Readerotica vol.1

Chapter 7 — Five States

I was young and crazy, living on the beach in Mexico with Jonno. Hippies, I guess you would call us, running ragged and barefoot over the burning white sand, living on shellfish and marijuana, sex and sunlight. Our canvas tent was set amid the swaying eucalyptus that fringed the beach, set back from time and tides, a discreet distance from the village of dark-eyed locals who studied our movements. Jonno said they were envious; I guess that was one explanation for the silent faces that watched us fucking on the shore and heard the gasps of satiation that we offered to the moonlit night. They never intruded, merely watched. I sensed their vicarious pleasure and often the thought of those fish-net roughened hands stroking their cocks to climax would send me spiraling to my own completion.

Free spirits, Jonno called us. We drifted through the villages, buying nopales, frijoles, and cheap tequila with the money we earned from selling strings of shell beads to the few American tourists who ventured our way. Free spirits, tied to no corporate world, no nine-to-five and, as I found out eventually, to anybody.

I saw Jonno fucking Rosa from the village one sun-dappled afternoon. The sun burned through the swaying eucalyptus, painting his golden body with a sunshadow collage of leaves and seagulls' wings. Rosa was small and plump, curved belly arcing toward the ground as Jonno pounded her from behind.

I watched. I couldn't not. Hell, it was exciting, even as my heart was shattering. I confronted him later, when it was just us spooned together in our canvas world, just him and me and the night rush of waves on the shore.

"Free spirits, Moni," he said. "I have only myself to give. To share my body only with you would be selfish. I'm not like that."

Yeah, right.

I left him the next day, bumming a ride to the Arizona border with a fisherman who was carrying shellfish and his daughter to a better life in the United States. I walked across the border at Nogales into Arizona, carrying only a daypack containing a change of panties, a bottle of tequila, and a ten dollar note. Once in America, I stuck out my thumb on I-19.

A family in a shiny sports utility picked me up almost immediately.

"Where to?" The white-shirted husband looked like he was regretting the decision to stop, even before I climbed aboard.

"Canada," I said.

He looked uncomfortable. "We can take you as far as Tucson."

"Whatever." I settled into the leather upholstery. Silent children watched me over their handheld computer games.

"What's your name?" A small pale-eyed girl with a sullen mouth asked me.

"Rosa," I replied.

She returned to her game, and no one said a word to me until they dropped me off on the outskirts of Tucson in the hot July night.

My next lift took me to Sedona. Ah, Sedona, with its tapestry of new age and new money. My ride was a pony-tailed businessman from Phoenix, who was spending a weekend in Sedona "discovering his inner self." I didn't like to tell him that he could do it on a beach in Mexico, high as a kite on dope and tequila, for a fraction of the price.

He talked about his karma and his katra and his cat for all that I was listening. I put my hand on his thigh. Underneath the smooth suit he was jagged with tension. He had probably fantasized about someone like me.

We fucked at the site of an energy vortex, deep in the red rock country surrounding Sedona. The ground was hard — dusty and unyielding, and the red ants ran over my thigh as I flexed and pulled him into me, let him pound my slick walls. My pussy stretched to accommodate the shape of an unfamiliar cock. Jonno had been long and solid, slightly curved in arousal and full of the jutting prominence and swagger of the young. My businessman was more assured — confident in his ability to please me. The pungent sharp smell of sage was in my nose, the tickle of impending hay fever blending with the esoteric promise of ritual and knowledge.

Sacred sex? He seemed to think so.

I didn't care. I pulled him to me, forcing his head to my breast, encouraging his mouth to open on my nipple with guttural grunts. He bit down, hard, and I pinched his buttocks with my fingers, drawing his surging cock deeper into me. He came in short, hard spurts, and I welcomed his stickiness, his seed upon my thighs.

Take that, Jonno. My thoughts were hard and vicious, just like the cock exploring my inner depths, diving and delving into sticky heat.

We washed afterwards in a natural spring. The water sprang from the loins of the earth. His cock sprang from his loins too, but I wasn't interested any more. I was still engorged and dilated from his fierce fucking earlier, and right now the knowledge that he wanted me again was all I needed.

I didn't let him have me again — instead we dressed and I teased his twitching cock with hot fingers, letting him think that any moment now I was going to rip off my pants and let him back into me. He drove me north, up Oak Creek Canyon, and I left him without a backward glance, left him gaping in astonishment, his cock tenting his pants like a teepee.

"What's your name?" He called the words after me into the stillness of the desert highway.

