A lazy sunny Sunday in July, out in the beyond, the middle of nowhere, the middle of Iowa actually. Peggy Sanford and I saw a tumbled down house, a wood frame ruin flaunting its lack of paint, filled with shattered windows and fronted by a seriously sagging, broken down porch. Abandoned, surrounded by out of control weeds, large bald spots of ground surrounded by a few tufts of hardy grass, it looked to be a farmer's place gone bust, a repository of some family's memories and not much more.
Actually, I saw the place while driving the rental car, a yellow Mustang convertible, its white top down. Peggy, her face buried in my lap, sucking my cock; saw nothing but the fabric of my Chinos, the open yawning in the front of my pants.
Fifteen minutes earlier, Peggy attired in short pink running shorts with white stripes down their sides and a tight white tee shirt, her raven black hair bound in a pony tail, sat in the white leather passenger seat, bare right leg draped over the passenger door, ankle nudging the rear view mirror, foot flattened against the rushing wind. She leaned back in her seat, eyes closed, the sunlight washed across her beautiful and extremely photogenic face.
Watching her dress this morning in the single-wide mobile home outside Des Moines, I knew she wore no panties, no bra under the shorts and shirt. Earlier I reached over, slid my right hand down under the top of her shorts, my fingers finding her moist slit, poking into her, finger fucking her as I tooled this beast down the road.
Peggy smiled, pulled her leg into the car, leaned over, unzipped my trousers, and took me in her mouth. Being on a graveled country lane surrounded by nothing but corn fields, the occasional pasture with a few morose looking cows swishing their tails, no traffic behind us, I slowed down to a near crawl, enjoyed the sensation of Peggy's mouth drawing down on my cock.
Dear Peggy, cocksucker extraordinaire, laved my member with juices from her mouth. Bubbles in her saliva drenched me. Licks, suction, the breeze of her breath all these sweet virtues contained in her mouth wiped out any suggestion such wonderful feelings were in any way a vice. Her mouth transplanted into a man's body, I am instantly gay, so good she is at giving head.
I turned right into what was once a drive-way next to the collapsing house. I parked the car, leaned back against my head rest and closed my eyes. This was the simplest and most effective way to devote all my attention to Peggy's ministrations. My semen ready to burst forth at any moment, I concentrated, not a difficult task, pushing my loins up toward her mouth, at the same time I held on to her head, my fingers under her soft hair, over her ears, I gentled her head down on my shaft as though she needed any help.
Women with no heart for giving head had sucked my cock quite badly as it turned out. Other women, proficient in the skill did a most commendable job even if never managing to suck my sperm into the caverns of their mouths. Several others were masters of fellatio, geniuses at sucking a man's dick. Even these scattered few were not quite up to Peggy's standard of excellence. She did this thing with her mouth, I do not know how she did it, but it was like an atomic fireball engulfing my cock. Apparently, an older woman she knew, a woman sold into white slavery when she was a fresh faced ingénue, forced into servitude in a seraglio. She learned the skill amongst others during a lengthy course of instruction needed to properly pleasure the sultan and his successors. Peggy had learned well under this woman's tutelage and within a few minutes I shot off into her mouth. She sat up, daintily wiped her lips with a tissue pulled from her purse. As I zipped my cock back into my pants, a pastel ring of pink collared my cock.
"Where are we?" She looked around, saw the partially bashed in house. "My God, it looks like something from the
Grapes of Wrath.
Let's explore." She leaned down, flipped her slides over, and slid her bare feet into them, opened her door and stepped on to the weed covered ground.
I opened my door, climbed out and walked around the hood of the Mustang glinting under the summer sun. Peggy nearly skipped headed toward the house's dilapidated front porch. Delectable in those shorts, full of verve and vitality, she nearly bubbled over with pep. Must be all those red-eyes she had to work when she was a flight attendant.
It was hard to imagine she was up most of the previous night fucking me and a young woman we had met in downtown Des Moines, a place called Java Town.
This woman, a Japanese lady more girl then woman with the biggest tits I had ever seen, breast augmentations for sure, but still a thrill to look at in my masculine opinion.
She sat in a dark blue fabric covered easy chair, one of three situated around a tiny low slung wooden table, near several other similar groupings in an establishment selling coffee, pastries and trinkets. She looked bug eyed peering over the promontory of her jugs reading Gibbons
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
Held securely in the palms of her ring encrusted hands, she concentrated on her reading and still managed to fend off men with practiced ease. A white tee shirt with a large yellow smiley face at its center, the logo about four feet in front of the rest of her, it seemed. Wearing tight blue jeans and black open toed high heels, one leg crossed over the other when Peggy and I entered after dinner in a barely adequate Italian eatery.
Her face made up to the max, wavy black hair piled in a sculpted drift on her head shined under the overhead lights.
