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So after four years of trying to finish this story, I finally did. The first part of this story (up to about "if you're offering free gas") was written in 2004; the rest in 2008. It's an extremely long story--some 16 pages!--but only consists of one real scene and a couple of minor ones. And remember: if you don't like TEH GAYE then you won't like all of this one. It's mostly straight, but there's some funky manlovin' in a few places. Fairly warned ye are! And for those playing at home: Callie DuBois, Lexington "The Slutmaker" Benedict (the unnamed Narrator), "Whitey" Von Stein, "Maybe" Monroe, "Why Not" Monroe, Jimmy The Queer, and the greater population of Buchanan County are all copyright myself, Tyler David Coltraine, 2008. * * * Topping Off Your Tank An Inquiry Into Rising And Higher Gas Prices A "Maybe" Monroe Story From Tyler David Coltraine It's become a habit, lately, when writing literature that they feel is 'cool', 'hip', or maybe even 'publishable', modern authors open with a witty one-liner, a little punch-punch that supposedly helps things get started. I sincerely hope that if I'm ever featured in one of those things, the bloke scribing it has a bit more panache than that. I say, with great pride, that my car has two gear shifts, but only one changes gears on the car. We didn't hold up long there, did we? ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** It's summer. I'm sitting here in my cherry red convertible, cruising down the highway at far far past the speed limit, completely oblivious to anything going on around me. Why, you may ask, am I so content to ignore the scenery? Simply put, I'm busy getting my dick sucked. Let me explain that in some more detail, before you start to get any wrong ideas. I'm friends with these two, The Monroe Twins. You may just have heard of them a few times, especially if you're in the club circuit, or if you're into porking rabbits who don't ask questions. On their birth certificates, these two are simply Abigail and Adam Monroe, but those in the know prefer to simply call them "Maybe" and "Why Not". How'd they get those names? You gotta ask? I guess some folks just have to get their empirical evidence, eh? Okay, here it is, for those keeping score at home: they're easy. No effort. Zero Insertion Force Sluts. Maybe's been known to service entire football stadiums in her free time, while Why Not gets cramps trying to hold his tail down and his thighs together. They've consumed more virgins between them than the Catholic Church and are never known to turn down a free meal or a cheap ride. And right now, my pants are around the pedals and Why Not has his thin little lips around my nutsack. Now I'm not one to brag, but I'm no small kitty. Yet there he is, working those thin lips of his up and down. If I didn't have to worry about the road ahead at least a little, I'd take a moment out and and marvel at his skills, thin fingers working on what bits of the shaft he can't stand to get into his muzzle. Calling Why Not a cockhound would be the understatement of the millenia--he just can't pass on a wang. It's almost pathological. Poor guy's also flaming enough to light your way home with, wearing his tight little shorts and a shirt that may as well not exist. It's a package that brings the dick calling in waves, and that's how he likes it. Usually, at least. Once in a while, he gets a crazy craving for the other pink meat: pussy. You'll never catch him with any in his mouth--another of his little hang-ups--but a bit o' dicking doesn't seem to bother him, especially when it's his sister Maybe. She's easier than he is, if that sort of thing is possible, and let me tell you it is. Maybe is famous nationwide, maybe even worldwide, for being one of the easiest fucks around. She gave up on panties--couldn't keep them dry. Some think that Maybe single-handedly keeps the skirt industry in profits. There's a story floating around about her college years, where she used to pay other students to be her seat. And that didn't just mean she sat in your lap--it was a Get It Out Free pass, a ticket to a full session of getting ridden by the tightest, hottest, most accessible cunt on the entire campus. Here in the current reality, she's riding in the passenger seat of my ride. I picked her up from campus a few hours ago for what's shaping up to be a roadtrip full of cunt, cock, and spoo. It didn't even take too long before she found something to fuck--the first cop who tried to pull me over for speeding got to lay his meatpipe in between her breasts and ride the pony on home. I got away with a warning, sure, but that he'd be telling his cop friends about the doe with the catholic schoolgirl outfit and the 36DDs. Maybe doesn't mind, either. The more the messier, she likes to say. That's the scene as it stands: we're cruising down some desert highway, with a poofy buck sucking my dick hard enough to peel the colour out while he works his own manhood into his sister's sloppy cunt. We've all cum more than a few times, but there's no end in sight to the orgy at the wheel. Except maybe the E signal on the dashboard. "Why Not...dude...we're nearly out..." I'd like to tell him we're running low on gas, I really would, but I can't. That little sunnuvabitch has put his finger down there, under my tail, knowing full damn well what that does. Even a (relatively) straight guy like myself doesn't have too much holding power against it, and me, I'm worn out. In exchange for his little poke, Why Not gets a whole army of things--claws in his ears, a bit of a growl from the snowcat at the wheel, and most of all, one last mouthload of spunk. I just shake my head. Words aren't worth the effort, so I just sit back and watch the two rabbit twins go at it with each other for a while. They'll be fucking for hours, knowing them--neither one has a lack of stamina or libido. I'll probably wind up peeling them apart and helping them shower when the endorphin finally makes them go foggy and crash. It's a helluva trade-off for getting all the ass I can stand, watching these two. ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** Yeah, we eventually got a gas station. Somehow I even managed to get the those two next to me into some kind of state where they wouldn't get me arrested for prostitution. The car reeked of spoo, though, seeping through everything. We were sex on wheels, and there was nothing to be ashamed of. Before I jumped out, I tossed on a pair of shorts, some kind of tight Lycra thing. While I usually just wore a jock while I was driving--just enough to keep the bits in check--I figured maybe I should give some sort of thought towards modesty. No shirt, though--who in the world wants to be covered up a lot in summer? Not me. I'm hot, and I know it. Let the people look at my muscles and all that. I invite it. Me? Maybe a little narcissistic? No, I'm really that awesome. In some areas, they call these places 'convenience stores' or 'general shops'. Out here, they call them 'roadside stations'. This was gas pumps, a store with enough shelves to hold Jolly Rancheros or Fat Nancys, and not much else. It was clean and kinda modern, but not too much of anything else. On top of that, it was totally empty of people. Nothing filled the air but the sound of hinges moving and tinny muzak coming across--some really awful remake of a Smashing Pumpkins, I think. The only thing of note besides the really good deal on Diet Peppy was the cashier. She was black--not an 'African-American' or whatever that silly term is, but really totally black. A skunk, if I had to keep being really specific. Poor girl look like she'd fallen asleep at least once that afternoon, lightly feathered hair tussled slightly. I couldn't say she was ugly, no; she had some kind of subtle charm, something I couldn't pick up. Then again, I wasn't about to hit on the girl at some random cash register. It's just not my style, y'know? I'd already pumped my gas, so all there was left was to grab a drink or three, maybe a bag of chips. And as