##### Copyright © 2023. This is a copyrighted work. Unauthorized use is prohibited. All rights reserved by the author.
My contribution to
"Karaoke 2023" Author Challenge
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Warning. Often my stories have a slow pace like the hillbilly in the countryside, and the sex scenes take a while to arrive. If you are looking for fast-triggering steaming hot sex, there are many more steamy-erotic tales on the Lit site, much better than this one of mine.
This is a narrative of pure fiction without any reference to real people.
English is not my mother tongue, please forgive my mistakes. #####
Prologo. Take me home, country road.
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"Fuck me harder, hubby! Push, don't stop! I want to feel your warm cum flooding my womb!" The memory of his wife's orgasmic moans was like music to Edgar as he drove the tractor through the snow.
It was night now, but the tractor knew the ascent home by heart, so Edgar could think back to the long fucks he used to have with Daisy.
For ten days he had been away from his wife. They had married a few months ago and had always been together, making love five or six times a day in the log cabin at the top of the mountain. These days he had had to help the Duke cousins build a distillery.
Now it had been ten days since he had cum together with Daisy (he did not masturbate when he was alone: he saved all his sperm for her!). On his tractor, he was just waiting to get home, to fill Daisy's pussy five or six more times with his cream.
When he thought about happiness, Edgar always visualized Daisy: always bare feet, wearing only a polka-dot peasant blouse and cropped short skirt. The log cabin was warmed by the logs burning in the fireplace: and Daisy had such beautiful feet, that it would have been a crime to lock them in any kind of shoe, or the grass or the snow. Daisy never wore a bra or panties of course: she had heard of them, but no one in the village bought those devilish things.
When Edgar thought of Daisy, his ears reminded him of melodious sounds: never an argument, never a scolding, always sweet words or orgasmic moans. Life seems so good when you're just a country boy.
###
On the opposite side of the mountain, a large German-made SUV raced downhill after crossing the mountain pass.
Phyllis Salieri, half-British and half-Italian, would be nicknamed 'Cruella' by her friends because of her driving style behind the wheel: if she had friends. But she has none: she is 29 years and 11 months old, she does not have a single friend in the world, and she only has her career as a successful junk dealer. The biological clock ticks incessantly, but Miss Phyllis tends to ignore it: "For this year I still prefer to invest in my career, Love is for losers".
Phyllis was no virgin: dozens of dudes (old or young) had passed between her slim thighs, never on the first date, always on the second, and unable to book a third.
She could not remember the name of any of them. Sometimes she had sex with clients and suppliers but forgot the name as soon as the deal was done.
If she closed her eyes to remember moments of sex, she only remembered herself: how dilated her asshole was, how sore her crop-whipped nipples were, how she dislocated her jaw trying to contain two cocks and their testicles all at once. Even the girls who knew her thought she was a total slut. She only thought about making a career and having fun.
The lights of the city at night might impress some peasants from the countryside, but she felt safe inside the giant SUV she drove: a huge German-made vehicle with manual gears that only a real driver would know how to drive.
Phyllis had not been drinking (that night) or taking hallucinogenic drugs (that night). She knew how to separate the typical ingredients of an urban party from the demands of driving a vehicle at night on country lanes. The destination of the trip was a remote town in the middle of the Appalachian Mountains, almost even, north of West Virginia, amid the Blue Ridge Mountains.
It had snowed in the high mountains, even though we were still far from New Year's Eve. The landscape showed only huge forests with tall snow-covered trees, high in the sky like the spires of a Gothic cathedral. The white of the snow glowed ghostly in the darkness. Phyllis thought the landscape looked boringly like a Hallmark production of Xmas movies. You know, no, those movies where there's a rural village where everyone loves each other, and a spinster manager gets into an accident with her car and is forced to spend Christmas Eve with the villagers, and then she gets self-critical and realizes that the selfishness that motivated her career at the top of management was just a trap, that it robbed her of the love of a good husband and the warmth of a family with lots of kids...
A lot of bullshits...
"A bull! Shit!"
Suddenly, the headlights of the SUV car had framed the silhouette of a giant bull. To avoid the collision, Phyllis had swerved to the left, but the tires had slid on the fresh snow with a waterplaning effect. Having lost control of the vehicle, she had slammed on the brakes, but this had made the situation worse: the brakes held the wheels still, which slid like steel splinters on the thin snow.
Crash. Pouff! An airbag went off from the steering wheel, preventing the unconscious Phyllis from slamming into the windscreen.
###
The narration could have ended here, with the beautiful top city manager frozen to death and then mauled by wolves.
But.
But along the way, Lil Edgar was driving home on his tractor. Everyone still called him 'Lil Edgar' even though he was now 21, already married, had shoulders as broad as an ox, and was 6 feet 2 inches tall. He also had a six-pack of abs. The only detail that didn't fit was the income: he earned 6 figures, only if he was paid in the currency of a country with high inflation, like Lower Slobbovia, east of our valley.
Edgar was singing a song he had invented. For the moment it was only two lines, but it was promising: maybe in twenty years it would become four! "Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong! Daisy will soon be Mama, take me home, country roads!" He sang at the top of his voice because he was happy, and thought of his wife waiting for him in the warmth of their warm log cabin, where she stoked the old grey cast-iron stove with wooden logs. "All my memories gathered around her, Daisy..."
But the tractor's headlights framed an oddly shaped car, which had crashed into one of the tallest redwoods in that valley. Right in front of the statue of the blue bull.
Some decades earlier, the elders said, a professor of local history had come from an urban university. He spoke with a strange accent and said that we had to build statues to strengthen our identity... Edgar remembered the grimaces his grandmother made when he told the oddities of that wandering professor. That weirdo had demanded that they erect a statue of Johnny Appleseed: he was the object of many jokes, because from his cloak his arm jutted straight forward holding an apple, and at his wedding, everyone joked that Edgar had a penis that looked like baby arm rising an apple, like in the Statue!
Unsatisfied with that first statue, that weird professor came back asking the town assembly to build a statue dedicated to a certain Paul Bunyan and his pet, Babe the Blue Ox.
Grandma, who was even more sassy than Edgar's mum, tried to explain to the weirdo that none of us had ever eaten with that Paul, and that no one had ever bought an Ox with Blue's coat, although, she admitted, there was once a piglet in the village called Babe, but it was not an ox.
But the odd one smiled arrogantly and called us "poor hillbillies".
Grandma had replied that there were no bills to pay for the ownership of those hills, and he had burst out laughing.
Before that oddly shaped car also exploded, Edgar decided to save the person behind the wheel. Edgar also thought that that new car was very badly built, to slide like that: the old tractor was much better..
