No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 24

Her legs, bared to mid-thigh, shone in the soft green glow of the dash lights, and her breasts, full and rounded, lifted her blouse, filling the loose folds of sheer fabric like a couple of ripe honeydews in a see-through plastic produce bag. His eye darted from the road and swept her curves from her chest to her ankle and down to the sloping arch of her foot. A red shoe dangled from the tips of her toes, rocking gently as she kept time with the beat of the wipers.

He lost track of time for an instant or two and let his eyes stroke her soft skin and supple curves, while she pretended to look away. Suddenly, a tractor-trailer roared past, inches away, in the on-coming lane, air horns blaring, filling the cabin of the car with the glare of its headlights and throwing a blinding spray of soupy road grime across the windshield.

"Jesus!" he gasped and jerked the wheel to the right to avoid the truck barreling by. "I can't see a damn thing."

"That was close," she observed calmly. She smiled at him while he brought the car under control, because she knew he had been watching the wrong curves, and she had to check her tongue to keep from saying "See what I mean."

"No kidding," he answered with relief, glancing in the rearview mirror at the rapidly receding tail lights.

"Slow down, the turn's not far ahead," she cautioned.

"Where? I can't see any place to turn." He squinted at the windshield trying to penetrate the gloom with eyes that were yet to recover from the glare of the truck lights.

"Right there," she said pointing generally in the direction they were heading. "The Highway 72 sign; don't you see it?

He had slowed the car to a cautious crawl, while he searched for the nearly invisible sign. "No, damn it," he grumbled, "It's too dark."

"I'll show you," she said casually, and she scooted across the seat toward him so he could sight down her finger as she pointed along the right of way some distance ahead. She slid one arm along the seatback behind his head and leaned toward him, while he futilely searched for the turn in the road ahead. Her heavy breast brushed his arm as she moved closer, leaning helpfully to point over the steering wheel into the black night.

"There, up ahead on the right, about a hundred feet; can you see it, now?" It's real low to the ground, dark wood with white lettering and an arrow pointing to the left," she said softly, ignoring the light pressure of his arm on her bosom.

"I still don't see it," he replied in a voice laden with a faintly excited tremor. He could feel her on his arm, her sweet breath caressing his cheek when she spoke, and her perfume filled his senses with the earthy scent of musk and pheromones. She scalded his arm with the pressing curve of her breast, and he struggled to keep the car on the road. If she was aware of his arm touching her, she gave no indication of it, and continued to lean against him, pointing into the distance.

"It's one of those Park Service signs. It says 'Hwy 72, Mark Twain National Forest, Entrance 200 Feet,'" she advised him, reciting the legend on the obscure sign from memory. She leaned closer to compensate for the shortening distance and continued to point.

"Yes, yes, I see it," he gasped with evident relief when the car rolled to within forty feet of the sign, and he could finally make it out. "You must have eyes like a hawk to be able to see that sign when you did," he continued, turning toward her as he spoke.

She turned and looked into his eyes without moving away. Their lips were only inches apart. Her lips separated with the suggestion of a smile, and her eyes held his with easy confidence. Her breast lay against his arm lightly, and he brushed her rounded firmness with the tensed muscles of his forearm as he maneuvered the wheel, steering toward the sign. It was just one of those inadvertent, accidental, meaningless touchings that happen when two people are in close proximity, he rationalized, but he found his concentration wavering nevertheless.

"It helps if you've done it before," she said smiling, and then she glanced out the back window and said, "You can turn now, there isn't anyone behind you."

He swung the big car onto the narrow side road mechanically, because the weight of her breast on his arm consumed his attention. The misty darkness swallowed his headlight beams, obscuring the margins of the roadway, and he felt the car lurch as the front wheel wandered from the pavement.

"Careful, Caleb," she warned gently. "This road's awfully narrow, and there's no shoulder at all."

She stayed beside him, totally calm and relaxed, pressing into his arm as if her closeness might improve his performance, while he acclimated himself to the abrupt transition from major highway to a minor backroad. Just ahead, a few feet off the road, a large, brown wood sign proclaimed the actual entrance to the Forest. There was a narrow strip alongside the road in front of the sign that had been paved so visitors could park for photographs. He guided the car onto the strip and braked to a stop.