always, a magazine. Not Sports Photographed or Rock Weekly, but something more...involved. Both the twins needed to masturbate on a regular basis, hourly even, and when there wasn't someone around to get dick from, the magazines came in handy. So I sauntered up to the counter, set the colas down, and smiled widely. The girl managed to look up, somehow. Her eyes were exhausted, tired from dust, smoke, and the general blase' atmosphere. That didn't last when she got a good look at me--hell, she blinked a few times, like she wasn't sure she was awake yet. When it dawned on her that hey, this -was- the waking world, she smiled a dopey smile and sort of tried to set her hair back in place. "Uh, yeah, is that all?" She couldn't be more than her early 20s, something old enough to be on her own but about as far from mature as you could get. She'd developed, sure, but those frumpy WallyShoppe duds didn't give me a look at her figure. She could have clowns hidden in her top for all I know. I grinned, just a little, absently flexing some exposed muscle groups. I guess she liked it, since she blushed just a little bit up in the white of her cheeks. "No, I've got gas on pump four, and I need a couple of magazines." She started to point towards the rack, but I shook my head. "The kind you have behind you." That blush got even more interesting to watch, white hair getting tussled again. She was really trying her best to be the mature, responsible shopkeeper, even when the guy at the counter wants you to stick your hands in the smut that's so carefully hidden away. "Uh...you mean those?" She turned back. "Those are all, y'know, dirty." I raised an eyebrow, still grinning. "Yeah, I know." I leaned forward just a bit. "I need a couple for the passengers. They get rowdy without a little bit of, you know, dirt." She gave the most darling little giggle and nodded. "Perverts, hey? What can you do about them?" I shrugged gently, tapping my finger against the counter. She got the hint pretty quickly, stepping over to the hidden rack and pausing. That's when I noticed something--the shorts she had on didn't seem to fit very well. Was she a lot fatter than I thought? It was an intriguing thought, and one I knew I was going to have to look into. "Uh...which ones?" She started to reach for the softer ones, the Playbunny and Pentmouse before I gave her some sign that no, she needed to move on, deeper into the smutpile they called a magazine rack. "I need a copy of Does In Heat. Failing that, Raver Bois and this month's Exhibito." The poor girl's hands froze. "I... I..." She turned back around to me, sighing. "I can't look in there. Sorry. It's too dirty." I grumbled a bit to myself. Little girls and their damn issues. "Y'know, part of your job description is to do what I ask. I need those rags, and I see at least Exhibito on the shelf. So summon some moxie and grab the damn smut already." She turned back like I'd punched her and grabbed Exhibito, tossing it on the counter with a bit of a smack. "You happy now?" She was blushing hot enough to be felt, but that wasn't going to get her off the hook. "Nope. I need that Does In Heat issue." "Wedonthaveitokay?" She was in a rush to get rid of me, I could tell, but I wasn't about to let her off that easy. I want what I want, y'know? No, I'm not mean. I just figure, y'know, this girl needs to learn that, hell, porn ain't bad. "No no no. You turn your little hinder around and you grab that magazine. I can see it, right there on the very very bottom." I clicked my tongue for emphasis, just to rub the point in. "Listen, if you can't help me here, I'm gonna have to talk to your manager." That did it. Her face balled up, somewhere between righteous indignation and sheer terror. Ever so slowly, she turned around, faced the rack, and took one deep breath. "Fine. You want your faggy sex stuff, I'll get it." And then it happened. She bent over. See, skunks have tails. I'm sure you're intimately familiar with the idea. Hers wasn't the biggest, longest, thickest, fluffiest, or any other kind of superlative. But there's one thing that no skunk does without--the world-famous, man-breaking tail hike. It's there for balance, sure, but what it does is reveal the figurative tail that men would shoot themselves for. This girl, this unnamed cashier, was no different. She had ass. Butt. Hinder. Hips. Derriere. I could cycle through a million different words for what she had, but suffice to say, whatever you could call it, she was decked out with it. The shorts were tight, sure, because they weren't the right size for her backside. So there I was, smiling dumbly at her backside while she cycled through smutty rag after smutty rag. I heard her curse, just from the edge of my awareness, and lean even further forward, spreading her legs a bit. This was where I thanked the gods of both asses and tight shorts. Her shorts, I may add, had moved into an area more commonly reserved for panties, pulling up so tight on her that they threatened to vanish forever into the ravine of her glutes. That's not even mentioning the wonderful camel toe she was giving me--the gentle curve of her feminine centre was well highlighted by red Lycra. I don't know the show she was giving me, but I didn't care. I think I even started purring at some point, lost in the image of her hinder. Her little cough brought me back. "Uh, yeah. Here's your magazines." She put a sarcastic lilt on the last word, just trying to get me one more time. "With the gas, that'll b..." She stopped dead in her tracks, and just stared at me, blushing like she'd just had a giant, erect penis waved at her unconsciously. Oh, wait, she had. I had forgotten myself, lost in the view from the magazines. Somewhere between the bend and the stand-up, my cock had decided it would come out and enjoy the show. It was there, big, red, and standing out from my bike shorts like a Klansman at an NAACP rally. It was harder than stone, and that's exactly what she was gawking at. I don't make excuses. When I find someone attractive, I'm more than willing to express it to them directly. Whoever this girl was, she'd done that. So, it was my job to unsubtly and maturely explain to her exactly why I was waving my dick around in the middle of the day at a rural gas station. "It likes you." She didn't say a thing in response. I sighed a little. "Listen, I'm sorry. It's just...I don't even know your name, and here I am..." "I'm Callie. You, um, think I'm pretty?" "Pretty is an understatement. I don't get like this over just pretty. This is reserved for sexually smoking." I don't know how she took that comment, other than looking a bit to one side and futzing with her bra strap. "I'm not sexy. No one thinks that. You must just be some kind of pervert who gets off on fat, ugly girls." "I dunno about fat and ugly, hon. But you've got the best ass I've seen in years, and I hang out with models, body builders, and strippers." She cocked her head and started to protest, but I kept right on rolling. "Like I said...I don't get like this for just anyone." She smiled a little, just a touch, but it was a start. "So...you...think I'm sexy then?" I laughed, leaning on the counter. "When you bent over, I saw three levels of God between your thighs." The made her breathe skip a bit, her blush so think it was all the way up to her ears. "Now, I'm going to ask you something. Maybe to do something. You say no, and I'll pay for my stuff and leave. Otherwise..." She still looked skittish. I needed to keep her calm, but not too calm. "What's the question?" I stood back up, looking around. "Why do you wear that baggy shirt and those thick shorts? It's like you're hiding something, like you're ashamed." Callie sighed, still fiddling with her bra strap. "'Cause I'm fat. All the girls make fun at me because I've got all this fat." She couldn't be that big, even with a shirt that size, unless it was all in her gut--those hips were not fat-girl thighs. "Bull. I want you, right now, to pull up your shirt and show me all this fat." The last word barely cleared when she yanked up the