Bored, bored, bored; I was so fucking over the endless Ohio winter. And then the boiler failed and I was even more bored, being frozen does that to you. This was peak tedium, ten on the boredom Richter Scale, even worse than when my nieces made me watch Frozen for the fifteenth time.
Not even tasteless exploitation horror movies warded off that chill. Shivering my tits off, alone on Valentine’s day, then encouraged to self-isolate. So, when I ended up watching Wolf Creek and not giving a damn about Kristy’s tight top showing off her ample boobs, I knew a change was needed. Not an ill-considered change of course; not like Airbnb renaming itself Airbornebnb which predictably devastated their business model.
My future didn’t look any more interesting, what with all pro sports going viral and the prospect of extra laundry when I ran out of toilet paper. At least I had gone long on Purel and Lysol stocks which had increased as the rest of Wall Street went down the toilet.
Money, money, money, it is indeed a rich girl’s world. Especially as there is a silver lining to the cloud a prospective pandemic throws over our lives, namely cheaper travel. As March was still summery in Australia and lockdown so Federico Fellini, I could be opportunistic and go check out Wolf Creek, the setting for my favourite ever movie, and maybe all those Mad Max locations. I might even see the site where Tom Hanks tested positive.
What could go wrong, I asked myself a couple of weeks later as I slung my backpack over my shoulder and headed for the half-deserted airport? Well, plenty as it turned out.
For a start do you know how long it takes to get to Wolf Creek? Of course, you know about the five-hour flight to Los Angeles and the fourteen fucking hours to Sydney. Everyone knows that you, carelessly, lose another day on that journey.
At Sydney airport, you think you have arrived and you are not even close. Google tells you about the scenic drive to Wolf Creek on the highway circumnavigating the continent. Appealing until you read in the fine print that, at a tad under fifteen thousand kilometres, it is the longest fucking highway in the world.
It is ‘only’ five thousand kilometres to Wolf Creek if you go anticlockwise, which leaves an eye-watering ten thousand for the drive back to the airport. And no, converting that into miles, all nine-thousand of them, doesn’t make a highway any more appealing.
So, I flew, five hours to Perth, and then a couple more hours to Broome on regular planes. But then two white-knuckle hours in a turboprop Cessna flying across the red arid landscape got me to Halls Creek. Not many passengers, me, two dudes and a blonde; I called her Miss Big-Tits as the top buttons of her blouse were, like that Queen song, under pressure.
There at the car hire desk, I had the dawning realisation I was a stranger in a strange land, in the middle of nowhere, closer to Indonesia than Perth, let alone Sydney and Melbourne, with a hundred miles still to go. I had gone so far but hadn’t got far from the freaking virus, as, while I was travelling, all the Australian news had gone viral. Fortunately, there had been no reported cases in the outback, but that didn’t stop me imagining airborne viruses floating around my head like Pigpen in a Peanuts cartoon.
“We only rent four-wheel drives with roo bars as many roads are unsealed and kangaroos make a mess when they hop in front of a car,” the car hire woman calmly explained to her day’s only customer.
“Oh, poor joeys,” I replied, not having contemplated squishing a kangaroo.
“That’s okay, love. Don’t worry, there are a lot of them. Where are you headed? You have got a satellite phone, haven’t you?”
“Um, no satellite phone. I am going to Wolf Creek for a few nights. What do you mean by unsealed?”
“Unsealed means no asphalt, bitumen, pavement or whatever you call it. The unsealed road to Wolfe Creek is pretty corrugated but safe enough, and there will be the occasional passing car. Don’t get lost and take plenty of water. And by the way, it is Wolfe Creek, not Wolf Creek. That bloody movie gave everyone the wrong impression. We don’t all habitually kill cute foreigners.”
"Define 'all,'" I said, now having something else to worry about.
"I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you," she replied, actually reciting iconic dialogue from my favourite slasher.
As I stepped out into the oppressive humidity, I knew we weren’t in Kansas anymore or indeed anywhere in the United States. This place was different, a full six degrees of latitude closer to the equator than my beloved country’s most southern point.
There outside I saw Miss Big-Tits, sweat now dribbling down that ample cleavage, arguing with a man, who turned out to drive the only car for hire in Halls Creek, about the cost of a ride to Wolfe Creek. Uber this was not.
So, guess who couldn’t help assisting a damsel in distress, especially one as curvaceous as the blonde? Why me of course.
“I'm Toni Curtis,” I said, introducing myself, “I am heading to Wolfe Creek, want to come with me?”
