Poncho Ilia - With this ring, I thee lust

He grunted as he lunged and pinned me to the seat. I had to repeat the question. He looked at me, shook up thinking I was either crazy drunk or cold to ask a social question ^at a time like that. The car was jerking and banging along, engine roaring fearful clashes of gears, shouts and horns from all sides as Rod hogged the street and dared the fates and New York's maniac driver population. "Yes, Miss McRae," he said, finally, pulling Ms cock out and driving it into me. "Fuck me in samba time, then," I said.

"Ah," he said, grinning. He began to twist his ass and hum and I matched and we did a dance of pure lust on the back seat, with my legs wide open to take his rather nice cock and my body loving all of it and the car jerking and stopping with a screech of tires which threw us into the floorboard. Then the car was moving again.

"You missed a beat," I whispered, driving my ass up to get his cock seated again. He moaned, close, wild, his cock sliding in and out on the leavings of Rod's come. He took up the rhythm, but forgot to hum. I took up the tune and we came together in rhythm to music and as I was squeezing the last drop of come out of him and loving the feeling in my cunt, having had a nice one, I said, "Merry Christmas," and the car banged into a new Lincoln from the rear, throwing us hard against the front seat and banging Rod's head on the windshield to leave a neat little dent there with fracture cracks radiating out all around the point of impact.

"Madre mia," the driver yelped, plucking up his pants as he leaped out, buttoning the waist as he tugged Rod out of the driver's seat and laid him full length on the pavement. He did it so fast no one saw that Rod was driving. I let my dress drop into place, felt come ooze out of me, wet the inside of my thighs delightfully, and I put on an act of frantic concern for poor Rod.

Well, we split the bill, not repair-a new cab for our friend-and he was happy and I told him, "Shit, I don't care if you brag about screwing Kitsy McRae, darling." I told Rod I thought it was good public relations. I was building my reputation as America's sex queen, and I didn't think it would hurt to let it be known, although Rod was sure that only fools would believe the driver, that Kitsy wasn't too proud to put out for the common man.

Frankly, he was a lousy lay, that cab driver. No imagination. Hung up. I've had people take seconds and be so turned on that they'd fall down and eat the leavings, I mean, clean the come out of my cunt and sent me into heaven with some inspired eating, but that cab driver, all he did was crawl on, go wham wham and come in me.

Carlo was one of them. One of those who liked taking seconds because he said that a woman's cunt is creamier and nicer when it's lubricated by semen. I met Carlo in Rome.

Now here's how I got to Rome. I mean Rome, Italy. Not Rome, Georgia or some shit.

After I met Rod at the Miss Mountain Flower Festival, I went back home. The summer was nearly over. All the little local beauty contests had been held. There was the official Miss America thing coming up and I was working on a talent, with Pearl's help. Meanwhile, I was doing the hash slinging bit at the seafood cafe and telling my friend, Julie, all about how it was to fuck Rod Hensley, who was on her jukebox and whom she loved.

Believe me, old chums, it was a comedown. I mean, you try going from head of the table and a loaned convertible and bugging around over the state being ogled and oohed at and walking like a real queen down the victory ramp with the spotlights on you and then come back and start slinging hash for quarter tips. But a girl has to eat, and as I've said, those contests paid off in a few nice clothes, a loaned convertible and college scholarships.

But we had lots of time for work, Pearl and me. And there was good old Bill, who was getting so that he could actually fuck for two minutes without coming. Bill had his shortcomings, and to me shortcomings in a man are premature ejaculations, but he was all I had except for Pearl and I got a little tired of her cockless body and her playthings.

I got so bored that I actually went up to college to look it over. I took the college test thing and just barely passed it, I mean, I couldn't have gotten into a big state school I was so low in score, but I could get into a couple of smaller schools. But I looked around and saw teeny-boppers. Shit. Boys who thought the big deal was to have long hair and look like refugees from a Salvation Army grab bag and who thought that smoking grass was the ultimate in sophistication. Shit.

Not for me. I kissed the idea of college goodbye, went back to work with Julie and practiced my dramatic recitation for the talent part of the official Miss Cape County thing.

Now I'm going ^o skip over this very rapidly, because I don't like to dwell on failure. I mean, you get into the real establishment when you start with that fucking Miss America thing. You're up against gals who have had singing and piano and dancing all their lives. Our big mistake was that Pearl thought I'd gained enough poise to take the fucking thing honestly. I mean, she said, "Look, I don't think you can screw your way to this one, honey." So we played it straight, I went to the county contest and did my thing, read my dramatic recitation, won the bathing suit division and wasn't even a-runner-up. I mean, I bombed out. Well, you know what Miss America looks like. Miss Sweet Pants of any year. Sometimes not even pretty, just glowingly healthy, with more ass and legs than I'd like to have. I'm the trim type and Miss America is full blown. I'm the slinky type and Miss America is straight forward and All American girl shit. It was a mistake from the beginning.

And I felt like doing the suicide bit. I even considered, as that fucking, endless winter dragged on, marrying Bill Murphy and trying to teach him to come inside me instead of on my muff in eagerness. I considered college again. Then, with Spring coming, I decided against another year of campaigning in local contests around the state. I'd had that. I wrote to Rod and he said he'd help me get a job in Nashville. Nashville? Oh, shit. Who wants to go to Nashville? I'd been to Puerto Rico and seen the jet set at play. I wanted New York, Paris, and all the goodies. I was holding a few hundred bucks I'd saved and I was packing for New York when the Congressman called.

"Ruby," Julie gasped, dragging me away from a table where I was clearing dirty dishes. "It's the Congressman."

I went to the telephone. "Little lady," His Honor said, "I've been thinking about you." Oh, shit. I wasn't in the mood for a man who couldn't get it up. "How ' would you like to go to Rome, Italy?" "I might like that fine," I said.

"You're going to represent our great state in Rome, Italy," he said, giving it the campaign speech treatment "I don't doubt for a minute that you'll bring us honor."

Well, he talked on and I got more and more hot about it, because the bastard was serious. There was this new beauty contest, going into competition with Miss World and all those others. It was called, he told me, Miss One World and, although it was a true international effort, he said the Reds were trying to take over and use it for propaganda purposes. He said the Communist countries were sending all their best, movie star? who weren't internationally known and like that, and he wanted me to go over, win and show the world that true beauty was a capitalist monopoly or something. Shit, I didn't care about the fucking politics.

I quit my job right then, leaving poor Julie to clean up. I drove like fury, I still had the loaned convertible, and dashed into Pearl's and yelled, "We're going to Rome, Italy."

His Honor was sending a member of his staff to help us, to tell us what it was all about, and to go along with us to help the country girls in the big city. She arrived the next day, bearing cash for a new wardrobe. She was over forty, well preserved but severe looking, her hair pulled back in a simple bun, her clothes sensible, her Phd. degree from our state's largest university. Her name was Ms. Vivian Maples. She used the power of the Congressman's office to put a real crowd of state reporters into the city hall for a press conference and she made a speech about this little girl, from humble beginnings, fulfilling the great American dream by rising to the heights of beauty and talent. She laid it on and the reporters took pictures and there I was, in all the papers and on T.V.: Miss Mackerel, Miss Mountain Flower, Miss Long Leaf Tobacco, etc. etc. And soon to be Miss One World. She sounded so stuffy and cold that I didn't think I was going to like her until, after the press conference, she grinned at me and said, "I also have a B.S. degree. B.S. for bullshit."