faded, over-sized 'Don't Mess With Me' shirt. There it was again, that hidden beauty. Fairly trim stomach and abs, good muscles and all that--the only thing fat here was up top, represented by a pair of breasts stuffed into a bra several sizes too small. It had to be a painful kind of scenario, that. She was no Barbie by a fair stretch, more of a naturally well-kept girl. "I see no fat there, Callie. I see a bra that doesn't fit, a shirt that's hiding some really nice assets, and a hot girl." I leaned in really close, as close as possible without crushing my dick into the counter, and whispered through purrs at her. "Where I'm from, you'd be a helluva catch. You could do anything...if you just dressed right. Be a stripper, be a model, be a star, or..." I tried to hit on the American Teenage Dream. "...get a hunky fiance and get laid as often as possible." You could see the gears crank. No kid, nowhere, could put up any sort of fight against a fuck-fantasy. It just didn't work while hormones were fighting battles against sanity. She finally smiled softly after a moment or ten, straight at me. "You...think anyone would want to have sex with me?" I raised my eyebrow, just smiling like a complete letch. "Hon? Um, hello? Erection, pointed at you. In most cultures, this means I saw something I'd like to fuck." I licked her cheek just a touch, getting a shiver from the poor girl. "It's not 'have sex', it's 'get fucked'. Sex is for married people." I slid over, stiffy and all, to one of the racks of cheap t-shirts these places kept, just for stupid tourist and hick locals. "Here." I tossed her one that was just a bit more subtle than the rest and what I figured was just under her size. "Put this on, then take your bra off." She was happy enough to wear the shirt, but the other part was slow in coming. "Bra? Off? But...ya gotta wear one, dontcha?" The shirt was a little short, and really tight around her abdomen--a good combination in starting off her 'fuck me' look. Those bound tits weren't helping matters, though. "Off, off. It doesn't fit you anyways. If your boobs look like pancakes and feel like you're being run through a ringer, it's wrong. You can keep your shirt on while you do it, just pull it through the sleeve. I'm sure you know how." She did, too, popping the latches (which signed relief). Pulling it free was a different matter entirely. "It...won't come out." Of course it wouldn't, since it the tragically trapped piece of lingerie was pressed against the cotton blend t-shirt like a face against a piece of glass. Her breasts were nice for her slight build--I'd seen bigger, sure, but these worked for her, a big C or maybe a D. The sudden appearance of bust pulled the shirt upwards and outward, lifting the hem above her navel and giving the whole thing tightness. Lots and lots of tightness. If I'd had a hard-on before, I had a goddamned warrior right now. I even started stroking myself--it was hard to resist this girl, this Callie. With a sharp intake of air, I managed to pull my head back in and get a bit of thought together. "Callie, hon, what I want you...to do..." She giggled. This was becoming fun for her, which was sort of the idea of the entire thing. "I want you to turn around, spread your legs, put your hands on the bar, and...raise your tail high." Any sort of inhibition took just a few minutes to work through. If Callie's bosses came in and saw these tapes, they'd plotz in their pants. But that wasn't the point here. The point here is that there was a girl, a hot girl in a tight shirt and pants that went past just tight to 'can tell her parent's religion', a girl with her tail raised in a gesture that meant one of two things: I was gonna get sprayed and suffer or I was about to ride that train clean into Orgasmtown. It was getting time to find out which one I had tickets for. "Okay...Cal, baby, pull those shorts down, down slow like, to your knees." She hesitated, again, nothing moving but the delicate swish of her tail through the air. "Lemme see what you're hiding, girl. Don't hide from me. Don't let me think you don't like me as much as I like you." Given the way the place reeked, and I don't mean of cheap booze and motor oil, I knew she was every bit as worked as I was. It was just a simple matter of getting the girl to admit that to me, and then we were off. "I...can't. What if someone walks in?" The oldest answer known to man. Justifiable fear, really, given people's weird hang-ups with nookie, especially when it's two people doing it at a counter in your local McCasey's. "I'd get fired." "I doubt that. Well, at first at least. But what's life with- out a few risks, hon? You're sitting here with a stud--that's me--beating his meat over you while you're still dressed. You've got chances, hon, to be a sex object. To be fawned over, chased after, treated well and given everything she could ask for, just in return for a bit of that ass you've got. Think about it--you put out, everyone else gives you everything else back. Sounds like a good relationship to me." That did it. Boy how did it do it. I could almost hear her mind give up the fight and let the inner slut climb out, tits waving in the breeze. I didn't even think she had it in her, to be really honest, but before my wang could give another twitch, those shorts started sliding on down the wide-ass turnpike. I just about blew a load on the counter right then. There it was, the ass of the year, waving itself at me, with a pretty little twat right underneath, nestled between a pair of big, black thighs. "You don't wear underwear?" She glanced back over her shoulder, giggling. "Naw. Can't get any big enough, and the little ones don't feel comfy. Besides. Who's ever gonna see my backside naked?" She gave a little flick of the hips, setting all those wonderful muscles in motion, just before bending forward more. It wasn't hard to see she was enjoying getting stared as much as I was liked staring--that cunt was all aflutter and damp enough to shine a bit in the cheap fluorescent lights. I moved behind the counter proper, so as to better to appreciate the small subtleties of this fine specimen of womanhood. It all gave me the chills, or rather the warms, kneeling down so I could get in there and see what exactly I'd scored. This wasn't a prize like anything you'd get from those scratcher things under the counter; instead, I had one-hundred-percent virgin butt--no, not butt, that's too vulgar...this wasn't booty, butt, hinder, or even just ass...there were no words for the fine-ness and quality of these glutes. I rested a hand on one of the cheeks, just to test the terrain. Callie shivered a little, doing her best to hold that position without withering down on knees that would like nothing more than to throw in the towel and go home. "Do you work out?" She didn't even have to say yes or no, because I knew the answer. Under that black fluff was fairly solid muscle, the kind you get from pushing those gams on a daily basis and making them work for their dinner. She was no monster of the carnival, not pushing the line into the "oh my god, it's a man with a vagina" section of the Screw-Er-Market. I planted a kiss, once on each check, purring deeply to myself. Normally I'd kiss a few more places here and there, but there were two things to consider here--I'd probably scared the poor girl enough just by pointing my hard-on at her over the counter, and really, we needed to wind this up. I knew someone was going to see us here before too long, and I don't enjoy spending my night in a concrete pen. I stood up slowly, pressed up behind her, black on gray building up just a bit of static. She was shorter than me, but not by anything significant enough to screw up what we were about to do. I let my claws, well groomed and dulled to be safe, run up the curve of her stomach and under the shirt I'd given her just a few minutes ago, mashing against her breasts lewdly. This was normally the point when I'd do something deep, like breathe in her ear or nibble on the side of her neck or something, but that wasn't going to be