She smirked at my double entendre, her eyes appraisingly travelled up my body and lingered on my graphic form-fitting tee on which ‘But I'm A Cheerleader’ was emblazoned. It pays to advertise and, given my fondness for girls, a reference to an obscure movie about lesbian self-discovery was a signal that I hoped would get gaydars pinging.
My curiosity about Miss Big-Tits sexual orientation was soon answered as, with an understanding look, she said, “I have a Fucking Åmål tee I like to wear.”
Thankful for my always helpful IMDB app, I found the movie she mentioned listed as Show Me Love. I thanked Odin it wasn’t some ponderous Ingmar Bergman snooze fest. Rather it was a well-received Swedish lesbian flick, which told me all I needed to know.
When I smiled, acknowledging that I liked what I was hearing, she continued, “I’m Bork, from Sweden.”
I prepared to shake her hand but remembered that, in these pandemic times, a handshake is practically akin to sharing hypodermic needles. She so appreciated what I was doing to her that she squirted for me, having extracted a large hand sanitizer from her backpack. And, smirking, she then asked, “If I come with you, do I have to pay?”
“Not if I cum too,” I said, throwing my bag in the hire car’s trunk.
“Cool, you can take a chance on me.”
Cute, I thought, she knew her Swedish music as well as her movies. Was there anything not to like about this Scandinavian hottie? I reached for her bag asking, "Such an interesting name, Bork. Anything to do with Bjorn?"
"That's Borg! No, I'm named after that Swedish chef on the Muppets. You know the one," she said, removing a meat cleaver she seemingly travelled with from her dusty backpack and swinging it briskly through the air, shouting, "Bork! Bork! Bork!"
While I did have childhood memories of the scary Swedish chef, watching countless horror movies had me wary about driving into the unknown with a meat cleaver swinging blonde who may have a dark secret. Like perhaps she was a Lesbian Vampire Killer. That would so not be a case where even two out of three ain’t bad.
But, I rationalised, life wasn’t a horror movie, and any way locking eyes with the Nordic lesbian beauty in the Southern hemisphere summer sun had bought my libido to warp speed. So, I tossed her backpack in the trunk and we got into the car, Bork holding her meat cleaver close to her like it was a baby. I thanked God her name wasn’t Rosemary.
She told me, as I drove out of the airport remembering the right stuff and staying on the wrong side of the road, that she was avoiding her immigration status and hopefully the virus by working in the outback and had found a position at the Wolfe Creek pub. My mind flicked through the pages of the Karma Sutra, lesbian version, at her mention of the word position.
As fortune would have it, that was the very pub I was to stay at. Not that I had a choice, Google had told me it was the only building within a hundred miles of the crater location of my favourite horror movie.
There is not much in Halls Creek but there was one small diner. Now, I am an American so, of course, I love a good pie. Like a classic pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving, a cherry pie, a tangy key lime pie, or deep-dish apple pie as big as my head.
But my first taste of Australia was a savoury meat and gravy pie. And when I cut the pie into quarters with a knife and fork, I got roasted. Not by a local but by a Swede for God’s sake.
“You don’t tuck into it like that,” Bork said, “Use your hands, after you have given it a healthy squirt of tomato sauce of course.”
“Tomato sauce?”
“Ketchup to you, you Yank.”
So, I did, eating like a local, though I discovered meat was a generous interpretation of the pie as I mostly chewed my way through pastry and gristle. Refreshed we set off for a few miles on the world’s longest highway, before turning onto the unsealed road, whose redness reminded me of a French Open tennis court, that took us to Wolfe Creek.
“I am so hot,” Bork said.
“You are indeed. And the weather is very warm as well.”
She smirked and asked, “Do you mind if I take my damp top off and let the air con blow directly on my skin?”
The car had us in close proximity and I suddenly developed a cunning plan. Being a straight transmission, my hand, now appropriately sanitized, ‘clumsily’ slipped from the gearshift knob to graze her firm thigh. She didn't object even when I tried to pop her clutch.
Did I mind her taking off her top? Hell no, but why stop there, “You can even go all Kristen Stewart on me if you like.”
It took a moment for the krona to drop, but then Bork asked, “Oh you mean On the Road. Didn’t Kristen go topless?”
“And your point is? Mind you I think she actually was nude,” I observed, my fingers lightly circling higher up her inner thigh as Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" came over the satellite radio.
She giggled, both of us now undulating like strippers with restless leg syndrome, and upped the ante on me, “Wasn’t everyone in the car just as undressed?”