Peggy occupied the chair to left of the woman while I went for our drinks. By the time I returned Peggy had a new friend named Kimiko. Peggy's winning smile, the smooth, sexy tone of her voice always made me tingle hearing it, often has the same effect on others: men and women. I could see her doing the part of the psych on the
Sopranos
, no problem. She could be a cool as a cucumber hostage negotiator too. Her slender frame curved in all the right places made her most pleasing eye candy too.
I sat down in the chair to Kimiko's right. Later Peggy brought me up to speed on the lady's history.
This behemoth bust mounted on such a tiny and shapely full blooded Japanese woman from San Jose was stranded in Des Moines. She lived in a rented house trailer and four nights a week she danced around a gold pole in a place called Pussy Galore. Frequented by red necked farmers, stock yard workers reeking of rawhide, white collar guys and the occasional college kid, no doubt, I could not imagine her being able to wrap a kimono, the sheerest most elastic robe around those knockers. Apparently, her boyfriend, a no account shiftless wanderer with no redeeming features other then an immense cock, was locked away in the city's jail, awaiting trial for the unsuccessfully robbery of a convenience store. He did not know the place was operated by a Korean whose son was Des Moines cop, a uniformed Des Moines cop. He happened to be sitting in the back room on a stool chewing Kimshi and Korean BBQ when the hapless guy pulled out the gun. It is a wonder the guy was not blown away when the son still chewing pickled cabbage and Kalbi came out of the room aiming a 9 mm at Kimiko's boyfriend.
Two steaming lattes and two café Americano later, Kimiko invited Peggy to her digs. Early on it became apparent I was of secondary interest but I was invited to come along anyway.
Twenty minutes later we where on a windy flat walking into a dirty white mobile home with dirtier white corrugated tin strung around its base. I hoped to get out of here before the next twister showed up. Kimiko's shoes made a racket on the metal step. More noise was made trolling inside her purse for her keys and then sound as she twisted the key in the door lock, the rest of the keys banging against the metal door. A bare yellow bulb to ward off bugs was screwed into a socket to the left of the door.
I felt something burning on the back of my neck, turned around. In the trailer next door in the glare of a television, I saw an old man with Ronald Reagan's thick hair, sitting in a Lazy Boy rocker recliner, looking our way.
As Kimiko finished opening the door she looked back over her right shoulder to see what I was looking at.
"That is Arthur. He is harmless. I fucked him once and now he watches me like a hawk, begs me sometimes to give him another roll. Maybe some day if I am truly desperate."
Kimiko spoke with no accent. I do not think she even spoke Japanese. Seeing her at first glance, I had imagined her sounding like geisha not able to say the letter r. I was such a racist. My grandfather, a survivor of the Bataan Death March did not care for the Japanese at all. Seeing your buddies beheaded on a jungle trail tends to cause one's polarization, I suppose. I loved the Japanese especially Japanese women. Hell, sushi was a favorite food of mine and what I knew of World War II came from books and John Wayne movies. In the Duke's movies if someone was beheaded you never actually saw the bloodletting. I had read of soldiers getting a hard on chopping off someone's head in one clean cut but that was one erection I had no desire to experience. Peggy in the vicinity there were no worries about me getting a raging hard on anyway.
We followed Kimiko into her place. The place smelled of lemons and vanilla. To our left a small bedroom with a built in closet standing open and jammed tight with clothes, to the right of the closet two dressers covered with feminine things could be seen. Directly in front of the entry door was a bathroom with a tub too small for a normal sized person, but adequate for bathing with its shower head a tad too low for one of my height. To the right a small kitchen with a gas range, sink in a small counter top and full sized refrigerator abutted a combination living dining area. This area, not much bigger then the one bedroom held a dinette set, its side leaves folded down like a resting bird, a small sofa the size of a love seat and a 13 inch television mounted high on the wall corner that joined the patio door to a bay window looking out on the street. The place was pristine, muggy from being shut up all day. Nothing out of place save for several stacks of books near the green sofa and fashion magazines overflowing a sewing bag sitting in its wooden cradle next to the divan. Kimiko would have an easy time on a submarine.
Peggy wearing a short blue skirt, the tiniest pink hue thrown into the color, matching blue heels and a button down white silk blouse, sat down on the divan. Before joining her, Kimiko turned on the air conditioner mounted in the bay window to the left of the sofa. Blasts of cool air quickly erased the muggy heat, making the place more comfortable immediately.
Grabbing the nearest wooden captain's chair bracketing the small dinette table, I flipped it around and faced Peggy and Kimiko. I was still amazed by this woman's huge breasts. To find a Japanese woman in Des Moines, Iowa even more amazing. I had seen such bounty in such places as Las Vegas, San Francisco, New York, Paris, Rome, and London but never in the midst of the Corn Belt. Apparently, I looked in the wrong locales.
"How about some wine," said Kimiko.
"That would be great," said Peggy.