possible here, because Cal beat me to the punch. "You gonna holster that rifle, or just spray all over my store?" Her hands were on me, and I don't mean my shoulders, experimentally rubbing my cock where it prodded between her thighs. It wasn't as confident as I figure she'd've liked, but it was a new day for her, a day of moans, groans, and probably never paying for a meal again. With money, anyways. So I gave her a grin and a nip on the ears, but no words, no sounds, just bad music, her breathing, and the nearly inaudible sound of her cunt against my own bits. I figured then that it was pointless to be romantic. This girl didn't want foreplay, and she didn't really deserve it. Delaying the upcoming bliss was sort of a punishment, a slowdown in tossing away her virginity and frolicking in the jism. I pulled back a bit, put my hands on her hips, and with no attempts at pomp or circumstance, sank inside her. It was a fight just to get there. She was tight like any virgin I've ever fucked--and I've fucked a few--but she was giving it everything she had to try and relax for me. The obvious clues came around, and I was sure she'd had something inside this tunnel before, but not anything real-sized. Hey, that's what studs are for, breaking in the breeding stock. Not that I intended to breed her, but you get the analogy, I hope. I don't want to have to stop and write diagrams on the chalkboard. And before I knew it, there we were, connected via the Genitalia Freeway to each other. My wonderbar was in her as far as it would go, and that was a considerable depth--I'm not small, but Cal, she could take a lot before having to wave the STOP signs around. She'd somewhere bent even further over, her tail perched on one of my shoulders as she grabbed on to a magazine rack for support. It had to be something straight out of one of the shitty porn rags I was there to buy in the beginning, this stacked-and-packed skunk dame bent over with her shirt around her shoulders and her shorts at her ankles while a sexay beast of a snowcat rammed her from behind. I know -I- wanted photos, and I was there at the time. Oh, the ramming. Let's not forget the fun part. I'm not necessarily known for being a gentle lay; I'm more of the 'let's get this shit on the road' type, what I like to call the "one-hour stand". Don't get me wrong, I really dug this Callie girl I was busily thrusting in and out of, but this was a fuck, plain and simple, and I had a job to do. I set my hips to motion and started the old in-and-out, fighting against the simple inexperience of this girl's cunt. It was getting better, easier, and that was a moment where I could put on a little speed. They told me later that you could hear the screams for a country mile when Cal came the first time. It wasn't much quieter the second or third. I hadn't even given her three good strokes, let alone touched her clit, when she went off like a klaxon in an air raid. I had to flat my ears down just to keep from going deaf through the last one. "Shit, girl, you okay?" There was no reply, in words anyway. She turned her head around and gave me a look that was pained in more orgasmic afterglow than the aftermath of a twenty-seven hour orgy. And I've done those. I live with rabbits, remember? Her eyes were lidded and her jaw slack, tongue running pasture laps around her lips. That's the look of lust right there, love be damned. Well, maybe love. She'd fallen in love with The Cock. Before I could start to give it back to her, there was a sound. A tiny sound, just the kind of thing you don't notice unless there's a real good reason to. The bell when a customer came through the door. There he was, the biker wolf of the 'white' variety, complete with his leathers and boots, looking just the slightest bit confused. Both Cal and I looked back at him, completing the whole thing with our best "do you mind?" facial expressions. He obviously didn't, because he happily trucked up to the counter and put one gloved hand on it. "Gas on pump seven, and let's get going, I'm in a hurry here." Cal sighed a bit and looked up at me. "I need to handle this." She did something I'd never seen a girl pull before, for a lot of reasons--she turned around, stood up mostly straight, and started walking towards the counter. She was a sloppy mess, breasts hanging out, honey all over her thighs, and most importantly, me fucking her from behind. I couldn't hump anymore, just couldn't, but I'll be damned if I could get away--it was like a lock on my cock, it just wouldn't come out. The beeps and buttons were all taken care of, Cal running up his tab as fast as her glazed fingers would let her. "Um...that'll be...nineteen-fifty." She paused, and I could smell the smoke of recently released brain cells working overtime. "or..." The biker blinked a little, confused. "Or?" Cal's face went back into the lust overdrive from before leather-man had come in and disrupted everything with his wanting-to-have gas and shit like that. "I don't have none of those discount cards or nothin', and you guys ain't runnin' any specials...can we hurry this shit up, I'm fuckin' busy." "Get around here and let me suck you off, and the gas is free." That hung in the air like a poorly timed fart, just sort of...out there. There was no indication as to what the wolf--whatever his name was--was thinking, but Cal was wiggling her hips from side to side in pure anticipation. That, and there was a dick in her cunt, mine, and I was sort of hoping to get off sometime this year. And then he shrugged, grinning. "If yer offerin' free head and free gas, then who am I t'say no?" He sauntered around the corner to behind the counter, groping himself and trying to get his pants undone. One of the points against leather pants--it's really hard to get your dick out when you need to. "Y'know, more places oughtta do shit like this, like--" Cal cut him off with one of those sounds you make when you want someone to shut the fuck up, and in this case it was more true than usual--she wanted that dick and was prepared to rip the front off a pair of leather pants with her teeth to get at it. I'll admit, I know some sluts, but this girl, she's just off the charts. I could just feel her cunt warming up around me, kind of like you'd just cranked a space heater up in a small room, which really she had. With a bit of assistance from Whitey in front of her, that poor little zipper gave up and then the real festivities could commence. Up until this point, I felt like a well-endowed kind of guy, with a cock that made the ladies swoon at the merest flash of my package or the hint of red in the room. I'm a hot guy, and I know it. And then Whitey whipped it out, and all of the sudden I was Peter Pathetic Pecker, president of the Baby-dick Club. You've heard of "a baby's arm holding an apple"? Yeah, that's me. But Whitey? What Cal got her hands on was like Popeye holding a freaking bowling ball. It was a monstrosity, a beautiful black thing that would make a size queen go on the prowl for new underwear. I don't know how it fit in those pants, and I don't really care, I just wanted to curl up and cry. I considered it at least before I remembered--I was up to my balls in the best slut I'd fucked this week. Maybe was actually going to get a run for her money and her cunny from this girl--they should take pointers from each other. And with a flick over her hips and the cutest little "my mouth is full of cock" grunt I've ever heard, Callie reminded me yet again that I was fucking her, or more appropriately that I wasn't. I take my cues well kids, and I knew what this one meant--"get me off"! There's a signal for that in every language and I knew 'em all, because well, I'd fucked 'em all. Call me the world traveler. So I let nature back into action now that she'd let the brakes off, loosening up that canal just enough for me to get some momentum going. I held back, just a little. No need to fuck this girl cross-eyed just yet--she'd gone off like a grenade just a few minutes ago, and I wanted to savor this moment, let myself bask in the scents, the