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Pillow Stories

Mustang Sally

by Kirsten Monroe

Lisa could hear the angry stomp of hooves and feel the shifting weight of the trailer behind "Big Red," her beast of a Ford truck. She was hauling three wild mustangs to auction along I-94 in northern Montana. "Hang on darlin's, we're getting there. Soon you'll be broke and tame and sweet enough for little girls with carrots and sugar cubes."

Lisa's thick long golden hair blew like wheat chaff through the open window, her breasts hanging on for the ride through her thin ribbed tanktop as she gunned for a ranch in Booley. Chris Isaak crooned on satellite radio.

A few miles down the highway, Chris disappeared and a radio preacher appeared, damn prick, beaming in from some little Podunk town, stealing airtime.

"Oh, I don't think so, preacher man," Lisa said, punching buttons. "Fuck! You sneaky snake. Stealing airtime. That's stealing, plain and simple. You're the last person I want to see in hell, but I guess you'll be there, a thief like you." Preacher Man had taken over the entire sky, commandeering every station. "You sonofabitch."

Preacher Man's old timey, gravelly voice filled the cab: Meats for the belly, and the belly for meats: but God shall destroy both it and them. Now the body is not for fornication, but for the Lord; and the Lord for the body.

"Fornication for the Lord? Well hot damn," Lisa said, rolling up the window slightly and reining in her hair. "Let's hear some more, Preacher Man!"

We must educate everyone we know as to the sin of fornication. Most importantly, we must educate our children! At one time, society's silence regarding the issue was enough to let young people know it was not right. Society does not act that way toward fornication any more. Society now glamorizes and embraces such activity as recreation, just like going to the movies.

"Oh good Lord," Lisa sighed.

The only place God approves of sexual relations is between a husband and a wife in a private setting. Everything else is fornication.

"Well there you go. I'm already in Hell, Preacher Man. Guess it's time to quit being such a good girl and start fucking everything that moves. Thank you, Lord!"

Lisa imagined Preacher Man with an ancient recording device in some yellow-walled little room stained with come, jerking off while he ruled the air waves of -- where the fuck was she? Orville? Anybody who uses the word fornicate in every other sentence has some serious cockjaw.

Sexual immorality includes the concept of petting, but petting is not necessarily fornication, although it is condemned in the Bible as lasciviousness.

Every time Preacher Man said fornicate, Lisa felt damp between her thighs. It was addictive: Petting. Fornication. Thou. Shalt. Not. Fornicate. Lasciviousness. Lick. Lick. Lick.

The stomping horses weren't letting up. Preacher Man wasn't either. Now her nipples were straining against her shirt. "Fuck, Preacher Man! Now you've pushed me too far." Before he could send her flying into Hades, Lisa pulled over at a wayside. She banged on the side of the trailer. "You relax in there, studs. This won't take long."

A couple of old men sat in front of a gas station and market with an attached bar. Lisa stomped past them, tucking in her shirt and checking the cash in her pocket. The sick-sweet smell of smoke and spilled liquor permeated every inch of vinyl and grimy wood of the dark, refrigerated hole of the bar.

She lit a cigarette. A bent-over wisp of a man shuffled to the booth where Lisa had made a dramatic display of sitting down and propping her boots up on the table.

"Afternoon ma'am. What's your pleasure?"

Lisa took a long, slow drag before answering. "I need a cowboy. Fuck. Don't have to be a cowboy. I need a man. Anyone'll do. Whatya got? I have cash, but I'm in a hurry."

"Now little lady..."

"Listen here, mister. I know what a man wants. Tits and beer, and I don't really give a fuck. I know what I want too -- a big dick between my legs and a man who knows how to use his tongue for something other than talking. I'll take care of the tits and it looks like you've got the beer. Now, you gonna help me out or should I just shoot you in the head and put us both out of our misery?"

"How much you payin'?"

"Uh, Mister..."

"Clyde 'Loverboy' Jones is what they call me. You can just call me Clyde."

"Clyde, I'm afraid you may have misunderstood me. I said almost anyone would do. You're a handsome fellow and I'd pay you handsomely, but you're what -- eighty or so? That ain't robbing the cradle, Mr. Clyde, that's robbing the womb, stealing the big bang, plucking the evolutionary Jesus fish right out of the sea."

Clyde brushed back the greasy grey stands atop his head and put his hands on his bony hips. "Good point Blondie, but there's nobody here but me and them fossils you saw on the way in."

Lisa sighed and tried to smile. "Thanks Clyde. Just bring me a pint of Bud." She pulled her feet off the table and lit another cigarette, hoping the nicotine would calm the ponies prancing around in the OK Corral between her legs. She stared out the filmy window as Clyde appeared with a tall cold one and set it down with a thud.

A small plume of dust rose in the distance, across the parking lot, out in a hayfield. A bright green John Deer pulling a cutter crawled across the field.

"Clyde!" she yelled, calling him shuffling back. "Who belongs to that tractor out there?"

Clyde grinned a sly grin. "That there? Obadiah Miles. Bit young for you. You know, womb robber and all that."

