Riding With The Devil

Author's note:

If you just want to get to the masturbating, feel free to skip this. Then if you like the story, please do me a solid and come read this section. You'll thank me later.

THE MEANING OF THE BRACKETS:

throughout my stories (except my first one, "Anytime Lisa,") I'll be putting brackets around certain phrases. Think of these phrases as links. I write excruciatingly slowly, but over time, I plan to post a story whose title corresponds to every bracketed phrase. Whatever the person who's talking says that's bracketed, you can go to that story to read more about what they just mentioned. Try looking up one of my other stories and you should get the idea. It's sort of a Star Wars "continuous universe" kind of thing. Okay, thanks for indulging me. And just for the record, I love feedback and I'd love to chat.

Being a slut has its advantages.

I'll bet you can imagine some on your own, but the one I have in mind right now is the fact that a slut is never without a ride. And before you go off half-cocked, I'm referring (at least this time) to transportation. You know, wheels. There's not a bonafide, card-carrying slut on the face of the Earth who can't scrounge up some sturdy axles when she needs them. As long as there's a red-blooded man (or woman, for that matter) with transportation anywhere in a fifty-mile radius, a slut is never truly stranded.

It's one of our powers. A nice ass, a soft mouth, judicious cleavage, a kinky disposition—these are the world's only truly universal currencies. And even though I don't have a dollar to my name at the moment, by those standards, I'm rich, bitch.

Which hopefully explains what I was doing standing on the side of the 101 freeway somewhere in the smack middle of California wearing a sports bra, a skirt short enough to blind, and a grin big enough to be spotted from the cab of a passing semi (or so I hoped). Believe it or not, that's all I had with me—no clothes, no money, no shoes even. That's a long story in and of itself. Suffice to say, [never eat out in Texas]. I know what you're thinking: a young thing like me, barely big enough to notice, traveling alone without any protection? Call it my compulsion. I'm a rambler, and I've never been able to submit to the bonds of sensible precaution. I'm sure it'll catch up with me sooner or later. Fuck it.

I'd been waiting for about twenty minutes, and I was pissed, and hot. I was hot because it's fucking hot in California in June, and I was pissed for a few reasons, chiefly because I was about to be late to my baby brother Matt's birthday party. I'd been trying to get home in time for the past few days, and humped and wiggled my way to within fifty miles, and now here it was, the morning of the party, and it was starting to look like I was on the only stretch of the 101 that was totally and utterly deserted. It was enough to bring a girl to tears, especially since I'd promised Matt I'd make it for his birthday, and that wasn't a promise I was ready to break.

I love my baby brother Matt more than anyone in the world. And I swear, I felt that way before we started fucking. The night I finally begged him to stick his little tadger into me just kind of made things official. Since then (had it been a year already?), we'd only gotten to sneak off a few times to play, and every time, as I wiggled my tight pussy back against his thrusting hips, I had a rush of something I can't quite describe. Call it love, call it taboo, call it the sheer dynamite joy of knowing you're about to milk your own baby brother's cum out of his quivering dick.

All I know is to this day, no one who's spent time inside my ass has filled me up in quite the same way. And whenever I asked him, fell on my knees and begged him to plow my pussy or drill me anally, he always said the same thing: "[Anytime, Lisa]."

God, Matty in my ass. I had to cross my legs to keep the wetness from dripping down onto the pavement. I could only get down on my knees and pray that we'd get a chance to sneak off during the party.

I was considering that possibility, and waging an epic battle against the urge to reach a hand into my skirt and start diddling myself right there on the side of the road when a truck finally appeared on the horizon. Not an actual truck; not a semi, just a pickup. I like semis. The guys are usually friendly—most men love to think they're saving a damsel in distress—and they know the deal. The transaction is clear and expected. For the duration of the trip, my ass is theirs.

But this was just a guy in a white F-150 with that new car sheen and, I saw as he pulled over, plastic novelty balls dangling from the tow hitch. I smirked as he leaned over to the passenger's side window, doing his good-natured best not to stare at my tits. I love when they do that.

What he managed to see hovering above my well-cleft chest was a pale, expressive face embedded with two massive emerald eyes and topped by flame red hair. Freckles spilled down from my kinky hair like glowing embers sifting from a cloud of smoke above a campfire. I cocked my pert, voluptuous lips in a friendly grin.

"Are you all right?"