"Lileth," I called back over my shoulder. I don't know why, it just seemed to fit.

I hitched up my shorts, feeling the seam bite deep into my engorged sex, pulled down my top so that my breasts were barely covered, and stuck out a thumb.

Somewhere in the banging and heat of the vortex, I had decided that I would fuck one man in every state to Canada, and only one. So it was easy to resist the backpackers who picked me up next. They must have smelt my scent, the pungent smell of sex must have been rolling off my body in waves, blending seamlessly with sagebrush, pine, and dust. I made them drop me at the Utah border; a new state and I didn't want to waste my opportunities.

Ha! I should be so lucky. Utah passed in a blur of minivans, disconsolate housewives, teenagers with babies on their hips and a wave of pale skin. I stopped for a beer in a silent, deserted bar and met Jorge, a trucker of eastern European descent. Sturdy and thick-set, his short stubby cock matched his short stubby body. He grasped my hips and pounded me with short fat strokes, crying a name that wasn't mine at the moment of climax.

He left me unsatisfied, but my resolution wouldn't let me assuage the ache in Utah. Nevada was closest, so I headed west. Jorge dropped me on the state line.

"My silent brown-eyed one," he mumbled into my hair. "So beautiful, so willing and I don't even know your name."

I told him the name he had called at the moment of his orgasm and watched his eyes widen in fascinated horror.

I walked for a while in Nevada — miles along the heat-hazed bitumen, feeling the bite of sun on my exposed shoulders. The road was a shimmering ribbon, evaporating into the horizon. I heard the sounds of small and wild things — the click of the crickets, the buzz of a rattler, the loud rasp of the sagebrush against my legs.

I heard the pickup long before I saw it — old, a diesel with a missing beat in the thrum of the engine. I stuck out a thumb without looking behind and heard it slow and shudder to a halt.

"Lift, ma'am?" The drawl was mischievous, as if the owner knew my intent before he picked me up. Maybe he did; the shorts were stuck to my ass in the heat and trickles of sweat ran in rivulets down my back, sheening the strip of skin between shorts and top.

My Nevada fuck had arrived. I smiled my acceptance of his offer, climbing up in such a way that he caught a glimpse of smooth bronze thigh and a flash of brown pussy hair up the leg of my shorts.

Fifty miles down the road he swerved the pickup onto the hard shoulder and cut the engine. My hand explored the contours of muscled thigh and the bulge of his groin that swelled beneath my hand. He leaned over the gear stick to kiss me, thrusting a heated tongue in and out of my mouth in mimicry of what I knew would come later.

I left the truck and pulled my top off, exposing my breasts to the burn of the sun. His mouth was on them immediately, suckling in that strange way that men have, as if they gain sustenance. Maybe they do. He pushed me down into the dust, and the small sharp stones right there on the hard shoulder. His lips moved down my stomach, unzipping my shorts with indecent haste and sending a probing finger down inside my panties then up, into the liquid heat of my sex.

Even though I had washed, I wondered if he was feeling the slippery ropes of Utah semen as he probed inside me. His fingers skated over my clit and delved inside. I lifted my hips and let him pull the shorts away from me. I ran my own fingers over his sides, soft and strangely vulnerable in contrast to the hard, muscled chest that loomed above and the jutting urgency of what was below. My hands fondled his stomach, down to his sex, feeling the lift and contract of his testicles as I kneaded their exposed vulnerability.

He devoured me with his mouth, lifting my hips to meet him, sucking and slurping with abandon on my sex. I came for the first time when he rolled his tongue around my clit, flicking it at lightning speed. I came for the second time when he pushed his thick dark cock into me and started thrusting; pushing down on me, grinding my ass into the dust and seeds that littered the desert floor.

He didn't last long but it was long enough. He lay on top of me, covering me like a blanket, his cock softening inside me. His come was slick on my thighs. His mouth moved against my neck.

The whine of passing cars intruded, but although we were barely hidden by the carelessly parked pickup, we didn't stir for long moments.

He lifted himself off and out of me. "Where to?"

"Idaho," I said.

He wanted to fuck again and so did I, in spite of my resolution. His turgid, pulsating penis was good, better than the indifferent Utah fuck, more real than the Arizona prick. As we drove north through the long plains of sage and creosote bush, passing purple-topped mountains and salt pans, I fondled his prick, exploring its hardening contours with my hand, delving into his pants to wipe the moisture from the slotted tip.

We compromised, he and I. At the bullet-ridden border sign on a deserted dusty road, he pushed me up against the roughened trunk of a juniper and drove himself into me — sloppy wet in the spend of our previous encounter. I came quickly, contracting around him, drawing him into me. One leg in Nevada, one leg in Idaho.

