Miranda's Journey

It's hard to know what to write tonight. The basketball was fun. And you know, I have to admit, I was checking those guys out! Wondering if maybe . . . That redhead wasn't bad. Maybe if I'd had a chance to stay around and talk or something . . .

Listen to me. I'm soooooo horny. I've been worrying that it won't happen on this Walk, and when I return home, I'll still be a virgin. But that's probably stupid. With the way I'm feeling, I'm like ready to hump anything that moves! It's more like I have to tell myself to take it slow, let it happen when it happens. Try not to force it. When I see the right guy, I'll know. But—will he want me?

*sigh* Life was easier when I was eight. But I'm not complaining. I can't wait till I find him.

For some reason, she imagined it happening with the pudgy guy. The one with the goatee. He was out of shape, mostly bald, had to be pushing fifty. Kind of gross, really—especially all sweaty and smelly from the exertions of the game. But he had a certain earthy sex appeal to him. She pictured his back covered with hair, his ass, too. He'd been wearing a T-shirt and shorts, and his arms and legs were super hairy. Normally that didn't attract her, but somehow it worked for him. She was sure he had a big cock. At one point, during a stop in play, she'd caught him looking at her, a large tent in his shorts. He'd turned away, embarrassed, and she thought that was cute.

"Hey, baby," she imagined him saying. "Thanks for the assist with the game today. How about givin' another assist right now, huh?" And this imaginary version of him pointed to his crotch, where his cock, gloriously unsheathed, stood at attention. It was a beautiful cock. Nine inches long if it was an inch, and with ample girth.

"Suck me, slut," he said. "Right here. Right now. You know you want it. Get on those hands and knees and suck me."

She licked her lips—in two worlds at once. On the ground, wrapped up in her sleeping bag, beneath her small tent, and in her fantasy world, where she did indeed get on her hands and knees.

"You wanna suck my cock, slut?" the fat, short, hairy man said. His crotch was a forest of kinky black hair. Shave? Trim? Manscape? Not this brute. But that just turned her on all the more.

Before she could reply, or even nod, he reached for her, grabbed a handful of blonde hair, and forced her mouth onto his cock. She felt the size of him, the girth of him. He was too big, too meaty. He . . .

. . . he thrust in and out, in and out, holding her head in place. It was hard to breathe. She would suffocate! But she continued to suck and slurp, his cock a living thing, pulsating, hot and thick, within her mouth.

He tasted so good, so salty and sweaty. She could feel the rush of adrenaline, of lust and desire course through her like a runaway freight train. He was being rough, having his way with her, but she loved it, wanted it. Wanted him.

Am I really so submissive? she asked herself. But this was her fantasy, no one else's. She could have imagined turning the tables, dominating him. But no. She was getting off on being controlled.

She visualized his large, hairy hands reach down, take hold of her shirt, and rip it in half, the sound of the tearing fabric slicing through the still, hot air. The shirt fell away, revealing her pink bra. He chuckled, made some crude joke, and tore her bra away, too. Topless now, self-conscious (would he disapprove of her modest B-cup breasts?), she continued to suck his cock. It was pulsating more now. He was getting close. She could sense his arousal, his hormones, ready to erupt.

He pinched her left nipple, and she moaned even with her mouth stuffed with cock. He squeezed harder, harder, until the pain became almost unbearable. But she didn't resist. She felt her own orgasm nearing. Maybe they would cum together.

Well, why not? It's my fantasy . . .

Now he screamed, swore, and in the next instant a torrent of his jizz flooded her mouth. And in this fantasy, this self-created oral sex session, his cum made her think of a salty, bitter porridge that some witch might brew on a cold October night. It didn't taste particularly good, but it tasted wonderful at the same time. She swallowed every drop.

The next thing she knew, his lips were on her tits, sucking, teasing, biting. And then he was on her, and she felt his cock, amazingly hard again so soon, slide deep into her. She imagined it ripping through her hymen, burning, hurting, but then the pain melted away, and there was only ecstasy. . . .

"Ohhhh," she said as he had his way with her.

"Ohhhh," she said, as she lay there in the woods somewhere in rural Upstate New York. Her fingers were deep inside her vagina, rubbing and searching, on a pleasure patrol. A moment later, she came, her juices coating her fingers.