The guy looked mid-thirties, little well-trimmed beard, baseball cap. You know, friendly, commuter type. I like nice people. I can always identify them right away; it's another one of our powers.

"Well, that depends," I drawled, stepping right up to the truck and leaning in, resting my ample cleavage on the window sill. No small feat, either; I had to go tip-toe. "Any chance I can get a ride into Thousand Oaks?"

He paused to consider...purely a formality. The door lock snapped open with a click and I yelped, pretending to be surprised. This guy was lucky; thinking about Matty had gotten me in the mood for a full show.

I hopped up into the leather seat, sliding my pert little butt across towards him, feeling my juice soak through to the cushion already and not caring in the least.

"Oh wow, what happened to your shoes?"

"Long story," I smiled. "Let's just say you're a real life saver."

"Wow," he said again, "well, glad to help." I could tell he wasn't going to press me further. This guy was about as nice as they came. I mentally revised my game plan while he shifted back into gear and pulled onto the freeway. When you're dealing with a square—a norm, a hetero, an L7, whatever—you've got to keep their fragile sensibilities in mind.

"I'm Lisa," I said.

"Rick."

"Rick. Like Richard?"

"Sure."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Dick."

Okay, so it was an old line, but it got a laugh out of him anyway. He fidgeted a bit, keeping his eyes locked on the road just a little too much, drumming his fingers in time to the quiet country music wafting out of the tape deck.

"Thanks so much for stopping. I was getting pretty worried."

"I can imagine," he said, "girl like you, out there. Are you traveling alone?"

"Yup," I grinned, "just me and the clothes on my back. What little are left."

"Right," he chuckled again, risking a glance. I angled my shoulders towards him and gave him my best, wide-eyed, pearly-toothed innocent flower waiting to be plucked look.

"You know," he stammered, "it can be dangerous—"

Now I laughed, "Uh oh. You sound like my Dad."

He didn't like that. But I find men are always so much more accommodating when they're a little wounded.

"Sorry," he blurted, "you're right, it's none of my business." How fucking cute is that? The way he backpedaled reminded me so much of Matt, I could feel my butthole twitch on the seat. I had to act soon, I thought, or this guy was going to notice the puddle forming on his naughahyde and think my water broke. We had a full forty minutes before we hit town; plenty of time.

It's funny, even though I've been doing this (and by "this" I mean anything that moves) for a long time, I still get a little flutter in my stomach when I try and snare a guy. The important thing is to coax them, not push them; to let their natural tendencies take effect. After all, by that point in the conversation, I could be sure Rick had imagined fucking me every which way possible. I just had to clue him in that it was actually going to happen.

"Nothing like a truck with big balls," I heard myself say.

I

wasn't even sure where I was going with it

"Huh, yeah. Those were a gag gift from a buddy."

"They're huge," I said. "I saw those things coming from a mile away."

He started to flush, Rick did. Fucking adorable. My pussy throbbed once in appreciation. "Tell you the truth," he said, "I keep meaning to take them off there. Just forgot. They must not be that big, or you'd think I'd notice them."

"Not that big?" I asked, incredulous. "Are yours that big? Honest." So

this

is where I'm going with this, I thought.

"Uh—"

He thought about that one. While he was thinking, I was already planning what kind of ringer I wanted to put this guy through.

"Yeah," he said, finally, "sure, yeah, about the same."

"No," I said, covering my smile demurely, "I don't believe it. Really?"

"Sure," he laughed, "yeah!"

Fuck, this was bad. I could feel it starting to take hold; the dark side of me, the Wicked with a capital W side. More than just horny, something bigger started filling me up. An urge was taking hold that I don't quite have a name for yet. Before I gave into it completely, I took a delicious moment to teeter on the precipice, a scanty second to pity poor old Rick. After all, the poor sap had no idea what he'd just got himself into.

Then I'm off.

"Prove it." I'm so horny I actually lick my lips. Rick kind of squints, his brain trying to process this turn of events.

"I'm sorry?"

"Prove it. Let's see 'em. I'm the kind of girl who'll believe it when she sees it."

I take a look between his legs, where a tell-tale bulge is beginning to form even as he's pretending to laugh. "I...what?"

I've got his full attention now. He even takes his right hand off the wheel and lays it on his leg, to hide his growing erection. I gingerly take his hand in both of mine and pull it away.

"Don't try to hide now. You made a claim, now I want proof."

