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From: Sidney Durham <sidney_durham@springmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} <*> "Passenger" (by Sidney Durham)
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Date: Sun, 2 Jan 2000 20:10:02 -0500
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NOTICE:
This story contains detailed and explicit descriptions of
sexual activity. If you are not over 18 years of age, or if
you are offended by such material, or if this kind of
material is illegal where you live, then DO NOT READ THIS!
This story is copyright 1999 by the author, all rights
reserved. With the exception of USENET distribution and
archiving, it may not be reproduced or distributed without
express written permission of the author.
Comments are welcome at sidney_durham@springmail.com
My web page: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/SidneyDurham/www
Passenger
by Sidney Durham
Copyright 1999, all rights reserved.
Yellow tank top, tight denim shorts, sandals, backpack.
Tan, blond, twenties. No bra. Shoulder tattoo, a red rose.
Her gum popped. "Well?" she said. "You gonna give me a
ride or not?"
"I guess so," I said. She had approached me boldly, and at
first I thought she was a hooker. No way, she said. She
just needed to get to Gatlinburg. She said I looked safe.
I thought her incredibly naive to make such an assumption,
but if I didn't take her, she might well get herself into
trouble. Besides, I was going to Asheville; it would be on
the way. Maybe she would be able to carry on an intelligent
conversation.
Wondering what other travelers thought about her getting
into my car, I pulled out of the rest area and punched the
cruise control when I got the big Lincoln up to exactly five
over the speed limit. I still had seven hundred miles to
go, and now most of it would be with her in the car with me.
I could smell her. It was cloves, maybe her chewing gum,
which seemed to pop incessantly. I cracked the window a
little, but it made a whistling sound I knew would anger me
quickly.
She slumped in the seat next to me, the impudent tattooed
shoulder between us. She had kicked off her sandals and had
her feet tucked up, toes moving slowly. Her shorts had
inched up, revealing too much flesh. Her breasts sagged in
the light fabric that covered them, and her nipples jutted.
She needed a bra. She popped her gum again.
"Would you mind getting rid of the gum?" I asked.
She stared at me. I tried to keep my attention on the road,
but her gaze drew me and I had to glance at her face. Her
eyes were bottomless black, meaning her hair probably wasn't
really blond. "What the fuck's wrong with it?" she asked.
She was grinning, holding the gum between her front teeth.
"I can't stand cloves," I said.
She studied the armrest in the door and found the right
button and punched it repeatedly, inching the window down in
little bursts of motion. Each widening of the opening let
in more baked August air. When she had the window all the
way down she blew the gum out of her mouth and through the
opening, where it disappeared. She punched the window back
up again and looked at me. "You didn't like the popping,
did you?"
"No. Thank you for getting rid of it."
"You a salesman?"
"Accountant."
"Bean counter. That's what Lyle calls them."
"Who?"
"Lyle. My dad. How old are you?"
"Forty-two."
"Man, I hope I don't live that long."
"Forty-two?"
"Sixty-eight. Lyle's sixty-eight. That sucks. Forty-two
is bad enough."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-six."
"Sure."
"Okay, twenty-three. My birthday's next month." She tipped
her head back and closed her eyes. I could see fine golden
hairs on her throat. "What's your name?" she asked.
"Albert. What's yours?"
"Albert? For real?"
"What's yours?"
"Indigo."
"Indigo? I don't think so. What's your real name?"
"It's Indigo. I'm gonna change it to Indigo."
"What is it?"
"Inez."
"What's wrong with Inez?"
She turned her head and looked at me. "It's stupid. You
have to call me Indigo." She slipped her fingers down the
top of her shirt and scratched the space between her
breasts, making them move. "You married?"
"Divorced."
"Dumped ya, huh?"
"Something like that," I said. It seemed everybody assumed
I was the one who got dumped.
"How long you been divorced?"
"It's not final yet."
She scratched again. "Does the radio work? Got a CD
player?"
"They didn't put CD players in cars this old. You can look
for something on the radio if you like." I hoped she
wouldn't, but she began fiddling with the knobs, leaning
forward. Her breasts took a peek at me. She found
something loud and harsh.
"How fast will this old heap go?" she asked.
"I don't know. I don't speed."
She leaned close and looked at the speedometer. I could
smell cloves again. "You're doing seventy-five," she said.
"That's speeding. And it says it'll do one-twenty. Try
it."
"No way."
"Chicken. If you get it up to a hundred we'll get there
sooner."
"Not good for the car. It would be dangerous and waste
gasoline. I would get a ticket and have to pay a fine, and
we would lose all the time we might gain."
"Bean counter." She threw herself back in her seat with a
loud sigh. "Look. I'll show you my tits if you get it up
to ninety."
"No. Forget it."
"C'mon, Al. Go for it." She turned in her seat so that she
was leaning against the door and yanked up her top. Her
untanned breasts were like beacons, drawing my eyes. "Watch
the road, Al," she said, pulling the top down again.
"Keep yourself covered," I said. "And stop calling me Al.
And fasten your seatbelt."
"Ninety, Al, Al-bert. Ninety M P H. You can touch these
babies when you get this heap up to ninety." She pulled the
top up again.
"Cover up."
"Ninety, Al-bert." She pulled her top off over her head and
rubbed her breasts with it. "They're real soft," she said,
throwing the top to the floor in front of her.
"We'll get arrested. Put your shirt back on."
She got on her knees and leaned close. "C'mon, Al-bert.
Push on the pedal."
"Sit down! People will see you!"
Indigo leaned and pressed her soft breasts against my arm.