As he did up his pants he asked my name. "Sedona," I replied. It just seemed to fit.

In Idaho I had a slow and not-so-meaningful encounter with a churchman on his way home, slow driving through the forest in his battered old sedan. He was elderly and it was a pity fuck. I felt magnanimous enough to give him that. He called me "Ruth" and I didn't care enough to ask why, but I let him take me home and feed me overcooked meat and soggy vegetables. I slept in his daughter's bed, surrounded by teddy bears and the stench of damp and decay.

Washington State was cold, even for July. The forests of damp-barked trees stretched out in military rows, dripping lichen and dank, dark water. It took me a while to get a lift, thumb outstretched on the back roads that I preferred. A woman picked me up, the first of the journey. She was stout and dressed in a touque and fleece pants. She reminded me of a pit-bull, all hard-eyed hackles and defense. She was going to save trees in one of the national forests outside of Seattle, she said.

She invited me along. I caught the flicker of interest in her eyes, but I was too tired to play the coy games of seduction that women need so I refused.

"Is it a man?" she asked me in frank curiosity.

I told her about Jonno, and the beaches, and the men I had used on this trip.

"Found your Washington fuck yet?" Her inquiry was blunt, like her sharp-featured face.

I shook my head and she smiled in satisfaction.

"Come and meet my brother."

It felt almost like prostitution, being led off to sleep with a stranger, but the border was close and I liked the idea of the decision being taken out of my hands.

Her brother was a lean, earnest man, shambling and skinny. He lived in a cabin on the edge of the woods, a hermit-like existence that had me hunting furtively for evidence of gunpowder and ransom letters. He was the sort of man who would cut you into small pieces and put you in his freezer. Liver for supper on Monday, shanks on Tuesday.

His sweet and tender lovemaking caught me unawares. I had expected a quick and desperate copulation, a quiet fitting together of sticky body parts, but the prolonged and crawling sex he gave me made me long for more. His morning beard rasped my skin as he kissed me without haste, sweeping his tongue into my mouth, fitting his lips to mine with great deliberation.

He undressed me with care, moving his mouth over my breast, suckling my nipple as his fingers crawled with agonizing slowness down over the planes of my belly, tripping lightly along the top of my cotton panties. I was sobbing with the need of him when his mouth followed the path of his meandering fingers. If I had known his name I would have been grunting it at that moment.

He pulled my panties away from my body, parted my thighs, and rested his head between. He studied me with great care, parting my sex with a gentle finger. I knew he would see me reddened and swollen from the not-so-sacred sex of the past few days, but he made no comment, simply slipped two fingers into me, swirling them around, stretching me open.

He put his mouth to me and I gasped with the suddenness of it. His long tongue lapped me like a puppy, stiffening to jab inside, then gentling to soothe my rawness. I came with an incoherent shout, my back arching up from the bed in a bowstring of tension, convulsing again and again against his mouth. He quieted me with stroking hands, gentling me like a skittish colt, then drove me up once more from my plateau into a second climax.

I was gasping like a landed fish when he moved up and over me, pushing in his penis, long and slender. I could scarcely feel him at first, but then he started to move, circular motions that changed the angle with each thrust so that he stroked my inner walls with every slight movement. I was so wet that there wasn't any friction. I tightened myself in counter to his strokes and reached between us to stroke his balls. They were small and hard, like marbles, tight up against his body. His lean and muscular butt tightened each time he pushed inside me.

He went on and on, showing no sign of coming. I came enough for both of us, pushing my clit against his narrow, hollow pelvis, wrapping myself around him, stroking his balls with wet fingers, spreading my moisture over him until he was as messy as I was.

It must have been an hour later when his sister banged on the door. "You ready?" she hollered through the leaning timber frame. "Come now and I'll give you a lift to the border."

He lifted himself off and out of me — his penis was still hard, wet and sticky. He hadn't come. Without a word he stood over me and brought himself off with three hard strokes. His spend dropped down onto my belly, landing in great gobs in my pubic hair, already dark and matted with my juice. He turned and left through the other door, walking naked out of the house into the forest without a word.

He never asked my name.

I rang Jonno from Vancouver, and found him at the bar where we used to drink. "Are you coming back, Moni?" he asked. "I miss you."

I smiled into the payphone. "I think I will."

"Take the coach," he urged.

"No." Anyone watching me would have recognized my grin for what it was; feral and predatory. "I want to hitch.