Bette Andrews - Hitchmiking Harlot

Julie sat at the edge of the road, half-hidden in the tall grass. She had been trying to get a ride for the past two hours, but she hadn't met with any luck. A lot of middle-aged women with hats and blue hair had passed by in station wagons loaded with kids and dogs. They made faces at her, gave her the finger when their mothers weren't looking, and roared by, throwing up dust as they disappeared around the bend in the road. She leaned against her knapsack, the late afternoon sun tinting her skin golden. Opening her peasant blouse, she pulled it free of her jeans and let the warmth beat down on her naked chest. Her tits rose up, two perfectly proportioned round globes of succulent flesh, capped by large budding nipples surrounded by aureoles of dark pink skin.

Lazily she moved a hand over to her chest and cupped one tit, fingering the nipple and sighing, closing her eyes as she rolled the little finger of flesh between her thumb and forefinger. It grew hard and taut, elongating, stretching and filling her with a curious sense of warmth and comfort.

If it hadn't been for mother, she thought to herself, her mouth going down in an involuntary frown as the warmth spread languidly through her body and down to her loins, bathing her groin in a sweet pleasurable sensation.

Toying with first one nipple and then the other, she tried to put the pieces together in her mind. She was twenty-three and unhappy. Having found what she wanted, it had been rudely taken away from her and now she had left, determined to make it on her own.

I had no business living at home, anyway, she said inside her mind. What girl in her right mind spends her college years at home with her parents?

But her mother and father couldn't afford to let her go to a university out of town. She had been forced to attend the local college for four long suffering years. Now that that was behind her, she just didn't know what to do with her life.

It was mother's fault, she said again and she closed her eyes, returning to the past as the sun and the warmth lulled her gently to sleep.

Julie awakened with a start. She had been moaning in her sleep, tossing on the ground. Now, she looked down and saw how one of her hands had slipped right inside her jeans. A finger was thrust up inside her pussy and her hand was soaking wet. She had come in her sleep.

The memory of her affair with Mr. Billingham came back to her, and she smiled, wondering what he was doing, what he was thinking at this very moment. She hadn't seen him in years, for he had later confessed that he only dug making it with his students, young girls all innocent and virgin.

But when she had been with him, he had proved an admirable teacher, a stallion of insatiable physical needs. He was a man whose sexual appetite seemed to know no bounds. She remembered what had happened when she had met him with his fiancee, a woman he had been engaged to for over -three years.

The thought of it made her giggle, but she realized that it was getting late and the sun was about to go down. Getting to her feet, she swung on her knapsack and trudged to the edge of the road, extending her thumb out once again, hoping to get a ride.

As she extended her thumb in the traditional hitchhiker's gesture, she wondered if the drivers who had passed her had been put off by her dress. She wore a thin peasant blouse without a bra and bell bottom blue jeans that clung to her round ample buttocks and thighs, flaring out below her knees. She wore walking boots, hiking shoes, on her feet and she kept shifting her weight from one foot to the other, growing more and more impatient.

When she saw another station wagon coming into view, she was instantly disappointed, expecting to see another load of kids sticking out their tongues at her, another middle-aged respectable mother driving by without once glancing her way.

But to her absolute and utter amazement, the wagon slowed down as it passed her pulled over onto the shoulder of the road. The driver honked his horn and she ran up to the car, a smile on her face as the driver leaned over and Opened the front door.

Julie climbed in, slinging her knapsack onto the back seat. "Where you going?" the driver asked, starting up the car once again.

"Anywhere. I'm going as far as anywhere," she said without too much determination, slumping down in her seat and glancing over at the driver. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered him one.

"Thanks," he said, accepting a lit cigarette from between her outstretched fingers.

As she smoked, she watched the fellow drive. He was in his early thirties, with curly black hair that was fashionably long. His features were strong and ruggedly handsome and somehow, he looked-as far as Julie was concerned-like a slightly younger and wilder version of Mr. Billingham.

But she said nothing to him, giving him the once-over. Satisfied, she stared out the window and it was a good twenty minutes before he broke her silent introspection. "You're not a talker, are you?" he asked, not unpleasantly.

"I wanted a ride," she told him.

"Just thought it would make things go faster," the man told her with a smile which she did not acknowledge. "My name's Skip Howard, by the way."

"Julie," she told him, trying not to think of her past, but just her immediate plans. The latter, however, were nebulous and unformed. She just didn't know what she intended to do. With her life, with her body, with anything and everything she possessed in the way of thoughts and experiences. It all moved around inside her in circles, lazy circles of confusion.

As far as Skip Howard was concerned, he couldn't have picked up a prettier hitchhiker. The girl was, in his estimation, extremely pretty. Her features were fluid and smooth, but not unformed and characterless like an ordinary girl. "I'm warm," he 'heard her say and before he could turn down another window, she had pulled her blouse out of its confines, unbuttoning the bottom buttons and tucking it up around the middle of her chest.

He glanced over at her and noticed the smooth flesh of her stomach almost all the way up to her large ripe breasts. He opened his eyes a little wider, noting that she didn't wear a bra. In fact, her tits strained against the thin material and he could see the outline of her pert little nipples, two little imprints which caught his eye and made his mouth water.

As they drove on, he could see the gentle and provocative swaying of her breasts as she breathed deeply, inhaling smoke from her cigarette. He saw too that she had an extraordinary figure. Her tits were large, perhaps a trifle too large for her frame, but they were also firm and stood out from her chest, jutting with almost an unspoken pride and determination. They dropped off to her slim waist. Then, her figure flared out into wide titillating hips that were enclosed by the tight material of her jeans. The jeans themselves, he decided, seemed molded to her body, showing off her thighs and the rounded curve of her deliciously plump little bottom.

"You going out to the Coast?" she asked him, shifting in her seat so that she faced him.

Skip looked at her, his eyes drawn once again to her exquisite boobs. Then he forced himself to look up at her face, and smiled. "I don't know for sure. Actually, I'm on my way to Reno to get a divorce. Isn't that too funny? A divorce."

"You hate your wife or something?" she said with a swagger.

"She's frigid," and he turned his eyes once again to the road.

"And I bet you're thinking that if you give me a ride to the Coast, I'll let you ball me, right?"