He seems to drop the pretense, smirks at me like I've got some nerve, which I guess I do. "Jeez, lady. I mean, fuck."

"Oh!" I shout jovially, "So you're not Mormon! That's a relief."

"Are you serious?"

Turning my torso towards him, I slide my right hand from his right knee up his inner thigh and grab the top of his zipper, palming his groin, all in one movement. I can feel him reflexively inch back against the seat, but his bulge grows to meet my hand.

As I pull the zipper down with a satisfying noise, I slide my left hand behind his back and down into the back of his pants, pulling my knees up onto the seat until I'm on all fours facing him. My tiny skirt rides up to show my ass and pussy to the passenger's side window. I glance up to see him ogling the dim reflection, and his dick stiffens one more notch.

Fishing into his jeans and then his boxers, my fingers close around the heat of his hard cock, but only for a moment. I push it up and out of the way and tug gently at his balls until they finally emerge.

"I guess they're big," I say, leaning closer to inspect. "I still don't think they match your truck."

"Well," he says, "they can get bigger, you know." His voice has totally changed now. It's husky, low. I feel like I'm getting to know the Real Rick.

"Oh yeah?" I squeeze playfully.

"Sure, with the right encouragement."

"Oh I see," I smile, "well, I wouldn't want to lose the bet on that account."

Without hesitating, I toss my hair and drop my face down into his crotch, sucking his balls into my mouth and gently popping them back out.

"Oh, God," he groans, and I run my flat, full tongue up the underside of his balls, licking him again and again eagerly.

When I try to take both of them into my mouth again, I have to jam my face hard into his groin. My nose pushes up against his dick, which is straining vertically at his waistband. I'd lucked out, I think. It's so big it's almost peeking out the top of his pants.

I stare at it as I massage his balls with my mouth, pulsing my lips and tongue and humming lightly. My tongue escapes the confines of my mouth and explores down his ass crack, lightly salty.

Popping the button on his jeans, I fish in again and cling to his thick cock, like a warm, soft Maglite. I let his balls slurp out of my mouth as the dick navigates past the opening in his boxers and springs free, bouncing against my lips.

Rick hasn't made much noise, but he gasps or kind of grunts when his cock pops out. I take it as a good sign. Putting both hands around his dick, I point it gently towards my open mouth, opening my throat as much as I can.

"So," I ask, "you married?"

Then I bring my mouth down, not just onto his head, but down as deep as I can go. The tip of his dick slips past my parting lips, slides across my tongue, nestles against the very back of my mouth, then pushes through—I almost gag, but hold it in—down into my throat. I involuntarily start to swallow again and again, causing my throat to ripple down his length. This all in the time it takes him to register the shocked expression that is now transitioning into one of extreme pleasure fighting with deep embarrassment and a little anger.

I can't even tell if he's saying "uh" or "ooh" as I continue to rub my nose against his inner thigh. Maybe a little of both.

"I—I'm sorry?" he stammers out. I finally pull my head up to take a breath, and his penis withdraws from my throat like an exodus. I can feel the empty space. Long strands of spit stretch from my lips to the very base of his dick.

I turn my head left to look up at him, simultaneously wiggling my butt in the window in a way he doesn't fail to appreciate. Green eyes aglow, spit still drooling off my smiling lips.

"Don't be sorry," I say. "I'll still swallow."

Then both my hands are around his slippery cock, turning it gently but firmly in opposite directions. I pop the slick head of his penis into my mouth and kiss it out a few times.

He risks resting his right hand gently on the back of my neck, and I respond with a shiver of appreciation to encourage him. My tongue is tenderly probing and caressing his head while I knead the length of his cock with both hands.

I start sucking on about two inches of him, actually sucking now, my cheeks pulling in as I imagine sucking the sweet cum out of his balls and into my mouth like a straw. My tongue whorls around in my mouth and my hands pump furiously. Rick starts to grind his ass into the seat and gently rocking his hips, fucking my mouth.

I let his soft humping slowly push the head of his dick back again, and my head drops down, centimeter by centimeter, until once again the steel rod of his dick eases itself irresistibly down my opening throat, filling my whole mouth and gagging me. I don't choke, this time, but he softly exerts pressure on the back of my head with his hand, keeping my lips wrapped around the fat base of his cock and not letting me up. Good boy.