Oh my God, what a vacation, the first cute girl I meet wants to get naked with me. I slammed on the brakes, learning that I hadn’t learnt the art of driving on unsealed roads when the car went into an uncontrolled drift, spinning like Linda Blair’s head and sliding off the road.
Bork screamed as if she had seen a hitchhiking Leatherface, letting go of the meat cleaver which embedded itself in her hand sanitizer.
Fortunately, there were no objects for the car to hit and we came to a stop unscathed. Apart that is from the hand sanitizer which was now leaking as badly as my pussy but with a fruitier smell.
Almost before Steve Perry nailed his first high note, my companion began to disrobe as sensually as it is possible in the front seat of a rental. Her large breasts were delightfully capped with dark areolas and nipples. And her pussy was lasered like mine.
As the steering wheel was in my way, I stepped out into the debilitating sun, leant against the car and peeled off my snug tee and shorts. My sticky panties required a firmer tug before they slipped down with an audible 'POP'. It was so freeing to be nude amidst the primal Aussie landscape. No buildings, no traffic. Just me and her, and her meat cleaver of course.
Naked, I cranked the AC up to full blast and pulled back onto the road knowing that, now we were without hand sanitizer, the health advice was to keep over a meter’s social distance. Although her tanned, toned athletic legs and firm full breasts were horribly distracting to my driving, I safely negotiated the next few miles.
But then the tennis court smoothness of the red clay disappeared, and I learnt what the car hire woman meant when she said the road was corrugated. There were relatively deep and widely spaced ripples in the red gravel road which, even after I slowed down, still caused vibrations in the car. We even passed various bits that had fallen off vehicles, including an expensive light unit. Besides playing havoc with the shock absorbers each jolt had our breasts bouncing like four errant basketballs on a gymnasium floor.
"Nice," Bork complimented, her eyes careened wildly in their sockets, “Oh my God, do these vibrations go straight to your clit too.” Her mentioning vibrations had me missing my reliable vibe back home. The one I named 'Beach Boy,’ as it gave such good vibrations.
Fuck social distance, I rationalized. I felt fine and we hadn’t touched anything else since our last hand sanitization, so we couldn’t be newly infected. Clearly, the answer to her question of will you take a chance on me was now, hell yes.
This time, I smoothly pulled to the side of the road where our first kiss immediately turned tongue swirlingly epic. Bork firmly clutched my bare breast. My gasp of delight matched that of a koala when discovering a patch of fresh eucalyptus. I placed my hand on hers and pleaded for more. She didn't disappoint, rolling my rigid nipple between her thumb and forefinger.
We kissed passionately, our sweaty bodies sticking together, slippery and flushed with desire. My fingers became small heat-seeking missiles delving between her legs. It took a Herculean effort on my part to keep my explorations tender. I wanted this to build like the oppressive Aussie heat, not be rushed like worldwide shoppers seeking toilet paper.
But, as my middle finger penetrated her welcoming wetness, she gripped my wrist and plunged my finger deeper. She was as wet as the fjords often pined for in her neighbouring Norway.
Taking the hint, I slid another finger into her needy pussy and repeatedly slapped the heel of my hand on her engorged clit. Bork began writhing on my fingers, her orgasm rising quickly and intensely, actually increasing the humidity by ten per cent. The clash between the cold AC air and our damp body heat had me concerned there could be a thunderstorm inside our ride.
And then Bork returned serve, two of her fingers curled into my equally needy pussy. Twisting her fingers against my velvet walls had my orgasm building just as intensely and I screamed her name as I came in the arid Australian outback.
Just one outback quickie was enough, I had caught the Bork bug. Something more infectious than Covid-19 but I wouldn't be needing a mask to survive it; the strong aroma inside our car, was, while airborne, not a contagion.
After catching our breath, the next stop was Wolf Creek. When we arrived, now dressed, at the solitary building, we were greeted by the eponymous owner of the pub which turned out to be called Rumps. He warmly welcomed, in these increasingly troubled times, a cash customer and even more warmly welcomed Bork, immediately figuring that she would keep abreast of the requirements of the bar’s customers.
Having set her to work behind the bar, he showed me to my room, cautioning me about the wildlife inside and outside of the bar. Jetlag had caught up with me and I slept soundly all night not even disturbed by the thought of the poisonous spiders and snakes that Rump told me roamed the arid Western Australian landscape.
Revitalized by my long sleep and a thrilling Bork inspired wake-up masturbatory session, I braved the morning heat and walked to the famed crater. It's over a whopping seven thousand feet in diameter, which would tax me in any weather. Also, as an add-on, I wandered the two hundred feet from the rim to the crater floor.
