The Journey Part 3

copyright 2009 by Randal Schaffer

His day on the road was pretty much like the previous one. Drive, eat, piss, repeat.

By the time he felt tired enough to stop, he had hit Big Timber, Montana. He found the only outlet of a chain motel, dropped sixty bucks more or less on a night's stay and went up to his room. He shit, showered and put on clean clothes.

He knew that he needed to sleep, but decided that the thing that he needed this evening was a drink. Mostly he decided that when he saw a little dive bar next to the hotel called the STOP ON INN. Thinking that, if there were any place in the world where it would be appropriate to sidle up to a bar then it was the STOP ON INN, he sidled up to the bar and ordered a bourbon straight up.

The bartender brought the drink to him and said “Four bucks.”

He put a five on the bar and said “Keep it.”

The bartender nodded his thanks, and then went to help another patron. As soon as he did, a woman took the bar stool next to him, carrying something pink and frothy. “Hi.” She said in a voice like silk on sandpaper from too many cigarettes and too little sleep.

He turned his head to look her over. Not bad. In Seattle he probably wouldn't have given her a second glance, but, he thought, Toto – it looks like we ain't in Seattle anymore. Out here in the boonies she was probably a beauty queen.

She was average height, average build, average boobs, all held together by an utterly and completely average blouse and almost standard-issue boot cut blue jeans. She was wearing too much makeup topped off by lipstick that was both too much and too dark. She would look like a whore, except that no self-respecting whore would ever go out looking like this. “You new in town?” She asked through her too red lips.

“I'm not “in town””, he said. “Not really. I'll be gone by seven o'clock tomorrow morning.”

“Really?” She tried to purr the word, but then had to choke back a cough. So she lit a cigarette and threw the pack on the bar. “How romantic.”

“No, not really.” He said.

They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping their drinks. Finally she said “You got a hotel room or something?”

He nodded. “Next door.”

“Would you like some company?” She asked.

He took the opportunity to look her up and down again. Yeah, not great but not quite “closing time at the bar” bad, either. “I wouldn't mind, but I have to ask you something first that's probably going to piss you off.”

She smiled. “Oh? Are you going to ask if I'm married?”

He looked away, a little surprised, then shrugged. “Actually, I don't even care enough about that to wonder. I was wondering if you were a hooker. Have no intention of paying for it, you see.”

She stood up and put one fist on a hip, saying “You son of a bitch! What kind of a question is that?”

“An honest one.” He said, without looking at her. “I told you that I'm on the road. I don't have money to waste on pussy, although I wouldn't mind having some. And the last thing that I need is some pimp trying to bust my head.”

“Well, listen to the mouth on you!” She said, blushing a little. That's right, he thought, I'm in the heartland now. They probably don't use the word “pussy” out here. Probably “cunt” or “slot” or something much more romantic like that. She stood there for a second, BOTH fists on her hips now, as if she expected him to apologize or beg or grovel. Out here in the asshole of nowhere he was sure that she could find some seedpicker to grovel for her if she wanted. Not his scene. And frankly, masturbation was almost as good, usually. Almost. Usually.

After she realized that she wasn't going to get an apology, and he wasn't going to beg, she sat back down beside him and sipped her drink again. “You didn't answer my question.” he said. “Are you a hooker?”

Without looking at him, as if she were trying to maintain some of the dignity that she had obviously lost sometime around age sixteen, she whispered “No I am not a whore.”

He sipped his bourbon, almost gone now, and calmly said “Well, that's too bad. You could probably make a pretty good living at it. Especially out here.”

She looked for just an instant like someone had tapped her between the eyes with a reflex-checking hammer, and then turned and looked at him. “Is that supposed to be some kind of a compliment?”

“Did you take it as some kind of a compliment?”

She shook her head, slowly, disbelief instead of negation, and said “I think that you're fucking with me. And I don't know if I like it or not.”

He looked at her for the first time since he had initially asked if she was a hooker, and said “Trust me. If I were fucking with you, you'd know.” He looked away again, into the depths of the bar mirror and said “And... you'd like it.”

They drank in silence for a moment longer. He shook the last couple of drops of bourbon out of the glass into his mouth and stood up, saying “Well, I'm going back to my room. If you'd like to join me, then come on.”

There was a moment... maybe three seconds, when he thought that she wouldn't, but after that, she took one last sip of her drink, and then got up and grabbed her purse.

The two walked to the hotel and up to his room without talking, without touching. He turned the overhead light on, and she walked into the main room, saying “Nice place.”

“No it's not.” He said, pushing her onto the bed. “It's a shithole. But it has a bed, a tub and a toilet and that's really all that I need.”

He started to kiss her, unbuttoning her top and then sliding a hand under her bra. She moaned, arched her back so that her breast went more fully into his hand, but obviously wasn't going to help. As he moved his hands down to undo her jeans, without her moving a muscle, he thought “yeah, she's the queen of the cattlemen all right.”

Once her jeans were open enough, he slipped a hand inside her jeans and a finger inside her, his mouth working at one of her nipples. After rubbing her with his finger for a second, he ran the finger up her body and surreptitiously sniffed at it. She smelled like over-ripe apricots. He loved to eat pussy, but had had enough bad pussy in his life to know what a mood killer it was. So no eating her.

He stood up, went to his suitcase. She propped herself up on her elbows, watching him. Not even going to take her pants and underwear off, he thought. Lazy bitch.

He rummaged through his suitcase until he found the box of condoms that he had stashed there... just in case. He took one out of the box, ripped the top off of the sleeve and tossed the condom, still inside the now-open sleeve, onto the bed.

