R Finch - No longer virgin

Wendy raised her knee reluctantly, felt Christine's thighs clamp her own warmly between them. She turned her face away, would not look at the woman.

"Put your arms around me at least," Christine said with a small laugh.

Wendy encircled her slim waist and held her. She closed her eyes.

Christine moved back slightly, positioned herself against Wendy's upraised leg. The slick opening of her cunt slid wetly along Wendy's thigh. Wendy tried not to think about it and remained perfectly still. Christine began to pump her hips, with her hands searched under Wendy's blouse, lit on her firm breasts, clung to them. She wasted no time, was already thrusting with a fervent urgency, her breath coming harshly, hot against Wendy's neck.

Wendy moved her leg slightly, bounced the heel of her foot, thinking it might hurry things along. She still would not look at Christine.

"Wendy, honey?" Christine breathed between small, almost crying whimpers.

"What?"

"Move your hands down to my bottom, will you, baby?"

Wendy made no move, merely closed her eyes more tightly, pretended she hadn't understood.

"Please, baby," Christine said brokenly.

Wendy reached down and cupped Christine's sweaty buttocks, helped pull her along. She would have done almost anything to end this humiliating scene.

Each time Christine thrust, Wendy's fingertips inadvertently touched the crinkled ring of the woman's puckered anus and seemed to spur her on all the more. Wendy curled her fingers slightly, trying to avoid the small opening.

"Go… go ahead," Christine urged, grinding against her.

"What?"

"You know," Christine breathed. "Stick your finger… up my ass."

"I'd… I'd rather not."

"You can wash your hands after," Christine gasped. "I'm almost… there. Oh! Oh, it's so fucking good! I… I want you to… fingerfuck my asshole! Oh! God! Please, hon!"

Wendy swallowed, reached slightly, managed to poke a finger up into Christine's rectum. It throbbed, was as slickly wet as the gaping opening she thrust against Wendy's upraised thigh. Wendy pushed her finger all the way in.

"Another!" Christine urged, obviously within seconds of total oblivion. "Wendy, please! OH! My cunt's ready to burst into flame! Oh, fuck! Stick another finger into my ass! Fuck my ass! Pull it open!"

Wendy forced another finger into her rectum, managed to get still a third partially in, tugging at the elasticity of her tight anus, before Christine convulsed wildly with a gurgling, strangled shriek, went rigid, then was limp on top of her.

Christine lay with her face buried in the warm hollow of Wendy's neck, her arms around Wendy's slim waist. Wendy moved slightly, had trouble breathing with the woman on top of her.

"Do you want to come again?" Christine whispered, traced a hand lingeringly across Wendy's bare groin, entwined her fingers once again in the soft tendrils of hair between the younger girl's parted thighs. "Would you like me to suck on your darling pussy again?"

Wendy felt a tear forming in the corner of one eye, turned her face away, trembled. She heard herself answer as if from a great distance, and in a very small voice. "Yes."

Following her session with Miss Westoff, Wendy went directly home and packed. All that mattered was that she get away.

She now stood on the shoulder of U.S. Highway 20, about an hour outside of Fort Worth and was hitchhiking west under the blazing afternoon sun. The desert which stretched to the mountains in the distance, was a sandy, barren expanse broken only by small clumps of scrub pine and cactus. The road seemed endless, a narrow black strip of asphalt that ran both before and behind her to each horizon. She shifted her weight from one small foot to the other, watched impassively as a station wagon loaded with kids passed. She was in no great hurry.

The last ride she'd gotten had been with a weathered, red-faced old rancher in a fairly new pick-up truck, and had ended when he'd turned off for Mineral Wells. Wherever that was, Wendy thought.

She'd gotten out, thanked him, set her knapsack beside the road and thrust out her thumb again. Her face was beginning to tan deeply, her windblown hair, combed only intermittently over the last two days, was starting to look a bit tousled. She wore the same denims and blouse she'd left home in, had not bothered to change clothes, had slept in them both nights. She knew she needed a bath, but did not really care one way or the other. She'd straighten herself out when she reached Los Angeles, would wait to worry about her appearance until then.

A Cadillac with an elderly couple in it passed, threw dust on her, did not slow down. Wendy shrugged and sat down on her knapsack, waiting. She glanced around at the countryside, could not remember ever feeling so totally alone. She was impressed with the scenery, though, she had to admit. It looked almost like a painting, almost too perfectly beautiful to be real.

A battered Mustang slowed as it passed her, then stopped with a squeal of rubber. It backed up over on the shoulder of the road, sat waiting for her.

Wendy stood up. She noticed the Tennessee license plates, noticed also that the trunk of the car was almost completely bashed in. She hesitated a second, finally grabbed her knapsack and ran to the car.

A tall, dark-haired young man sat behind the wheel, smiling at her. He looked around twenty years old, was lean and wiry. The back seat was loaded up with clothes, books, some household goods, and what looked to Wendy like camping equipment. He seemed safe enough, she decided. She got in.

"Thanks," she said, set her knapsack on the foot between her feet. She exhaled with a small sigh, sat back. Her legs were beginning to ache.

They pulled back onto the highway, threw sand and gravel behind them. Wendy hung on, glanced over at the driver sharply.

"Where you heading for?" he asked. He talked with a distinctly Southern accent.

"Los Angeles."

"Well, isn't everybody?" he said. "I'm going out there myself to try to find some work. Guess we'll be together a bit. My name's Marshall. Marshall Tucker."

"I'm glad to meet you. I'm Wendy."

"City girl?" Marshall asked, tromping it to the floor and passing the Cadillac that had showered Wendy with dirt.

"Not really," Wendy laughed.

"Where you from?"

"Up north," was all she said. "You?"

"Tennessee," he said. "Snortbuck County. About ten miles east of Duck River. Nice place. Real comfortable. No work around, though."

"What a funny name," Wendy mused.

"Duck River? Yeah, it is kinda odd, I guess."

"No," Wendy laughed. "Snortbuck County. It sounds like some… wild western town or something."

"Nothing of the sort, I'm afraid," he laughed. "About the wildest it gets in Snortbuck County is when old Elmo Jenkins gets ripped on white lightning and starts knocking the pool hall to pieces. Yeah. Anyway, it's home to me. Hell, I miss it already and I've only been on the road one lousy day."

"So, you're going to Los Angeles, too?" Wendy asked, looked at him. He had an easy manner about him, relaxed, and that, coupled with his lean rugged appearance, appealed to her.

"That's right. I've got relatives there. Aunts and uncles and cousins, too. Never met any of them, of course. Talked to my uncle on the phone once, though. He told me to come on out. Well, here I am. What are you going out there for?"

"Oh…" she started vaguely. "I'm sort of looking for work, too. Mostly, I just needed a change of scenery. California seemed like the place to go."

Marshall was silent a moment, said finally, "You seem a little young to be out on your own. I mean, it doesn't matter to me, mind you. It's your business and all. It's just you seem kinda young to be so far from home."