Breathtaking, though looking more like an ass-hole than I was comfortable with, I cautiously looked around as I replayed the slaughter that occurred here in the iconic flick. Thankfully I saw no looming machetes hovering above me. Still, the horror aficionado in me felt strangely disappointed by the lack of carnage.
Then, needing to escape the looming afternoon heat, I wandered nonchalantly into the main bar of Rump’s Pub. It was dim, only lit by four XXXX beer signs. A brand I'd never heard of but one that seemed popular judging by the empty and crushed cans lining the shaky tables and uneven pool table.
But my distaste for the surroundings was interrupted when I saw Miss Big-tits herself, now fetchingly dressed as a parody of a German barmaid, her décolletage, supported only by a half-cup bra, displayed in all its glory.
She might have thought I was stalking her, well, I hoped she did. And I realised she did when Bork’s smile on seeing me lit up the bar far more than the neon XXXX signs. Despite her Swedish origin, her grin was sunnily Mediterranean. As was mine, both of us had been bitten by the lust bug.
I sat at the bar so I could be close to my leggy, blue-eyed friend. Two older guys were sitting there, over a meter apart, like twins in their white but stained singlets which curved much less fetchingly over their beer bellies than the top curving over Bork’s boobs. Their outfits were completed, in outback cliché style, by short shorts, work boots and well-used Akubras.
Tweedledum and Tweedledummer, I thought to myself. But when I placed my ass on a barstool, they dragged their eyes from Bork’s chest and introduced themselves, “Giday cobber, I’m Bruce.”
“I’m Bruce too,” the other added, “How are ya, mate?”
Mate, I thought, I wouldn’t mate with you in a thousand years. But stuck in the middle of nowhere, I could at least show the locals that there were Americans more gracious than you know who.
“I am good,” I replied, “What would you recommend to eat and drink?”
“Nothing, mate,” the taller Bruce replied, “It is all shit.”
“But you are a girl,” the shorter Bruce perceptively added, “And I hear that Perth cider is good.”
“I just served ten bottles of Little Creatures cider into the other room,” Bork interjected, “So it is worth a go.”
Oh well, I thought if the ladies in the other room went with cider, I would indeed give it a go. "No worries," was my culturally appropriate reply.
It was then that I discovered the Bruces might look like extras from Hillbillies in a Haunted House but they were kind-hearted.
“Give us a couple of schooners of XXXX and a cider for the lady, on my tab,” the taller Bruce said.
“You don’t have to,” I said as I sanitized my hands from the dispenser of cheap vodka on the bar.
“True, but we haven’t had many Yanks here since they finished that fucking movie. You know the one called Wolf Creek?” the shorter Bruce added.
I admitted I did indeed know that movie, adding, “A lot has happened in the USA since then, this Covid-19 is getting scary.”
“True, luv. So very scary,” the taller Bruce added, “The economy is going down the gurgler. But no Covid-19 here, you are safer than at home.”
They then coped with their economic concerns in the traditional Australian way, by sculling their XXXX in morbid silence. Not the worst way of surviving I realised, cheering up at the thought I was away from the virus, so I drank my cider, the first taste of which was remarkably good. I started savouring it, swirling it like a good wine, when suddenly the pub’s saloon door swung open and SHE walked in.
"Giday mate, my car's broken down," she said to my busty Swedish friend, "Give me a Corona, I'm as dry as a nun's cunt."
One of those girls who likes beer, well after all she was Australian, I thought. But that rarest of Aussies one with taste. So, it was love at first sight, well lust actually. Like Bork, Corona girl was another virus, one that suddenly made me hot and bothered in a way that had nothing to do with the summer heat.
As soon as Bork, in the forty-degree heat, placed a Corona on the bar, the bottle wept with condensation. The newcomer took off her Akubra; her auburn hair, now as braless as her breasts, tumbled around her shoulders. Her lips surrounded the bottle’s slippery orifice and she chugged her Corona as if her thirst was as viral as Chantal Contouri’s.
The condensation dribbled off the end of the bottle and ran down her ample cleavage, the coolness causing her nipples to poke against her midriff top. My pussy empathized, and, as I was in Australia, empathised too; now having dripping in common with Mexico’s finest legal export.
I was minding my own business, admiring her beauty and taking in the rustic ambience of the outback shit hole when suddenly tall Bruce jumped up and flung a large knife at my feet. After first counting my toes I noticed he had impaled a large, squirming snake.
