At that moment they were at the Squirrel Post Inn in Meadville, Pennsylvania, the first day of a week-long road trip to western Pennsylvania and New York. Taking road trips, spending days, weeks when they could manage it, traveling around the country in their green custom pickup camper, was the best way they liked to spend their spare time. Sightseeing across the American landscape was the ultimate travel thrill for them. But they didn't just target tourist destinations such as the Grand Canyon or Gettysburg or Yosemite, though they didn't purposely avoid them, either. Their goal was to visit every county in the 48 contiguous states. With over 3000 counties in the U.S. this would obviously take years to accomplish. But for some time now they had planned their summer vacations to coincide and then chose a particular section of the country to explore. The year before they had spent ten days in northern New England visiting all the counties in Maine and most of New Hampshire and parts of Vermont. Before that they had been able to check the entire state of Iowa, all 99 counties, off their list as well as parts of Nebraska, South Dakota, and Minnesota.
They had a few self-imposed rules they tried to follow, such as they had to be together for the trip to count, and they would visit the county seat, if possible, where they would at least take a picture of the courthouse, usually a selfie with them posing in front of it (sometimes in the big western states this wasn't feasible). Also they insisted the trips wouldn't become mad dashes from one county to the next. A few times they needed to push on after they normally would have stopped for the day to get in a county they otherwise might have missed (once in South Dakota they drove long after dark to visit Martin in Bennett County and were sorely disappointed for their troubles), but that didn't happen often. Their guiding principle was seeing the sights, observing what delights various parts of the country had to offer. They wouldn't hesitate to stop, get out, look around, and soak places up; they might even spend a whole day or longer at one spot if it was warranted.
There is actually a club that caters to such likeminded people, though Pete and Doris weren't members, at least not yet. They hesitated about joining because of the secondary interest they pursued in their travels, one they figured was unique to them: the desire to scat in every state, the more times the better. Not in every county; that would certainly be fun but well-nigh impossible, even for a couple of scat lovers like them. But scatting in every state seemed doable, even easy for them, and indeed all the states they had already visited had been the scene of a notable scatting episode, many of them more than one. Choosing to do it in the most memorable of settings was high on their list of priorities, though not always possible. It was a red-letter day when they found a way to scat near a famous landmark or some-well known location. Often, however, they would scat in their camper or just outside it, sometimes in a tent deeper in the woods or beside a lake or stream, other times in a motel. Doris usually insisted on a motel after 3-4 days of camping, reminding Pete they were on vacation, not military maneuvers. Pete didn't mind, mainly because the motel stays almost always resulted in terrific scat sex that night.
This club referred to earlier had a newsletter and, of course, a social media presence where members described their travels: problems encountered, major detours to avoid, and much about sights visited -- special destinations, great restaurants and hotels, out-of-the-way places others might enjoy. There was even a yearly convention held somewhere in the country where members met, socialized, and traded stories. Pete and Doris didn't think anyone in the club would be interested in their stories and notable discoveries, though: for example, that there is a well-hidden clearing on the grounds of the State House in Montpelier, Vermont, that is perfect for scatting with easy access, or that there is a stall in the restroom at the frequently not-too-crowded McDonald's outside of DeWitt, Iowa, that is super-sized, ideal for indulging in scat play, and so close to the exit that bolting from the bathroom to the outside takes only three seconds and will leave no lingering odor no matter how covered in shit you are. Interesting and useful stuff like that (to them) would probably go unappreciated by other club members, they figured, so they were reluctant to join.
The long drive that first day that ended in Meadville had been arduous and served only one aim: to get them to the start of their adventure. They chose this region because they'd never been there before, there were several historic sites to check out, a large National Forest/Rec Area was there, and with a little luck, they hoped to take in a game or two of the Little League World Series in Williamsport, their eastern-most destination. Pete once helped coach a Little League team back in their hometown, a great bunch of kids eager to learn and play, but never good enough to make it past third place in their subdivision; he wouldn't mind seeing the best kids in the country in action.
Pete had, as usual, worked out an itinerary that would best get them from county to county once they had decided what sights to see and where to stay (campgrounds and motels). Sometimes they needed to make adjustments in order to take in a historic sight, say, or a museum (both of them loved going into those tiny regional museums packed into maybe the oldest house in town or a storefront on Main Street filled with all kinds of interesting items donated by the locals found in their attics and barns), and they might haggle a little over how far they should stray to include those sorts of things, but they would work out a compromise.
In addition to camping provisions, extra food, and the usual things one brings on a travel vacation, they had a good supply of items they used in their scatting activities, especially while in a motel: a few lightweight tarps, several very inexpensive cotton sheets, large plastic garbage bags, a few cans of scented air freshener, bathtub cleaner, and heavy-duty bar soap. All these scatting articles fit easily in a medium-sized gym bag. When they stayed at a motel they preferred a ground-level room they could park in front of, which made the removal of soiled cloths and sheets easier and quicker. But even the time they had to stay on the fourth floor of a hotel and use the elevators, they were able to remove dirty items for disposal with no difficulty.
Which brings us back to the Squirrel Post Inn in Meadville. Doris and Pete remained in each other's arms in the bathtub a while longer, fondling and kissing each other while discussing the next day's itinerary. The tub and part of the tiled wall above it were in a vile state thanks to their uninhibited scat play, not to mention their bodies, but they were in no hurry to clean up. They relished wallowing in the filth they created and would remain that way as long as possible.
"You reckon there will ever come the day we look at each other and say, 'Okay, that's it, no more shitplay from now on. Enough is enough?'" Pete asked, Doris leaning back on his chest in his arms.
She looked at him as if she couldn't believe what he was asking. "You might say it someday," she answered, "but unless you follow it up with the fact you've got stage 16 gut cancer and can no longer shit despite all the laxatives in a CVS warehouse, it most likely would be the last thing you said to me. I'd find somebody else to chase down counties and scat with."
Pete laughed and hugged her closer. "That's my wonderful wife! It's amazing, isn't it, that something could be so filthy and degrading yet so powerful and exhilarating at the same time. I love it as much as I love you!"
"Enough is enough," she repeated what he had said, growling with disdain. "How could you even fucking think that?" They could loll in each other's arms all they wanted extolling the magnificent joys of scat sex, which they did for quite a while, but eventually they were going to have to clean up, starting with a shower for themselves, then a thorough cleaning of the tub and wall with some of the cleaners they brought for that purpose, and finally a long soak for the two of them back in the tub. Then they would crawl into bed and make love again. Despite the long drive, they would chalk this day up as a resounding success.
The next day, as luck would have it, it rained on and off until late in the afternoon. This didn't mean they would have to alter their plans, except at a lighthouse complex in Dunkirk, New York, they hoped to explore, where the rain was pouring so hard they had to pass it by. But everything else went according to schedule, and by the end of the day nine counties were checked off their list, all including their county seats and courthouses, as well as a number of historic sites (some on the National Register of Historic Places), and the Drake Oil Well Museum in Titusville. They had a nice dinner in a restaurant in Warren, and then found a campground in the Allegheny National Forest.
They made love that night in their camper, but no scatting. They would make up for that the next day. Doris, who loved the outdoors, had found a hiking trail in the A.N.F., an offshoot of the North Country National Scenic Trail, that meandered along the Allegheny River. It appeared very isolated and its proximity to the river made it an ideal spot for scatting. They packed a picnic lunch, one of the tarps in case the ground was rough, and a piece of bar soap. They parked the camper at a deserted trailhead and headed off.
