Road-Tripped

by Nicole Archer

  “You’ve never cheated on anyone?”

  “Hell, no,” he said. “If I feel like cheating, it’s time to break up.”

  She dipped her chin and squinted. Either she was drunk or didn’t believe him. Not caring either way, he drank another shot.

  “Pass me that,” she said and drank twice as much. Pounding her chest and coughing, she asked him if he wanted a truth or a dare.

  He sighed. “How ’bout we make this easy and just take our clothes off.”

  “All right, take them off.”

  “Nun-uh. Not without you.”

  “Fine, we’ll do it together.” She twirled a finger. “Turn around. This isn’t a striptease.”

  Too bad. A crying shame, really. “Christ’s sake. I’ve seen a naked woman before.”

  “Oh, I’m aware of the vast amount of booty you’ve seen.”

  What’d she mean by that? Furthermore, what did she consider vast?

  “Turn around and we’ll both take off our clothes,” she said with unbelievable innocence. “And on the count of three, we’ll turn back around.”

  “This isn’t a Wild West show down.”

  “Humor me.”

  He pretended to be exasperated. “Fine, let’s get this over with.”

  On the count of one, he dropped trou and flung his shorts on the table.

  She kept counting. “Two . . .”

  He rocked on his heels.

  “Two and a half. Two and three quarters . . . three!”

  He jumped around, ready to feast his eyes on her fleshy delights. “What the—? Why are your clothes still on?”

  Grinning like a jack-o’-lantern, she twirled his shorts around her middle finger.

  “Why you little . . .”

  She dashed over to the fire and threw them in. “Oops! They slipped. Walker, Walker, pants on fire.”

  He chased her like a mad bull charging a matador then caught her by the collar. But she kept running, and he tore her shirt.

  “Ow! That hurt.” She stopped and rubbed her neck.

  They glared at each other, nostrils flaring like racehorses.

  Enough of that bullshit. He ran to the camper, but the little brat had locked the door. “Where are the keys, Blue?”

  “Keys? What keys? I thought you had them.”

  “I’m gonna spank your ass ’til it blisters.”

  But she wasn’t paying a lick of attention to his threat. Why? Because she was too busy staring at his dick.

  “Want some popcorn for the show?” he asked, hands on hips.

  She turned away, cheeks as red as the fire.

  Payback time. He was going to make her squirm like a worm in hot ashes. “Man, it feels great out here.” He stretched his limbs wide and flexed his muscles.

  Not a single word came out of her mouth. Not one biting remark. Couldn’t even manage an insult, she was so flustered. He’d have given himself a high-five, but he already looked like a complete jackass.

  He paraded around the camp as if he’d been a lifetime nudist then sat across from her and spread his legs as wide as his hips would allow.

  She slammed her eyes shut and snatched the bottle off the table.

  “Something wrong, Bluebell?” he taunted, crossing an ankle over his knee.

  The tequila glugged as she sucked it down.

  It was balls to the wall after that. Or rather, balls to the face. He grilled steaks bent over in front of her face. For some reason, she didn’t touch a bite of her dinner. However, she did plow through the tequila.

  Later, he climbed up on the picnic table and aligned his dick with her view. “Crazy mosquitoes.” He swatted at nothing. “We need some damn spray.”

  “Okay! Okay! You win! Put on your clothes.” She shielded her eyes and chucked the keys at him.

  He made her beg a few more times then went inside and put on some shorts. On his way out, he glanced through the window and caught her making snow angels in the sand. Good lord, time to cut her off.

  “Girl, you are dee-runk. No more tequila for you!” He laughed.

  Behind him, a hyena laughed too.

  He turned around and met a pair of leathery tits head-on. Mercy! What an ugly sight. It was Bev from the beach. And she was with a guy who looked like he’d just escaped from The Island of Dr. Moreau.

  “Here’s the welcome wagon,” Bev said, setting down a pitcher of what looked like Pepto-Bismol.

  “Bob Gentry,” the nude dude said, parking his ass on their bench.

  Walker wouldn’t be sitting there again.

  “Met the wifey earlier over a roll of TP,” he said. “Guess you met Beverly at the beach?”

