Stan Brewster studied the rear-view mirror of the pickup camper he was driving. There was a cluster of four motorcycles following him up the long grade. A couple of times, the lead motorcyclist had tried to pass him, but the twisting, narrow road, the stream of approaching traffic and Stan's reluctance to pull into one of the turnouts, had prevented them from passing his laboring truck. He listened, critically, to the engine and swore under his breath. There were a couple of fouled spark plugs, which caused the motor to run roughly, reducing its power and his speed. Then, he saw that behind the motorcycles there was a building tail of other vehicles, including another camper and a couple of cars pulling light vacation trailers. He'd have to pull over pretty soon to allow them to pass, but there were no turnouts along this stretch of the road.
This was the third day of his vacation. He'd been looking forward to it for months, but so far there had been nothing but trouble. On their first day away from home a radiator hose had broken, which delayed them for two hours for repairs; as a result they had been forced to stay overnight in a commercial trailer camp. Yesterday, he'd replaced the water pump… and now, today, it was fouled spark plugs.
A frown spread across his handsomely rugged face, and his deep, brown eyes glowered at the images in the rear-view mirror then studied the road ahead for space to pull over. The heavily loaded truck ground slowly up the steep grade in second gear, the punished engine whining its protest.
Angrily, Stan stomped down hard on the already fully opened accelerator and growled, "Come on… let's go… God damn it!"
Sitting beside her husband, Lois Brewster studied his profile through wide, clear blue eyes. She knew he was angry. The first two days of their vacation hadn't been very pleasant. The extra expense and the delays for repairs had made him increasingly exasperated. Her knowledge of machines was limited, but even to her unpracticed ear, the sounds of the laboring engine told her there was something wrong.
"What seems to be wrong with the motor, Stan?" she asked, finally, breaking a long, silence.
"Couple of dirty spark plugs!" He didn't turn his head to answer her question.
She, also, could see the long string of motorcycles, cars and campers behind them. Since their camper was the first in the line, it was their vehicle that was holding back the traffic.
"Shouldn't we pull over… and let those other people pass us…?"
Stan snapped back, "Sure! Hell yes… I should… but there are no turn-outs!"
"You passed a couple of them… back there…"
"You want to drive this rig?" he shot back.
"No… but…"
"Then… shut up… and get the hell off my back!"
For perhaps the thousandth time, it seemed to Lois, she turned silently away, her deep blue eyes brimming with glistening tears. Their vacation, too, was turning sour… just as everything about their marriage seemed to be falling apart. She had promised herself that these two weeks away from the cares of day-to-day living and home-making chores would be happy ones; days that would heal some of the wounds, solve some of their differences… and draw them closer together… perhaps, even, regenerate their feelings of tenderness for each other… and rejuvenate the sexual side of their lives. She sighed with self-pity and a nostalgic longing for things as they had been… when they were first married; of course, even then there had been some problems, but she and Stan had been younger then. They had been full of hope and optimism, but now… She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and looked out at the mountain landscape, the forested slopes seeming to offer a serenity she didn't feel.
The sudden roar of a motor close beside the camper caused her to turn her head, quickly, to look with startled eyes at the lead motorcyclist, who was then drawn abreast of the cab. She saw a black beard, long black hair whipping in the wind, a pair of dark eyes flashing, angrily, and an open mouth that roared, obscenely, the words partially snatched away by the wind.
"… of-a-bitch! Get… fucking… off the road!"
With a roar, the motorcycle swept by them. A second figure, smaller and definitely feminine, clung behind the driver. She, too, was shouting, although it was difficult to understand what she was saying.
A straight stretch of road lay ahead of them for about seventy-five yards, devoid of approaching cars, which was the reason the group of four motorcyclists chose to pass, right then. As the leader swept by, he shook a threatening fist, then flipped his middle finger up in the age-old signal of derision. Then, Lois' sensibilities were injured. The auburn-haired, pixie-faced girl, on the back of the motorcycle, looked back at them and made the self-same sign.
Then, in quick succession, the other three motorcyclists thundered by the slow-moving camper, each hooting a string of obscenities and following the example of the leader, flipped the lewd hand-sign at Stan and Lois.
Stan's temper boiled over, instantly, and he was shouting back, "Well… fuck you, too… you bastards!"
"Please… Stan… do you have to be like them…?" Lois chided. She didn't like to hear him use those words. It always seemed so unnecessary.
"God damn it!" he flared back at her. "I'll say what I like… and right now I'm good and mad! Plug your ears up… if you don't want to hear it!"
The fourth and last cyclist had just passed him, when a low-slung sports car came snarling around a curve toward them. Lois was sure there would be a collision, but the motorcycle rider ducked to his side of the road, at the last instant, with only inches to spare.
