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--------------------------------------------------------
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.
--------------------------------------------------------

Passenger 
by Sidney Durham (sidney_durham@springmail.com)

***

A man offers a young woman a ride that turns into a lot 
of fun. (MF, oral)

***

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 * *

Comments are welcome at sidney_durham@springmail.com
My web page: /~SidneyDurham

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world 
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per 
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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