Amy squirmed uncomfortably behind the wheel of the Jeep Cherokee. She was barreling down Interstate 8 through the Arizona desert, headed west towards San Diego, about half an hour out of the little town of Gila Bend just north of the Mexican border. Mile after mile after mile of desolate desert, with sparse patches of scorched scrub, prickly pear cactus and the occasional sorry-looking saguaro, flashed by on either side of the road. Her problem was that she needed to find a bathroom. Desperately.
She clenched her thighs together and glanced at the odometer: even if she pushed it to 10 miles or so over the speed limit -- the fastest she dared to go -- it'd be at least an hour before she came to Yuma, where she could run into a McDonald's. Turning around and going back to Gila Bend would be quicker -- about half an hour -- but there was no way she'd be able to hold on that long. The one rest stop she'd passed, a little after Gila Bend, had been closed for repairs. She'd considered stopping on the side of the roadway and peeing in the desert, but there were no bushes or trees to hide behind; and there was just enough traffic on the freeway that she'd surely be seen if she just went and squatted by the roadside. And Amy was much too modest to even dream of letting some total stranger see her relieving herself shamelessly by the side of the road, with her naked butt exposed for all to see!
Amy Waldron had been brought up in a strict Methodist family in Tucson, Arizona. She was extraordinarily pretty, with an angelic face framed by thick silky dark blonde hair that fell straight to her shoulders, with wide blue innocent eyes, a pert nose, and sensuous red lips that cried out to be kissed. Her body was trim and athletic, conditioned by years of regular tennis and swimming, with full breasts and hips, a narrow waist, long slim legs, and an ass that turned a lot of male heads.
She had graduated from the University of Arizona a couple of years ago with a degree in Communications, and had chosen to stay on in Tucson -- taking a job at an advertising firm in town -- because of a guy she had been romantically involved with at the time, even though she was aware that she could probably have landed a modeling job in LA or New York if she'd tried. Part of the reason was that she was a deeply moral person, almost to the point of being a prude: the thought of having to stand before the cameras in skimpy costumes, or expose her breasts or pose naked, filled her with revulsion. Her boyfriend -- the only one she'd had, she hadn't been big on dating in college -- had gotten her to loosen her up somewhat, and she had learned to enjoy pretty clothes and sexy lingerie.
But that relationship had ended a month ago, mostly because he thought she wasn't putting out enough while Amy felt found sex mildly distasteful: at best, something to be tolerated on occasion. She couldn't understand how people could find all that sweaty humping and grunting and moaning -- that ridiculous motion of the buttocks -- to be enjoyable. So now she was single and unattached again, which was just fine by her, and focused all her attention on her job.
"Damned coffees!" Amy swore under her breath. She'd been up until long past midnight the night before, trying to finish up some last-minute work for a new ad campaign for an important client. It turned out that they urgently needed to get a bunch of artwork for the campaign -- stuff that couldn't be faxed -- to the client, who was based in San Diego. When she'd called it quits last night, Mike, a senior vice president at the firm, had asked if she'd help out by driving to San Diego today to deliver the materials. She couldn't possibly have refused: Mike was notorious as a hardass, and if he thought she wasn't a team player, her career at the firm was dead.
So there she'd been at six this morning, all bleary eyed and feeling like shit, at the office to pick up the material and load it into the back of her red Cherokee. She'd thrown a big blanket over it, so it wouldn't get blown around if she decided to drive with the window open, before heading west. She had downed a big mug of strong black coffee before leaving her apartment, and another at the office before setting out, just so she wouldn't nod off on the freeway. And now she was paying the price. She'd given up a while ago on holding it until she got to Yuma -- now, she'd gratefully take a rest stop, a truck stop, whatever: anything with a bathroom. But -- this was just her crappy luck -- there didn't seem to be anything out here, just open desert.
She was getting increasingly desperate now, to the point of being prepared to abandon all modesty and do it by the roadside, when she saw an exit coming up. It was some obscure road cutting through the desert, with no sign of life that she could see. She gratefully pulled off the freeway onto the exit ramp, on a whim turning left at its end onto the deserted two-lane ribbon of asphalt: the road was empty to the heat-shimmering horizon on either side, and she figured that a five-minute drive should take her far enough from the highway to be free from prying eyes as she did her business. And this time her luck seemed to finally have turned: after a couple of minutes of driving she spotted a big pile of boulders off to the right of the road... they'd offer her some privacy should anyone choose just that moment to come down the road, unlikely though that seemed.