"That's a Tiger snake, missy. They're more venomous than ole' Rump’s Cherry cyanide smoothie.”
"Crikey," the pub erupted in unison except for the newcomer who seemed unfazed by a Bruce saving my life. With a satisfied burp, she slammed the empty bottle down on the bar, turned on her thong and sashayed over to the jukebox.
Bork and I exchanged glances before our eyes locked onto the bottom of the newcummers ass cheeks, which swayed invitingly from beneath her high cut Daisy Dukes. I knew that we both thought she was likely straight, as only in horror movies would all three women in a bar be into girl-on-girl action.
Inserting a coin, she made a selection, kicked off her shoes and stood poised, head down and the Bruces were thinking this is not the way they remembered it here. Her choice was Icehouse the most ironically named band for a stinking hot day. And, as Great Southern Land echoed off the walls, her hips moved left and then right, forward and back, just like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction.
Moves like hers had been hidden, maybe for a million years, but like a primitive woman her twinkle toes danced and her hips gyrated towards the bar. She could see in Bork and my hungry looks that we were on the limit of lust’s ocean, now prisoners to the undulating sway of her breasts and the sensual steps of her long legs.
Suddenly in unison, like from a Cheers episode, the drunks shouted to the Aussie girl, "Hey, sheila." She acknowledged them with a noncommittal wave, only seemingly having eyes for Bork and I. But that caught the Swede's attention.
"Why are women addressed as Sheila here," she asked the Bruces?
“All shelias are shelias,” the shorter Bruce replied, only to be interrupted by the sexy newcomer.
"I can't speak for other shelias but my name IS Sheila," the sheila named Sheila replied in her most exaggerated and, for me, sensual Aussie accent.
"Now it seems so simple," the tall Nordic woman responded while maintaining panty-dampening eye contact, "By the way, my name is Bork."
Their ensuing long hand sanitization and handshake had both quivering and searching for a quick exit strategy. An exit strategy that didn’t seem to include me. So, I interrupted the love-in and introduced myself and Shelia rewarded me with an equally quivering hand sanitization and handshake.
I looked at Bork and we both knew, like Holmes to Watson, the game was afoot. But not before the three of us shared a cheap Shiraz at the bar. Sharing alcohol with new friends, even more Australian than the kangaroo.
After draining her glass Shelia gave us both more panty dampening looks and said, “Let’s see you two dance. You first Yank, I want to see if you can shake your booty like Shakira.”
“We don’t have much call for Northern Hemisphere crap, though we did get some American music a few years back,” the taller Bruce unhelpfully pointed out, “Oh Lordy, Lordy, Lordy I think the name was Al Jolson.”
When I looked, the newest selection from North America was indeed Al Jolson crooning "Mammy." I knew I was in trouble. Sure, there was AC/DC's 'Thunderstruck' but, since I’ve twice cracked vertebrae dancing to it, I was hesitant. Seeing that, Bork, ever the opportunist, slid over the floor wet with beer to the aging Wurlitzer where she was fortunate to find, amongst the Bee Gees and Olivia Newton-John music, for want of a better word, two Swedish songs.
Dropping coins into the slot, as I sulkily returned to my seat, she hit B12, 'Waterloo.' Napoleon might have frowned on the selection, but ABBA had the blonde tourist shaking both her bubble butt and ample bosom in perfect synchronization, a curvier version of Uma.
Having got Sheila’s attention by writhing her way to the beer-swilling Aussie girl, I just knew Bork was intent on a chat-up line. And she was, whispering, "Perhaps I can look under your hood and get your motor running.”
Shelia giggled, and I marvelled at Bork’s luck, surprised at her aggressiveness. I thought Sweden was neutral, known mainly for its chocolate and watches. Which turned out to be pretty dumb, I had just confused Sweden with Switzerland. The conniving bitch then returned to the jukebox for her next selection, maybe the only Scandinavian song that gets everyone dancing, namely Dancing Queen.
When the thumping bass notes blared through the worn-out speakers, a new commotion broke out from the side room as ten slender young men in various stages of cross-dressing danced into the bar area in a raucous conga line. It all made Dancing Queen seem so fitting and ironic and threw a little shade on the Swedish bogan.
Their powerful, well-practised hip thrusts actually made the schooners of XXXX vibrate like a scene from Jurassic Park. The dusty pub was being treated to a free show from a "Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" touring company.