"Ninety, Al-bert. Do it now." She began rolling her
shoulders, rubbing her breasts on me. Her head was very
close to mine and I could feel her breath against my face.
I looked safe, she'd said. Right.
I did books. I didn't drink. I didn't even swear. I never
watched racy movies, and I never went to nude bars. I wore
bow ties and wingtip shoes. And a girl half my age was
rubbing her naked breasts on me, offering to let me touch
them.
All I had to do was push on the accelerator pedal. A simple
muscular contraction, pulling my Achilles tendon, forcing my
toe down, was all that was needed. Her breasts shifted
amiably against my arm as she continued to urge me. My
cock, so long dormant, was reacting, stirring, reminding me
it was there.
It was cause and effect: I could press the pedal; I could
touch her breast. But there were other effects. In my mind
I built an inventory of things that could happen if I
touched her breasts. The list scrolled in my head and I
watched it, trying to examine the contents, looking for risk
and danger. If only she would stop rubbing me with her
breasts I would be able to concentrate! It would be
irresponsible to "go with it," as she might say, without
carefully considering the implications. I was not that kind
of person.
I was a careful, deliberate person, starting a new life.
And I was being asked to drive my car faster than I ever had
by a young, firm-bodied, impudent girl named Indigo, who was
rubbing her bare breasts on my arm. She would let me touch
them.
Life is short.
I pressed the pedal to the floor. The engine roared and the
nose of the car lifted as the automatic transmission
shifted. Terrified, I let go of the wheel with one hand and
grabbed one of her breasts. Her nipple was a hard button
and she rolled her shoulders, rasping it on my palm.
"Attaboy, Al-bert," she said. "You've got soft hands, bean
counter." She rubbed again and I felt her nipple stiffen
even more.
The car seemed to vibrate dangerously and I wanted to step
on the brakes, but I kept my foot pressed to the floor and
my hand pressed against her softness. The engine began to
scream.
"Go, Al-bert!" she shouted, her voice high. "Give it hell!"
I kneaded her breast as my eyes cycled from the road to the
rearview mirror to the speedometer. The speed rose steadily
as the heavy car gained momentum, and the sound of the tires
and the thick summer air we were plunging through became a
roar. I began to wonder if I could get my mouth on one of
her nipples without losing sight of the road.
Indigo took the decision from me, pulling away and moving
back to the passenger seat. I took my foot off the pedal
but our momentum had already brought us to a tractor-
trailer and I swung out to pass. He blew his horn as we
passed the cab, startling me. Indigo lowered her window and
stuck out her arm to wave. "I think he liked me," she said,
laughing and turning the radio up louder. "Pass another
one."
I saw her hands move and glanced at her. She was tracing
her fingertips around her nipples, which had become quite
distended. Her window was still down and her hair was
floating around her head. I stepped on the gas and caught
another truck. Another horn blew, and Indigo waved again.
Then, as I began to slow the car, she opened the front of
her shorts and slipped her hand inside. "Keep going," she
said, looking at me. Her cheeks were flushed. "They're
probably talkin' about me on the CB," she added, her hand
squirming inside her shorts. "Find another fuckin' truck."
I looked back at the road. Another truck loomed in front of
us. When I pulled out to pass I saw there was actually a
line of four trucks. As we drew abreast of the first cab I
heard the horn, blasting loudly through the open window.
Indigo raised her hips and pushed her shorts off. I kept
the speed up, glancing sidelong at her as often as I dared.
Her pubic hair was wispy yellow, and I noticed for the first
time the blue-violet color of her fingernails as she
continued to stroke herself.
More trucks. More horns. I eventually realized the
truckers were slowing to allow our traveling road show to
catch them. The black asphalt seemed to be streaking under
us as the car settled, almost floating over the road. The
trucks appeared to be moving backwards toward us.
I began to grin like a crazy man and horns blared as Indigo
moved her hand faster, harder, fingers fluttering in her
crotch like a frantic bird. "Slow down," she grunted,
reaching out the window with her free hand to wave the
trucks forward. "Stay in the passing lane. And pinch my
fuckin' nipple."
I slowed, turning off the cruise control. I reached, found
her hard nipple and began rolling it between my thumb and
forefinger. She was moaning, the sound muted by the wind
rushing by her window. One by one the trucks caught and
passed us, horns sounding.
Indigo came. It was a screaming, thrashing orgasm, and she
raised her hips up, bucking like a boat tossed in heavy
seas. She slumped in her seat as the last trucker blasted
his way past, fist out the window, thumb in the air. "Holy
fucking shit," she said, rolling up her window. I glanced
at her and saw droplets of perspiration had collected on her
upper lip and between her breasts.
In the closed cavern of the car I caught new scents: hot oil
and metal, and woman. I glanced at her and she turned,
grinning at me. "Now I blow you while you pass them again,"
she said, getting to her knees and reaching for my zipper.
I grinned and stepped on the gas. Indigo's bare ass was in
the air, pointed at the window. I turned the radio up all
the way as she freed my cock, and used the controls on my
armrest to lower her window, knowing the horns would blow
again. I got the car up to eighty-five and punched the
cruise control as her sweaty upper lip grazed my cock. I
reached down and grabbed a breast.
The trucks were still slow, waiting for us. Every driver
gave me a thumbs-up as we roared past them, Indigo's head
bobbing enthusiastically in my lap.
Just before I went off I decided to grow a pony tail.
* * END * *
Passenger Copyright 1999, Sidney Durham
Comments welcome! sidney_durham@springmail.com
Visit my web page: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/SidneyDurham/www
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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