  Bev blew him a kiss. He grimaced.

  “Well, aren’t you the cutest thing?” Bev poured his obviously wasted coworker a drink. “You’re gonna love this, sweetie.”

  Callie slugged it and smiled at everyone with a pink mustache.

  He snatched the cup away. “I’m afraid she’s had a little too much to drink already, Bev.”

  Blue diamond daggers shot from Callie’s eyes.

  “Thought you’d be naked by now, hon,” Bob said to Callie.

  “Know what? Fuck it!” she declared. “I’m getting naked.” Making good on her promise, she tore off her shirt. Just took ahold of the tear in the collar and ripped it right off.

  Bob whooped. “That’s the spirit! Doesn’t the wind feel nice on your titties? Oh yeah, look at those hard nips.”

  Walker vaulted in front of her. “Dammit, put your shirt on,” he said through clenched teeth. “They’re eye-raping you.” The leering couple craned their necks around him.

  Blatantly ignoring his warning, she circled her arms overhead and twirled. “I feel so light!”

  Desperately trying to hide his topless coworker, he dragged her into a tight hug. She fought him like a pissed off bobcat caught in a trap. Ultimately, she gave up and laid her cheek against his chest.

  Bev jiggled over and handed him a drink. He sucked it down like a man dying of thirst. Maybe it’d make him go blind. Surprisingly, it tasted like donuts. “You got another one of those, Bev?” He held out his cup.

  “Watch out!” her husband howled. “That’ll put hair on yer chest. Looks like you could use some though.”

  “Guess you’ve been drinking them daily, huh, Bob?” he said, smiling tightly.

  The hairy man bugled and bleated. His laugh was more irritating than licking sandpaper.

  While Walker endeavored to mop the sound from memory, Callie caressed him. “I love your hairless chest.” She nuzzled his pecs. “So smooth and sculpted. Like a marble manslut statue.”

  He covered her mouth. “Shh! Stop talking.”

  A painfully awkward minute later, Bob cupped his balls and raised his glass. “Here’s to rocking out with our cocks out.” He followed the gruesome toast by ramming his tongue down his wife’s throat.

  Walker tipped back the liquid donut and tapped the bottom of the cup until the last drop trickled into his mouth.

  “What do y’all do for a living?” Bob asked after eating his wife’s face.

  “Well, I’m a writer,” Callie slurred. “And Walker’s a professional drag queen.”

  “She’s kidding.” He wrapped his arms around her face. “I’m in advertising.”

  “Shran’t breash.”

  Like a dumbass he loosened his grip. She bent over his arm as if he were dipping her in a tango lesson, and her hard nipples pointed in the air like sexual beacons.

  Growling under his breath, he yanked her back up.

  “You smell so good.” She sighed and slid her wiggly plums all over his skin. “Your aftershave makes me wet. Seriously, I have to change my underwear when you put it on.”

  Hellfire and damnation. His dick was harder than a choirboy’s in a porn shop.

  “Want another one, sweetie?” Bev headed toward them with the pitcher.

  “Please,” he said, sounding a bit desperate. He’d like seven more, as a matter of fact
. “Don’t be stingy,” he said, pretending it was a joke.

  She poured him one, and as he lifted the overflowing cup to his mouth, he swore something crawled out of it. Was he hallucinating?

  Led Zeppelin came on, and his topless friend cheered. “Let’s have a naked dance party.” Rather than wait for the guests to arrive, she had a dance party for one. On his dick. To the beat of the song, she ground against him in a slow-cock-hardening circle.

  He didn’t dance. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He’d lose it if he did. It was so goddamned painful not being able to touch those bouncy boobies—not to mention her unmentionables.

  “That’s not dancing,” he grunted, “that’s foreplay.”

  Her half-lidded eyes traveled down to his hard-on and a seductive smile pushed up one blushing cheek.

  “Go on! Dance with your lady!” Bev said.

  “Yeah, show your wife some affection, buddy,” Bob added.

  Callie slapped his chest and puckered her lips. “Yeah, show me some affection, buddy.”

  “We’re not big into PDA, Bob,” he said, smashing her face back against his chest.

