Readers, please do not continue if stories of non-consent make you uncomfortable. This is purely fantasy for us twisted minds who do enjoy it. -Thanatos
It's the summer after my freshman year of college, and I'm ready to get the fuck outta dodge. Between finals, my job, and a recent break up, I find it hard to stand this town anymore. I took a two-week vacation from work, telling them I needed to visit my parents, even though that's the last place I'd go in my free time.
I pack a bag with the essentials. It's boiling hot in the Bible belt even though it's just June, so the essentials are pretty light. I don't have a set agenda and I'm not bringing anyone with me. I just want to stab westward until I feel like I'm far enough away from this hellhole.
I drive out the day I decide I need a trip. Just six hours later, night falls, and I haven't gotten all that far, just a bit north and west from my starting point, so I crash at a cheap motel. The next day I'm back on the road to conquer the Midwest stretch.
My little coupe has no A/C and by noon I start to wonder if I shouldn't make this trip in the nights. The sun beats down like a sadistic kid with a magnifying glass on ants. Sweat pools under my breasts and I yank my bra out from under the white tank top I'm wearing. I set the cruise control and pull down my sweat-soaked panties out from the bottom of my skirt. Doesn't matter how skimpy you dress, the humidity will kill you. I toss damp undergarments in the backseat, disgusted. I have to stop and at least rehydrate, preferably find a joint with air so I can cool off for a bit. I'm in the middle of nowhere, USA but I see an exit with a blue sign suggesting there's a gas station up the road.
I walk into the thankfully frigid convenience store, appreciating the reprieve from the sweltering heat – until I feel my nipples harden. Shit. Forgot to put my bra back on. Or my panties, for that matter. The army-green skirt I'm wearing barely covers my ass, but at least it's tight and won't blow up. Bottom-shelf snacks are off-limits.
"Ho-lee shi-yat..." the redneck at the counter mutters. His head is down but his eyes are up, eyeballing me. I give him a polite head-nod but don't acknowledge his comment. Fucking middle of America meth-heads.
I head straight to the coolers. I want an ice cold beer and a bottle of water for the road. There's another redneck, tall with dark hair, over here. He's lanky. The white tee he wears is hanging off his gaunt frame. Everybody out here's hooked on that crystal shit.
"How you doin'," he says, checking me out noticeably. His eyes linger on my chest, and I feel like my nipples, popping out of the thin white material, might poke holes right through it.
I cross my arms over my breasts. "Aight," I said flippantly. I grab my beer but the guy is standing in front of the water. I have to walk towards him if I want a bottle. Ninety miles til the next stop, the highway sign had said. I swallow my pride and walk over.
He doesn't move a single step out of my way, just lets me walk right up to him until my body nearly brushes his. He shifts his weight enough so I can awkwardly open the cooler door, looking down at me. I feel his cold, blue eyes on me like a hunter stalking prey. "Excuse me," I say as I back out of the cooler, letting the door fall shut behind me.
He follows me to the register. The redneck behind the counter winks at me. "Itsa hot-un," he says, stating the obvious.
"Yeah."
"Whurr ya headed?"
"West."
He nods and hands my change back, then addresses the guy behind me, who is still standing too close. "Whatcha gettin' into tuhday, Jon?"
