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The adventures of a traveling sex reporter
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Seger was wailing away on my Blaupunkt. One hundred watts per channel of
pure, pile-driving rock and roll. A lot of the babes like him, so I always keep
a couple of tapes in the car for when I pick one up. Whitesnake has gotten me
into the pants of more than one broad in the past year. But when I'm alone,
I'll take Seger and the Silver Bullet Band.
I was about an hour outside of Camdenton, Missouri deep in the Ozarks.
Absolutely the most beautiful country you've ever seen. Hills, valleys, and
lakes and greenery everywhere. It's the place where they invented the Ozark "do
nothing" machine. A block of wood that they cut two grooves in...one top to
bottom, on side to side. There's a crank attached to two pieces of wood that
moves in the groves, one from side to side, one from top to bottom. That's all
it does. People pick it up and ask the Ozarkians, "What does it do?"
"Don't do nothin'", says the Ozarkian. "That's why they call it a 'do
nothin' machine." Of course there's always those overly educated idiots who
pursue it with comments like, "Well what's the point of having a machine that
does nothing?" At this point, the Ozarkian usually gets up and walks away,
seeing that further explanation would be fruitless. Anyone who needs a reason
for something to do nothing is obviously someone who couldn't tie his shoelaces
in the dark.
I'd spend two wonderful days in Camdenton. I would have spent more, except
for the fact that I have always had this deep seated fear of being tarred and
feathered. But I suppose I should start at the beginning.
It was about six in the evening when I pulled into the Camdenton Inn Motor
Lodge. It was one of those basic motels. A one story, log cabin-like thing
with about fifteen rooms in it. No pool, no restaurants. A Coke machine, an
ice machine, and magic fingers on the bed. But for thirteen bucks a night, you
can't beat it.
At 7:45, I'd finished a terrific chicken fried steak at the Camdenton
Diner, and by 9:00, I was in bed, alone, and asleep. With the combination of
some unusually cool summer air, and the thirty five straight hours of being
awake, even 'I' had to take the night off to make a little trip into dreamy bye
land.
At approximately 11:27 PM, I woke to find a beautiful redhead noshing on my
cock. She was not a dream redhead, though she was the kind of redhead one might
have in a dream. Thick curly hair, creamy white skin, flawlessly beautiful
face, long legs, round bottom and large, round, breasts with tiny pink nipples.
But she was real. Her name, I would learn later, was Marcia. For now I was
concerned with (a) how she got there, and (b) how she managed to swallow my
entire and extremely hard dick all the way down her throat....
I decided (a) it didn't matter how she got there and (b) not to bother her
while she was giving me the single greatest blowjob I'd ever had.
I decided to pretend that I was still asleep, so as to enjoy the moment
without interruption. But when she climbed up, and lowered herself on my dick,
I couldn't help reaching up and pulling on those incredible tits. Marcia wasn't
shy. She took my hands and mashed them against her tits and cork-screwed up and
down on my cock, building up speed. That was it for me. My hips lurched, and
my balls jerked and I unloaded a high pressure firehose blast deep inside her
tight wet cunt.
Before I had a chance to ask her who she was and how she got there, she
turned around and began the process of pressing her incredibly gorgeous, red
thatched pussy into my face. Now a lot of guys balk at such a thing. It's
never bothered me, though, and I lapped away at the moist red lips, and nibbled
on her swollen scarlet clit as she once again got my dick to a 63 on the
Rockwell scale of hardness and was doing her sword-swallowing act.
Pretty soon, she kind of crawled over to the side of the bed. There she
stayed, on all fours, wiggling her butt for me. She looked back at me, and
massaged one of her cheeks while licking her lips with a 'come and get it' kind
of purr. What could I do, you know? I got to my knees and moved up behind her
and slid the old love piston into a pussy that was now super-oiled by both her
own juices and mine. She reached around and grabbed my buns and pulled me into
her with a smack. I reached around and grabbed onto her tits and held on as she
thrust back and forth in a rhythm that sounded much like a drum solo of
"Wipeout"
Following that orgasm was the one where she sat on the dresser and I pumped
her against the wall, which fortunately divided my room from an unoccupied room
next door. Then she sat on the chair, and I stood in front of her and slid my
meat between those two glorious globes of velvety flesh as she licked the tip of
my dick each time it emerged from its fleshy encasement.