  “Aw, we don’t mind,” Bev said. “Go on, give your sweetie a kiss. She wants you to.”

  Just when he opened his mouth to tell Bev to crawl up a hog’s ass and have a ham sandwich, Callie stood on her tippy toes and kissed him.

  His heart drummed so loud it felt like he was in a womb. She plucked off his glasses and went at him like a hooker in heat. All his self-control floated away on a pink fluffy cloud.

  For ages, they swirled, sucked, and licked each other like ice cream cones. Best kiss ever. She moaned in his mouth, and he grabbed her ass and hoisted her around his waist.

  Someone groaned, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t him. He peeled his lips off his sexpot coworker and squinted at the blur by the picnic table. “Hold on a sec.” He set her down and felt for his glasses in the sand. Once they were on, he nearly screamed, for all the sudden, he had a horrifically clear view of Bev blowing Bob.

  “You swing?” Bob said with a shit-eating grin. “Let’s swap.”

  His wife okayed the idea with a wink. “Mm-hmm,” she mumbled, mouth stuffed full of cock.

  Frankly, he’d rather smash his balls with a hammer than bang Bev. “That’s it!” He clapped his hands “Time to go! Y’all need to leave.”

  Bob’s blissed out blowjob face soured. “I’m gonna come on my wife’s tits first.” He kept pumping into her mouth.

  “Nope. Nope. Come on your wife’s tits somewhere else.”

  Bev scrambled to her feet, wearing a look so ugly it’d scare the maggots off road kill. “That was rude!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Let me rephrase that, please come on your wife’s tits somewhere else.”

  Bob fisted his dick. “I don’t like your tone, buddy.”

  In his addled state, he could barely sort out which of their offenses bothered him more. But one stood out in particular: those swinging sons-of-bitches were cock-blocking him. And that was reason enough to strike an even more unlikeable tone. “Leave, or I’m gonna unleash hell on your asses.”

  Had he heard that line in a movie? Or was it an original? Either way, he didn’t have a clue what sort of hell he’d unleash, nor if he’d be able to do it on their asses. But it sounded tough, and furthermore it worked, because right after the threat, they hightailed it out of there.

  Halfway down the trail, Leather Tits shouted, “Maybe if your wife gave you more head, you wouldn’t be such an asshole.”

  She was absolutely right—he needed more head and stat. Where was his wife anyway?

  Back in the camper, he locked the door, checked it twice, then staggered to the rear. Sweet Mother of Mercy! Much to his wonderful surprise, he found Callie in his bed, spread out on her tummy, fast asleep.

  He knelt beside her and caressed her milky back. Near her right shoulder blade four freckles formed a smile. He connected the dots with a finger then kissed the spot. Goosebumps pebbled up on her skin.

  After that, everything turned pink.

  “Her big heart did not, as is so sadly often the case, inhabit a big bosom.”—Dorothy Parker

  Her decapitated head rolled under the Silver Dildo and Walker stepped on the gas. Callie jolted awake. There was an axe in her head and a hand clutching her breast. She blinked. Where was she? She reached around and found Walker attached to the hand.

  Holyshitfest! The last thing she remembered was his dick swinging in front of her face. Everything after that was a painful blur. She tried to crawl out from under him, but he groaned and tightened his hold.

  “Walker,” she whispered.

  Against the back of her neck he mumbled, “Hmm?”

  “Your hand.”

  He plucked her nipple in his sleep.

  Heart pounding in her aching head, she sat up and winced. “Walker!”

  “Shh. Jesus, stop shouting.”

  “Why is my shirt off?”

  One eye opened and quickly shut. He scrunched up his face and groaned. “Mouth. So dry. Need water. Help. Pain.”

  She shoved him. Gradually, he sat up, grimacing in the sunlight. “I think those freaks roofied me.”

  “What freaks?”

  Both his eyes opened wide and immediately zeroed in on her boobs. A lopsided grin tilted his mouth. “Why do you keep those beauties hidden?”

  Scorching heat climbed her neck and shot down to groin at the same time. She yanked up the sheet to her chin.

  He waved and said forlornly, “Bye beautiful boobies.”

  “Walker!”

  He jerked his gaze to hers. “Sorry, what did you ask me?”

