now, he thought, wringing out his cock over the garbage can. His sperm plopped to the bottom. Then he sluggishly disrobed and put on the clothes in the bag.
I look like a horse’s ass, he thought, appraising himself in the motel mirror. Brand-new dark-denim Lee jeans fit so tight he couldn’t even fasten the brass button. He pulled the black t-shirt out over his waist and frowned more deeply. The shirt read ARMAGEDDON RIDERS! KICKIN’ ASS AND NOT TAKIN’ NAMES! On the front with the DSWC logo on the back. Just what some ignorant cracker would wear on a Saturday night out, basic attire for hard-liquor and handgun night. Hard as he may have been trying to quit, he sat down on the couch, and listlessly lit a cigarette. I’m undercover with the woman of my dreams, and I’m wearing a fuckin’ wrestling shirt. If any of his ex-girlfriends could see this, they’d laugh to wake the dead.
“Close your eyes,” came her muffled voice.
Stifled, Straker closed them. “All right.”
He heard her come out of the bathroom, bringing with her a scent of herbal soap. Then he heard clothes sliding against skin, and imagined her dressing; an unconscious reflex nearly caused him to squeeze his crotch, but he repressed the impulse. Jesus, he thought. If she knew I’ve jerked off three times since meeting her—twice right in this motel room—I’d have to kill myself.
“Okay. Open.”
Straker opened his eyes and nearly shit and came in his pants simultaneously. She stood there with her back towards him, wearing nothing but a tight denim skirt whose hem barely reached the bottom of her buttocks. She was bare up top, cradling her breasts in her hands.
“Pass me that pink halter over there, will you?”
Straker grabbed the halter on the dresser, draped it over her shoulder. It was all he could do not to do a rebel yell when she raised her arms and slipped herself into it. Only a second, true, but in that second Straker stared at sideshots of both breasts from behind. And nearly collapsed.
“Zip me now, okay?’
She leaned slightly forward and Straker caught what she meant. The back of that tight denim skirt—it had a zipper in back.
Straker’s finger’s shook like an alcoholic with the DTs; eventually he grasped the tiny metal tab, caught his breath, then pulled it up with a rasp.
“Thanks,” she said and turned. The haltered breasts blared at him. Hard City yet again. “One more thing,” she requested. “I need you to do my toes.”
Oblivious, Straker only fought not to stare, and didn’t do much of a job. His own jeans were so tight, his cock felt like a snake in a closing crevice. Only in the most nebulous fog did he recall what she said: I need you to do my—
“My toes,” she repeated, pulilng up a chair to face the couch. “While I do my nails.” She placed her hands on his shoulder and pushed him down into the chair, then sat down herself.
“I—,” he said.
She placed her bare feet right smack dab in his lap. Zombiefied now, all he could do was look. Her nude feet flexed very close to his groin—even her feet were perfect—but when he noticed her blue-painted toenails, he could only think to say, “Your toes are already done.”
“No they’re not. I’m posing as a ringrat. That means I’ve got to look as tacky as possible. Decals, Captain.” Then she handed him a strip of paper, adhered to which were a dozen tiny silver decals of falling stars. She held a similar strip and daintily affixed each decal to her fingernails. Straker doddered, peeled each one off and clumsily affixed them to her veneered toenails.
“Perfect,” she appraised when they were both done. She alternately glanced first at her fingernails, then her toenails. I need to beat off again, Straker thought. Bad. Then she briskly rose, and in doing so accidentally brushed one of her heels across his crotch.
Shit!
“Sorry,” she said.
One more brush like that and he’d have come again. He winced, rising, trying to hide
I look like a horse’s ass, he thought, appraising himself in the motel mirror. Brand-new dark-denim Lee jeans fit so tight he couldn’t even fasten the brass button. He pulled the black t-shirt out over his waist and frowned more deeply. The shirt read ARMAGEDDON RIDERS! KICKIN’ ASS AND NOT TAKIN’ NAMES! On the front with the DSWC logo on the back. Just what some ignorant cracker would wear on a Saturday night out, basic attire for hard-liquor and handgun night. Hard as he may have been trying to quit, he sat down on the couch, and listlessly lit a cigarette. I’m undercover with the woman of my dreams, and I’m wearing a fuckin’ wrestling shirt. If any of his ex-girlfriends could see this, they’d laugh to wake the dead.
“Close your eyes,” came her muffled voice.
Stifled, Straker closed them. “All right.”
He heard her come out of the bathroom, bringing with her a scent of herbal soap. Then he heard clothes sliding against skin, and imagined her dressing; an unconscious reflex nearly caused him to squeeze his crotch, but he repressed the impulse. Jesus, he thought. If she knew I’ve jerked off three times since meeting her—twice right in this motel room—I’d have to kill myself.
“Okay. Open.”
Straker opened his eyes and nearly shit and came in his pants simultaneously. She stood there with her back towards him, wearing nothing but a tight denim skirt whose hem barely reached the bottom of her buttocks. She was bare up top, cradling her breasts in her hands.
“Pass me that pink halter over there, will you?”
Straker grabbed the halter on the dresser, draped it over her shoulder. It was all he could do not to do a rebel yell when she raised her arms and slipped herself into it. Only a second, true, but in that second Straker stared at sideshots of both breasts from behind. And nearly collapsed.
“Zip me now, okay?’
She leaned slightly forward and Straker caught what she meant. The back of that tight denim skirt—it had a zipper in back.
Straker’s finger’s shook like an alcoholic with the DTs; eventually he grasped the tiny metal tab, caught his breath, then pulled it up with a rasp.
“Thanks,” she said and turned. The haltered breasts blared at him. Hard City yet again. “One more thing,” she requested. “I need you to do my toes.”
Oblivious, Straker only fought not to stare, and didn’t do much of a job. His own jeans were so tight, his cock felt like a snake in a closing crevice. Only in the most nebulous fog did he recall what she said: I need you to do my—
“My toes,” she repeated, pulilng up a chair to face the couch. “While I do my nails.” She placed her hands on his shoulder and pushed him down into the chair, then sat down herself.
“I—,” he said.
She placed her bare feet right smack dab in his lap. Zombiefied now, all he could do was look. Her nude feet flexed very close to his groin—even her feet were perfect—but when he noticed her blue-painted toenails, he could only think to say, “Your toes are already done.”
“No they’re not. I’m posing as a ringrat. That means I’ve got to look as tacky as possible. Decals, Captain.” Then she handed him a strip of paper, adhered to which were a dozen tiny silver decals of falling stars. She held a similar strip and daintily affixed each decal to her fingernails. Straker doddered, peeled each one off and clumsily affixed them to her veneered toenails.
“Perfect,” she appraised when they were both done. She alternately glanced first at her fingernails, then her toenails. I need to beat off again, Straker thought. Bad. Then she briskly rose, and in doing so accidentally brushed one of her heels across his crotch.
Shit!
“Sorry,” she said.
One more brush like that and he’d have come again. He winced, rising, trying to hide
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