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Ride to Nowhere

A driver knows exactly what he's getting when he stops to pick up a hitchhiking teen...



There’s a moment of hesitation, as if she can’t believe that I’ve decided to stop, before she finally makes her mind up and trots towards my car.  I size her up through the rear view as she approaches. 

I have to admit, it’s a wonderful sight.

The sun is just the wrong side of noon but perfectly placed to reflect off her blonde hair, the effect being that of a halo framing her angelic face.  The rest of her body is pure sin.  Pert breasts bounce so enticingly under a flimsy white t-shirt that I’d bet the pink slip of my car she’s braless, and I’m reluctant to call the ripped denim she’s wearing to cover her modesty “shorts” since the ratio of tanned, shapely leg to material is distinctly one-sided.  Not that I’m complaining, of course: I’m male, therefore I lust.

Oblivious to my internal philosophising she opens the passenger door, letting in a blast of humidity to disrupt the frigid climate I’ve been carefully cultivating all morning, throwing a battered leather suitcase into the back, and sliding onto the seat next to me.

“Hi,” she says with a perky little smile, exposing a row of perfectly white teeth.  “I was starting to think I was going to be stuck out here in this goddamn heat.”

“You mean no one else tried to pick you up?” I asked, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.  She shook her head.

“There was a trucker who took me a couple of miles down the road, though he only seemed interested in talking about his boyfriend the whole way.  And a sweet old couple stopped and tried talking to me about Jesus.”  She gave a light laugh.  “When I told them the only Jesús I had time for was a Mexican bartender at a club down in Miami, they sped off.”

“Their loss is my gain, I guess.”

“Looks that way,” she says.  “But thanks for pulling over.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I reply, wishing I’d shaved this morning, or at least changed my three-day old shirt.  “I hate to see a damsel in distress.”

“My Galahad.” 

“My Guinevere,” I counter, and she smiles again, reaching up with thumb and forefinger to hook her sunglasses down a fraction, peering at me over tortoiseshell frames.  To my complete lack of surprise her eyes are a perfect baby-blue.  But of course they are.  “So,” I ask, deciding to play along, “where are you headed?”

“Nowhere in particular.”

“And hitchhiking to get there?”

“I can think of worse ways to travel.  I get fresh air and the chance to top up my tan, and maybe meet a knight in shining armour or two along the way, of course.  Speaking of which,” she says, “shouldn’t we be moving?”

She continues staring at me for maybe a heartbeat too long before pushing the sunglasses back into place and reclining the seat so she can stretch her legs out onto the dash while I put the car into drive, accelerating from the kerb. 

Truth be told, this is a lonely stretch of highway and I haven’t seen more than a half-dozen other vehicles in the past hour, so I’m glad to have some real company to help pass the time.  And of course, the way the sun is flooding the cabin through her side window means her breasts are perfect silhouettes against the white t-shirt, which doesn’t hurt matters, so I’m content to let about five minutes of silence fill the space between us before I decide to open my mouth.  Somehow my passenger senses the question at hand and beats me to it.

“Just call me Guinevere,” she says, giving me a sidelong look from behind the tortoiseshells.

Her answer, and the serious way she says it, forces me to stifle a snort.  

“Wow, I almost never guess a girl’s name on the first try.  Maybe I should pick up hitchers more often.”

She pouts slightly.  “Would you prefer to call me Anna?  Or Tara?  Or any one of a hundred other names I could give you?”

“I’d prefer to know your real name.”

She shrugs, giving a little toss of her shoulders that bounces her hair slightly, sending a waft of cinnamon towards my nose.  “We’re only going to be together for a few miles, honey,” she says.  “Why spoil it? Call me Guinevere and I’ll call you Galahad, and maybe we can have some fun without anything as concrete as real names getting in the way.  Deal?”

“I guess so,” I reply, bouncing the names around inside my head to see if they’ll stick.  Guinevere and Galahad.   Galahad and Guinevere.  Yeah, I guess I can make them work for now.

Without asking, she leans forward and flicks on the radio, inadvertently stumbling onto a news bulletin as she hunts for something listenable...

“-- -- State police are advising drivers to be on the alert after a series of -- --“

...before quickly switching over, pushing through static, talk shows and several Christian rock channels, finding a station playing a generic rap song and cranking up the volume.     

I let it slide, faking concentration on the road ahead, watching mile markers slip past.  Periodically, I check my rear view for the green car keeping pace some distance behind.  I build a list in my head, running scenarios that I check off.

Fact one: my passenger is gorgeous.   I’m talking Victoria’s Secret kind of gorgeous.  And what’s more, she knows it - and she knows I know it too.