  “What freaks?”

  “Bob and Bev. The swingers? Don’t you remember?” He shuddered. “Ugly situation. Be glad for the memory loss.”

  “Why is my shirt off?”

  “You took it off. In fact, you ripped it off.” He rubbed his temples. “It feels like a mule kicked my head.”

  “Walker!”

  “What! You were wasted. I tried to stop you.”

  Nothing made sense. “Did I . . . did we sleep together?”

  “Jesus, stop yelling. Yes, we slept together. Isn’t it obvious?”

  A needle on a record scratched.

  Several things popped in her mind at once. Number one, they must not have gone at it very hard because her vagina felt surprisingly unscathed. And number two, how fast could she swim across the ocean and get out of there? A long droning groan leaked out, and she buried her face in her hands.

  “Wait a minute, you think . . . No! No. No. No. We slept in the same bed, but we didn’t . . . Jesus, I wouldn’t do that, not when you were sh—poo-faced.”

  “Shampoo-faced?”

  “Never mind. I didn’t . . . we didn’t . . .” He pointed back and forth and shook his head. “No.”

  She collapsed on the pillow. “Thank fucking God.”

  He frowned. “You don’t have to sound so happy about it.”

  “I’m wigging out. I don’t remember anything.”

  His eyes drifted to her breasts again.

  “Stop staring at them!” She yanked up the sheet. “I know they’re microscopic.”

  He cocked his head and bunched his brows. “You don’t have a clue how beautiful you are, do you?”

  She wanted to talk to Walker about her tiny tits about as much as she wanted to take a joyride in the back of a hot garbage truck.

  “Blue, look at me.” He tore the sheet away. “Is that why you hide under all those big clothes? Because you think there’s something wrong with your body? Was it that guy? Did he tell you they were too small?”

  At least a hundred times, Daniel had offered to pay for a boob job. He wouldn’t help her pay off her student loan, but he’d happily pay double the amount for double-D’s.

  The very idea had repulsed her. It was such a blatantly sexist thing to request. “Get your back hair lasered off and your penis enlarged,” she’d told him. “Then
we’ll talk bigger tits.” After that, he’d never mentioned it again.

  But when he cheated on her with that whore whose breasts were four times larger, a lingering thought paced the back of her mind—if her tits were bigger, would he have strayed?

  “Don’t believe a word that jerk told you. They’re perfect,” he said. “Just right for your frame. Trust me, sweetheart, there’s nothing wrong with you. You’ve got a beautiful body and your skin . . . You ought to be in a lotion ad. Or a dermatologist poster. Christ, I don’t even know what the hell I’m saying. My brain’s melted, and my body hurts. Shoot me.” He rubbed his temples again.

  She snorted. “You’re drunk. I’m so white, I’m blue.”

  “Like whipped cream,” he said in a sleepy drawl. “You’re gorgeous, Bluebell. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  The tight harness with which she’d restrained her emotions jerked free, and a backlog of tears swamped her throat. With zero saliva and a shoe leather tongue, she swallowed them back down.

  Walker rubbed her back. “Hey . . .”

  Oh, shit. The flood was coming. A tear escaped. Quickly, she wiped it away before he noticed. But it was too late. Blind as a bat and not wearing glasses, and he’d still spotted the dreaded drop.

  “Let it out, Blue.” He folded her in his arms.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said jamming her palms in her eye sockets. “I must still be drunk.” Her body trembled, trying to keep the tears at bay. She would not break down in front of Walker. No way. If she let go, a geyser of grief would shoot out.

  His heartbeat ticked like a metronome—slow, steady, soothing. The smell of his skin, his hands lightly caressing her back, the strength of his hold—she concentrated on those feelings until eventually she gained control and shoved her messy emotions back in the closet. “I’m sorry.” She pulled back.

  “For what?”

  For being a small-boobed-hung-over-emotionally-unstable mess? she thought, but said, “For passing out in your bed.”

  “Anytime,” he said gently, “as long as you take your shirt off first.”

  She jerked the sheet over her head. “Whatever happened last night, you better take it to the grave.”

  “You mean when we made out like teenagers?”

  “What!” she shrieked. “No!”