His action surprised her some because she didn't take him for the tourist type, and she glanced at him inquiringly as the car began to slow, but she didn't move away. He stared at the sign for a moment, and she could feel the anxious tension in his body where she touched him. His brow knitted in a frown, and a look of indecision clouded his eyes.

"Here it comes now, you prick teasin' little cock sucker," her inner voice crowed derisively. "I guess you know exactly what you're askin' for by rubbin' your fat tits all over him and breathin' on him heavy, like you was about to cum."

"I was only helping him find the turn, you dirty minded old pervert," she rebutted her inner voice innocently, and she studied Caleb expectantly as he turned toward her to speak.

"Anne, I'm, I'm, really sorry, but I just have to stop."

She sat motionless, supple and relaxed, without a wisp of nervousness, and said softly, "That's OK, Caleb; you're the driver, you can do whatever you want."

"OK, varmint, that does it, that's just perfect, ain't it?" her inner voice railed at her, and she visualized the voice morphing into Yosemite Sam and scampering around in her brain like a crazed cartoon character. "'You can do whatever you want,' huh?" he repeated, mocking the sultry invitation. "Why don't you just spread your legs for him, pull your panties aside and tell him he can fuck you if he wants to?"

"Oh, you are a nasty little man," she scolded inwardly. "I didn't say it like that and you know it, and besides, what makes you so sure I'm even wearing panties? You know I hate the lines."

"My God, you are a slut, aren't you?" her Sam screamed in her brain. "I know what, you could suck him off first? Don't you want to see what he tastes like? You could suck his dick, and, you know, get him hard and slick at the same time. Why don't you just reach over and put your hand on his prick and show him how hot you are for a hard cock to suck?"

"Now, that's really sick, you pipsqueak," she hissed, bending down and shaking her finger at her red-faced tormentor. "Just because I'm not wearing panties doesn't mean I want to perform fellatio on every man I meet."

"Uh-huh," Sam sneered sarcastically. He had crossed his arms across his chest and was bowing his back defiantly. "I hears yo, girl; yo jes needs to tell that to, ah, hum, les see, ah, Cletus, an Rufus, an Johnnie, an Timmy, an Lester, an Robert, an Tony, an Earl, an Donald, an Rosie…" He stopped reciting the names of Caruthers' Home residents in mid-course and smirked wickedly. "Oops, I gets bumfuzzled sometimes on account of they's so many, darlin; Rosie din't have no dick fo yo ta suck, did she?"

"I should have stopped at that service station we passed back there, when I had the chance," Caleb muttered apologetically.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," her character shrieked, and his whiskers rolled up under his chin with a flapping noise like a window shade gone haywire. "The sombich's pullin' that 'outa gas' trick on ya girl. Goddamn, if'n that isn't about the lamest shit that's been put on you, ever. Ain't none of em other morons you fucked been that stupid. Yo ain't gonna tumble for no dumbass stunt like that, now are ya? I don't know what's the matter with da dude anyway; alls he gots ta do'as say, 'hey girl, I got a proposition for ya', and yo'd be on yo knees under the dash with the accelerator up yo butt and that cock of hisn stuck down yo throat an squirtin cum by the buckets all the way back ta Pussy's Bended or where ever."

"'Posey's Bend,' you grotesque little weirdo," she clucked at the dissing voice before turning her attention to Caleb and asking him in a tone she carefully modulated to conceal Sam's suspicions. "What's wrong? We're not running out of gas, are we?"

"Out of gas?" he echoed in momentary confusion and looked toward her questioningly. She returned his look coolly, and a half-smile, half-smirk played at the corners of her mouth. He blinked uncertainly, then, suddenly, his chin fell sharply, like someone had dropped a brick on the back of his neck, and he gasped, "Oh God, is THAT what you're thinking?"

Color flooded his cheeks, turning his face nearly nut brown in the darkness, and the shade instantly reminding her of her favorite Revlon polish, 'Crimson Passion." She smiled indulgently and waited passively for his next move.

"We've got gas, plenty of gas," he wheezed in embarrassment, "I just have to, ah, ah, check the tires, yeah, that's it, check the tires."

As he finished the sentence, he snatched open the door and bounded out of the car to disappear into the swirling mists. Behind him, a gust of chilling wind blew into the car whipping cold rain through the open door, and Anne reached across the vacated driver's seat to pull it to.

"Don't say a word, Sam," she cautioned righting herself and settling into the passenger seat.