sounds, and oh baby those tits. Never let it be said that I'm not a sucker for a nice rack of female, and this female had a nice rack with my fingerprints all over it, tugging at her nipples with mad abandon. The word "hot" doesn't match this situation anymore, but I don't know what the right one is. When I'm balling, I sort of lose my massive vocabulary--I trade it in for a hard-on to stop the crowd dead in their panty-soaking tracks. Whitey wasn't passing on the opportunity really either. He'd shifted just a bit, leaning his weight back against the counter, arms crossed on his chest with his hips cocked forward like he was the fucking king of the ring. Or maybe king of fucking, whatever. Either way, Cal was in pork heaven, lathering this great obsidian obelisk that was in front of her with enough saliva that I could see my face in it. Whitey was not new at this; he had the experienced look of a guy who's scored enough road head in his lifetime to earn trophies, if they gave those sort of things, and really they should. Maybe that's something to set up when I get home--The Olympics Of Head. My dreams of deca-fellatio aside, I really had to admire what Whitey had down there. I'm not really into men--I'm not not into them either; periodically I'll get the itch to fill someone up or even get topped off, but that's rare--but this guy was pretty magnificent in just about every point that counted. With his jacket off and nothing above the waist a road-worn t-shirt with some random and meaningless misogynistic phrase and a big pair of handlebars, it was obvious that buck-o was ripped like a story from the headlines for some random prime-time cop drama, with arms big enough to lift my ego and a chest broad like Cal's ass. Pure beauty, and the fact that he was a clean biker -and- a white wolf didn't hurt the matter. There's a lot of extra sexy in exotic, and I should know, being, well, exotic and sexy myself. I have to admit here, whatever deity looked after the wanton, the loose, and the just plain easy, she'd given me the run of the kingdom tonight. Pounding the shit out of one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen before was certainly a high point on an otherwise mundane road trip. And lemme tell you, I was pounding like my life depended on it. It didn't, but that's never stopped me from slipping a run of the beautiful red sausage into a pretty girl. And pretty she was, especially from where I was, tail held up high so I could get the best possible view of my sticky, sweaty cock as it split her twat in two. Cal, she was a honey-heavy girl, with the sounds of moisture dripping down onto the tile floor almost too loud for the really shitty muzak we were trying to fuck to. It didn't stop me, not at all, 'cause I was working myself up to one of the best shots I'd ever fired and nothing gets between me and an orgasm, whether I'm giving it or getting it. Cal, to her credit, was still rocking along like a real trooper, getting worked from both ends like a true professional sex object. Whitey had let the facade of the heavy biker drop some, going from the "arms crossed approving lord and master" look to something a bit more, well, horny, with his hands buried in Cal's white hair and trying to use her ears for handlebars. I had the better grips, I'll readily admit. He'd cum at least once already to my none, but with a mouth like Callie's it wasn't hard to believe--she let that great big thing so far into her mouth I was kind of afraid she'd drown when he let it rip. But no, as with all natural cocksuckers she'd pulled out at just the right minute to get a facefull of batter right along the muzzle, the stuff still dripping onto the floor from her cheeks. Whitey was, to his credit, still harder than granite, but I wondered how long he'd hold out. And then Cal changed the rules of the game. "I want it in my ass!" I knew she meant me because she looked right back at me with so much lust she could shoot beams of the stuff at innocent passerby, reducing them to heaving randy heaps of flesh on the sidewalk. And who am I to say no? Skunks--at least the walking talking type--don't usually spray, and if she did I'd've been gassed about three pages back. So I shrugged a little, and grinned my evilest grin I know how. "Yeah, but I want to finish first..." This is a secret phrase with Maybe and Why Not, and it means one thing: "buckle up, it's about to be a bumpy ride." What that means to you, the reader, is that I take the speed limiters off the engine and let 'er rip! It's a move I've practiced, and practiced a lot--even in my spare time alone--I call it the Slutmaker, and it makes everyone in the room spoo like they've just been hit with Spanish Fly in megatonne quantities. So I did what was necessary, thrashing my hips back and forth hard enough to whip up the air, little whip-cracks punctuating counter-time to the "splat splat splat" of my member driving far enough into Callie to make sure she remembered me even after this was over from the inside back out again. She was in heaven or something similar thereof, eyes rolled back far enough that she knew what her brain looked like on the inside of her skull. I was fucking this bitch and hard, and once this rhythm works itself up, there's just no denying the impending run of powerful orgasms that the receiver's going to get. Cal had gone off more times than I could count, racking with what you might think was pain but was much more like pure bliss, brain-bending euphoria that gave her cunt the signal to milk my meat hard enough to bruise a lesser man. But as I'm sure you've gathered...I'm no lesser man. I must admit however that the Slutmaker has one minor flaw that comes right at the very end--I have to cum. Oh, I like getting off, don't think anything else--if I hated it I wouldn't spend most of my time doing it. But it ends the fun and the pleasure, and that's always a bit of a downer. But cum I must, and cum I did, rearing my head back and letting a guttural scream go in perfect time with my cock popping free from the warmest pleasure spot it's been in the last few minutes, converting from a love piston (god, who comes up with this stuff?) to a fountain designed specifically to spray jizz all over the person in front of it. In this case, that was one Callie, and her ass was the happy recipient of more than a few shots of cat-junk, giving her black backside a bit of a white repainting. I'm not going to lie to you and say I painted her white or shot like eighteen times or went off like some kind of explosive--I'm a person, not a goddamned sex robot or something. But it was enough. For me, anyways. "I wanted it...in...my ass..." Cal on the other hand disagreed. But it was more what Whitey said next--I'd forgotten he was even there until this point, but the next words out of his mouth were more than enough to snap me back to the reality of a horny white wolf, a big muscular biker nonetheless, with his giant erection that I'd successfully distracted his fellatio artist away from with my amazing hips of pounding (+3). It was very simple, really... "And I want in yours." I had gathered up some suspicions when he first walked in, but I let that all go so I could get a nut off. Now though, I'd nutted, and the fact that I was staring down a very bisexual wolf with a craving for ass that could not be sated by woman alone had finally registered. I'd probably made bedroom eyes at him along the line, or admired his muscles too closely, or maybe it was my drooling over that cock of his, jutting out from his leather pants like a third leg. Whitey moved over and behind me, ever so slowly, with that thick air of superiority that any dominating type carries--you don't even have to be one of those BDSM types to have it...just be overpoweringly -male- and it'll come. My mind raced. What had I done? How the hell would I get out of this? What should I do now? Absolutely nothing except smile and nod, dumbass. I'm more than happy to let this guy fuck me! Why not? He's hot, and hell, a lay's a lay--I done the laying, not it was time to be the