Caught in the Headlights

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They say that when a rabbit is caught at night in the middle of the road, he is often transfixed by the approaching car headlights, frozen to the spot by the rapidly nearing lightshow. He’s scared but cannot move, petrified really, but cannot change his course of action. For Mr Bunny, there’s no turning back. Turning red, certainly, but turning back, no.

I know how Mr Bunny must feel.

This is a recollection of the events that started with the thought of approaching headlights, and moves on to a certain amount of red. A red face, to be exact.

My sister, Wendy, has lived in the same house since she was at college some fifteen years ago. Back then at the start, she was renting a room there while she studied business finance (or whatever it was), then used the knowledge to enter into some weird trust arrangement with the elderly owner, before gaining full benefit from her four years of education there by inheriting the five-bedroomed property for a penny or two when the old man died just as Wendy was finishing her course.

The property sits on its own little piece of land on the outside of a long bend in a wide, fast country road which takes traffic past a minor town on the South Coast of England (if drivers know where to look for the blessed short-cut). It rests at the bottom of a gentle slope from the north before the road kinks towards the east, sitting atop a long lawn at the front and open to a ragged woodland at the back. The only possible negative about the rambling old house is that when the occasional car passes after dark travelling from the north, the living room is bathed in its headlights for a few seconds if the curtains are not drawn.

Big deal.

I’ve never once been jealous of the insight and acumen my sister showed in manoeuvring herself into position to take over the delightful property. I have never referred to her as a lucky, manipulative, uncaring bitch. No, not once. I have never thought of her as calculating or scheming, callous or selfish, fortunate or devious. Absolutely not. No way. Mind you, she has got a couple of extra pounds on her hips and thighs while her two-years younger sister still retains her sylph-like charms despite being thirty-seven and having had a son when she was sixteen.

But really? I adore her. And the house, come to that.

So much so, that when Wendy goes on holiday, if I have a chance to house-sit for her I normally jump at the chance. Last March was no exception. Wendy was off to somewhere hot and humidly desirable, I was working on a contract I could carry out at home (wherever that might be) and even my son was free from his university course to come along and act as unpaid bodyguard (not that this was necessary in such a remote location — he just liked the change as much as I did).

It was by no means the first time I’d undertaken the less than onerous task, but this time was, I’d decided, going to be different. The idea had started to form over the previous Christmas holidays when I’d spent a boozy few days with Wendy and we’d spent hours each night sitting in the living room playing silly games. One of those (when we were clearly getting short of idea) was betting on how long would pass between vehicles coming down the long, gentle slope from the north. After some typically sororial debates on when exactly a car was said to have ‘passed’ we had opened the curtains a little a registered the exact moment the headlights lit up an old clock on the shelf behind the sofa where we were getting steadily more whiskied. The passing of vehicles was surprisingly (to me) quite far apart — some fifteen minutes on average after midnight — but despite Wendy’s obvious advantage (actually living there!), I seem to recall I won the game. She might tell you different of course, but there again, she’d probably tell you that her tits don’t sag at all yet despite her being thirty-nine. Trust me, if they don’t it’s just because she’s too small. And she really wasn’t at all manipulative back in her college years.

Where was I? Oh yes, the idea. First though I need to explain a little about myself. I’m straight, cute enough, well-preserved for my age, fun-loving — but curiously quite shy. Other than one night when I was sixteen and slightly drunk on cider at a friend’s birthday party (check the numbers above and you might well work out that was when my son, Abe, was conceived) I’ve never been very adventurous sexually. I have, however, for the longest time been gently aroused by the thought of a little exposure. But there’s the rub — shy and interested in exposure? They don’t mix, do they? I agree totally, but the older I get the more I recognise that time is running out for me in some ways — I won’t be cute enough forever. If nothing else I’m an inquisitive type, always trying to find the truth behind things, always seeking for possible solutions when none seem clear.

