Heather Brown - Hitchhike wife

"Wow, that must bug you," I sympathized. "It does," Kevin said. "That's why we're joining up with the bigger commune. The cops'll be less likely to bust us if there're a lot of us. I just hope we can make it there without being hassled."

I was thinking about whether to tell them how close they'd come last night, when I saw that it would be anticlimactic. In the rear-view mirror was a flashing blue light, joined within seconds by another.

"Aw, shit," Kevin hissed, "the fuckin' pigs. They'll tie us up for hours."

I shuddered at the thought of being manhandled by the Highway Patrol again. I was clothed now, in a granny dress one of the girls had loaned me, and we were on the outskirts of civilization, but I still dreaded it.

My rescuers must have noticed my nervousness. After a pause, Mark said, "Listen, Sherry, there's no use for you to be hassled along with us."

"No… that's all right," I said unconvincingly.

"No, we can see it's bugging you," Marsha said.

"Listen," Kevin said, "there's a truck stop a few hundred yards ahead. I'll speed up and pull in there and you can get out before the cops catch up with us. You jump out when we get there. If they ask, we'll tell them you went to the john."

"Go in the cafe," Mark said, "and you'll be able to get another ride."

"All right," I agreed as Kevin speeded up the van, racing towards the truck stop.

When we turned the corner, momentarily shielded from the cops, the van lurched to a stop. One of them opened the door and I scrambled out.

As they accelerated again, trying to leave me in safety behind a truck, I called, "What about the dress?"

"It's yours," Gloria's voice called back. "Peace."

I couldn't bear to watch them hassled by the cops. As I heard the Highway Patrol car bullying its way into the parking lot, I ran towards the cafe, ducking inside just as I heard their doors slam.

The diet thing I noticed inside the cafe was the sound of a jukebox blaring. It was some country tune, all about a girl doing some guy wrong.

From the counter you would have suspected that the only nourishment truck drivers take is beer. Bottles fined the counter like soldiers at attention. The room was full of burly guys in windbreakers and T-shirts. Anybody could tell from their unshaven faces and rumpled, grimy clothes that they were men's men. The legion of trucks parked outside meant they were truckers.

The masculine aroma of their sweat filled the air. Mixed with the odor of stale beer, the room was intoxicating with an incredibly macho scent.

In the hippie granny dress I stood out like a sore thumb in the place. However, nobody noticed me, because half a minute after I came into the place a circle of light illuminated a tiny stage in a far corner and a nearly nude woman emerged from between makeshift curtains.

I'd heard a few things but this was the first time I'd seen the new liberality in truck stops with my own eyes. The last time I'd been in one was back when Phil and I had been dating. A few years ago they were still dreary greasy spoons, with nothing stronger served than red-eye gravy. Now there was beer and girls.

I winced, thinking of my Phil hanging out in this kind of place. Pangs of jealousy shivered through me as I focused in on the dancer, noting that she had a flawless body, covered only by a flimsy halter and a pair of see-through bikini panties.

Even from my distance I could see the patch of hairy blackness at her crotch. It was even clearer when she thrust her pelvis forward and began socking her crotch towards the audience in time with the primitive rock 'n' roll that was suddenly blaring from the jukebox.

The heavy thudding beat of gut-level r 'n' r seemed to power her loins. Working her way to the edge of the small stage, she brushed the noses of a couple of truckers sitting at an adjacent table with her thrusting gyrating pussy.

The light that followed her showed that the crotch of her panties had turned shiny, glistening from a growing circle of wetness. There was no doubt about it. She was creaming in her panties from slinging her meat at these horny truckers.

The atmosphere of the place became electrified as the dancer became more and more suggestive with her movements. One lunging pelvic oomph sent a spray of pussy-juice bathing the guys at a nearby table.

While the record changed on the jukebox, guys in the audience started to yell for her to take it off.

The clanging of beer bottles beating up and down on linoleum filled the room, the truckers way of giving applause.

The next record was even raunchier than the last one. It was low-down and dirty, and the dancer became even lower-down and dirtier. She untied her halter and sent it fluttering like toy parachutes to the floor. Her tits were fantastic, miraculously holding their melon shape firmly out in midair.

Her nipples looked like they had been drawn on her by some horny adolescent. That's how big they were. And red. Dark-red. Like plums. Unable to take my eyes off them, I realized that I was licking my lips.

I was so boggled by the sensuality she radiated that I had to sit down. I plopped down on a chair, not even bothering to notice whether there was anybody else sitting at the same table. I watched the show goggle-eyed.

The dancer was using the beat now to accentuate the agonizingly slow removal of her sopping bikini panties. She rolled them down her hips, bumping and grinding her ass and hips in time the groin-pulsing r 'n' r. The spotlight highlighted the pussy-juice running down her inner thighs. It glistened.

Finally her panties were down to her knees and there was the first good view of her pussy. It had shiny black hair, dripping with juice. Massive cunt-lips, fatter than I'd known a woman could have, drooped pendulously between her thighs.

When she lifted her leg to pull the panties all the way off, I got a perfect shot up her long pink crack. Her open pussy was like a red sucking mouth, slurping between her legs. I licked my lips some more.

Completely naked, the dancer continued dancing to the crotch-popping music. She was letting herself go now, throwing her tits and ass all over the stage.

As I watched her, my own body started to move. The gut-level rock and her uninhibited dancing sent out contagious vibes.

Closing my eyes, I could imagine I was the one up there throwing my pussy around on stage, stark naked in front of a bunch of horny truckers. God, my own husband could even be one of them. I wondered if he'd dig me bottomless on stage as much as I was sure he'd dig the girl who was really doing the dancing.

When I opened my eyes again, she was down on her knees and a third record was on. This one was so raw it made the previous two seem like classical music. The beat reached all the way back to the jungles of Africa.

Like a human sacrifice the dancer arched her back until the back of her head touched the floor. In the process her knees slid as far apart as they could go. Her open cunt shone between her legs like a gaping wound. I was drooling.

Now she was pretending to be sucking a cock. She used her clenched hand to guide an imaginary hard-on into her open mouth. Her slurping noises filed the air.

With her pussy she pretended like she was getting fucked. I could almost see the phantom prick materialize, engorging her dripping cunt. Her bucking hips and raising thighs made the illusion complete, as I sat breathless, awaiting an imaginary explosion of hot cum all over the stage.

But of course it never came. Instead there was a click and the record was over. As silence filled the air, the dancer gathered herself up and abruptly disappeared from the stage. By the time everybody realized what had happened, the jukebox was a third of the way into a country song about some guy's bride being run over by a tractor on their honeymoon.