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Part one: Riding a Winnebago to Nowhere or an intro that contains neither a Slut, nor an Adventure.

I suppose it would do me well to say that bad things are a matter of perspective.

I mean, after all, many people would take a look at my current circumstances and say that I was in a pretty bad situation. For one, I was lost in the middle of a desert without any water of my own, a hundred miles from anywhere remotely hospitable. For another, I was clinging to what little life I had left by setting up a lackadaisical camp inside the sun-baked hulking shell of a metal thing that had once been a Winnebago, which was, like me, stuck in the middle of nowhere.

I reclined back on the seat cushions, a cigarette smoldering between my lips and my heavy-lidded, lazy eyes idly running a marathon up and down the ceiling, examining every discoloration, stain, charred spot, crack, and strange, childish piece of graffiti that adorned it. It was a rather nice Winnebago, all things considered. It had a quaint, rustic feel to it--the sort of rustic feel that things tend to get when they've been abandoned for god--knows how many years.

It reminded me of a lot of things, the Winnebago did. It seemed to be a metaphor for something importantly, probably for the state of the world or human life or the duality of man (or beast, considering what I am and what most of you pretend to be) . It was one of those funny little metaphors that you really only run in to inside literature, because nobody else really looks at, say, a recycling bin and describes it in lurid metaphors that compare it to all manner of interesting things that have great and poignant sounding phrases and after you read them you're like "Wow, I would never have thought that about a trash can" and you fail to realize that of course you would never have thought that about a trash can, because it is a fucking trash can and not, as the pretentious author would have you believe, an enduring symbol of mankind's obsession with tossing away the past and bad memories.

And used condoms, though I find people prefer me to flush those.

I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my pack of cigarettes. They had been rather badly crushed and beaten up over the past two days, but there were at least three cigarettes still useful within, and I am not the sort of person who wastes things as useful as cigarettes. I slid it between my lips and rummaged about for my lighter. It's really a very nice lighter--one of those lighters with the lids that click off so you can look all important and sophisticated when you light it--and brought the wiggling flame to the tip of the cigarette, searing the tobacco just enough to ignite it before taking a long drag.

There's not a lot to do in a Winnebago when it's not moving. Mine was certainly not moving. It couldn't--there were no wheels, and even if there were, there was a rather large, ominious-looking cliff right in front of the Winnebago, which was like a thousand feet straight down into a ravine. I would not have wanted the Winnebago to move, even if it could.

What I needed was water, but that was something I didn't have, and there's no use crying over spilt milk. I had taken my last drink exactly six hours prior to ending up in my Winnebago, so while I was rather thirsty, I knew I wasn't going to die yet.

Of course, thinking back to that drink of water had other effects too...

* * *

She was a cute one alright. One of those sorts of Stewardesses that seem just born for the job. Always smiling, a noticeable, but not thick accent of some sort, quick with a giggle and a flirty wink that promised nothing, but made everything so much smoother going down. I'm not too big on Stewardesses, but she was certainly one to entice the eye.

And she was a bunny too, which always makes me smile, because we all know that, deep down into their very core, bunnies are complete and total sluts.

Don't try to deny it, bunnies. We all know why you wear the short shorts or the short skirts and just happen to forget to wear underwear, giving us more mild-mannered furs an enticing look at your nether regions which then causes us to go over to you and, if not out and out rape you, at least do what you've really been wanting us to do and fuck your brains out silly with little more conversation than the occasional growl or moan or calling you a "sexy bitch/slut/cunt/whore/cum depository."

There are exceptions to every rule, of course, and this Stewardess had the air about her that she may very well be one. Which, of course, is a shame, but I've never been big on having sex on trains either, which was exactly where I was--I was on the 5:20 to Wrotchester, on business for a few key clientele.

Don't you like that term, "key clientele"? It insinuates a lot, doesn't it? So mysterious and dark--makes it sound like I'm a criminal or something, which I may very well be for all you know in fact why are you even asking questions who do you think you are who have you been talking to they were dead when I got there if the glove doesn't fit, you must acquit!

Regardless, I was on a train. It was a long-ass train ride, and I had finished my comic book pretty quickly, which meant I had, like, three hours of nothing to do but sit there and compose dirty limericks in my head until I made one lewd enough to arouse me, which then got me dejected because you can't exactly jerk off on a train--even if you do it in the bathroom, it's cramped and unsteady and kind of more trouble than it's worth. Plus, what kind of freak would jerk off in a public train bathroom, huh? That's just gross.

So, I got up to go jerk off in the train bathroom and on the way up, I decided to stop by the little kitchenette thingy that trains have to get some water. I walked past a slightly ajar doorway that led into one of the sleeping cabins when the train jerked rather nastily to the side (it was, evidently, taking a sharp turn around the mountain we were on) and I was tossed into the room, the door slamming shut behind me, and the person within breaking my fall with an alarmed squeak.

The Stewardess looked up at me with big, blue bunny eyes, and I looked down at her, my hips straddling her own, a pile of dusting and cleaning supplies scattered all about us from the turbulence. We both looked towards the door and I asked the obvious question.

"That door locks from the outside, doesn't it."

"Um...yes. Security precaution."

"So we're stuck in here?"

"Um...yes. For now. Once we reach the next station, the locks automatically disengage."

I nodded and grinned down at her.

"Well, that's kind of convienient, isn't it?"