"My God, I want it so bad," she said to the night, to the rats and flying squirrels and coyotes somewhere beyond the confines of her tent. "Fuck me! Fuck me!" she said to her future playmate, whoever it might be. Hopefully she wouldn't need to wait much longer.

Please let me find him on this Walk. Please . . .

The next thing she knew, she was stroking herself to another orgasm.

Her luck ran out. For three days and nights, the weather had been beautiful—hot, but nice. On this day, the clouds hovered like low-lying dirty laundry, and then, inevitably, let loose. By 11:00 a.m., she was soaked, her hair stringy, her shirt clinging to her skin, her bra clearly visible beneath. She felt like she was in some second-rate wet-T-shirt contest. And I'd lose that for sure. She needed a place to get out of the rain—maybe dry off a little, buy a hot, satisfying meal. When she started out on this Journey, she'd packed away two hundred dollars worth of travelers checks and fifty dollars worth of cash. She hadn't used any of the travelers checks yet, and the only items she'd bought with the cash were a few jugs of refrigerated bottled water, to replenish her trusty Igloo container. But now, she wanted to splurge. A nice, fattening order of fries, maybe a pizza with olives and banana peppers. Something other than her granola and crackers and Power Bars. The only trouble was—she still had a few miles to the next town.

A car whizzed past, honked at her. It was something she had grown accustomed to. Often, passengers would shout things at her as they sped by. One guy had yelled he'd fuck her for twenty bucks, how about it? She'd given him the finger, and saw him throw his head back and laugh as the car headed west.

Another car drove past, this time full of kids in the backseat. They laughed at her and waved. She waved back. And the rain became more merciless, hammering into her so hard, it stung. She wanted to run for cover, but there was nowhere to run. All she could do was soldier on, and hope the next town had a good diner.

She picked up her pace, singing songs to pass the time. . . .

It was a forgettable kind of town, and she thought of all the tired old clichés. Blink and you'll miss it. Just a dot on the map. Yes, and not a very attractive dot at that. It possessed none of the charm of Little Falls, or many of the other towns she'd passed through. There was a gas station, a post office, a general store, a bar, and a diner housed within an ancient-looking single-wide trailer on the outskirts. Several motorcycles and pickups were parked out front, along with a few all-wheel drive vehicles. She was approximately fifty miles east of Syracuse, just now entering the infamous Lake Effect snow-belt zone of New York State. The all-wheel drives were here for a reason.

But this was June, not February. And it wasn't snowing, it was raining. She was so soaked, she felt like she'd just logged hours swimming in the ocean, off Nantucket Island, the waves crashing into her as she stayed afloat. Except that would have been nicer.

DEL'S DINER was stenciled on the front window. The rain, pelting the glass, sounded like machine-gun fire. She raced for the door, went inside, and took a deep breath when she entered. No more punishing drops of water striking her! What a relief . . .

Her relief was short-lived. Most of the patrons were staring at her, and no wonder. What a sight she must have been, lugging her wet backpack, dripping, a small pool rapidly forming at her feet, her hair soaked, her shirt indecently plastered against her skin.

She walked up to the counter. Only one empty stool remained, situated between a gigantic hulk of a tattooed bald man and a fat old guy with long white hair and a Santa-style beard. She didn't sit down, though. That wouldn't have been a nice thing to do, wet as she was.

"Do you have a restroom I can use?" she asked the waitress, a middle-aged brunette with bags under her eyes and a frown on her face.

"Sure. Down the end there, hon."

Miranda went, dried herself as best she could with the hand towels, but it was a lost cause. It would take more than spindly paper hand towels to dry her out. Sighing, she reentered the diner, aware, for a second time, that all eyes were on her.

She hesitated. Maybe she should go to the general store instead. They might have a few things there she could eat. But then she glanced at the menu. Veggie burger! She was impressed. Who'd have thought this little diner in this pinprick town would serve veggie burgers?

She ordered it with lettuce, onion, and tomato, along with a large side of fries. She was starved.

She sat down on the one empty stool, wet ass be damned. She needed to get off her feet for a change. Instantly she regretted her decision. The guys flanking her on either side felt close, too close.

"Never seen you before, baby," the huge bald man said. There was a predatory glint in his eyes. Miranda guessed he hadn't been laid in ages. "Too bad, getting' all drenched in the fuckin' rain like that. Passin' through, are ya?" He smiled, displaying a mouth full of stained, yellowing teeth. His breath, laden with alcohol, hit her like a slap.