"Why… you stupid bastard!" Stan roared, visibly shaken by the close call… the possibility of being involved in the smash-up, had the sports car and the motorcycle crashed together.
Just around the next curve, a highway sign warned of a turnout ahead, and Stan heaved a sigh of relief, as he studied the rear-view mirror, again, to see that there were ten or more cars strung out behind his camper. He pulled off the road into the cleared space, trying to ignore the grim faces of the drivers who swept by on the road. Some of the people were outright angry. He could see their mouths move, cursing him, insultingly… But, Christ! He rationalized. I can't help it if the damned engine's acting up…!
He consulted a California highway map. "There's a little town up ahead… maybe fifteen miles or so…" he observed. "I can get a set of new spark plugs there… then it's only about sixty miles to that State Park…"
Lois wasn't really listening. She agreed, absently, "That's good…" then added, "maybe… we can get to bed earlier, tonight… and…"
"Yeah and get a good night's sleep, for a change so we can get on the road earlier…"
"I wasn't thinking… just about sleep…" Lois murmured.
"Oh, you mean something else, like sex…? Well it's according to how tired I am. Okay?"
"I guess it'll have to be… all right…" she sighed with resignation, hoping against hope that he wouldn't be too tired, too busy… too drunk… or too something. It seemed, lately, that was the story of their married sex-life. She decided to change the subject.
"Did you notice what that girl… on the back of the motorcycle did?"
"No… what did she do?" Stan responded, looking back down the road to see that the traffic had cleared. He put the truck in gear and eased out onto the narrow highway.
"She made that awful sign… with her hand, too!"
"Oh, that! Just consider the source! They're just a bunch of worthless motorcycle bums! They probably belong to one of those clubs or gangs!"
"She seemed to be the only girl… and there were four men…"
"I wouldn't know!" He dismissed the subject. "Who can tell the difference… with their long hair?"
"The difference… is the shape…"
Stan was listening to the truck's motor. It was running even more roughly, as it labored up the long grade.
"I hope we can make it to that little town, now!" he grunted. "We've got to get this damned thing running better!"
Settling down into his sleeping bag, luxuriously, and scratching his long, lean and muscular flanks, Mickey Blackum was thoughtful. He was thinking about that luscious blonde he had first spotted in the service station, yesterday. She was waiting around there while something was being fixed on their camper… of course, she was straight, and her husband was a typical eight-to-five establishment type, full of apple pie, mother and patriotism crap. Christ I can spot those mothahs a mile away!
… But, that woman of his…! Man… the way she was flipping her ass around in those tight hot pants… and those tits that wouldn't stop! She was something else! Damn, I'd like to get into a mama like that… for some plain and fancy fucking!
Down between his legs, his scrotum tightened up and began to lift his balls, crawlingly, up tight to his crotch; at the same time, the shaft of his cock was flooded with hot blood. It began to throb to full erection, and his hand went down to grasp the growing massiveness of it. He conceded to himself that the little blonde bitch wasn't available to him, so he'd just have to make do with what was handy… and what was always there, of course, was Terry. She was there… any time he wanted a piece of ass… And, she'd better be here!
One unbreakable rule was that his mama, Terry McCauley, had to be around… whenever he wanted her… for whatever reason…! And, Mickey wanted her, now!
He threw back the top portion of the unzipped, double sleeping bag and called, softly, "Terry!"
There was no answer. The black-bearded leader waited a beat or to, before he called, again, louder, "Teeerrrry!"
On the heavily wooded slope above the camp, Terry heard Mickey's voice calling her, the second time. She froze. She had to obey him… no matter what! Christ! Not right now… though!
She was crouched over Peeper Martin's loins, his long, thin cock held in her hands, her lips just beginning to descend on it to engulf his cock's head in her hungry mouth.
Hastily, she began to scramble to her feet, dropping the fully erect prick lancing up through the fly of his heavy, leather motorcycle pants.
"That's Mickey!" she gasped. "I've got to split!"
Martin sat up, reached out and grabbed one of her wrists.
"Let him wait! You're mine… right now!" he hissed.
"No Peeper! Christ no! I've got to go!" Her voice was desperate. "You know that!"
"Stop calling me Peeper… for Christ's sake! My name's Tom! Me and him… are going to have a go about that one of these days!"
"Let me go!" Terry begged. "I don't want him to get pissed-off at me… over nothing!"
"Nothing!?" Tom Martin roared. "You're splitting… leaving me all uptight… with a big hard-on… ready to do some fucking… you call that nothing?"
