Chapter 5

Rita Miles had her inspiration practically dropped in her lap. For two days she had been pondering the exciting, but problematical, assignment which Mary Carter had handed her in the living room that day: Find yourself a working-class male and make out with him.

"But how-and where?"-she had whispered to herself at least four thousand times.

She knew it was easy enough to assume that the woods were full of able-bodied men doing things with their muscles, rather than with their brains like her broker/husband Walter. But just exactly how did one go out and snare one? Certainly not with a butterfly net.

It was that casual image of herself with a big butterfly net which made her think of another butterfly-a male one. Her hairdresser, Mr. Paul.

Everybody who went to him, and that meant only the best-heeled of the upper-middle-class wives in her neighborhood, knew that Mr. Paul was as gay as a Christmas goose. But being a bit lavender where sex was concerned seemed natural enough in flitty hairdressers, and although Rita had a certain unsettling urge to slap Mr. Paul's giddy face at times, she did have a grudging admiration for his talent. In fact, being possessed of a rank, lewd little tongue of her own, she and Mr. Paul had become over the months of their client-businessman relationship somewhat palsy. Or sisterish, depending on your viewpoint. The polite way to take their relationship, she supposed, was to say that she didn't give a damn what she said to him, and he didn't give a scream what he said to her.

And that was how she had the inspiration dropped into her lap ... while Mr. Paul was fussing with her hair, and she was digging into his sex life.

"Made any cute stud tricks lately?" she purred that morning, feeling his nimble, ringed hands lacing through her blissful blonde hair.

The faggoty laugh which followed her blunt question told her that indeed he had scored.

"My dear, you wouldn't believe the marvelous Marine who just wandered into my life last night."

"Good stuff, eh?"

Mr. Paul giggled. "Well, I always say that if you've got to buy meat, it might as well be good government-inspected Grade A stuff!"

"Was he hung?"

"like a fire hose. I thought I was going to have to crawl up a ladder to get to the top of it."

Rita grinned, feeling a little tug of jealousy swirling through her loins. What a goddamn farce, she reflected, that mincing little queens like Mr.

Paul could go out and snag the best horseflesh in town, while she went without!

"You'll have to let me in on your secrets," she purred.

Mr. Paul jangled a few of his silver and turquoise bracelets as he pulled at her hair expertly. "Sorry, doll. It's like I always say, this year's trade is next year's competition. If I let you females in on how easy it is to pick up a straight butch trick, you'd run me out of business-and I don't mean teasing hair!"

"I just want one, not your whole stable. Tell me how you do it."

"Well, the first thing is to be very friendly. And the second thing is to make sure that he is very friendly. I don't relish having my capped teeth knocked out. Once you've established that some sort of rapport is possible, then let him know you want it."

"It?"

"His big petey-bone, you silly-puss. Let him know you'd walk a mile for one of his smiles. Or a block for his cock, as they say."

Rita chuckled, and felt a fresh little ripple of warmth playing seductively at her nipples beneath her bra. "So what types do you like best, darling?" she insisted.

"That's an easy question," Mr. Paul lisped, eyeing his own slender figure in the big mirror in front of them. "I want a man. I don't give a damn if he's tall, short, young, old, black, yellow, red or a combination of all of those. I do insist, however, that he's not a flit, and as one of my dearest sisters used to say, 'It helps if he's got a little monkey grease on his balls.' "

"The working-class type, eh?"

"You phrase maker! Yes, dear, give me a man who works with his hands, and I'll give him one who works with his mouth. ME!"

"What kind are the easiest to pick up?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Rita sighed. "I mean, what types are the horniest and the most readily available-carpenters, tree pruners, TV repairmen, janitors--? "

"Oh, that. Personally, I think it's fun to just shop around. I remember once getting a divine house painter just by checking the line at the unemployment agency. He had a face like an angel and the body and the appetite of a Trojan! Lord, that stud could screw! I had to sit on satin pillows for weeks!"