Amy pulled onto what passed for the shoulder, killed the engine, frantically wrenched the door of the car open, and jumped out and headed for the pile of rocks. She was this close to losing it now, but she couldn't possibly show up for a meeting with a client with a big stain on the seat of her suit skirt, so she gritted her teeth and headed for the rocks, twenty yards or so away, as fast as she could. The ground was stony and uneven, and her high-heeled pumps -- de rigeur attire at her firm -- didn't make it easy to get there, but she somehow made it.
Her breath was coming in ragged gasps with the effort of holding her pee when she rounded the first of the boulders, hitched up her skirt around her waist, desperately shoved her panties down to her knees, and squatted down. She'd put on thigh-high stockings instead of pantyhose this morning -- mostly because pantyhose made her crotch sweaty and itchy in the heat, though she admitted that the stockings made her secretly feel feminine and attractive -- so thankfully that was one less piece of clothing that she had to deal with just then. And then, closing her eyes with a sigh and letting bliss flood over her, she finally let the floodgates open.
She was almost done when she heard the crunch of running feet. She wasn't alone after all.
* * *
The two of them -- Manuel Ortega and his brother Pedro -- had been trekking in the desert all night. They had started out from Hermosillo, in Mexico, five days ago, after paying a "coyote," a people smuggler, all their life savings -- some ten thousand dollars -- to get them across the border. They had headed north towards Nogales, but had been forced to turn west because of the stepped-up activities of the Norteamericano Border Patrol near Nogales.
Last night the coyote had finally gotten them across the border, but had broken his word and abandoned them after that. They were lost in the desert, with no maps and only a little water, and only a vague notion of which way they needed to go. They had come to the road early that morning, heard the faint sound of traffic on the highway to the north, and decided that it would be too risky to try to make it to the highway during daylight. Instead, they decided to hide in the shade of the boulders that day and then try to follow the highway to a town that night.
The desert lay still under the hot morning sun, the lazy swirling of a distant dust devil the only movement to be seen, silent save for the occasional scrabbling of lizards amongst the rocks and the distant hum of traffic on the highway. Manuel and Pedro were dozing fitfully, lying uncomfortably on the rough ground, when they were startled awake by the sound of an approaching automobile. They watched the Cherokee approach with increasing apprehension: when it pulled off the road and came to a stop near them, their first thought was that the Americanos had somehow found out where they were.
"Madre Dios!" Pedro had moaned in despair. "How could they know where we are?" Manuel had shushed him, and they had lain still and low and watched the car through slitted eyes. On closer inspection, it looked like there was only one person in the car, a woman, though they couldn't imagine what she might want out here in the middle of nowhere.
The woman got out of the car and headed towards them. She had blonde hair that fell straight to her shoulders and bounced lightly as she walked, a simple sleeveless blue blouse stretched tight across good-sized breasts, a navy blue skirt that came to her knees, and black high-heeled shoes, like those on the rich girls in Hermosillo, on long, slim, shapely legs covered by dark nylons.
She had a look of intense discomfort on her face as she half ran, half limped towards them. Except for a couple of quick glances towards the rocks she kept her eyes down as she hobbled towards them, and Manuel figured she was watching where she stepped on the rough ground so she didn't trip in her high heels and fall. She disappeared for a moment as she went around a big boulder, then reappeared on the other side -- barely ten feet from them, though they were well hidden in the shadows behind a pile of smaller rocks and some scrub bush and creosote -- and pulled up her skirt. The tops of her black stockings came into view, about two-thirds of the way up her thighs, with a band of smooth creamy skin above it, and then skimpy little black bikini panties covering her mound.
Manuel's breath caught as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pushed them down hurriedly -- almost frantically -- revealing a neatly trimmed triangle of brown pubic hair. Then, completely unaware of their staring eyes, she sat down and, with an audible sigh of pleasure, started to pee. Her eyes were closed, the discomfort on her face replaced by something close to ecstacy, as a stream of water erupted from her and hissed onto the parched soil.