Who can resist, well not we three women? As one we, an American, an Aussie and a slutty Swede, an international porn cast coming to life down under, were on our feet dancing like Baby backed into a corner in Dirty Dancing. The rowdy natives, however, were eyeing us like the venomous Inland Taipan eyeing its doomed prey.
As we recovered from our dancing, all three of us hot and bothered, sucking on Coronas, Bork asked, “Does the car have gas?"
"Oh, you mean petrol? Yes, I filled it up in Halls Creek," Shelia replied.
"Sorry Sheila, that's about the extent of my auto mechanic skill. Of course, that is really all you need to know about Saabs.” Bork paused and then slyly added, "But I wouldn't mind getting behind you and pushing."
“Whore,” I whispered to her, then said, trying to be the adult in the room, "Let's take a look."
We ventured outside unaware of a rusted-out green truck parked in the blazing sun. Unbeknown to us, inside that truck a grizzled man sat watching, his well-worn leather hat pulled down. Positioned so he could easily watch our comic inspection of the ailing Toyota.
"Pop open the hood," I said.
"The what?" my two companions asked.
"She means the 'bonnet',” Sheila told Bork condescendingly.
Not to be outdone, and to Bork’s confusion, I added, "So your cars wear bonnets? How Easter-esque. What do you call the trunk? A basket?"
"That's the 'boot', you are such a naive Yank. Everyone in the civilized world knows that," came the ocker reply.
"Well, these boots are definitely not made for walking," I chimed, ignoring her subtle barb.
I then climbed into the driver’s seat, popped the HOOD and tried to start the car but nothing happened. At first, I was unaware that someone was watching the long legs and partly visible butt cheeks of the two women bending beneath the open hood.
Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw him in his car, the mysterious bloke's hand moving down from the steering wheel, out of sight though his upper arm moved up and down like he was priming a pump.
With a blood-curdling screech, Bork and Sheila grabbed each other for comfort, their breasts mashing together. All thought that he might be praying for a pash between the two women as a piece de resistance and that his pump would then erupt like an oil well in 'There Will be Blood,' vanished from my mind.
Jumping from the vehicle, I asked, "What's wrong?"
"It's nothing," Sheila replied, "Just a scorpion running across our thongs."
Being helpful, I offered my assistance. "Your thongs? Perhaps you should hand them to me for inspection."
Sheila merely shrugged, then bent and handed me her flip flop. My disappointment was noticeable when I realized that flip flops were called thongs in this bizarre land. And after all, sniffing flip flops somehow just seemed so wrong, even for me.
Perhaps the battery was the issue I thought. While fiddling with battery cables my elbow nudged our Aussie mate's lightly covered breast and since she made no effort to pull away, the elbowing continued. Sparks began to fly but certainly not from the seemingly deceased battery.
The residents of the Wolf Creek Pub in need of entertainment had gathered around its entrance. Seeing the sparks between Sheila and me, they began using sign language of their own to show their approval. But instead of a simple 'thumbs up' they resorted to crude 'finger moving in and out of a doughnut' approach. Unfortunately for them, I am perpetually dieting, so doughnuts are off my agenda. As are sausage fests!
As we looked away in feigned indignation, we did not notice the slow, suspenseful approach of the bloke from the truck. As his heavy shuffling boots dragged over the parched earth, the pub bludgers turned in unison to flee as if they had just seen the Grim Reaper.
Even the jukebox was playing a BOC classic that added both eeriness and good music to the down under festivities. The fleeing bogans collided with the dance troupe. They held each other for safety, far longer than truly necessary. Both Bruces seemed depressed by the direction the pub was going.
We were startled when the creeping man loudly cleared his throat, frightening the carrion eaters, who scattered like sex workers at the sound of sirens.
"Do you sheilas need help with your ride? I'm not bragging but I'm pretty good with my hands. The rest of me is kinda worn out though," he said with a self-deprecating laugh that put us at ease.
His threadbare red flannel shirt had more holes than a slasher movie's plot and barely concealed his massive beer gut. We stepped back giving him access. He started with the traditional pulling of various cables before scratching first his chin then his balls. He then unsheathed a huge knife which glistened in the midday sun. I wanted to do my best Paul Hogan impersonation but had the sense to refrain.
Using the knife, he scraped rust from each battery terminal while singing an INXS song so far off-key it required a locksmith. Having satisfied himself about that battery, he crawled beneath the car, unaware of the way Shelia and I were now maintaining sensual eye contact. Had he noticed he might have used the resulting erection to jack up the car. Instead, his belly accomplished that.