She giggled, and I saw a familiar flash of light gleam from behind her big blue eyes as one hand reached over to squeeze my crotch through my pants, feeling the already obvious hardon underneath.

"I guess so..."

I blinked twice, once in surprise, once in "ha ha, I told you so, God!" but then I realized that I hadn't really told God anything, so I just took it from there and let her pull me down into a kiss, our lips pressing tightly against each other, the heat from her body practically radiating out of her. My hands skillfully trailed up her legs, caressing the little white stockings that stewardesses wear and slipping my fingers under her skirt, feeling along the lines of her plain white cotton panties, her hands slipping along my chest to pull my jacket down my shoulders., nails digging hungrily into my bare chest, feeling along my toned pecs and abs, fingers circling the muscles with a curious grace that validated all of those unpleasant hours at the gym I had to put in to get them.

She eagerly wrenched her own top open, exposing her bra-less breasts, tiny nipples bright pink and perky amongst a sea of white. I dove between them happily, my tongue circling each areola, my fingers dancing along her tits from the base to the top, kneading them up and down as I suckled on one at a time, my lips pulling at the nipple and my teeth gently nipping into it. She let out a series of cute squeaks and moans, her legs reaching up to drape over my hips, and my hands began to work her panties down her legs as she did so.

My fingers slipped into her pussy as she finished tugging off the rest of her shirt, and as I fingered her I let her undo my pants, peeling them apart to reveal the bulging red lacy material underneath. She ogled at my choice of undergarments with obvious arousal, but also some confusion. I chuckled.

"I'm bi. I find that both sexes enjoy a thong every now and then."

I didn't have much time to talk after that because she was on me fast, pushing me back and yanking my pants to my thighs, peeling the thong material aside to take my

nine-inch, black ramcock into her mouth with all the hunger of a child getting a lollipop after a shot. She wasn't much for foreplay, but she made up for it in exuberance, bobbing her head up and down my hard shaft with a lusty vigor I hadn't seen in awhile. Her tongue swirled around the cockhead, teasing at my slit before moving down with her lips. She was pretty used to sucking cock, I guess--she deepthroated my entire shaft without a single complaint, and I was hers for sure then. Any girl who can give you an orgasm from a blowjob is a keeper in my books, and judging from how much pre was dribbling into her mouth and from all that pressure building up in my balls, I was pretty sure she could accomplish just that feat.

Not wanting to potentially leave her in the lurch, I swung around so my hips were hanging over her mouth, my cock still deep into her mouth, and my face buried itself between her thighs, my long tongue snaking out to tease and tantalize her sopping snatch (which, believe you me, was as wet as a waterfall by this point). I ate her out with gusto, and like all bunnies I've gone down on, she tasted divine. The advantage to really sensitive and really horny girls is that when they get wet, they get REALLY wet, so you get more of the good taste and less of the stingy, citrus taste. Which is awesome in my book.

She was soon squealing in orgasmic bliss, and I was barely able to keep myself from doing the same as I felt her hips buck with orgasm, the pleasure rippling up her like waves and washing over my mouth in a small flood of nectar. She gave my ass a hard squeeze and I couldn't help myself--I cam into her mouth hard, thrusting deep into her throat to spray my seed deep into her, gloppy gouts of cum filling her mouth. I slid out of her and fell onto my back on the floor, panting hard. She lay where she was, moaning softly, her hands slicking back and forth into her pussy with an almost painful-looking abandon.

"Oh, I feel so liberated. You know? I'm being paid to get laid now, and I can masturbate on the floor of my work! It's crazy!"

I had lit a cigarette, figuring the no smoking signs wouldn't care by this point, and pulled my pants back up.

"Mmhm."

I'm usually not a post-coital talker.

The train began to slow down, and the door latch suddenly clicked open. She finished buttoning her shirt and gave me a long kiss before departing the train car, and I waited two minutes before following. Outside, I walked over to the kitchenette area and filled up a plastic cup of water, draining it in one, triumphant gulp.

Then, the train derailed.

* * *

I won't bore you with the details. The train itself suffered very few actual casualties--the main damage was that one of the cars was swung around the cliff side and slit open by a jagged outcropping of rock. Only one person fell from that jagged tear, tumbling down the cliff to land into a rush of water below.

That person was me.

The water didn't last. I managed to power swim my way to an opposite shore and lie there in the dust for a long time, just panting. I think I may have passed out, and dreamt of little bunny girls frolicking in a circle while fucking each other senseless with double-sided dildos. When I awoke, my head hurt, I was covered in water, and there was nothing around me but a churning river and a lot of sand. The river ended in a cliff-side waterfall after about half a mile, so I took one final drink and set out.

Four hours later, I was lost in the desert, shuffling one foot after another, idly wondering if I was going south or east. Or maybe southeast. I was afraid to look at the sun, because it was so very hot, and I am a Ram. Rams are not heat-resistant. We are heat-absorbent.

And then...

The Winnebago.

It had just been sitting there, in the middle of the desert, and it had been completely empty. So, I moved in. Two hours later. Well, now three hours.

I tossed my burnt-up cigarette away and sighed. It seemed unlikely I'd be getting to Wrotchester now. At least, not in time for what I needed to do.

So, I just closed my eyes, and slept. Conserve energy.

And outside, something very big made its way closer and closer to the Winnebago...