"I just thought…" he whimpered dejectedly. His head was hung down, and all the curl had fallen out of his whiskers like he had squandered the afternoon in a steam bath.

"I have no doubts about your sicko thoughts, my friend," she answered aloofly.

"But, you do like him. I was right about that, wasn't I," Sam insisted.

"Yes, I like him. He's a nice man; nothing at all like all those others you're so fond of naming over and over to remind me about," she conceded.

"You like him enough to want him between your legs, don't you?" Sam whispered.

"Maybe," she answered coyly.

"I can help."

"You're too crude; all you want me to do is yank up my skirt or pounce on his zipper. He needs to work himself up to it; like it's his idea."

"Crude works good; it worked wonders on Rufus, especially that time in the Nurse's office. Remember?"

"I remember," she chuckled softly.

"Atta girl," Sam urged conspiratorially. "Now, you just pull your hem up a little higher and unfasten a couple more of them buttons so he can see some of that cleavage, 'cause when he comes back he'll be lookin' for some place warm to put his dickie for a while and maybe he'll get the idea that you'd like to help him out."

Anne toyed with the hem of her skirt, fanning it a couple of times before dropping it perilously close to the tops of her thighs, and she felt a momentary flush of excitement in her limbs. She kicked off her shoes and dug her toes into the deep pile of the carpet back up under the dash. Her hand rose, almost by its own volition, and she fingered the buttons on the front of he blouse, while she pondered Sam's suggestion.

"I don't know, Sam," she responded pensively. "I don't think that'll work on him. He's a judge and all, and real proper."

"Ain't nobody proper enough to resist you, darlin' with your skirt hiked up like that. Now you just pop a couple of them buttons loose…" Sam was becoming a little impatient with the indecisiveness.

"You haven't been paying attention, Sam," she scolded mildly. "He's not going to be that easy. You and I have to be subtle and let him decide when to make his move, or we'll scare him off."

"What makes you think he'll get around to deciding to make a move on you, girl? What if the only thing the judge dude's got that's stiff is his neck?"

"Come on, Sam, who are you talking to?" she giggled.

"Miss Anne, the magnificent," he grinned salaciously, twisting his moustache with a wicked gleam in his eye.

"Who has…?"

"The hottest pussy in Missouri."

"Where?" she coaxed, crooking her finger toward him.

"The hemisphere?" he grinned slyly.

"Where?" she repeated, pouting prettily.

"Oh, all right, the planet, then," he relented agreeably.

"That's my boy," she grinned warmly, and she felt a rushing tingle in her loins at the mention of her pussy. "You keep talking sweet like that and I'll let you watch."

"Hell, I watch anyway, girl, you know that. I still think crude's better. It's quick and simple; no plotting and scheming, no mincing around all polite-like. You get the preliminaries out of the way right up front and get down to the business you were gonna do anyway. Saves a lot of wear and tear on the nerves," he grumbled amiably.

"Oh, Sam, not this time, not with him," she responded patiently. "I'll get crude when the time's right, and you can have your cheap thrills when I do, but this guy's not like the others. He's a judge and that means he has his honor and his principles to think about. I can't just throw myself at him right off the bat, or he'll start thinking about his reports and the pictures and all that stuff and then he'll start worrying about looking like a blackmailer."

"Judge, Smuge," Sam fussed, morphing again, this time into a twin of Danny Devito. "What's with this judge business anyway? Judges got dicks just like everybody else, don't they?"

"I don't know," Anne admitted uncertainly, adding parenthetically, "What happened to Sam?"

"He bugged out when you wouldn't do crude; said you needed somebody who's suave and cool, so here I am, baby," he crooned, dismissing Sam's disappearance with a toss of his hand, and then, he continued, trying his best to sound incredulous, "You've never looked in a judge's pants or up under that dress thing they wear in court?"

"Robe, nitwit," she laughed. "You of all people should know what I've seen and what I haven't."

"Well, you better git to it," Danny advised seriously.

"I will; first chance I get, I promise."

"What's wrong with the chance you got right now, girl?"

"He's not here."

"Where is he?"

"Behind the car."

"Can you see him."

She glanced in the rear view mirror just outside the window, and nodded, "Yeah, he's standing right behind the tail light on this side of the car."

"What's he doing?"

"Looks like he's taking a leak."

"How can you tell?"

"Cause, he's looking down, and he's got both hands in front of him like he's holding something."

"Can you see what he's holding?"