Finally crawling out, soaked in sweat, he looked each of us up-and-down before saying, "The bad news is your radiator needs serious welding but the good news is I can tow you to my humble abode. My shop is like a servo and she will be right as rain in no time. We can even stop at a bottle-o and have a ripper of an arvo.
I had no idea what language he was attempting to speak and asked, “Do you guys use Mad Libs to come up with these screwy expressions?"
He looked at me strangely but Sheila who seemed to catch his drift eyed him cautiously before consenting. "No worries," she said matter-of-factly.
As he linked the wounded car to his truck, we trio of ladies climbed into the back seat of the Toyota, looking at each other uncertainly. In the distance, thunder crashed and a bell tolled. Though from where the bell tolled was a mystery as there were no buildings other than the pub for a hundred or so miles.
"Crikey," Bork exclaimed, showing some familiarity with Steve Irwin, "It looks like we're in for some heavy rain."
My heart was racing and I was bathed in sweat. Was I was coming down with Stockholm Syndrome?
As we were towed away from the pub, me pressed between the two other women in the cramped backseat, my bare legs rubbed against theirs. Ever the opportunist, I ran my fingers up their inner thighs looking to comfort them if indeed the thunder had spooked them.
Bork asked, "Does this feel scary to anyone besides me?"
As my finger traced circles across their skin ever closer to their gearboxes, I soothingly replied, "What's to be scared of? We're three damsels in distress being towed to an unknown destination by an unknown knife-wielding maniac with no cell reception and even less civilization. What could possibly go wrong?"
"Toni's right. Don't be a chook, Bork!" my native friend stated, not thinking it necessary to attempt to comfort any frazzled nerves. I had no intention of becoming a 'chook' even if I knew what it was because it didn't sound flattering. And anyway, I was suddenly more focused on Shelia’s fingers which had started a languid journey up my bare inner thigh.
"I'm sure this Tosser is harmless," she continued, "This might take a while so I'm glad I chucked a sickie. And we can entertain ourselves."
What Shelia meant by entertainment quickly became clear as her lips moved to mine and, before long, we were making out like horny cheerleaders.
Pushing Sheila's tight tee to her shoulders, I began feasting on her delicious breasts, teeth tugging on her rigid, responding nipple, stretching it from her goose-bumpy large areola.
Then, after an ominous click, Bork leaned across me, her eyes as big as meatballs, as she gazed lustfully at Shelia’s now erect nipples. God knows I had always assumed Swedes knew about safe sex, but here was Bork undoing her seatbelt in a moving car!
Bork’s recklessness didn’t faze Shelia and she pulled the Swede’s mouth to hers and they kissed, just as passionately. Bork, the heat of her pussy reaching mine through her shorts as she lay over my lap, lowered her head and sensually bit Shelia’s other nipple.
I was momentarily paralysed with indecision; Bork’s ass lay invitingly on my lap but Shelia’s firm nipple was against my lips. When faced with a choice like that what did a super trouper like me do? Why of course I did both.
As my hand slapped Bork’s pert bottom, my mouth again sucked on Shelia's breast. Soon, with Shelia’s moaning, the windows were fogged up and streaked from the heavy rain.
Given we were out in the bush, I was intrigued to discover more about Sheila's bush as my hand trailed down to the button of her shorts. I discovered Bork’s hand was already undoing her shorts, as intent as I was on finding out if Shelia was, down under, as bare the Australian landscape that had recently been torched by wildfires. Some white smoke still filled the air as if Australia had recently elected a new Pope.
My hand slapped Bork’s away. Her hand slapped mine away.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Shelia said in best kindergarten teacher style, “Play nicely. Take turns in alphabetical order.”
Which is why Bork got to wiggle Shelia’s shorts off and curl two crossed fingers into her pussy. While I contented myself with rolling one nipple and sucking on the other. As we felt our towed vehicle jerk violently against the rusty chain, my nails raked down Sheila's side leaving thin white lines on her tanned flesh giving her a little souvenir of our time together. Even better than a Melbourne shot glass.
As much as I enjoyed exploring Sheila's athletic torso, when I glanced down at Bork feasting on the promised land, her face wet and glistening, I knew it was time to share. Reaching down, I touched Bork's hand with mine like a WWF wrestler tag-teaming at WrestleMania69.
Her disappointment was palpable. "Ah skit," she exclaimed, teaching me my first Swedish profanity.