Fact two: she’s smart; certainly smarter than the average.  The accent suggests mid-west, but that line about Guinevere and Galahad?  That screams classic education, maybe at one of the more preppy colleges somewhere along the East Coast.

Fact three: there’s an angle here somewhere - but what?  And how?

I’m still trying to figure that last part out when an amber light starts blinking on the fuel gauge.

“Shit,” I say, frowning at the dashboard.  “We need to stop for gas.  I think there's a station a couple of miles up ahead.”

Guinevere turns to face me.  “Do you need money?” she asks, without giving any suggestion she’s about to reach for her purse.

I shake my head.  “No, I got it covered.”

“You’re a real sweetheart, you know that?”

“It’s been said once or twice.”

Guinevere laughs, turning back to stare out of the passenger window, at the woods on her side of the car.  After a couple of moments, she asks: “How far is this gas station?”

“Just a couple more miles.  I figure ten, maybe fifteen minutes.” 

She lapses back into silence.  I start counting softly under my breath.

One-Mississippi... two-Mississippi...

I get to five-Mississippi before her hand glides silently from her lap to my thigh.  In the otherwise arctic conditions of the climate-controlled cabin her fingers feel very warm, and I have to remember to force myself to breathe naturally.

...six-Mississippi...   seven-Mississippi...

The hand moves from my thigh down to my crotch where again, it just rests lightly.  I’m perspiring a little more now.  Guinevere still hasn’t said a word, hasn’t even acknowledged what’s going on.


The fingers start kneading my crotch, the pressure gently increasing as she gets the reaction she’s after - my cock stirring and stiffening in response until there’s no mistaking the bulge beneath my zipper.  Finally, she turns back to face me.

“You know,” she says, squeezing my manhood tightly.  “I don’t think I thanked you properly for giving me a ride.”

“Nothing to thank me for.”

“But I feel like I owe you something.”  She squeezes my cock again, making me gasp.  I grip the wheel tightly, concentrating on driving.  “Maybe we could find someplace where I could... thank you properly for rescuing me.”

This last part is said as she leans over the gap between us, practically cooing into my ear as she continues to massage my crotch.  It’s all I can do to keep the car on the road and out of an irrigation ditch.

We top the brow of a hill, momentarily out of sight of the green speck in my rear-view.  I spot a gap in the trees off to our left and take it, barely slowing down as we run from blacktop to dirt track, heading deeper into the woods that run parallel on both sides of the highway.

After a few minutes the road terminates abruptly, the trees thinning out into a rather pretty field of grass and shrubs that I wouldn’t have guessed was there.  Even before I’ve come to a full stop Guinevere is unbuckling her seatbelt, leaning over the space between us to grab my face, drawing it towards hers.  Our lips meet, her tongue making quick darts into my mouth as we taste each other for the first time.

Her hand continues to massage my cock and I make involuntary murmurs, almost crawling into her lap as I try to get as close to her as I can, my own hands pushing up under the flimsy material of her t-shirt and encountering nothing but a pair of firm, bare breasts underneath.  Suddenly, she pauses.

“There’s something jabbing into me,” Guinevere says, pushing away slightly.

 “Sorry baby,” I say, grinning.  “That’s the effect you have!”

I try to lean in again, but she holds me off.  “No, I’m serious – it’s uncomfortable.  Is there something in your pocket?”

I sigh, pulling away to root inside my jeans.  “This?” I ask, pulling out my wallet and holding it up.  To be fair it’s been digging into my thigh too, the bulky leather padded out with receipts and coupons I haven’t gotten round to clearing out yet.  I shrug and casually toss it into the back seat to land alongside her suitcase.  “Is that any better?”

She doesn’t answer, instead pulling me back on top of her, continuing where we’d left off.  I pinch one of her nipples prompting a moan of pleasure, and she bites my lip with increased urgency.  Both her hands are busy at my crotch now, pulling down my zipper and freeing my swollen cock from its confines.  If I’m being honest, it’s as average as the rest of me – a little under six inches long and just about thick enough to avoid having any real complaints – but she paws at it as if I’m hung like a stallion.

“I want you,” she whispers into my ear.

It’s all the encouragement I need.  I pull away, exiting the cabin with the haste of an Olympic sprinter, Guinevere following suit from the passenger side, and we meet in front of the car, clawing at each other with the unbridled lust of two teenagers in heat.