"So you recommend house painters, for God's sake?"

"Mercy no, you little lost lamb. I wouldn't recommend anybody local for a quickie-and I assume that is what you have in mind. Too risky. And they always are afraid their dowdy wives will find out. No, sweetie. Get somebody who's just passing through. Somebody on the move. Somebody who when he gets ten miles away from his hometown is looking for sex the way a panther looks for meat."

"But who would that-"

"Lordy, Nellie, haven't you got any imagination in that Jean Harlow head of yours? Truck drivers, who else?"

Right in her lap.

The second she got out of Mr. Paul's clutches, she roared her open convertible to the spot he had suggested-the city by-pass.

She kept in mind every precious tidbit of expert information her flitty friend had given her, and though her heart was pounding like a tom-tom in her breast, she kept repeating the essential facts: pick yourself a cute one and do whatever you can to attract his attention short of hanging your ass out the window ... then toot your horn, grin, wave, and let the good gay Lord do the rest! Words to live and lust by!

The city by-pass was like all by-passes, mostly motels and restaurants and service stations. And she had no trouble at all in spotting dozens of big trucks moving like fat worms down the road. The only problem was, most of them had two drivers-and she wasn't quite ready for an orgy on wheels! What she wanted was what Mr. Paul had told her was the surest bet: find one young, dumb, and hung-and alone! And if he's got what it takes in the dong department, dearie, give him my phone number when you're through!

A brazen little grin etched up the corners of her mouth as she thought about telling the rest of the girls how she had gone out and flagged down a truck driver-on a homo's tip! She had no doubt that stranger things had happened, but she had to admit that Mr. Paul's suggestions made a helluva lot of sense.

She spotted two more trucks with single drivers and roared up beside them to check them out. Both turned out to be bad news. One was old enough to be her grandfather, and the other one fat enough to flatten the twelve tires under him.

"Where are the cute ones?" she muttered, feeling a demanding little itch beginning at the inner lips of her pussy. "There's got to be at least one young sex freak on the road!"

There was. But she didn't find him on the road, but off of it. Only when she pulled into a drive-in hamburger joint to get a cup of coffee and refigure her strategy did she have the real thing fall into her lap.

He was driving a truck the size of a building, with about forty out-of-state tags nailed on the back end and a skunk tail flying from his radio antenna. And the first thing she saw of him was a pair of scruffy cowboy boots slopped out the window on the driver's side, and an equally scruffy cowboy hat propped up on the dash.

"Allah be praised," she breathed. "If that's not passion on the hoof, then I'll turn in my pillls!"

She parked right beside him, and when she punched the automatic ordering button to off, so that only he could hear, she said in a voice that would have made a saint horny, "All I want is a big piece of meat-and the sooner the better!"

In about as long as it takes for two big country-boy-from-Texas ears to absorb that kind of bald begging, the boots slopped down and a head appeared. She was waiting, eyes peeled. And what she saw sent a pumping thrust of raw lust into her blood.

A combination of Gary Cooper and Ryan O'Neal!

He was looking down at her from the big cab of his truck, his eyes wide and blue and corny, his slack mouth half-open in a lopsided, cute grin.

"Hi," she purred softly, remembering to grin back at him the way Mr. Paul had suggested-the sort of grin that stops just short of suggesting they fuck on the hood of her car!

"How're yawl?" he drawled back at her, smiling now so that she got the full effect of a row of dazzling, milk-white teeth, plus a set of dimples and a deeply clefted chin. "You must be mighty hongry, ma'am."

She took the deepest breath of her life. "All I want is a big piece of meat."

He grinned again, and she saw his cheeks flush coral. He not only had the message, he had invented it! "Best place for a really big piece of meat is down the road," he said, winking at her and showing those delightful dimples.

"Is that so? How far down the road?"

"Little ole place I know of. You could follow me, I reckon."

I reckon I could-and will, she thought.

"Lead on, MacDuff," she trilled.