My natural inquisitiveness — okay, nosiness — had me reading all sorts of material trying to find a way casino oyna whereby I might be able to address my growing need to overcome my shyness. And that’s when I discovered the term ‘accidental exposure’. The ‘accidental’ is, of course, an act, a misdirection — alright, a lie — which makes the act appear to be out of the control of the perpetrator; a way in which the effect of exposure can be achieved in such a way that it seems entirely unplanned to the point where it may even engender the deepest of sympathies among some witnesses.

The concept fascinated me. The stories made me feel as if there was hope for me, as if I might stand a chance of coming up with a way of attaining my long, long, long desired goal without seeming to have become brazen. It was, surely, a way of remaining guilt-free while still achieving my naughty aims. Okay, and some of them made me wetter than a bank holiday in Wales.

The only problem I could still see was one of proximity. Even if I could bring myself to be ‘accidentally’ seen in a rather revealing way, I just knew I couldn’t do it within a few feet of some stranger. A few miles seemed to be pushing things a little. I hated the thought that maybe someone would lose control and touch me, I guess. And if that sounds like self-praise — me with the body that just had to be touched if it was ever exposed — well, tough. That’s the way I felt.

All of that research began three years ago and even three months ago I seemed to be no closer to a solution despite recognising that time was getting shorter.

And then I spent those boozy nights with Wendy. And we played the headlights game.


Here was what I dreamed up; what I realised wasn’t just a naughty idea, but a possible one.

I was going to be staying in a house that, after midnight, was passed every fifteen minutes, by a car which would for a few seconds flood the living room with bright headlights. The car was likely to be travelling somewhere close to the national speed limit of sixty miles per hour, although given the hour, maybe even more. The driver and front seat passenger, if there was one, would briefly see whoever was in that house’s front room if the curtains were open. Somewhere in the region of sixty or seventy percent of people in the front of those cars would be male. They wouldn’t stop because firstly they probably physically couldn’t very quickly and secondly, even if they could, they didn’t know who else would be in the house — too risky. I was safe if they saw me, wasn’t I?

I thought and thought about it. Between the whiskified nights over Christmas with Wendy and the week I would be spending in her house in the March I must have played the possibilities of my plan through my mind a thousand times, quite literally. It seemed, more and more, that it might work well. But I still hadn’t plucked up the courage to actually do anything.

On the way there I was still thinking that what I would probably do is get up after midnight and open the curtains a little, pretend that as cars passed by I was actually going through with my daring ideas. I might even allow myself to play a little as I imagined these things. Abe would be asleep at that hour, no driver could possibly make out anything through a tiny gap in those living room curtains, and yet I would be feeling as if I were being so brave. I might even shed the nightie for a while.

And there was just the tiniest chance that I might actually be able to maybe try the real thing maybe just once. Maybe.

The whole idea was consuming me, overwhelming my thoughts and distracting me. Wendy, who wasn’t leaving until the morning, even commented in how preoccupied I was as we ate a light supper that evening.

There was no denying it — I was feeling a low grade excitement building inside me, and I was already calculating how many minutes there were between the end of our chicken wraps and the earliest I could probably suggest we all get a nice early night so that my sister was all fresh in the morning and that Abe and I could catch up on our rest–

“Sis? Georgie? Anyone home?”


Wendy laughed, “Looks like your mother’s brain is on holiday already, Abe. Unless she’s always like it these days?”

My son returned Wendy’s laugh as I looked from one to the other still slightly baffled, “Aunt Wendy!” he snorted, “How could you suggest such as thing about you own sister. Especially when it’s true!”

Apparently, to judge by the laughter, this qualified as humour amongst teenagers — even those almost twenty and those almost forty. “Gee thanks, guys,” I poked my tongue out at them, demonstrating how to be a proper adult, “For your information, I was busy planning the, er, week. Lot’s to do and all that.”

“Mum, I’m going to be finishing my essays and Aunt Wendy is going to be chatting up guys in some French resort.”

“Hey you!” Wendy laughed again, “If that wasn’t so accurate I might complain a lot about that!”

“Absolutely,” slot oyna I agreed, “You’re still too young to know about desperate forty-something year olds and what they get up to when they’re on holiday.”