She cleared her throat, but before she could get a word out, she felt a pinch on the upper left cheek of her butt. She whirled around, and the Santa look-alike was grinning from ear to ear.

"Sorry, little miss," he said. "Couldn't resist. You bein' so pretty an' all."

The pervert. He must have been seventy years old, as old as her granddad. She looked at the counter lady, hoping for some support. She found none. The lady just glared back at her, as if daring her to complain. If she did, she got the feeling her burger would be topped with spit instead of onions and tomatoes.

"We don't see your type waltz in here much," the bald guy said. "You'll have to excuse old Hank there. Horny motherfucker. I mean, Christ, he sees a hot little piece of ass like you come in and sit down right next to him, what you expect? Your shirt stickin' to your tits like that an' all."

She seriously considered leaving. She'd already paid for the food, but she'd leave it all behind in a heartbeat to get rid of these assholes. But another part of her resisted. Why should she be bullied? This was a public place. A restaurant, for crying out loud. Maybe not a very nice one, but it was a restaurant nonetheless. She had every right to be here, and if they tried anything else, she would complain. This wasn't the Middle Ages. People couldn't just harass her like that and get away with it. Surely the woman behind the counter would come to her aid if need be. Surely she'd read something in her glare that wasn't there. Maybe she was just having a bad day. Maybe she'd had an argument with her husband last night or something. Besides, even if she wouldn't help, somebody else would. Wouldn't they? The place was packed. No way would everyone stand by and let these two creeps torment her.

The counter lady approached with her food. The burger looked good, though the bun was small and appeared stale. The fries were thickly cut and battered. She bit into one, savoring the crunch and the hot, salty flavor.

Just then, a big, meaty paw of a hand grabbed a couple of her fries. The bald guy. He smiled at her, daring her, and wolfed down the fries.

She swallowed, determined to ignore him, and ate more fries, then took a bite from the burger. It tasted microwaved—she hated when places did that. Vegetarians got no respect. The least they could do was grill it or even fry the damn thing. Microwaving it made the middle soft and gross. Still, she was too wet, and too hungry, to care.

"What's that piece of crap you're eatin', honey?" Santa said. "Veggie burger? Eat a fuckin' hamburger. Get some more fat in your diet. Maybe then your titties'll grow some more."

That did it. She looked at the counter lady. Remarkably, she was laughing, a loud, coarse sound. Keep smoking, Miranda thought.

"Um, are you really going to let this continue?" she asked her. "I mean, I'm trying to eat here."

As if in response, Santa pinched her ass again.

She turned on him. "Stop it! Okay? Just leave me alone!"

The counter lady laughed again, walked away. Looking around the small, claustrophobic diner, Miranda saw that everyone else was ignoring the situation, talking, laughing, chowing down, acting like nothing out of the ordinary was happening. She couldn't believe it. She felt like she was in some low-budget trashy movie, starring in the obligatory assholes-harass-young-woman scene.

"Told you," the bald guy said, and took a few more of her fries. The width of his arm was bigger than her thigh. He could probably pick her up and toss her high into the air, with one hairy hand. "Old Hank is just a horny bastard. Wife's been dead ten years. Or is it eleven? Damn if I can recall."

"Twelve," the old-timer said. "Twelve years this fall."

"Twelve? Really? Christ. So ya see, baby, he can be excused for bein' a horny motherfucker. And like I said, seein' your tight ass come sashayin' in here, well, it was too much for 'im. Too much for me, too."

With that, he reached over, caressed and then squeezed her thigh, his hand like a vice But he wasn't satisfied with merely her leg, oh no. His other hand clamped onto her left breast, fondling her through the soaked fabric of her T-shirt. Meanwhile, he moved his other paw up her thigh, and she felt his fingers reach inside her shorts, inching closer, closer . . .

This can't be happening.

But it was, right here in the open, for all to see. Why wasn't anyone protesting, or helping out? Impossible as it seemed, she realized she'd have to come to her own defense.

Not thinking, not daring to second-guess, she lashed out with an elbow, catching the guy square in the nose. Immediately he let go of her and grabbed his face.

