On Highway 17 by B. Z. R. Vukovina

Author:B. Z. R. Vukovina
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: B. Z. R. Vukovina
Publisher: Sweetmeats Press
Published: 2013-11-26T05:00:00+00:00

♦♦♦♦

Half an hour later, Cob, out-of-breath, conquered the crest of a hill and cast his forlorn and horny gaze upon a clearing. In the middle of the clearing stood a house — small, white. Attached to the front of the house, a porch. On the porch, sitting on the railing, legs dangling, black hair flowing, was Winnie. She wasn’t wearing the pink dress anymore.

Cob fell to his knees. “I’m sorry,” he pleaded. His lungs wheezed rust. “It was wrong of me.”

Winnie slid off the railing and went inside.

Cob hobbled up to the front door. It was locked, but at least his erection was almost gone. He knocked. “Yes,” came the voice from inside.

“Oh, for the sake of all that’s good, open up. I don’t have any more stones.” Silence was followed by the subtle creaking of floorboards.

“Who is it? I’m a woman alone and I’ve just been chased by a pervert.”

Cob sat back on his heels on the porch. He finger-picked a melody from the strings of his guitar.

A minute later, the lock clicked and the door swung open. “Hello, stranger,” Winnie said. “You play beautifully.” Her lips twitched, before opening and smiling at the same time, and she added, “for such a pervert.”

Cob felt relief, immense and sudden relief. He wouldn’t die in the wild after all. Mostly, though, he just wanted to see Winnie again. He took a step toward the door — but found the way barred unexpectedly by a slender brown arm.

“Excuse me,” Winnie said. “But you are soaking wet and I will not have you dripping water all over my house.” Cob blinked — three times. “What I mean is, take off your clothes, musician.”

Cob removed both shoes, unbuckled his belt and let his pants drop to the porch floor. He then pulled his t-shirt over his head in such haste that the collar caught and dishevelled his hair, before tossing the whole collection into an unfolded pile by the door. Winnie left the shoes, but picked up the rest. She remained barring the doorway.

“May I come in now?” Cob asked.

“Your undergarment is still wet, musician,” she said.

He became aware of the burgeoning erection faintly visibly through his wet boxer shorts. The word “undergarment” had stirred up ideas. Winnie was wearing a blue dress of the same cut as her pink one, but her boots were off and feet bare. As she squeezed her unpainted toes, Cob wondered what else was bare. Had she put on a fresh pair of panties, a dry bra? She hadn’t been wearing a bra before. If he squinted, he could almost make out the faint outlines of nipples —

Winnie cleared her throat.

“Turn around,” Cob attempted to command.

But the attempt failed. Winnie placed a hand on her hip. Cob’s wet clothes looked like a ball of colours lodged into the three-sided space between her forearm, bicep and side. “You put a stone inside my vagina,” she said, emphasising each word. “Now strip.”

Cob dug his thumbs under the elastic band at the top of his boxers, stretched, and stepped out of them into complete nakedness.

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