“I am not a forty-something!”

“Okay, what desperate oldest sisters get up to then.”

Wendy snorted wine over her chicken, “And I am not desperate! Well… not that desperate as long as I get some action in St. Raphael!”

I flashed Wendy a warning look. Abe was all too much the growing young man and, almost twenty of not, he was easily distracted, even by his own Aunt. “Yes, well,” I went on quickly, As long as you don’t come back with evidence of your exploits!

Wendy took my hint and tried to settle down. She’s not the settling down sort, though, “I promise I won’t leave any photos lying around this time.”

A photograph of her luxuriating — topless — on a sun-lounger had been the centre of Abe’s attentions for a couple of days after Wendy’s last holiday. Until I wondered what the hell was going wrong with the springs on his bed, that is. Even Abe had the decency to look a little embarrassed at his Aunt’s comment.

“Oops, sorry,” my sister shrugged, “I’ll keep these well covered this time!” Her hands closed over her summer-dress covered breasts, making me roll my eyes and Abe turn bright red.

I started to clear the plates away.


Wendy’s silliness didn’t help me focus too clearly on anything that evening, but I still retained enough nous to keep the plan about early nights in the front of my mind, and I was amazed at not much past eleven when the suggestion that we all turn in was met with sage nods and a couple of apparently genuine yawns.

My sister hugged me and thanked me for looking after the place for her and Abe made some silly comment about promising not to go photograph hunting on her return. And then they went off to their rooms. And me to mine.

I knew — totally knew — that I would have to wait at least an hour after I heard their first snores before it might even be safe to go down to the living room, but I was praying for the moment to come soon. Something about the silliness over our supper had just intensified my desire to play a tiny little bit. I had glanced at the deep, wide window at the front of the house several times as we ate, watching headlights glow through the long curtains every few minutes — and kept thinking about how it would feel when it was so much quieter and the lights more scarce in the early hours. And by ‘quieter’ I meant when it was just me in the darkened room.

By midnight-thirty I could hear my sister’s regular, rather lady-like, snuffles, her version of a snore. She had been making those sounds, or variations of them, for a lot more than an hour, and my own son had been snoring rather more loudly for at least seventy minutes. But…

But now the time had come I was almost petrified. I didn’t know what of — although maybe it was something about the possibly addictiveness that was spooking me. My bedroom overlooked the front of the house though and every ten minutes or so another car would pass and my mind kept playing out the scene I had been planning for so very long. Another twenty minutes passed and my two relatives were obviously out for the count — and just as obviously I was becoming ever-more agitated. I walked to the bedroom door four times before turning back, almost incapable of opening the lightweight wooden structure.

And then my new streak of daring naughtiness finally grabbed my hand and made it turn the doorknob. I was staring at the top of the stairs that led down directly into the living room. I swear I don’t know how I managed to wobble my way down there, although I do remember stopping at least five times to make sure I could still hear Wendy and Abe making their very different noises from very different rooms. By the last time I paused, I was raring to go, just grateful they were still so obviously asleep.

As my feet — bare feet — met the living room rug, I knew that this was something I really did want so badly. I was only wearing a nightie — a perfectly respectable knee-length one in reasonable cotton — and a robe which swirled around my ankles, but as they fur of the rug tickles against my ankles I felt over-dressed.

A car came down the hill, its beams lighting the room even through the long curtains and I let the robe fall open just before those headlights angled away, luxuriating in a rush of arousal despite the fact that the drapes were still closed. I allowed my hands to very briefly caress my body — my breasts and belly — in the wake of the cars illumination feeling such a delightful thrill no matter that I was unseen.

My mind was in overdrive — and on auto-pilot — my skin tingling without anything more than the touch of the delicate cotton. Even the hairs of the carpet felt so sensual as I almost trotted over to those long curtains.

My breath caught in my throat canlı casino siteleri as I pulled the drapes apart just a few inches — a few inches further, even, than my demure mind had first considered. The twelve or thirteen inches of plain bare glass, currently dark in the room and in the night, sent another thrill through me as I realised that standing just there I would be seen, or at least visible, if another car came down the hill.