Unfazed by her bad language, I replaced Miss Big Tits and began chowing down like Shelia’s pussy was a warm cherry pie. My tongue penetrated and flailed her petals like a croc during its death roll. Sheila began humping my damp face, her passionate pleas echoing in the car, even impressing Bork who looked at the gear shifter as if she was contemplating using it as a masturbation lever.
I sensed light at the end of the tunnel of my first time down under down under with a down under girl. With my head shaking side-to-side we maintained the eye contact that said more than any Air Supply song ever could.
Adding to the moment my nose rode her pearl to Heaven's Gate and my left hand played a Neal Peart drum solo on her toned right hip, even using her spectacular right boob as a cymbal. And, caught up in the moment, I tapped both tits simultaneously, turning them into a high hat. I was so into doing the dirty with Shelia but did regret not having my wand at hand, the one I called 'Hermione Granger.'
With her thighs squeezing my head like a carpet python, she began speaking what I imagined was a local aboriginal tongue and I knew a climactic scene was nigh. Bork, knowing an opportunity when she saw one, leaned over to the writhing Aussie and kissed her long and passionately.
Being the centre of all this attention pushed Shelia over the precipice, her chest flushed, her toes curling. It was reported later that her orgasmic screams were heard over five thousand kilometres away in New Zealand. And also, in Wuhan it turned out, the first outside noise heard there for weeks.
We three were, however, all too caught up in the heart-pounding moment of Shelia’s orgasm to notice we had stopped in the middle of nowhere until our grimy Good Samaritan peeked his unwelcome mug in the door.
"I heard a scream and wondered if my assistance was needed back here?" he lamely asked, his knife now more tightly gripped tightly in his right hand.
"I'll take care of this wanker," Bork stated emphatically. She then grabbed her backpack, whispered “Bork! Bork! Bork!” and climbed out of the car into the summer downpour which immediately saturated her sheer top and drew all our eyes to her proudly protruding nipples.
Sheila and I began a legendary make-out session with me focused on getting my first down under girl, down under. Consequently, neither of us saw nor heard the horrendous racket in the bush. Had we noticed dust being scattered and fur or hair flying, I would have written it off as a vacationing Tasmanian Devil.
Then from the red horizon, Bork emerged wiping red stains and flannel from her ubiquitous cleaver. She said she had been trimming cranberries which seemed ridiculous thoughts. Nevertheless, I couldn't help myself from breaking into a rousing rendition of 'Zombie.'
“Wake me when it’s over,” Shelia muttered, referring I hoped to my singing and not my lovemaking.
Bork smirked at that allusion, adding a chillingly appropriate musical reference of her own, "Dying in the Sun is the best thing on Burying the Hatchet.”
She paused then added, “Just in case the coppers don’t know everybody else is doing it, so why can't we? I suggest we Hasta Manana; we shouldn't linger."
This time Shelia’s car started and, making our escape, we headed back to the pub. The Toyota with a sense of irony conked out outside Rump’s pub. Inside the Bruces were drinking XXXX while listening to Rump yelling down the phone, “But a pub is an essential service.”
The Bruces, having checked out those bits of our bodies normally hidden but now visible through our dishevelled tees, explained that the Australian Prime Minister had just announced a fourteen-day lockdown with no interstate travel at all.
“Oh shit,” I said, “Stuck here for a fortnight.”
“Herregud,” Bork added in her native tongue, “No work for me if the pub is shut.”
“Don’t worry ladies,” Shelia soothingly said, “Come stay with me. It is out of the way so no chance of the virus. And a fourteen-day lesbian orgy, what can possibly be wrong with that?”
“Have you supplies?” I asked.
“Well stocked. Plenty of strap-ons, handcuffs and cages as well. Even enough nipple clamps at a pinch.”
“Bork, Bork, Bork,” Bork replied enthusiastically.
“Oh,” I said, “I was actually thinking about food and drink.”
“Plenty in the freezer, though you will have to put up with UHT milk.”
“Want a couple of slabs of Corona?” Rump asked, keen for a sale.
“I thought the PM wanted to reduce Corona transmission,” Shelia replied, to loud groans from everyone in the pub.
At her suggestion, we three packed our things and the Corona into my hire car. Shelia drove north past the crater then on and on, miles and miles, away from anything and everything including the virus. I finally felt safe although I did notice there were carrion eaters flying overhead.
The red barren landscape got a little boring after a while, so Bork and I keep ourselves amused by sucking face and titty bumping in the back seat of the car. Which meant my equanimity wasn’t disturbed by actually seeing the signage above the entrance to Shelia’s isolated property.
It read, ‘Camp Crystal Lake and Pet Cemetery.’