layee. I told you, I'm not very into men, but me and my tailhole will always happy make exceptions for the right bit of cock, and this here was the right cock right now. I wanted to say something--mostly ask him if he'd brought his lube--but he was a step ahead of me, greasing up his equipment with some sort of gel. I don't recognize lubes very often, especially when they come from the sort of tube you'd normally see toothpaste or anti-bacterial gel in, but who am I to argue? It was obviously effective or he wouldn't use it. I don't expect love from a random fuck in a hot gas station in the middle of nowhere, but if the lube stinks it's as bad for him as it is for me, right? Right. It was at that point that Whitey decided I needed a bit of workup myself, something provided via a greased up finger running around my asshole. Now I'll tell you, I don't get taken from behind nearly often enough to be very loose, so the wuff-wuff (he hates when I call him that, so I do it often) needed to take his careful time to make sure I was relaxed and greased up. He almost did that, too, but I guess his hormones got the better of him. I nearly hit the ceiling when the better part of his finger wound up inside my behind--that's one of those sensations where part of you wants to scream out in agony, but the flamer somewhere in your head that really really likes getting mounted by huge canines kills the first part and bends over with his butt spread wider than the Grand Canyon. It's a delicate balance, this slutting, and I was balancing right on the edge of immediately shooting off again. Callie, on the other hand, was not about to have any of that. "Give me that fucking lube!" She snarled a little bit, pissed off I guess that someone had gotten between her and her fuckstick. The greasing up of my bits and her backdoor was not nearly as smooth or gentle as Whitey's had been, but he also wasn't a furious slut who had been without a dick inside some orifice for more than three minutes. I swear, if we'd taken much longer she would have ended up fucking the cash register or something. I can just imagine now, "local girl found with $50 in quarter rolls shoved up ass". But that was gone now, and she had herself a fabulous red wand of orgasm in her hot and slimy hand. The ceremony by this point was mostly over with; we were hellbent on getting off and getting off fast, with the idea of foreplay and cuddling and all that fluffy shit long gone. No, in this case what we were after was orgasms, good hard solid ones, and hopefully fast, before this adrenaline-induced supply of energy finally gave up and went home for the night. So without much consideration any of the amenities of calm, gentle, romantic sex, I rammed my dick into Callie's asshole hard enough to make her spine rattle--I will attest in court that I heard it, like a pair of really busty maracas. Yeah, I maybe should have checked to see that she was lubed up or loose or whatever, but when the bitch says "in my ass", I--like any super attractive and well-hung gentleman--immediately rise to the occasion, as does my wang. I spared no time or effort in giving her a good whatfor, making sure to tell Cal how much I appreciated her tailhole by periodically slapping those amazing glutes of hers. I didn't really expect to be buttfucking her when this whole thing started, but I really have to blame her solid ass for getting me into, well, into her solid ass. In my horny haze, I'd remembered to start fucking Cal, and I was too, though not as hard as the Slutmaker. She was tight, not virgin tight but pretty damn snug nonetheless, and that musculature I'd been appreciating from afar just a bit ago was now giving me the best muscle rubdown this side of Petey's Pleasure Palace And Porn Shop. But what I had forgotten? There was something nagging at my brain, something big and important...and now it was nagging at my ass, trying to push in, and even with as much lube as Whitey'd given me it was going to be a fight. But big dawg back there was not about to give up the fight any time soon, not when he had the perfect opportunity to hump probably the best ass in the country. No, that's not true; Why Not was still outside, and as hot as I am I have to admit, his well-exercised ass is probably much better at this than mine is. But that's not the point. The point was, there was an encroaching cock in my ass, and it was taking everything I had to not scream. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I don't mind being fucked--it's a unique feeling, and not one you can easily get. I've even let Maybe peg me a couple of times, but it's not something I always crave the way Why Not does. But there's one rule I try my hardest to abide by, and that's not to let anything fuck me that either belongs in a porno flick or a museum of natural oddities. For all the lube he'd applied it was still a sensation like trying to pass the population of Blackpool, England through my left nostril while they were covered in adhesive and sandpaper and swollen up with mass quantities of helium. I'm not experienced at anything like this, and the steadily increasing pain in my backside was starting to get overwhelming. I knew there was pleasure in here somewhere, but I was having to go looking for it! And all the while, Cal was not about to let me forget that she wanted to get pounded, spreading her thighs wide and clamping down. There was no way in hell I was going to get free of her, and with Whitey about to pin me down with the biggest tent peg on the market, the afternoon was about to get intense very quickly. Whitey finally gave up after a minute of trying to get in me; there was only so much cock that would go in my comparatively small ass, and he was going to have to work his way up to even that, something he picked up on very quickly. So the pace downshifted, just a notch, with the buff canid behind me using shorter and slower strokes to let me warm up. It was something me and my already sore ass appreciated, because while I was loosening up and relaxing, the endorphins were finally kicking in, and that meant shit was steadily starting to feel better. And by "better" I mean fucking euphoric. I'll tell you, there are better sensations in the world than having a dripping cock giving your colon a massage while you're penetrating the near-virginal tailhole of a newly born slut with a wonderfully large ass, but they're usually illegal and lead to your downfall when the cops find out. So I'll stick with this. And sticky is a good word to use. Whitey, being a wolf and all, suffered--and I use that word loosely--from the post-penile drip that all dogs and dog-alikes do, with each slightly-longer-than-the-last stroke laying down a veneer of pre-ejaculate that could be used to grease machine parts. I wasn't particularly letting Cal stay clean and dry either; her entire back quarters were a sodden, sloppy mess of cum, her own juices, and lube, and with her fingers buried knuckle deep in her snatch the situation was getting filthier all the time. I decided I may as well help and let my slim fingers join her own, rubbing her lower lips with a grace that's usually reserved for foreplay. In this case, though, I wanted the bitch to stay high on the feeling for as long as possible--she'd asked for a fucking, and she was going to get it, no questions asked and no quarter given. Nature likes patterns; you can see it in trees, insect nests, and even in clouds and wind. But forget that hippie-dippy shit, what we'd worked up was a pattern that was natural in its perversity and orgasmic benefits to all mankind, or at least the kinds getting laid right now. Cal managed to drag her upper body onto the countertop, letting me do the work of frigging her snatch while she grabbed onto the edge for dear life. This let me start pumping in at a solid pace, tapping out a solid cadence of hips against hips and balls against thighs that you could dance to if you weren't busy whacking off to the band that was making it. At the same time, Whitey started timing his thrusts in a sort of counter-time, working