That autopilot kicked again and my robe was shrugged to the floor. Still standing at the window between the opened curtains, I touched my breasts through the cotton of my nightie, the nipples hard under my hands as my breath was quickly drawn in. Unthinkingly almost I let one hand slide lower, my fingers seeking the heat of my womanhood through the thin fabric, gasping with a delight that seemed out of all proportion to what I was truly doing.

The inner me kicked once more. If, it stated, I was feeling that good still in the nightie, what about if I took it off? After all, I had considered that, hadn’t I? I had given thought-

The nightie was pushed from my shoulders before I could even finish the argument.

I stared down at myself, still upright between the two long drapes. Stared down at my naked breasts, the nipples pink and so hard now. I stared lower at my flat, exposed belly, at the neatly trimmed line of dark blonde hair that seemed to point at the hot, wet centre of me.

I was astonished with myself for daring to go through with this silly, bold, luscious plan. Astounded that I was still standing there, totally bared, completely bare, my heart-rate pounding so fast beneath my ribs. My exposed ribs.

At the edge of my vision, high in front of me, I could see a glow. A car was approaching the long hill that would lead it down the hill towards the house. Towards me in my nakedness. If I stood there for another twenty seconds the driver of that car, or maybe the passenger, might look at the house s they approached it and if I hadn’t moved by then they would see me. They would see me standing there naked. They would see my bare breasts — my tits — and more. My pussy.

I couldn’t stand there looking so obvious though. I couldn’t actually dare be seen, could I?

I wasn’t suddenly pushing the drapes open wider, was I?

I wouldn’t pretend… what? That I was answering the house phone in the middle of the night. I couldn’t do that, could I?

I lifted the humming receiver. Faced halfway away from the window.

The lights started to grow in the room. My body started to be illuminated.

I gave a fake gasp and covered my mouth with my free hand, feigning shock as I faced the blazing headlights, hand belatedly covering bared breasts, bared groin.

I almost collapsed as the lights angled away, totally shocked by what I had just done, by the immensity of the thrill it had given me. I fumbled the receiver back into its hook and eagerly cupped my naked tits then snaked one hand lower, between thighs that trembled. I was so wet, so hot…

I drew a sharp breath as I realised another car was starting its descent towards the house already, and I reached for the phone without even thinking.

I stood again, knees trembling harder this time and breathed short, sharp and hard as the headlamp blaze started to light up the room. My hand rose to my mouth, feigning shock once more as I swivelled to the window.

My movements were shaky but sure, designed to show anyone looking that I was shocked to be caught, unable to cover my nudity. I kept the phone to my ear, my mouth forming silent words, the pretence maintained even as my eyes widened yet further in fake horror wondering if I were being seen, my one free hand unable to cover more than a couple of inches of flesh. I felt the heat in my groin rising, my juices starting to leak between pussy lips hotter than I could ever remember them, the fingers of that hand now inching closer, desperate for the headlights to turn away so I could touch myself — such a badly needed caress.

And sure, the lights started to angle away and I even in that instant began to wonder if anyone in the car had actually seen my nakedness, had seen my bare breasts and my uncovered groin.

Then I hear the car horn loud and clear, and as the lights cleared the window I could make out arms waving and shouts.

I gasped and dropped to my knees, the phone forgotten even as it quietly bleeped a message to return it to its receiver. If I had thought the sensation I had experienced as the headlights washed over me were the hottest ever, so came an even greater feeling, every square inch of my suddenly aflame. I was still in front of the windows, kneeling but knowing I would be visible if another car came down that hill. And I didn’t care.

My left hand cupped a bare breast even as my right slid between my thighs, fingers seeking out the heat and wetness that were threatening to make my head swirl away into the night. That first touch had me gasping in delight to a feeling that was beyond compare and felt amazed even then that I was somehow containing a climax that I already knew would be bigger and wilder than any I could remember.

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