying to become oriented in time and space - that's what my therapist always says to do when I have a flashback. Flashbacks have become more prevalent lately, as I try to come to grips with half-remembered childhood traumas that I won't go into here. This was no post- traumatic stress illusion, however - of that I was certain. For one thing, despite my desperate efforts, I wasn't becoming oriented; in fact, quite the contrary. For another, I couldn't capture the sense of being, well, me. Try as I might, I couldn't remember what day of the week, or even month of the year it was. Hell, I couldn't even remember where I was going, or why. Oddly enough, I did know exactly where I was: in front of.
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