Rain on a Two-Lane Highway

It was an epic trek from East to West, a nearly spontaneous roadtrip-vacation that sent me speeding across that almost inconceivably vast stretch of continent called North America. Just another guy in just another car, pushing forty and holding his breath against middle-age. A long, long, long stretch of this country, as seen from the inside of a rental car on I-90 with the cruise control dialed in at 74 mph is flat, banal, and same-ish. Exit ramps, gas stations, fast food joints, motels and McMansions repeat themselves like an animated porno GIF.  I finally climbed out of the desert into the setting sun, caught one brief glimpse of the snow-capped peaks of the Cascades, and then began my long steep descent, plunging into thick forests of evergreen, silent and impenetrable. The clouds seemed to extend all the way down to the ground; flashes of brilliant green amongst the mists, now and then a fleeting glimpse of water, a working harbor, my wipers constantly on a slow intermittent.

A wet two-lane highway, shrouded with trees. The darkness that enveloped me was thick and heavy, as if a wool blanket had been thrown over the car. I found their house, old friends reunited, if only for a night. Erich and July, compadres from days gone by. I had once considered poaching July from under Erich’s nose back when they were first dating, and she had seemed at least tentatively willing to be poached, but nothing had ever come of it. Home-made veggie burgers, salad from the garden, sweet potato fries, a bottle of red wine and then another. Their daughter, Freya, was a teenager now. I remembered seeing her baby pictures. Strange, how time accelerates as you get older. She was an attractive girl, neither a surly nor a prissy teen; she seemed intelligent and shy, fascinated by life in New York, but a little too bashful to really join in the conversation, which became louder and more boisterous as the wine disappeared. She had long, carefully brushed blonde hair and glasses. She was tall and slightly awkward and had a pretty smile. She reminded me of a young giraffe. I felt her eyes on me all the way through dinner. Her solemn gaze made me feel oddly self-conscious.

Solarium overlooking the back yard and the evergreen trees beyond. They made the futon into a bed for me, crisp high-thread count cotton sheets, down pillows. A long way away from the shithole apartment we had briefly shared in the distant past, sandwiched between a strip-mall and the railroad tracks, choked with art supplies, bongs, paperbacks and compact discs, the ephemera of a liberal arts education. I snuggled naked under the covers, comfortably half-drunk and exhausted from travel, resisting for once the habitual urge to jerk off. Sleep came like a sledgehammer, and I do not remember dreaming.

I woke up stupid early, with an erection, a dry mouth, and the shadow of a headache.  Deciphered the complexities of their coffee machine, picked up yesterdays Times, crawled back into bed. The headache and the morning wood started to fade as night surrendered to early morning. The sun had not yet risen, though the overcast sky was pale with the coming dawn.

I sat up in the bed, sipping my coffee and not really reading an article about the recession while dim light insinuated itself over the damp, dewy garden.

Freya slipped into the room, looking like a page out of the Land’s End catalog in her blue flannel pajamas. She carried a large glass of orange juice and a spiral-bound notebook.

-Getting ready for school? I asked.

-No, silly.  It’s the middle of the night. [not technically true] And it’s Saturday. [I had forgotten. Days of the week, for the time being, had become irrelevant]

She sat down on the bed next to me. I felt cruelly conscious of my nakedness under the white cotton sheet.

-Would you read something I’ve written? I could feel the tension in her voice.

-Of course. I set down my paper and put the coffee aside. Girlish, curvilinear handwriting. It was Harry Potter slash fiction, I was surprised and somewhat discomfited to discover.  Rather naive and unpolished, but surprisingly well-written. And kind of hot too. Her story was told from Hermione’s perspective, peeping through a hole in the wall as the evil professor Snape tormented and lambasted young Harry Potter, eventually making him bend over and drop his trousers for a bare-bottom spanking, and then poor Harry, red-faced and red-cheeked, was forced to suck Snape’s magnificent alabaster dick.

-Do you think I could ever be a writer?

-Absolutely.  Don’t let anyone discourage you.  Never stop writing.

-Read more.  Read it aloud.

She snuggled up to me like a big, friendly house cat, and I was painfully aware of the warmth of her young female body pressed up against mine.  I continued reading, this time out loud.  It was a shockingly detailed anatomical description of a blowjob, with Harry reluctant and ashamed at first, then becoming more and more relaxed and even eager as Snape took his pleasure in the young wizard’s mouth.

‘Hermione’s hand slipped between her kneeling legs and caressed the throbbing wetness between her thighs as she watched Harry’s head bob up and down, faster and faster, Snape snarling as he approached his climax.’

Freya nuzzled closer against me. Her leg was pressed against my own. I set down her notebook and put my arm around her shoulder. She rested her head on my shoulder. I could see my own cock clearly outlined in bas-relief under the clean white sheet. She slipped her little hand under the covers and tentatively stroked my naked thigh.

I kissed her.

She kissed me back, sweet, eager, and inept, throwing her whole being into it. She took my hand, guided it inside her pajama tops, and I was cupping her small, perfect breast. I tweaked the stiff little nipple, and she jumped, kissing me harder.