He took her boots off, then, in one motion and as if they were one garment, smoothed her pants and panties off. He quickly stripped, and then worked the condom over his erection. One point of pride for him was that, at the age of 44, he could still get as hard as he could when he was seventeen. He released his sheathed penis, and it immediately sprang up to point at his chin. He knelt between the woman's legs, and then rested a hand on her thigh, closing his eyes. He thought “Dear Lord, for this pussy that I am about to receive, may I be blessed with gratefulness. Amen.”

“What are you doing?”

He opened his eyes to see that she was looking at him. He said “Praying.” She laughed her cigarette smoke laugh, and then stopped when she saw that he was serious.

He propped himself up on an elbow over her body, and then eased his way into her. Once he was fully in, he started the mechanical rhythm that he knew would produce the best orgasm for him in the shortest amount of time. With a committed lover, not that there had been all that many of those in his life, he treasured his lover's orgasm like a rare gem, and never allowed himself to have one until she did. With a one-night stand like this, it didn't really matter to him, he just wanted to cum. And no matter how good masturbation was, it usually couldn't beat the feel of real pussy. Usually.

She moaned and groaned under him, scratching his back with her long fake nails. That was okay, he'd just have to remember to get some peroxide back there later to disinfect them. Scratches were almost as nasty for carrying crap as bites.

He was getting close. He could feel it. That feel of climbing, of floating. Really, he thought, that few minutes before the orgasm was better than the orgasm itself. Just as he thought that it was time for him to reach the home stretch and kick her out, someone started to pound on the door and a voice from the other side yelled “MERLENE, YOU BITCH! OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR!” Followed by more pounding.

Immediately, the woman underneath him... Merlene, presumably, started trying to throw him off. “Shit! It's Luther!” He thought for a second of asking her who Luther was, but decided that it was either a boyfriend, husband or pimp. One thing that Luther definitely wasn't was good news.

He stood up, pulling out of her as he did, and stood by the door. From the other side he heard what he had been waiting for... what every pissed-off shitkicker who's seen too many movies ultimately says. “I'M KICKIN' THIS FUCKING DOOR DOWN!” He heard two shuffling steps, gave Luther a second to wind up, and then opened the door. Luther's foot came through the door, followed by a very off-balance Luther. He popped Luther in the back of the head with the flat of his hand as the man fell through the door. Before Luther could recover, he took one step to the prone body, and delivered one swift, hard kick to the diaphragm, pulling at the last minute. It would hurt like Hell. He wouldn't be able to draw a good breath for a while, but it wouldn't leave any lasting damage.

He heard Merlene scream from across the room, and looked over to see that she had had time to put her bra and jeans on. Obviously has some practice at this, he thought.

“LUTHER! Oh, my God! Luther! Did he hurt you, baby?”

She started to come toward them, so he rested his right foot on Luther's adam's apple. Again, not enough for any lasting damage, but enough to make Luther go “URK”. “Don't come any closer.” He said calmly. “If you want Luther to keep breathing, how about you just stay on that side of the room and get dressed while Luther and I discuss some shit. Cool?” She nodded and withdrew to the corner of the room.

“Luther? That right?” Luther nodded his head frantically. “Okay. Luther. I'm going to ask you a couple questions, and all I need are straight answers so that I can provide you with some advice, okay?” Luther nodded again. “At least one of these questions is going to piss you off, but I don't want you to get any ideas about acting on that pissed-off feeling, okay? I throw iron for a living, and I CAN beat your ass if I have to, okay?” Luther nodded once more.

“Okay. Cool. First question. Merlene over there... she your whore? You pimping her out?” Luther's face grew a little redder, and he sputtered in a choked voice “You... son of a...”

“Yeah, save your breath.” He said, stepping down just a little harder to cut off the flow of words. “Son of a bitch, I heard it all earlier. Is she?” Luther glared at him for a second, and then shook his head no. “Girlfriend?” Another shake of the head. “Oh, Luther... don't tell me that you MARRIED that.”

From across the room he heard “HEY!” He shot a glance at her long enough to make sure that she would shut up, and then turned back to Luther.

“Wife?” Luther was still for a moment, and then nodded his head and shrugged as much as he could. “Has she pulled this shit before?” He nodded again and croaked “Yes...” “How many times? A few?” A head shake. “A lot?” Luther nods. He glances back up at Merlene for a moment, and is pleased to see that she's blushing deeply. “And you're a big guy... look like maybe you were a football player in high school, yeah? So you've probably beaten the shit out of your fair share of horny hayseeds, yeah?” Luther nods again, a little pride working into his stressed face. “And then... when you get her home... you fuck her harder than you've ever imagined that you could, don't you?”

“Yes.” Luther croaks again. “Hard. After I beat the shit out of HER.”

“Luther. Buddy. She's playing you. I don't know if she really wants to fuck other guys or not, but what she DOES want is to be dominated. She wants you to take possession of her like that. So it's your choice... you can either fuck her like that EVERY TIME, without her picking up some sucker in a bar to get you to do it... or you can drop her like the poisonous cunt that she is. Your choice.”

With those words, he lifted his foot off of Luther's throat. “Now both of you, get out of here. And don't think about coming back and fucking with me anymore.”

The couple slunk rather shamefacedly from the room, and as soon as they were gone, he started to throw all of his stuff back into the suitcase. He wouldn't put it past these two to come back when he was asleep. And he wouldn't put it past that shitheel of a clerk to let them into his room. It must have been him who told Luther where he was to begin with.

He walked his suitcase to the desk, and threw the keycard on the counter. “I'm checking out.”

“I won't be able to refund your money.” The little clerk sneered.

“You will notice, shit for brains, that I didn't ASK you to.”