After the fifth orgasm, I passed out from exhaustion. In the morning she
was gone. No good-bye note, no message written on the mirror in lipstick, no
phone number scribbled on a matchbook. Not even a pair of panties. Nothing. I
mean, somewhere there's a rule of sexual etiquette that states a girl who sneaks
into some guy's room and fucks his brains out must leave him a pair of panties
as a remembrance. She obviously hadn't read that chapter.
Now I'm not the kind of a guy who lets some dish screw my lights out the
night before, just so she can leave. I'm the one who does the light screwing-
out and leaving. My travelin' manhood was now at stake, and I wasn't going to
rest until I'd found this girl and given her some talk about tearing her heart
out if I stayed...so I could leave.
I made a few stops at some places where information tends to collect in
small towns. First was the local live bait store. A semi-toothless guy named
Floyd sold me some nightcrawlers, a fishing license and a six pack. When I
brought up the question of redheads, Floyd went into a long reminiscence about
some broad named Mabel who used to own the diner back in '55. Or was it '56. I
didn't give a damn if it had been in '69; she wasn't MY redhead.
The guy at the dock rented me a wooden rowboat with a slow leak and told me
where the bass were biting. At the mention of redheads, he started on about
Mabel, who ran the diner back in, oh '53 or thereabouts----In any other
situation, I'd have looked this Mabel woman up. But for now, I was a man
possessed with two objectives in life. I was going to find MY redhead, and I
was going to catch me a bass.
I caught me a bass. Nice three pounder, which they cooked up for me at the
Camdenton Diner, charging me a dollar to cook it, and a dollar for the fries to
go with it. I was going to ask about Mabel, but the only women in the place
were fairly hefty and I didn't want to ruin the fantasy or start an envy-riot.
After dinner, I went down to the local watering hole, known to the populace
by the catchy name of Vin's Tap. Vin wasn't there. He'd been dead for ten
years, and Benny, the man who now owned it, kept the name out of respect for "a
fine human being." He also kept it, he said, because he didn't want to spend
fifty bucks to change the sign.
The question about the redhead never came up because the answer was
standing next to the pool table, bent over and seductively lining up a two bank
shot into the corner pocket. Her butt wiggled just a little bit as she stroked
her cuestick and made the shot with absolute perfection. She looked up and saw
me sitting there at the bar. I was cool...not a hint of recognition crossed my
face. Nothing to indicate to anyone that I'd spend the previous evening nestled
warmly between her lovely thighs, my hands mashing those perfect breasts which
jiggled underneath the black t-shirt she now wore.
She was just a cool as I. Maybe more. Her face was stone, but her eyes
were fire. They seared into my skull and sent a bolt of electricity straight to
my cock. My eyes were riveted to her butt, which she stuck in the air for me as
she lined up and made a three banker for the eightball.
With a little flip of her hand, she signalled the big beefy mountain of
Missouri linebacker with whom she was playing, to "rack 'em up again." In the
movies, the guy in my place would have gone up to her. He would have questioned
her about the evening before, and when the beefy neanderthal got agitated, he
would have put the neanderthal out with one quick right to the jaw.
If I have learned one thing in this world, it is that movies only exist at
the Bijou. In reality, the neanderthal is going to wipe the floor with you.
But I figured I'd found the babe; I'd let her know with my cool demeanour and
icy eyes that I was going to break her heart if I stayed; and now I could go
satisfied. But there was this cute blonde sitting next to me, one of those with
straight, shoulder length hair and tiny perfect tits and a cute little butt.