Emboldened, I slipped my other hand down the front of her pajama bottoms. She stiffened, her tongue frozen in my mouth. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.  Her pussy was covered with impossibly soft fur, like the pelt of a baby seal. I parted the lips with my finger. She was very wet, hot and slippery.

Freya broke off our kiss, shook her head ‘no’, and took my wrist, removing my hand from down her pants. I felt chagrined, but she smiled up at me, and flipped the sheet back to reveal my erection, hard and swollen, bobbing slightly in time with my pulse, the bulbous red glans oozing a steady stream of sticky clear juice.

She grinned wolfishly, bent over, and kissed it, right on the head, licked the length of my shaft like a big hot popsicle, making my dick stand rigidly at attention.

She looked up at me as if to ask ‘is this okay?’ I did not tell her no.

She opened her mouth and swallowed my penis, as much of it as she was able. Maybe the top third fit into her mouth. I don’t think she had much experience sucking dick; what she was lacking in technique she made up for with enthusiasm. I lifted her pretty straight blonde hair aside so I could watch my cock being devoured by her hungry young lips.  She sucked on me like a piece of rock candy, like she was trying to get past the hard outer shell and at the sweet sticky nougat inside. Her mouth was closed around the head of my dick ferociously, as if she were trying to inhale me, vacuum-seal me, collapse my entire body from the cock on up. It took every ounce of what little remained of my self-control to not grab her by the back of the head and force her mouth all the way down my aching cock, shoving my dick down her throat and fucking her face until I came.

I imagined jumping up, yanking her pajama pants down, stuffing my cock up her juicy young pussy. I imagined fucking her hard and deep, jamming my finger up her tiny pink butt hole. I pictured her bouncing up and down on my cock, golden hair flying, miniature boobs jumping in time with my every thrust. I imagined covering her mouth with my own as she orgasmed, her arms wrapped around me and her lithe body trembling as she came; and I imagined coming inside her, my balls mashed up against her vulva, pumping her virgin pussy full to overflowing with my semen.

Instead, I grasped my own cock, wrapping my thumb and forefinger around the base and jerking off, with rapid butterfly strokes, into her eagerly sucking little mouth.

Somewhere in the far-off distance of the kitchen, I could hear one of her parents stirring. My balls were fat and heavy between my legs. My body clenched and spasmed, my orgasm tickling the base of my spine and curling my toes. I lifted my hips up off the bed, screaming silently.

Freya stayed with me, long after the orgasm had subsided, attached to my rapidly shrinking wet noodle like a nursing kitten, swallowing hungrily and milking every last drop of semen out of me. It was disconcerting like she was wringing out an used-up tube of toothpaste.

Someone turned on a television in another room. I heard the cheerful, vacuous voices of the morning news. Freya finally detached herself from my crotch, still grinning happily, straightened out her glasses and buttoned up the top of her pjs, which had somehow come undone. She took her notebook and her half-empty glass of orange juice and left me where I lay: a panting, limp, sticky, wet mess.

We all had breakfast together, crepes and vegetarian bacon. Promises to stay in touch, promises to come visit, well-wishes and offers of food to take with, home-made bread and organic butter, lunch for the road.

And then it was time for me to go. They walked with me out to my car.  Erich shook my hand, July hugged me, and then Erich gave in and hugged me. I could see Freya watching through the window in the solarium, but I couldn’t read her face. I pulled out of the driveway and turned right, out and away, their house swallowed up in the northwestern rainforest behind me.

Later, she will send me letters and emails; she will remember my birthday. I will hear about high school and boyfriends, and she will tell me about losing her virginity. She will ask me my opinion about colleges; I will read her rough drafts; she will confess to me that she loves anal sex; and one drunken horny night we will masturbate for each other on webcam. She will send me a signed copy of her first short story collection. Someday I will be invited to her wedding, and feel at once proud, awkward, out-of-place and disturbingly old as her friends and new husband address me as ‘Mister’.

But all that is in the future. Now I am just another car on the two-lane highway, another guy with a guilty conscience. It starts to rain in earnest, and I turn the wipers on high. The road is still blurrily obscured, and I curse the wiper blades before I realize that I am weeping.

END

6 Comments »

  1. Wonderfully poignant….another great piece 🙂

  2. ElsieFanny said

    This is very nice and sexy. I love the way that you get across Freya’s mix of virginal innocence and emerging sexuality. The way that you get across her shyness with her parents present and bold experimentation when she gets the narrator alone. I felt turned on and guilty (along with the narrator?) at his fantasy of taking her completely and coming inside of her.

  3. Haephestos said

    These vignettes are works of art, produced by a skilled yeo(wo)man artist. They’re a pleasure to read as they succeed in doing what good writing is supposed to do–bring a story to life.

    I’ve only been reading your stories for a few weeks. I don’t know that they’re something to share with mom and dad, but I’m happy you are willing to shre them with us.

    You have a dedicated reader here; I look forward to each visit to your site.

    • Well said Haephestos …I rank Elsie among the most talented writers on the web.

      • elsiewrites said

        Thank you! You guys are all very kind! It is great to know that my work is being read and appreciated.

  4. appreciated in so many ways Elsie 🙂

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