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There are a few we return to time and time again, and there's one in particular that gets us so hot that we've had to pull over and make love on the side of the road. It's the one where Paul describes how he'd like to see another man fuck me while he stands there, tugging at his own cock and balls, watching me flat on my back with another man's dick sliding in and out of my pussy. And how during these proceedings I talk about feeling that dick while I watch Paul frantically masturbate himself until one dick shoots a load of spunk into the air and the other pumps its load inside me. We've shared this fantasy so often that it's now my favorite.

We had no idea that one day it would become a reality.

We were driving back from a long weekend with friends last summer. It had been a great few days full of surfing and pubs and food and laughter. Our car roared along the tiny uneven roads that wind around the countryside like ribbons-we always prefer to take the back roads rather than the highways. Paul was behind the wheel and I had my feet up on the dashboard, one arm draped over his shoulder. It was late afternoon, and the mood was calm and content, that Sunday feeling of tired but happy after a big weekend with good friends. Neither of us spoke, not wanting to shatter the holiday illusion and certainly not wanting to think about going back to work the next morning.

As we drove, dark clouds gathered above us, and it wasn't long before big, fat droplets of rain began pelting the windshield in one of those freakish summer downpours. The landscape was bleak and utterly featureless apart from one lone figure on the horizon.

"I wouldn't like to be out in this rain," I said to Paul. As we drew nearer, we saw the man's outstretched thumb and realized he was a hitchhiker, a young guy of no more than twenty-five dressed in jeans and a denim jacket, sporting a backpack, and about to be drenched to the skin. He held out a piece of cardboard with something scrawled on it in felt pen, but the rain had blurred the ink and his destination was illegible. Paul and I often saw hitchhikers and didn't usually stop for them, but this fresh-faced student type looked very different from the hippies we habitually whizzed past on the highway. I glanced at Paul.

"Let's see where he's going," he said. "Give the poor fucker a lift if he's heading east. We've hardly seen a car for miles, and God knows who else he'll find to take him somewhere. I'd feel terrible if I left him standing by the roadside there, getting soaked."

We pulled into the shoulder of the road where he was standing. Up close, he was younger than I'd previously thought. He was good-looking, though, with light brown hair that curled to his shoulders and creamy skin stretched over sharp cheekbones. But he was wet and getting wetter, and he looked absolutely miserable.

"Where are you going?" he said to us.

"Phoenix," I replied. "Where do you need to get to?"

"Um, yes. Great. Me, too," he said. "If you could give me a lift I'd be so grateful. I've been standing here for hours."

"In you get, son," said Paul. I giggled, nudged Paul in the ribs at his use of the word son. Paul was only about ten years older than him, no way old enough to be his dad.

The young man opened the car door and slid across the backseat. "I'm Jim," he said.

"Alice and Paul." I introduced the pair of us.

"Hi. And thanks again for the lift. It was just starting to pour. Hey, it's nice and warm in here," he said. "I'm soaking. Do you mind if I just take my jacket off? It'll probably dry quicker with it off than on."

"Go for it," said Paul. I pulled the visor down and looked in the mirror so that I could see Jim in the backseat. He peeled off his light jacket to reveal a damp white T-shirt that clung to his skin, and I could make out tight pecs and a very fit body underneath. My eyes skimmed over his form as he peeled off his T-shirt, too, and I was even more impressed. Slim but not skinny, toned and lightly tanned, Jim had that firm, defined flesh that is not the result of dieting or working out in the gym but of youth. It was years since I'd been this close to a half-naked young man, and it was wildly arousing.

The miles sped by, and the three of us made small talk, while I kept my eyes on Jim in the rearview mirror. We learned that Jim was a student, twenty years old-making him thirteen years younger than us-that he'd been down for a work placement interview, run out of money, and was trying to hitch his way back to his university.

"You have a girlfriend, Jim?" I asked, innocently.

"No," he replied shyly.

"What? A good-looking young guy like you?" He blushed, which I found very endearing. "But you must have seen some action at college, a bit of experience? I know what you students are like. I remember when Paul and I were at college. Everyone was fucking everyone else."