"… But… I've got to go! I don't want Mickey… carving on me… the way he did Maureen!" She wrenched herself free of his grasp, a dry sob escaping her contorted mouth. As she started down the slope toward the camp, Terry flung back over her shoulder, "You can jerk it off… or find out, for sure, whether Wunder Boy will blow you!"
Then, she heard Mickey call for the third time. His voice was loud, angry, "Terry! Get your fucking ass over here… right now!"
Terror-stricken, she called out, "I'm coming! I'm coming!" God! He had to call me three times!
She ran… hard, barely able to see in the darkness, stumbling once or twice and cursing her rotten luck. The fright in her was real. Mickey demanded absolute obedience of his mamas, and any breaches of his iron discipline were dealt with, instantly… harshly.
Arriving out of breath at his sleeping bag, where Mickey sat glowering, angrily, Terry flung herself down on her knees before him, her tiny pixie-face distraught, frightened blue eyes already pleading for a mercy she knew he wouldn't dispense. She brushed disheveled strands of lustrous auburn hair away from her face and trembled, "Here I… am… Mickey…!"
"Where the hell you been?"
"Up there… on the hill… but I-I… didn't hear you!" she defended, hoping he would soften… perhaps allow her this one trespass against his rigid rules.
"Who was up there with you?"
"Peeper…" she admitted, truthfully, knowing that she could not tell Mickey any more than that. God! I-I can't tell him Peeper wouldn't let me go! She didn't want to be the cause of an open rift between the two men; there was already enough animosity between them.
"Peeper? Christ!" The black-bearded leader was silent for a moment. Peeper Martin needed to learn a few things. There wasn't any doubt about it, but he'd have to take care of Martin, tomorrow. Right now, his mama would get her little lesson in obedience before he fucked her.
"All right… get those God damned rags off! I want you bare-assed naked!"
Mickey watched her, avidly, his eyes burning with lewd desire and a grim satisfaction, as she hastened to obey him.
Sitting back on the sleeping bag, she pulled off her heavy boots and thick socks, then standing up, she unbuckled the wide belt, opened the fly of her boys' jeans and stripped them down over the soft, white columns of her tapering thighs and the long, svelte curve of her calves. Next, she removed her heavy, leather jacket, and with trembling fingers, unbuttoned her man's shirt, tossing it aside with her other articles of clothing. She wore nothing under it. Her breasts soared free in the wash of the cool evening air, standing out in luscious, globular mounds, slightly upthrust and glowing in alabaster whiteness, each of them crowned with the cameo-pink of nipples already spiking out into cones of erectile arousal. They were young, tender breasts, firm and high on her chest, the valley between them deep and clearly defined. Then, without hesitation, she slipped her panties down over the curving swell of her hips and buttocks to stand completely nude before him.
His massive, long and thick cock throbbed with anticipation, as he watched. Damn! She was the most luscious mama he'd ever had! He almost hated to have to discipline her… But, hell… you let a mama get away with one little thing… and there's no end to the crap they'll try to pull on you!
"Now… give me your belt!" he ordered.
"P-Please… Mickey…" she pleaded, her lower lip trembling, wide, blue eyes glistening with tears, "I-I really didn't hear… y-you…"
He wouldn't be swayed. "I said give me your God damned belt… or do you want me to use mine?"
"Oh, no! God no!" Hastily, she stopped to pick up her discarded jeans and unthreaded the wide, leather belt from the loops, a vivid impression in her mind of what his studded belt would do to her flesh… if he were to use it! Abjectly, she handed the plain, leather strap to him.
"Down on your belly, bitch… and take your medicine!" Mickey commanded. "And… not one squeal… dig?"
"P-Please… don't… mark me…?" Terry knew there was no escaping her punishment.
She had known from the beginning that he intended to carry it out. It's not fair! It wasn't my fault… but I'll have to take it!
"You disobeyed me!" Mickey grunted. "That's why you're getting it!" He doubled the belt and held it in one hand, while with the other, he snatched at her wrist and pulled her down onto the sleeping bag, then kneeling up, the black-bearded leader looked down at his target. As she lay there, Terry, undulated her hips, provocatively, the moons of her buttocks working, erotically… invitingly. It was a final ploy she used, almost unconsciously, in an attempt to dissuade him, but at the same time, she pushed her face down hard into the material of the sleeping bag, expecting, momentarily, the slashing pain of the leather strap across her soft backside.
Mickey's big cock jerked, and his hand went down to stroke the hardened, throbbing shaft, as a thrill of sadistic pleasure keened through him. Damn! He was going to enjoy this! Somehow, it made the fucking… afterward, more enjoyable… more intense. His lips peeled back in a lewd grin, his white teeth gleaming through the blackness of his beard. Suddenly, he raised his arm and brought the leather belt down hard and true in a solid, slashing blow across those lovely, white buttocks.