"I don't know; well, yeah, maybe. Light's bad," she reported, reluctantly glancing into the mirror. Then, modestly focusing her gaze on her hands that were folded in her lap, she continued, "Look, maybe we ought to just give him his privacy, you know what I mean?"

"What for? He ain't gonna know you're looking."

"I dunno," she said doubtfully, but without conviction, and her eyes drifted toward the mirror.

"You want to see it, don't you?" Danny whispered seductively. "I know you're just dying to see what his cock looks like, aren't you, baby?"

"Yes," she admitted softly, and she rubbed a spot on the fogged window beside her with her hand to clear her line of sight.

"Well, go ahead, sneak a peek at him, kid. He can't see you with all that rain on the back window and the glass fogged up," Danny wheedled.

"I am, you bad influence," she giggled positioning her head for the least obstructed view.

"Can you see it?"

"Mmmhum," she answered abstractedly, wiping a little more of the moisture off the window with her sleeve.

"Can you see it good?" Danny queried excitedly as though his future depended on the answer.

"Yeah, real good," she breathed warmly without taking her eyes off the glass.

"Is it, uh, you know, big?"

"Oh, shame on you, Danny, is that all you care about? Is that all that matters; just how big they are?" She scolded him while she estimated the proportions like an experienced chef tossing seasonings into a pot.

"Well, excuse me," he gushed dramatically. "I guess I got the wrong impression the other night when that guy, Archie, was hitting on you. You sure acted like size mattered to you then."

"That was different; he was a freak. Besides, where were you then when I needed you, buster, hiding behind my hypothalamus? I didn't hear a peep out of you then, did I."

"I was scared. I thought he was gonna kill us with that thing."

"That makes two of us, Danny."

"Yeah, but you handled him pretty good. I was proud of you."

"Why, thank you, sir. He pissed me off; I amaze myself sometimes when I get pissed off."

"You're not mad at me now, are you?" He feared another banishment.

"Of course not, you're just doing your thing up there; nudging me along with timely suggestions when I need them."

"Whew, you had me sweating there for a minute, honey."

"You're OK, stop worrying. You're even kinda cute, for a dwarf, with that shiny, round penis head of yours."

"Aw rite," he growled. "You can stop with the bald jokes and tell me how big he is or…"

"Or what?"

"Or, I'll go back to the control panel, flip a few of your switches to hypnotize your ass, and I'll have you neked as a jaybird before he gets back in the car."

"You wouldn't."

"Don't bet your next fuck on it, baby; I can and I have, plenty of times, and you know it. Remember Timmy, an…"

"All right, all right, you win," she groaned submissively, "Compared to Archie, it's small."

"That don't answer the question. You said yourself, that kid is a freak."

"How's this then, if you need something closer to home; compared to your dinky little dick, he's huge."

"Heh, heh, heh," he chuckled. "If I'm too small for you, honey, all you got to do is say the magic word and I'll be any size you want. After all, it's your fantasy."

"I like you just the size you are, thank you. If I made you any bigger, you would scare the hell out of me."

"That's what I thought, sweetie. How about his? You like Judgiepoo's size just like it is?"

"Mmmhum," she murmured. "I'd say it's just about perfect."

"Perfect for what, honey," Danny purred suggestively. "Perfect fit for your tight little pussy?"

"Mmmhum," she sighed putting the thought to deed in her mind.

"Perfect to suck, darlin? Just the right size to fill up your mouth without choking you or making your jaws ache, even if you suck on him all night long?"

"Oh, yes," she breathed rapturously, and her tongue licked her lips in preparation.

"And your other places, baby, your fingers, between your breasts, or even…?"

"Yes, yes, yes, you gorgeous, sexy little man, everywhere, anywhere he wants," she gasped and her knees fell apart slightly.

"Better fix yourself up, girl; he's finishing. He'll be back in a second."

She ignored the warning and stared into the mirror like she was reading her future in a crystal ball. Caleb's pee was still squirting, arching in a steaming stream over the edge of the pavement and splattering on the dead grass by the roadway. It was diminishing though, and she could tell he was nearly through. She watched, mesmerized, as his flow subsided to a trickle and then stopped. He shook out the last drops and stuffed himself back in his pants, and then, he paused, tucked in his shirttail and combed his hair with his fingers for a minute, before turning and running back around the car.

"You better pull that skirt down, honey, or he'll think you're going crude on him."