I continue to choke and gasp, and Rick continues to hold me firmly in place, in fact grinding his dick up further inside of my mouth, moving himself inside the sheath of my throat. As I gag, I can feel his stiffness sliding back and forth deep inside.

I can barely move my lips enough to make recognizable sounds, but between gags I manage "Fuck my throat. Fuck my throat." Although it probably sounds like "'Uk I 'oat. 'Uk I 'oat."

Finally I can't take any more, and I push my head up. Rick lets go, allowing my head to yank off his dick in a splutter and cough. I gasp once, twice, begin to catch my breath. Still gasping, I ask "Any kids?"

This time his expression is clear. Anger.

"What?!"

"Huh?" I look up at him as if I didn't hear him. "What?"

"What did you say?" He looks at me as if he thinks he may have misheard.

"I was just making conversation."

A momentary silence. Rick's eyes dart back to the road once or twice, but otherwise I have his undivided attention.

"Baby, you're pulling my hair."

Without thinking, Rick has clenched the hand that was resting on my head into a fist, tightly pulling at it. He looks at his hand, but doesn't release. I wince, not because it really hurts, more for showmanship.

Showmanship is more than just a slut power; it's an art form. This is the only point at which Rick will even consider stopping the truck and kicking me out. If he doesn't, he's lost the game. Then he's mine. I know this, and I want all the sympathy I can get.

Rick hesitates for another second. "I—"

He looks back up at the road and jerks the car to the right a little, as if he had drifted towards the median. I use the jolt as an excuse to hop my right hand from his leg to his penis, and begin jacking him off with short, quick, tight jerks right below the head, enveloping the end of his dick in wet warmth.

Another pause. "Sorry." He completely unclenches, floating his hand down between my shoulder blades, where it comes to unsteady rest.

"So are we going to do this or what?" I grin up at him.

He flashes a smile at me and looks back through the windshield, leaning back and stretching his right arm out across my back to rest on my lower back right above the smooth slope of my raised butt. By leaning back he juts his dick out as far as possible. It intrudes into the space like an obelisk, seeming at least an inch longer. The base seems wider than ever. I use my lips to massage his balls, pressing my long middle finger into the flesh below them.

"Have at it," he says. Just before I put my lips to his dick and start kissing it like I'd kiss my child, I plead "finger me."

I lick up and down his length, and rub his huge dick on my wet cheeks and over my silky lips, worshipping it like Mecca. Such a prayerful pose puts my backside just within Rick's reach. His hand does small circles over my pink ass cheeks, gauging their size and tight, perfect-circle roundness. He squeezes, feeling my plump butt open slightly, letting out a wave of heat as a glistening slice of my pussy is revealed, sandwiched between two fat, smooth lips.

As his cock disappears into my mouth and distends my cheek I mumble "finger fuck me, finger fuck me." He only hears "Eeger 'uk 'e," of course, but he gets the idea.

He hummmmms when the already soaked tip of his index finger gets enveloped by my hot lips and finds the tight hole. He says "aah," as he pushes it in. We say "ooh" together as he gets his finger all the way inside and crooks it, causing me to pull his cockhead out of my mouth with a pressurized *pop* and squeal in delight. My pussy sucks at his finger, pulling on it like a vacuum cleaner as he tries to gently pull it out again.

Keggels: slut power number 482.

Then he finally does get his finger pumping, slowly, like the pistons on a train leaving the station, then faster. I start letting out low, breathy growls, "huh, huh, huh" and go down for more of his lovely dick. I suck it into my mouth and slurp it out each time he drives his finger in. "Huhn,"

suck

, *pop,* "huhn,"

suck

*pop,* we start moving together, a hot, sweating machine. "Ohhhhhhhh, yessssss!" I shout, two loud reports in the silent cab.

I dimly realize the tape in the tape deck has ended. Now the only sounds are the ones Rick and I are making and the occasional thud thud as Rick's tires hit the median dots and he has to correct course.

When he jams his middle finger in, I can't take it any more, I sit up abruptly, bushy red hair brushing against the cab ceiling as I toss it back and scream. "OoooooOOOOHHH!" A screech that ends in giggles that slowly drop into a low register and somehow become a satisfied hum. My pussy has clamped onto the twisted vines of his fingers like they were growing out of me; I squeeze like I'm trying to break them, and they are projected forcefully against my G-spot as I hump up and down, bringing them in and out of me.