"How old? How old is he?"

"Don't know for exact sure, but somewhere around twenty-one -- and besides..."

Lisa cut him off. "Do I look that old to you Clyde? You need to get out more." She slammed half her pint, licking foam from her upper lip. "Bring me a big pitcher, Clyde -- Obadiah's thirsty." Lisa grinned. "Lookie there, Preacher Man. The Good Lord sent me a Farm Boy."

Clyde shuffled over with a large sloshing pitcher of ice-cold beer. Lisa gave him a twenty and a slap on his bony ass. "Thanks, Mr. Clyde," she winked. "Wish me luck." Clyde just shook his head.

Lisa carried the pitcher out the door towards the rumbling machinery in the distance. "Waste of good beer...and a good woman," Clyde muttered. "The only sweetwater that Miles clan drinks is lemonade, and the only tits is when they're sucking on their mamas."

In the parking lot, Lisa set the pitcher down for a moment and gripped the front of her shirt, pulling hard and ripping it open slightly to expose more of her righteous flesh. "What do you think, Preacher Man? Nice effect?"

Picking up the beer, she sauntered towards Farm Boy, breasts bouncing, a ripe furrow of cleavage fully visible, little waves of foamy liquid splashing onto her hand.

She could imagine Preacher Man's disdain as she kicked her heels across that field. "Here I come, Obadiah."

Now she could make out a ball cap through the glare of the tractor window. Almost there. The tractor slowed down and stopped. She had a rhythm now, hardly losing any of the beer, high-stepping her way across the lumpy field. God, it was beautiful. She imagined herself a hot, hot babe in a beer commercial. A fucking sex Goddess dropped from the sky and wafting like a spirit across the verdant earth.

"Here I come, Farm Boy. Here I co-- Horseshit!" Lisa's boot caught on a rock and she flew forward into the tall grass, the pitcher flying out of her hands.

"Fucking hell!" she screamed, scrambling for the beer. Her right boob landed in the dirt, leaving a dark smear on her shirt. Her left boob actually pushed up and out of her shirt and dangled there, playing peek-a-boo. Bits of weeds and grass clung to her hair. She looked down at herself and nearly cried. She was no longer a beer babe.

"That was you, wasn't it, Preacher Man? You're the Devil! Jesus wants me for a sunbeam and you just have to butt in and mess it up. Well, fuck you. This ain't over yet!"

A few gulps of beer were all that survived. Lisa tipped the pitcher to her mouth and drained it, most of it running down the front of her shirt.

"Plan B," she said, poking her breast back into place and brushing herself off.

Obadiah had turned off the tractor and climbed down, looking at the vision before him.

"God, here we go," Lisa breathed. "Let your will be done. Use me as your vessel."

Lisa tossed the empty pitcher into the grass and marched forward, her head light and her pussy wet with anxiety and lust.

"Stop it, Preacher Man! You're messing with my head. God wants me to think positive thoughts. Who cares if he don't have any teeth. A dick doesn't need a nice jawline for good looks. Besides, he ought to be a fine strapping young man, raised on sweet cream and mama's cooking. Oh, grain-fed cock, sweet mother of..."

"Hello there Ma'am. Are you in trouble?" Obadiah had his hands on his hips, his ball cap too low to see his eyes.

Lisa raised her hand. "Hi! Name's Lisa. Sorry to trouble you. I'm fine, but I could use a hand with my truck."

Lisa shuddered, the cold beer and breeze blowing her nipples into orgasmic display right there in broad daylight. She pulled her hair back from her face and looked up at Obadiah. "Good Lord almighty." Her mind was racing. "God has sent me an Old Testament prince."

Obadiah stood at least six-foot-five, broad shoulders, narrow hips, muscular build clearly visible through his dirt-smudged and sweat-soaked white Hanes t-shirt. He wore a John Deere cap atop short-cropped light brown hair.

"Obadiah Miles at your service, Ma'am. What can I do?"

"I'm hauling mustangs to Booley and my trailer's broke down. The old farts at the store thought you might be able to give me a hand, being an expert with farm equipment and all."

"Well, I..." He looked back at his tractor, then returned his gaze to Lisa, pulling up his cap slightly and letting his blue eyes linger for barely a moment on her womanly features. "I suppose I could step away for a bit."

"Thank you kindly! I'll buy you a beer for your trouble."

"Oh thank you, ma'am, but I don't drink. Works of the flesh. Neither fornicators nor drinkers will enter the Kingdom of God. Amen." Obadiah raised his head heavenward as he said "Amen."

Lisa's pussy went to jelly at the mention of that fucking word again. Fornicate. Fornicate! She squeezed herself shut and kept a polite smile on her face, screaming at Preacher Man in her mind. "Damn you, Preacher Man! You just wait. Now I know God made me spill the fucking beer. He'll help me out again."

"Bless you, Obadiah. Follow me."

Obadiah climbed into the tractor to fetch the keys and walked alongside Lisa as they headed back toward the road.

"I think it's something in the hitch connection," she lied.

"Well Ma'am, I do know my way around trucks and machinery. I'll do my best."