To my surprise and delight Guinevere takes charge, practically ripping my shirt off where we stand, sending a couple of buttons pinging off into the ether.  She kisses her way along my bare chest, over my nipples and down my midriff as she sinks to her knees in front of me.  My erection pokes out from between my open zipper like it's an extention of the fabric, and Guinevere grabs it tight, jerking me slowly as stares up at my face.  I watch a drop of pre-cum slowly leak from the tip of my cock and without taking her eyes off mine, she stretches out her tongue to lap it up.

“Mmm,” she says appreciatively, kissing the cleaned head again.  “Tastes good.”

She tugs my jeans all the way down to my ankles and I stand there awkwardly as she cups my testes, moving them in the palm of her hand like a pair of Baoding balls before taking them into her mouth, gently sucking at one and then the other as she gauges my reaction.  I wouldn’t have thought it possible but her actions serve to me even harder.  Continuing to stare into my eyes she runs her tongue upwards tracing a line along my shaft, circling the engorged mushroom tip until she finally takes me into the warm wetness of her mouth.  Entranced, I watch her head bobbing up and down, taking me a little deeper each time, her tongue snaking around my fireman's helmet and dipping into my urethral opening, making me gasp with pleasure.

Not wanting to climax before I’ve had the chance to fuck her I reach down, wrapping my hands around Guinevere’s waist to haul her upright, grabbing the hem of her t-shirt and pulling it up over her head in one movement.  She lets it fall to the ground, brushing hair away from her face and sending more cinnamon perfume into the air.  The scent is intoxicating.  I grab her, pushing her down onto the hood of my car, running my hands along the smooth contours of her breasts before leaning in to exchange a long, sensual kiss, her tongue probing into my mouth with increased excitement.  Her nipples are surprisingly sensitive, hardening at the slightest touch, and I squeeze the softness of her breasts with one hand whilst working the other between her legs, rubbing the cleft of her vulva through her shorts.  She moans as we kiss, curling a leg up to hook my lower back, trying to pull me closer.

Filled with a sudden need to see Guinevere in all her glory I pull away, her arms reluctantly letting me go as I peel off her ripped denim shorts, finding out that she’s as naked beneath them as she is under the t-shirt.  Her pubis is shaved bare, as smooth as a peach, and I push her legs wider, scrambling between them to glue my lips to her labia, sucking at her pussy and darting my tongue deeper and deeper between the folds of her sex.  When I find Guinevere’s clitoris and nuzzle it, she yelps and acts as if lightning courses through her veins, her body twitching involuntary.  When I graze it gently with my teeth she actually growls and places her hands at the back of my head, pulling me closer and pushing her cunt hard into my face.  Not that I have any objections.  Her pussy tastes as sweet and as sticky as molasses, and I could easily spend the rest of my life lapping at this particular sugar-pot.

 “Shit,” she says, between gasps, “you really know how to treat a girl!”

“I’ve had an experience or two in my time,” I say, briefly coming up for air.  I start to go down again, but this time she stops me, placing her hand under my chin and forcing me to look directly at her.

“I need you inside me.  I need to feel you inside me, now.”

I need no further invitation.  I place hands onto the hood of my car and haul myself upright, moving my body between her legs and my hard cock straight into her wet cunt. 

It feels like heaven – warm and soft and tight, tight the way only college girls can be, her pussy grasping greedily at my cock as I thrust into her.  I find a breast with my mouth and nuzzle the nipple, feeling it stiffen under my tongue, before continuing upwards, my mouth clamping down onto hers.  I thrust harder and harder trying to get as deep inside her as I can, our moans and the sound of skin slapping onto bare skin the only noises to be heard in that otherwise lonely clearing.

Our coupling isn’t graceful by any means, nothing like you see in the movies, not even like the rutting you see in internet porn.  It’s angrier than that, more urgent and primeval; as animalistic and messy as only real fucking can be, both of us moving in exquisite rhythm.  With each push inside of her I can feel myself getting closer to release, and to judge from Guinevere’s shudders she’s not too far behind when she grasps my shoulder, slowing us down.

“Lie down,” she says, struggling to get the words out between gasps.  “Lie down, I want to ride you.”

Summer has baked this corner of the world and the ground is hard and dry, the grass brittle, scratching my back.  Guinevere scrambles on top of me, positioning herself with practised ease and sinking down onto my cock with a satisfied sigh.  Both our bodies are slick with sweat although whether that’s a consequence of the sex or the sun, I can’t say for sure.  All I know is Guinevere panting hard as she leans in to kiss me, pulling at my lower lip with her teeth, tongues jousting as her cunt grasps at my cock, squeezing my shaft harder and harder, almost teasing the orgasm from me.   Her pussy is wetter than I could ever have imagined and I feel her excitement running down her thigh and onto my balls, spurring me to thrust harder and faster, our movements becoming increasingly frantic.

