Driving Miss Michele

"So, let's just say this shall we? If this little strumpet behaves nicely; she will come to no harm. Nod if you understand."

Michele nodded once.

"But if you fuck us around; then I will let Wassa here do whatever he likes to you and then he'll shoot you in the head."

"Understand?" he punctuated his question by tapping the muzzle of his gun against Michele's cheek.

Michele nodded vigorously.

They drove in silence for a few minutes; the only sounds were the directions given by Stan to Michele. Michele was thinking about how she could get out of the situation unscathed and hopefully get home without being exposed to the world as a crossdresser. Then she felt it! Wassa was so big that in the front seat of the small car he was almost sitting on top of her; his body was so close that she could smell his sweat and the onions on his breath from his dinner. But what she felt now was something deliberate!

Wassa's fingers touched her thigh, just below the hem of her navy blue skirt. He stroked her leg slowly, his callused fingers rasping on her sheer stockings. Michele pretended to ignore him; there was nothing to be gained by making a scene. Then his hand slid under the hem of her skirt and slid up to the top of her thigh and came to rest on the reinforced welt of her stocking-top, his fingers explored the nylon where it cinched onto the garter strap of her suspender belt. Michele jumped as his hand touched the bare skin above the welt of her stocking.

"What the fuck is going on!" Stan growled from the backseat.

"Fuck me Stan she's wearing stockings!" Wassa chuckled.

"So what Wassa? So was we ten minutes ago," Davo quipped.

"Nah not them pantyhose things we had on our heads; she's wearing real stockings with sussies. Fuck I thought only me old Mom and prostitutes wore stockings these days," Wassa went on.

"I thought your old Mom was a prostitute!" Davo sniped back.