hard to make sure he was as far in as he could get when I was back before giving me a little help pushing back into the skunkrump and sliding back out. Cal was getting doublefucked, really, pounded with the one-two punch of a rocket cock sheathed inside a bullet. It wouldn't take much to get her off, and I knew it; despite my best efforts to slow down and calm her, she simply wound not let me, growling like some kind of cornered animal anytime we showed even the slightest hint of backing off. And so it happened, just as it always happens in these kinds of stories: she came. That word is way too weak for the orgasm she had, a gut-clenching muscle-wrenching run of pleasure so strong she tore the trim off the countertop and left clawmarks in the floor tiles as it rode over her. She even did something I hadn't seen many women do--she ejaculated herself, spraying down the floor while she trembled, her breathing stopped dead and her limbs rigid. I'd say she'd gotten what she'd wanted and wanted more, but it wasn't going to happen, 'cause when she turned around to kiss me and ask for more cock, she went faint and fell to the floor in a small heap, giggling madly and looking about in a daze. Whitey, ever the fine and courteous lover, didn't skip a beat. He whispered a quick "she'll be fine, it's just an endorphin rush" and wrapped one meaty paw around my now completely exposed and pulsing cock. "You, on the other hand, need to get this taken care of..." Without having to worry about my thrust into Callie's hinder, we were free to switch the pace up just a little bit to get to our destination on this sexual road tour. I leaned forward just a bit, not close enough to have anything to hold on to and too short compared to the guy fucking me to get down on all fours, but Whitey took care of the hard part by wrapping his free and exceptionally manly arm around my chest to hold me up. This gave him two perfect opportunities--one to stroke my wonderful cock with his well-trained fingers, all while slipping his marvelous sausage in and out of my ass. It was one of the more wonderful moments of my sexual life--at least up to that moment, anyways...I should tell you about the time with the all Brazilian swimsuit-cheerleading team. I was getting tired, though, and that could only mean that the hormones that got us raging were starting to wear thin and we really needed to wrap this up. Whitey nodded as I panted, knowing exactly where I was and knowing even better what to do. His hand got just the slightest bit faster, but instead of working my cock until it smoked from the friction he started to twist, gently, putting a literal spin on the feeling. At the same time, the pace of his poundings went from steady and just deep to fast and so far in I could taste his cock head. Figuratively, anyways. That's all it took, a bit of change to the routine, and all bets were off--I let rip. There was no screaming, no bending of spines in unnatural angles, just a twisted face, a lolled tongue, and a five solid arcs of seed on the counter and on Callie, who'd regained a bit of her togetherness and had returned from NeverStop Land. With my own finale out of the way, Whitey wrapped two big hands around me and gave a thrust, then two, then three, and let his own fight end. I figured he must be a bit pent up from the load he left behind, filling up my ass and dripping a bit on the floor. I don't care about being clean, really, I was happy to be in the world of the shining afterglow with a dick slowly pulling free from my hinder in probably the most graphic display this side of a filthy magazine your parents wouldn't be happy if they knew you owned. With that part out of the way, we sat for just a minute, letting the air clear and our collective breath return. Whitey stretched a little, chuckling to himself. "Do you two work in the adult movie biz?" There's only one kind of guy that would call it "the adult movie biz", and that's a porn star. I shook my head. "I don't live in Los Angeles, so it's kind of out of the question. I dunno what I would do with fucking all the time, either. I might get boring." I knew that was bullshit and so did he--I had "slut" tattooed on my forehead in great big jizz-coloured letters and made no effort to hide that. "Well here. Take my card." He handed me a stock standard business card with some fancy labeling and the usual contact info. "We're looking for bi guys to do webcam tapings and live performances. If you're good enough, maybe they'll fly you out to LA once a year or so to do some standard filming." "So you're a porn star, huh? I should have known from the dick." Callie was still in awe of Whitey's power pecker, fighting the urge to get it back in her mouth. Whitey kept pushing her away gently--it was obvious she'd hit her exertion limit and despite the call of the cock she needed rest. I helped Cal to her feet and gave her a kiss or two, just simple little things, shows of affection for the show she'd given me. "Now hon, don't think I love you. Cause I don't. I'm not here to find true romance or a wife or none of that--I wanted a lay, and you provided it to me and I gave it back, so I think we're even in this case. Don't owe the other anything." She nodded, and leaned in close. "Though if you're ever back in town..." Lips locked to lips and breasts pressed to pecs as we kissed with the kind of pathos you reserve for long good-byes and Harlequin book covers. It wasn't love, it was a lusty "thank you" kiss that involved just enough tongue that I know what Whitey tastes like. He apparently eats a lot of peanut butter. Just to show off her new trollop-like ways, she even snaked a hand down and gave my little soldier, tired as he was, a bit of gentle massage therapy. Maybe she got the idea form my hands on her ass, I dunno, but I was up and waving the bulbous flag around like when I'd just walked in and first seen this girl bend over. So when Whitey said "I wonder why no one's come in this whole time...I see cars in the lot..." we didn't think much of it at first. But then I managed a coherent thought and pulled away from Callie quickly. "Fucking hell, I left them alone!" We sprinted out without a concern in the world for our current states, three well-fucked souls without complete coverage on us one. I really didn't care, because frankly I already knew what was going on. Whitey was right--there were tonnes of cars in the lot, dozens even, flooding out of the lot and into the nearby streets. And people? Oh man the people. But it's not the people that caught my attention first. Parked over nearest the pumps was a large red bus marked with the logo and name of some generic university. I don't follow collegiate sports unless we're talking about cheerleaders or marathon humpers, but this, this I knew. These were wrestlers. Big, meaty, buff wrestlers, probably on the way to a meet of some kind and riddled with adrenaline and testosterone. I bet you could even smell it from the freeway when they went by. This was a bus of super studs, kind of like Whitey back there, only not nearly so hot and about half as charming. But there wasn't a wrestler one left on that bus. No, they were busy fucking the shit out of Maybe and Why Not right there in the parking lot, with a full audience of onlookers, wankers, and people with video cameras and SmutTube accounts. Maybe was the first one I actually found, though it was kind of hard to spot her, surrounded by two rhinos and an elephant with a dick so big she couldn't even get two hands around it. But she was working it just as well, using her whole body as a big weapon of mass ejaculation. She'd been ridden hard and left wetter than when she started, sucking off a donkey and two light-weight foxes while a panther of some sorts buried his long sally in her hoo-hah-dilly. I dunno what it is about panthers and Maybe, but if one comes by, she's got to fuck him and fuck him right there. There was a whole ring of guys around them, meat out and in the midst of being slapped with wild abandon. Her clothes were all over the place, what little of them