Finally, I finally feel her stiffen, arching her back as she comes, her body trembling as pleasure ripples through her core and she carries on riding me, gasping for air, griding her hips against mine.  It’s all I need to take me over the edge.  I thrust into her one last time, my cock pulsing and twitching, and with a roar that’s deafening to my own ears I come, flooding her womb with my seed, both of us synchronised for one moment of bliss.

Finally sated, my deflating manhood slips from the embrace of her pussy and Guinevere rolls onto her back to lie alongside me, both of us breathing hard as the world around us slowly comes back into focus.

For a few more moments I let the sun warm my body, listening to cicadas chirping in the long grass and the gentle buzz of insects lazily investigating nearby fauna, desperately trying to forget everything else except the pleasure of having this gorgeous, naked goddess lying next to me, her arm draped over my chest.  Finally, my post-coital rituals kick into play.

“Don’t know about you,” I announce to no one in particular, “but I could really use a cigarette right about now.”

“There’s a pack in my case,” Guinevere says, sitting up and smiling at me, shielding her eyes from the sun.  I watch her wander back to the car, naked as the day she was born, hips sashaying hypnotically as she walks.  By the time she returns I’ve already pulled my jeans back up and fished my lighter from the hip pocket. 

I light her cigarette first, then mine, and we lean against the hood of the car, smoking.  I admit, we must have looked a real sight, the pair of us.  Me: the middle-aged IT technician with the t-shirt tan and a midriff running to fat.  Her: the Rose Bowl queen, lithe, flawless, naked as a jaybird and not caring who saw.

I finish my cigarette, stubbing it out on a tire to avoid the risk of wildfire.  With the carelessness of youth, Guinevere flicks her butt away into the long grass and I watch it smoulder as it dies.  She turns to me and we kiss one last time, tasting tobacco on each other’s tongue.  Then I sigh, reluctantly pulling away.

“We still need that gas,” I say, stooping to retrieve my shirt.

We dress in silence and retrace our way back to the highway, neither of us exchanging a word, just holding hands as we drive to the sound of Willie Nelson playing through the stereo.  A couple of miles later we pull into the station, where Guinevere offers to pump gas while I go freshen up.  I work slowly, relieving my bladder and splashing cold water on my neck and face to cool down.

The green Camry is already pulling out as I exit the washroom, giving me just enough time to glimpse a halo of blonde hair in the passenger side before it accelerates down the road.  Even without checking, I know the backseat of my car has been cleaned out and Guinevere and her battered leather suitcase are gone.

I watch the Camry shrink into the distance before heading inside the station, which is empty save for an old man behind the counter, chewing a Twinkie.  A radio on the shelf behind him plays the hourly news bulletin, covering a local story that’s been rotating for over a week.

“-- --  advising drivers to be on the alert after a series of incidents involving college students hitching-- --“

The old man glares at me as I approach.  “You’re back again,” he states, forming the words around the Twinkie.  He takes in my unkempt state and frowns.  “What in the world happened to you?”

“I decided to catch some sun,” I say, giving my half-ripped shirt a rueful pat.  “I was in a bit of a hurry to get it off.”

“Well I’d be careful about stopping if I was you, son.”  He jerks his thumb at the radio.  “Heard the radio fella say something about young women in the area scamming rides and robbing drivers.”

“I'll be sure to keep an eye out,” I say, grabbing a nearby item and placing it onto the counter.  “I’ll take this and twenty-dollars of regular unleaded.”

The old man pats the cheap faux-leather wallet I’ve just pulled from the rack, shaking his head as he watches me bend down to retrieve a handful of bills from a roll tucked into my sock.

“You buying another one, son?” he asks. “What happened to the two you bought last week?”

“I keep losing them,” I tell him, watching the old man ring up my purchase.  “Guess I just get distracted somehow.”

I nod him goodbye, heading out to the car to pull a map from the glove box, studying my route home.  The highway east looked promising - plenty of side roads, and maybe a damsel or two in need of a ride.  Grinning, I tuck my new wallet into my pocket and head out after the Camry.


This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © The act of writing is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration and whilst it's pretty hard work, truth is it's pretty enjoyable too. So if you liked this story, please don't steal it - and if you didn't, leave feedback so I can do better next time. But for now, I'll just say: "Copyright 2018 Chesh78 (and his real-life persona), all rights reserved - this story may not be copied, transmitted or reproduced or used in any manner or media, either in part or full, without the express written permission of the author."

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