More than worth a tumble. And she was getting kind of friendly with me, so I
figured "what the fuck!"
We never quite made it back to the Camdenton Inn. She had this flat-bed
truck, and there was a clearing on the way. You could see a million stars, and
the moon was three quarters full, and...what can I say. It was a night just
made for humping.
She had a name that started with an S. Susan or Stacy or Sheila.
Something like that. I'm terrible with names, and usually end up calling the
girl "babe". So we're sitting on the truck, looking at the moon and stars, and
she turns to me with this smile that would kill a diabetic, and these twinkley
eyes and says "Would you like to kiss me?" I wanted to tell her "No, I'd like
to suck on your pussy til' you squeal like a stuck pig." But I didn't. I
figured we'd get to that sooner or later.
Her mouth tasted like bubble-gum. Old fashioned classic bubble-gum, like
Bazooka or Double Bubble. She had the smoothest slipperiest tongue that's ever
slid around in my mouth. Her hands were lightly brushing against my dick, and
mine were inside her shirt and I had two rock hard nipples between my fingers.
Each time I squeezed then, she stopped breathing and her hips would jerk. It
was about time to move to the flat-bed of the pick-up.
I don't think there is anything more exciting than watching a horny beauty
take her clothes off by the light of the moon. Something about it makes their
skin look like satin. I just sat there on the tailgate and watched as 'Babe'
pulled the shirt over her head and slipped out of her jeans. Her tits were
small, but rounder than I thought, and the nipples were like big, pink cherry
pits. Her waist was small, and her hips were a little on the wide side and her
hair was naturally blonde. When she walked up to where I sat, and pulled my
meat out of my pants and started to suck on it, all I could think about was the
state motto..."SHOW ME". These were people who didn't bother with a lot of
bull. If you wanted to screw, then you screwed.
She sucked only long enough to get my dick throbbing, then climbed up and
sat on it. I reached around and slipped my hands under her butt and steadied
her as she bounded up and down, nibbling on my neck and running her hands
through my hair as she went. Her breast were pressing tightly against mine, and
I could feel her hard nipples rubbing back and forth against my own. The shocks
of the truck began to squeak as I began thrusting in time to her bouncing, and
she began to gyrate in a cork-screw manner oddly similar to Marcia's. I guess
the cork-screw movement must be inbred in Missourians, kind of a race memory
thing. If it is, I'm moving there permanently, because when she did that, I was
a goner. "BLAMMO....shoot to the moon.
Stella, or Sheila or whatever her name was, drove me back to the motel,
clamped on my mouth for five minutes in a goodbye kiss usually reserved for
those going on long, interstellar voyages, and said goodnight.
When I got into my room, I stumbled on a pair of panties. Pink ones. They
weren't mine, I don't particularly like pink. They belong to Marcia, she of the
'nameless fuck', who was sitting up in my bed, pantyless, braless, and generally
speaking naked as the day is long.
I guess she was one of those types who can't tell from a look that I'm
going to break her heart. I guess she was one of those types who has to hear
it, but that was fine with me. I've got three or four versions of my 'speech'
handy at all times. I was about to go into number three; the "I travel a
lonesome road, babe', version, when she started to squeeze her tits in her
hands. As she pulled at her nipples, the words to version three seemed to slip
away like so much shit through a goose.
I tried to go into version two; the "We're from two different worlds, babe"
version when she started to stick her fingers into her pussy. Version 2 bit the
dust even quicker than version 3.
Version 1 is etched indelibly in my brain. I can't forget the words to
version 1. The "This is just one of those singular moments in time, babe, and
tomorrow, you won't even remember my name", version. I never got a chance to
see if she could make me forget the words to this one, because a pounding began
to shake the door to the room, the room itself, and then the entire log cabin
which was the Camdenton Inn Motor Lodge.
"MARCIA!", boomed a voice behind the door. "I know you're in there! Let
me in so I can kill that bastard you're with."