He smiled uncertainly. "I reckon you got the wrong trucker, ma'am. My name is Hank. Hank Hancey."

"Glad to know you, Hank. You lead, I'll follow."

It took a few moments for him to back the big truck out of the drive-in, but she was only too happy to wait. She didn't know exactly what she was going to do with this big-booted stud, she told herself, but she sure as hell didn't need fruity Mr. Paul around to give her coaching lessons. She did have some vague, erotic visions of her Texas Lothario pulling her into the back end of that mountain-sized truck of his and screwing her half to death while he chewed on a sprig of oats. Not that she would mind, as long as he chewed a wee bit on her tits, too!

"My, you are getting to be the nympho your mother always said you'd be, aren't you?" she whispered to herself, loving the hot little flashes of deepening lust that were beginning to turn her starved cunt into a little oven. This was as exciting as Mary had promised it would be. It certainly did beat the bejesus out of a hand of bridge!

The big truck was on the by-pass now, and she was following it like a French poodle following a Great Dane with a hard-on!

They seemed to go for miles, but finally the traffic thinned out and up ahead she could see a very welcome sign: REST AREA.

"So that's where they do it," she hummed, feeling the nipples of her tits beginning to turn into bullet-heads. "I wonder how many times that good-looking young bastard has pulled down panties at that spot."

But it was her panties that were ready to be pulled down now, and if they didn't hurry up and get with it she was afraid she would sop right through them.

"I haven't been this hot since the night of my honeymoon," she breathed, gripping the steering wheel of the big convertible until her knuckles ached. "But it will be better this time, because I not only know now that a gal is supposed to enjoy getting screwed, she's supposed to like it better than the male. And if that's not female liberation, then you can hang a harness on my twat!"

The big truck's lights were twitching red, and the front of it lumbered off the road into the shady area of the rest stop. She pumped her brakes and slid right up beside him.

"Yawl wanta crawl out of that big sardine can and come up here?" he called down at her, leaning his cowboyishly handsome face out the window.

"My pleasure," she yipped back.

She was trembling all over as he opened the square door of the cab and helped her up. Once inside, she felt she was sitting in one of those little chairs they strap on top of elephants. The cars whizzing by on the highway were much too low to see anything they might be doing up in the cab, which, with all things considered, was a very wise ploy.

Up close, he was even better than she had thought: tall and a bit lanky, with curly dark hair and eyes as blue as carpenters' chalk. He was all sex, from head to toe, and she wondered if maybe a nice motel room wouldn't have been a better nest for curing her nerves.

"Well," she crooned huskily, "what do we do now?"

He grinned at her, then wiped the back of his kissable mouth with one swipe of his hand. "Reckon that's up to you, ma'am."

That seemed fair enough, but she didn't quite know where to begin. As if to help her make up her mind, she was allowed to get a blinding glimpse of the big bulge in his jeans. He turned so that one leg rested at an angle on the seat beside her-and she could see that the denim cloth at his fly was worn white where the long, curling lump of his Texas-sized cock always rested.

"I reckon yawl could blow me," he said simply. "You said something about needin' a big piece of meat, and I shore do have one, they tell me."

She wet her lips and tried to keep back the urge to flap her arms and crow like a cock for a cock!

But if she did that for him, she wanted to know what he would do for her...

"Now pussy-eatin' and cunt-fuckin', " he drawled casually, "is more than-likely what you had in mind. I mean, I wouldn't blame you a bit for wan tin' that. But some of us old boys have to be primed-up to service a gal. Me, I got to have just a whole lot of tongue-lickin' all up and down my peter, and maybe feel it git all the way down somebody's throat before I can git turned on much."

"And then what can you do?" she asked breathlessly.

He grinned. "There ain't nothin' much I can't do when my poker gits up really big and hard-and after I come good."

She blinked at him. "After? Don't you mean ... before?"

"Nope. Now that's the dangdest funny thing. I don't reckon you've heard of how it is with mules."