"You little fucker!" he shouted, but she was already up, dashing for the door. The big creep was right behind her. If it would be a footrace, she knew she'd beat him with ease. She might have to drop her pack, but that would be more than worth it to get away from him. The thing was, it wouldn't be a footrace. He'd hop in his truck or onto his motorcycle and run her down, grab her, and take her back to his shack in the woods, and he'd be the one she lost her virginity to. He'd be the one . . .

No. She couldn't let it happen like that. Not this bald bastard. Not this—

The door to the diner opened, and a police officer walked in. Everything stopped. Had someone actually called for help? Maybe one of the customers, watching what the guys were doing, had discreetly called the police?

"Heard there was some trouble here," the officer said. "Good thing I was out patrolling, just up the road. You all right, miss?"

Miranda nodded, breathing a sigh of relief. So someone had called. She glanced around, hoping to see a sign of recognition, maybe a smile or a wink. But everyone had their poker face on. The bald man was looking around, too, and she knew what he was thinking. She hoped, for the sake of the person who had called the police, that he never found out who it was.

"I was . . . just leaving," Miranda said. "I'm okay."

The officer eyed the bald guy, glared at him. Clearly, the asshole had given the cops trouble before. Taking advantage of the situation, Miranda went back to the counter and retrieved her burger. The fries were a lost cause. But a microwaved veggie burger was better than nothing.

"Still rainin' pretty hard, miss," the officer said. "Need a lift somewhere?"

"No, thank you, I'll be all right," she said. And she would be.

She was sure of it.

She finally dug into her stash of travelers checks that night to pay for a cheap motel room, twenty miles further west. It was an ugly place, with cockroaches scurrying beneath the sink and a musty smell that came from God only knew where. But she needed a bed to sleep in tonight, needed a hot shower, a chance to lie down on a soft mattress. Well, not so soft, but still much better than camping out in the rain. Her tent would keep her dry, but hell, after the crap she'd gone through at the diner, didn't she deserve a night indoors? Didn't she deserve to shampoo her hair and scrub the dirt off her body?

She sat against the headboard of the bed, remote in hand, flipping through the channels. She hoped a Honeymooners episode might be on. Or at least a good movie. No such luck. She flicked off the TV.

"Better text Mom before she totally freaks."

Hey, she keyed in to her Tracfone. Doing OK. At a motel 2nite. Don't worry! Am fine. Hope u & Dad had a good day. 30 miles from Syracuse. S/b in Pittsford in 3 or 4 days. Love u.

Mom would never know about her run-in at Del's Diner. She would make sure of that. She wanted to forget it herself. She usually worried about potential danger when she was alone, at night, in the woods. It was unlikely, but maybe some crazed redneck would spot her out there, come to her . . . But in a crowded diner, at lunchtime? If that cop hadn't arrived when he did. If someone hadn't called . . .

"But they did call," she said to the shabby room, her words competing against the rain, as it slammed into the motel window. From somewhere far away, she heard a rumble of thunder.

The thing was, in a screwed-up sort of way, the encounter with the creepy bald guy just made her even hornier. He was such an ape, such a disgusting jerk. His touch was gross, his breath like a distillery. It made her long for the opposite, made her ache for gentle hands, a soft touch, velvet lips on hers. It made her yearn for desire, passion, the anticipation of an erotic encounter. For decorum, for manners, for respect.

"Yes, and respectfully fuck me and slap my ass and have your way with me!" she said, and giggled. It struck her as odd, but it couldn't be denied. She was sexually submissive. All of her fantasies revolved around a guy taking her, spanking her, roughness interspersed with softness. A kiss followed by a smack. A hard, penetrating thrust, a direct order for her to obey, followed by a sweet-nothing whispered in her ear, her lover's hands gently stroking her hair, caressing her body.

She never told anyone about her desires to be dominated. She didn't even understand it herself. She was far from submissive in her everyday life. She'd always been a go-getter, a straight A student, heavily involved in extracurricular activities at school. But then she'd go home and go to bed at night and imagine a gentle man, a kind man, momentarily turning rough, telling her what he wanted, calling her a slut, commanding her to suck his cock. Yes. God, she wanted it.

But it had to be the right guy. And she was determined to be picky. She wanted it to be wonderful.

And memorable. And earth-shattering.

Without even realizing it, she was stroking her clit, then inserting her fingers deep inside her vagina. She moaned and purred as she imagined her lover, this time a young man with glasses and black hair, fucking her, their sweaty bodies clinging together, sliding, bouncing, the bed spring creaking and groaning under their exertions.