she wore anyways--I think I saw one of the guys wipe his face with her skirt after he sprayed her down with another solid load of spunk. And then there was Why Not, perched up on the hood of the car like the sort of hood ornament no auto manufacturer could possibly get away with putting on anything but a pimpmobile or maybe a specialized limo for escort services. He still had his shirt on, but someone had torn out just the right spots to get at his pierced nipples. Somewhat against his normal arrangements he was not surrounded by guys; I guess there just weren't enough cockhounds on the wrestling team, contrary to popular believe, so Maybe had him completely beat on numbers. But what was he fucking? The hottest pair of lions I'd ever seen, one at each end, both with their shirts off and giant tan cocks sticking out of their jeans. It was like watching the buck get balled in split screen, but this was reality. The pool of cum on the car told me pretty quickly that this had been going on for a while, probably since not long after I'd started rutting Callie inside the place. I needed to thank the kids for the privacy, such as it was, but there was one problem. Here we were, standing in front of a massive public orgy that was only getting bigger...I was buck naked with a raging hard-on, Callie was wearing a shirt pulled up over her lovely tits and was splattered in cum from eyes to feet, and Whitey was wearing nothing but leather gloves and leather pants with his black dick handing down to mid-thigh. And then we heard the sirens... ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** So I'm writing this down from Cell #6 of the Buchanan Sherrif's office. Turns out that while the town lacks in amenities, they've got the biggest police force in the state, all of whom were pretty unhappy to find a fuckfest going on in front of the local Pump'n'Go. Funny how that name worked out, but what's not funny is the upcoming trial. Me and the twins have over a dozen charges up against us, running the gamut from public indecency and lewd conduct to public performance without a permit and damage to public property. How was Maybe supposed to know that rhino jizz strips paint? I have no idea what that boy was drinking... We've got a hearing in about two weeks, and until then I get to sit here and do nothing. The Sheriff was actually being kind of lenient initially, though part of that probably comes from Maybe turning on the charm through six inches of spunk and enough pheromones to make Martians stiff in the crotch, but that all went to hell when he saw Callie. See, I fucked the snot out of his normal, every day, conservative daughter, turned her into a wanton whore and a tramp and and and. I haven't heard the end of it--every day he comes in here and reminds me what she's doing, or who rather; I guess everyone from her teachers to the entire baseball team have had a ride on her bicycle, and that's not getting into the girls. I guess we turned his girl into a raging dyke too. But I don't care. I'm proud of the girl, really I am. But that doesn't get me out of the fact I'm probably going to wind up sitting here for a few months, working off the charges down the roadside. I'm too damn sexy for this conviction thing-- "Hey handsome." I know that voice. That voice moaned out my name, called me her god, and was muffled by the sound of a giant dick in the way. It's Callie. I ran over to the bars, looking from side to side like I had any idea what to do in a jail. "How the hell did you get down here?" She was simply stunning--the change in just a couple of days was off the charts, with her hair styled to slutty perfection, her breasts smashed into a tight tube top with some sort of message scrawled across it, and a pair of shorts so tight the zipper couldn't be done--just the tiniest bit of silver pubic hair stuck up. The girl was ready, willing, and came pre-lubricated, I could just smell it. She giggled, shaking the keys. "See, there's only two guards on duty, and well. One's this bruin who gets a super kick out of rimming pretty girls. So I let him give me a bit of a lick in the back. Then I jerked him off and whaddya know, he fell asleep. Easy as pie." "But what about the other guard?" She already had the keys in the lock and the door opened before I could get the whole line out. Instead of answering, she pointed down the hallway, where the other guard, a scrawny dog of some mutt variety, was apparently...humping the bars? It got clearer as I moved out into the hallway--he was getting some ass. And not just any ass, but Why Not's fabulous ass, the tailhole that had turned a thousand straight men queer and cost a million girls their dates and lovers. The poor guy was probably doing this for the first time, pushing at Why Not with awkward strokes through the bars. And Why Not, oh if I'd had a camera...he was in the jail jumpsuits we'd been given, but his was, ah, modified--Why Not didn't wear anything that didn't show him off. So gone were the sleeves, gone was the front zipper, and somehow, he'd managed to convert the trousers into tight butt-hugger shorts, but those weren't on anymore. My little buck was giggling his queeny ass off, making all the right noises to help a first-time fag get his nut on. "He had no idea he liked bois, but he's been fucking your friend there for an hour now. It's great." Cal was a bit turned on by the whole thing, just about to start stroking herself through the shorts she almost had on, before I brought her back a bit. "And what do we do? Where's Maybe? How's this all going to work? We're escaping!" Cal smiled and tapped me on the nose, just once. "No, see, that's taken care of." She sashayed her way over to a conveniently placed monitor and flipped it on, smiling as her tail swished in the air. "I made sure Daddy was, well, preoccupied." And he was, crotch-deep in Maybe Monroe, fucking her with everything he had in his office. She was wearing one of her secret weapons, the catholic school girl uniform, and using it to full advantage. "He'll be at that until he passes out. Daddy can't resist disciplining a naughty girl that's not his daughter, and your friend there makes a damn fine one." I shrugged and decided not to raise anymore questions--I was out, and probably we'd get away without issue. And we did, too. Once the sheriff passed out as predicted, we high-tailed it for the car and tore out. Jimmy, the newborn homo, helped us get into the impound lot and away without any issue. Well, except when he tried to kiss Why Not for just a little too long. Why Not is not in it for love, and if you try to love him you'll only get hurt, in the emotional sense--he's got no love for clingy bitches. So with Callie staying behind to cover for us and Jimmy The Queer in tears, we left the Buchanan County Lockup and headed back for home. I've stopped in a couple of times since then to the Pump'n'Go, but Callie doesn't work there anymore. She works further in town, and these days it's hard to get a booking with her--her days are filled with cocksucking and her nights graced by with cuntlashings. I managed to talk to her a bit before she moved on to bigger terrain and I lost touch. I'll find her, though. Sluts gravitate to sluts. Maybe and Why Not got tired of me after seeing me too much; we don't talk anymore. I guess sometimes, you've just got to keep the scenery fresh, and I was old news. Fuck 'em; I get enough head, ass, and adventures without either one of them leaving cum stains on my upholstery. Now Whitey on the other hand...him I see regularly. Naked. In the studio, that is. I signed a gig with Sin & Pleasure Productions, doing mid-budget flicks every so often. It's a fun gig, and I get to fuck, not to mention having the highest rated live pornographic webshow around. Sweet life, sweet life. I love it, almost as much as I love fucking. * * *

And there you have it! Hope you enjoyed! And if people were to want to do something of an artistic or literary bent with any of my characters, drop me a message--I'd love to see some other work with the "Maybe" Monroe cast.