"I ... uh ... reckon I haven't."

"Well, sir, mules are animals that can't git hot too easy. I mean, you can put a mare with a swole-up cunt right in front of a mule, and he won't do nothin' but flap his ears. But you git that same mule worked up and make him shoot off his balls just once, and he's good for all night. Pleasure more damn hot mares than you can shake a stick at."

She shrugged vaguely. "But I thought once a male has ... uh ... shot off his balls, he loses interest in..."

"Mules don't. And like I said, some of us Texas boys is mighty like mules. To put it right on the table, lady, you suck on my cock-and you keep sucking until I shoot my nuts off-and I'll give you the best fuckin' this side of the Mississippi."

"That's a lot of territory," she breathed, grinning.

"And that's a whole big lot of hard meat I'm offerin' you, too."

It did sound like one blissful hell of a bargain to her.

"Unzip," she purred, reaching for him with both hands.

"Whoa," he chuckled softly, catching her hot wrists with his strong fingers. "I was just about to tell you how come I got to be like a mule."

"Does it matter?"

"Matters to mules. And some of us country Texas boys is-"

"I know, dammit. You're just like them. That's all right with me as long as-"

"Happened when I was about fourteen goin' on fifteen," he drawled, still holding her hands in his firm grip. "Reckon I was big and all for my age, if you know what I mean."

"I'm trying to find out what you mean ... if you'd let me see it!"

"Don't you worry none about that, honey. I'll let you see it and suck it, but first I like to git primed up. I can git all primed up when I tell somebody about the time back in Texas when I got my twanger sucked on the first time."

It seemed like a very screwy time for listening to the memoirs of a dumb cowboy, but it was beginning to dawn on her that she had picked herself up one very odd, very sexy saddle tramp. But the thought of hopping out of the cab at this point, and the worse thought of missing her chance to have some fun with that big thing in his pants was certainly out of the question.

"So talk," she sighed. "But don't forget I'm a mare."

He grinned and released her hands. "Yep, and yore a hot one, too. I can sure tell that. Just about as hot as my maw was first time she give me a blowjob."

Her eyes widened. "Your mother gave you-"

"Not my real maw. My real one kicked the bucket when I come nosing into the world. Nope, this maw was my step-maw. She come in outta the cotton patch to marry my paw, but I reckon some folks would say she belonged out in the cotton patch with the niggers if they could know what she done to me."

"I'm all ears."

"Wal, maw was only about twenty-two, or so. And my paw was nearer to fifty than he was to forty. But he was a horny old goat, I reckon, so he wanted him a piece of young, hot pussy. Lena Belle-that was my step-maw-was sure cut out for satisfying a man like paw. Only trouble was, he didn't come anyways near satisfying her. And that's where I come in."

"Do tell."

"Yes'm. She caught me one day out in the barn when I was milkin', and she started playin' around with me same way I was playin' with the cows. She had my big young pecker out of my pants before I could say Sam Houston."

"And now comes the good part, I'll bet."

"Sure was good for me. Lena Belle dropped down on her knees right there in front of God and everybody-"

"Including the cows, I gather."

"-and started suckin' on my fourteen-year-old prick like she was gonna eat it off at the balls. I reckon you can git the picture of that."

"I've got the picture."

"Purty, sweet young gal with her hungry lips circled around one of the biggest, hardest, willingest cocks in Texas, and suckin' it so good I wanted to bite through a horseshoe."

"Muleshoe, you mean."

"Then, course, after that she had me fuckin' her behind ever' bush in the county. That's all she was after in the first place."

"I know how she felt."

"But I always made her suck it real good before I'd give her what she wanted."

"So much for hard bargains. Is yours hard yet?"

The question was about as superficial as his yarn about life with mother. She had only to glance between his sprawled legs to get her answer. It looked as if he were trying to smuggle out a loaf of French bread.

"Reckon I am primed up," he breathed raggedly.

It was all she needed to hear...