At the trailer, Lisa directed Obadiah to check out the hitch. "Just take a look there, hon. I'll be right back. I'll get you some lemonade."

In the bar, Clyde laughed out loud at the dirty, beer-soaked cowgirl. "What are you up to Missy? And where's the pitcher I gave you?"

"Never mind that Mr. Clyde," she said, slapping another twenty on the bar counter. "Just fill 'er up again. And give me two cold glasses."

Lisa tromped back to the trailer. She opened the trailer door and reached the beer and glasses up to the shelf above the blanket-covered bed in the sleepover cab. Then she turned on the truck and switched on the A/C in the trailer, and went back down to where Obadiah was fiddling with the hitch.

"Ma'am, everything seems to be in working order. Maybe it just needs some tightening."

"Hon, just go on around to the side and get the tool box from the compartment up there."

Obadiah did, and as soon as his ass cleared the opening, Lisa slid in behind him and pulled the door shut. The poor boy didn't even realize what was happening. He turned around with the tool box and rammed it right into Lisa's chest.

"Uh, Ma'am -- excuse me. I mean, I'll just scooch on by you now and get those nuts tightened."

Fuck it, Lisa thought. What's to lose? She took the tool box from Obadiah's hands. She pulled off her shirt.

Suddenly, over the sound of the engine, Lisa heard Preacher Man's voice. "Holy Hell! Sorry, Obadiah -- the truck radio, it's a radio preacher. Ever since I hit Orville, he's beamed himself onto every station."

Obadiah grinned a boyish grin and placed his hands on Lisa's jutting breasts. "Yes Ma'am," he said. "That there is my Daddy."

"Son of a..."

Lisa held back a moan. She looked down at Obadiah's hands rapturing her tits. "I'm not complaining Obadiah, but what about 'works of the flesh?'"

"Ma'am, my Pa says, 'Ask and ye shall receive. Ye have not because ye ask not.' I've been praying for beer and tits for about eight years now. Reckon the Good Lord finally heard my humble request."

Lisa grabbed the pitcher, cupped her breasts and poured a jugful of beer into her reflecting pool. "Sweet thang, I do believe you've been saved. Drink up."

Obadiah lapped the beer out of Lisa's cleavage, sucking and slurping like a newborn calf. He sucked the well dry, then licked her breasts clean, swirling his tongue around her nipples holding on for dear life with eager lips. Lisa backed up the ladder to the cabover as Obadiah remained latched on like a newborn. Preacher Man continued his muffled ranting on the radio.

She pulled Obadiah on top of her in the sleeping compartment. "Say it Obadiah, say it."

"Thay what?" he stuttered, his mouth full of white meat.

"Say fornicate."


"Say it again."

"Thornicate. Thornicate."

Lisa pulled Obadiah's head up and off of her chest. "Take off your pants, Obie, my man. Deliverance is near."

She rolled him over onto his back and stroked his swollen corn-fed cock with all the sweetness of a nursemaid. Then she lowered herself onto it with lips as soft as the wings of a dove and nibbled around its red-hot edges. Licking, stroking, kissing, blowing, nibbling. She pinched his erect nipples and ran her tongue from his neck to his ass. Long, slow, torturous licks. Fast, hard, furious licks. Obadiah writhed on the blanket, moaning as if possessed.

Lisa reached up for the beer and took a long, deep drink. She slipped her arm around the back of his neck and lifted his head tenderly. "Here you go sweet thing. We've got a half pitcher of answered prayer left. Don't be shy."

"Thank you Miss Lisa," he said. "I didn't know just how thirsty I was."

Just then Pa the Preacher Man went silent on the radio and Wilson Pickett beamed in: "Mustang Sally." Lord, guess you better slow your Mustang down. Lisa spread Obadiah's legs and pressed her mouth against his balls, bathing them in cool beer, sucking and stroking.

"Fornicate!" Obadiah cried out. "Fornicate!"

Lisa slid onto his stomach, pushing his cock deep into her, riding him like a bronco. She leaned her beer-flavored breasts down to his hungry mouth and...

"Thorrrrrnicccccate!" Obadiah screamed, whipping his head from side to side; it was an animal scream that shook the steel walls of the trailer and caused the horses to whinny and snort. He gripped Lisa's breasts like it was the wheel of his John Deere.

When they were done, Lisa sighed, then hopped off and slapped him on the ass. "Obadiah, you are one wild ride...but we're going to make it to the rodeo buzzer before this day is done."

She climbed down to the changing room and threw on a clean shirt and a fresh pair of jeans.

"Hang tight there, Loverboy. I'm going to go buy us some bottles for the road. Gotta get my mustangs to Booley -- and you're coming with me! Jesus wants us for a sunbeam!"

©2008 by Kirsten Monroe

Reader Comments

Erotica author Kirsten Monroe enjoys exploring sensuality as one of life's greatest pleasures through the language of lust. She has a weakness for good whiskey, bad boys and fast cars. She's never met a naughty word she didn't like, takes practical jokes very seriously, and rarely says no to good, dirty fun. To learn more, visit her Web site.

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