I hate neanderthals. I mean, getting away from an enraged neanderthal is
no problem. They're so stupid, you can practically tell them to "look over
there", and walk off the other way while they're occupied. But I really did
want to boff this broad one more time. I mean I was READY. It figures that the
neanderthal would show up at this particular moment. They always do. I hate
neanderthals.
Anyway, I went to plan G19. This entails grabbing one's suitcase and
belongings quickly as the neanderthal starts to count to three. Neanderthals
always count to three. Any higher and they start repeating themselves.
When the neanderthal hits two you stand by the door with your hand on the
knob. When he hits three, (if he can remember what comes after two) you open
the door and watch the neanderthal go crashing into the wall on the other side
of the room. Then you say goodbye to the broad, give her a quick, "Here's
lookin' at you, kid" and get the hell out before the neanderthal manages to pull
his head out of the hole he's just made in the panelling.
I don't think the neanderthal saw me, so it was a possibility that I could
have stayed safely in Camdenton another couple days. Unfortunately, however,
Stacy, or Stella, or whatever her hame was turned out to be the daughter of
Benny, who owned Vin's Tap. I know this, because when I walked into Vin's Tap
in the morning for some breakfast and a bloody Mary or two, I heard a voice go
"YOU!". I've always prided myself on the ability to read a situation from a
single word. In this case the word was uttered by Benny, uttered with malice,
and blood-drenched vengeance that is only possible from a father whose daughter
has been boffed by a stranger just passing through. I didn't bother with any
established plans. I just split, leaving a twenty foot trail of burned rubber
in from of Vin's Tap.
* * * * *
In Nevada, Missouri, I stopped at a Stuckey's and got some pecan logs.
When I'm on the road, I live of Stuckey's pecan logs. Anyway, there was a
pretty brunette hitching, and I picked her up. She was older than most hitchers
you see. At least older than most women hitchers. She must have been in her
mid twenties. Her name was Caroline.
I put on the Whitesnake tape out of habit. Caroline asked if I had any
Seger. I gave her a look, gave her a smile, put on some REAL music, and went
looking for Katmandu.
We found it in a cornfield in Kansas. The moon was full that night, and
you could literally her the corn growing in the middle of the dark field. We
had a blanket spread out, having torn up a couple dozen corn plant to make room.
Caroline was round. Not fat, round. Her tummy was flat as a board, and I
could enclose her waist easily in my two hands. But her breasts were huge
globes of tanned fleshy softness with big brown aureoles, and 9 mm mortershell-
nipples. That upon which she sat was big and round, and flawlessly smooth. Her
face was round, her cheeks rosy, and her eyes were a warm hazel. Her lips
enclosed my meat with the suction power of a super Electrolux three horsepower
model.
She had a magnificent mouth, but I wanted another part of her body. I
gently pulled her head away from my tool and she crawled up over it, sliding
softly and quickly onto it. She raised up and I rolled those cantaloupes of the
gods in my hands as she rode up and down with the full moon hanging in the sky
directly over head, giving her beautiful brown hair the glow of a halo.
Like all Missourian girls I'd fucked thus far, she went into the cork-screw
routine, but this time I managed to hold off. She began to clench those muscles
broads have in their pussies, but still, I held off. She was building to a
tremendous climax, begging me to shoot my load, but I held off. I took my hands
off her hooters and rubbed her clit with one hand as I slid the other around the
cheeks of her bottom. Together we shot off into areas of sexual nirvana
reserved only for those who are truly enlightened. When we finally explode,
even the noise of million or so crickets couldn't dampen our moans and cries.
I left Caroline in Fort Scott, Kansas. I didn't give her a speech, because
she was a travelin' person, just like I was. I figured I'd see her again on the
road sometime, somewhere. She waved goodbye as Seger started to sing "Travelin'
man", but I was off to no place in particular, and everything was real
fine...............
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