Pump it on the highway

Pump it on the highway by Some years ago, never mind how many, I worked in Boston and had a girl in Manhattan. Our relationship went on from mid-teens to 30-something, when I married someone else. I usually had another girl in Boston, sometimes two, but Martha was my sure thing. She was 5’3” and a track star in high school, small tits (but all there) and a gorgeous muscled ass which played a large part in her sex life: the only girl I ever knew who really loved anal. Having Martha so available gave me a regular, healthy series of hardons and cums in my teens and 20s, which may be the reason I still consume all the Viagra and Cialis I can afford every month. Sex is mind, muscle, and satisfying memories, and the sooner you start, the longer you’ll go. My years with Martha involved a lot of traveling, and worth every mile. I like cars and usually had a beauty: a ’49 Jaguar Mark IV drophead, a ’56 Olds 98 convertible, and the best road car of all, a M-B 300S, a short chassis 2+2 softtop good for an honest 130 for an hour on the Maine Turnpike; also a AC Ace, a 2-litre aluminum-bodied beauty which I raced. But sometimes I was between wheels, and when this story took place I was riding my thumb. I hitched back from Seattle one summer in college, and had only one bad ride with a middle-aged gentleman who started telling me a story about showering with athletes in high school and getting a hardon. (I bailed out: I love kinky, but I’m an unreconstructed hetero.) After a weekend worshiping Martha’s ass, my hitching drill was to take the A train from 23rd St. to 185th about midnight, and walk down Riverside to the edge of the Hudson. It was Korea-time, and sailors on the West Side Highway got picked up first, but I never had to wait more than 15 minutes. (That massive roadway, lit like a stage set and arching over the dark river, is still in my memory.) That night it was one ride to Hartford and another who said he was going “near Boston”, so I fell asleep. (Hitchhikers’ rules: don’t talk, don’t drive, don’t pay for gas, and if the tire blows, walk away and stick your thumb out again.) But crucial to efficient or even safe hitching is where you get off. When I heard the driver say, “I go west from here,” I sat up and recognized the hitchers’s nightmare: an empty four-lane at 4 am on a frozen January and not a light in sight. It was Route 2, 40 miles west of Boston. Well, you don’t win ‘em all; I bailed out and found myself standing in the wind wearing a light topcoat and needing to take a leak. As his taillights disappeared over the hill, I checked for oncoming headlights and pumped the ship. It felt like a hot gallon; I was a bit sore from Martha’s active squirmings, and the cool breeze actually felt pretty good on my raw foreskin, so I left it out, holding the topcoat over my cock with my left hand like a flasher and thumbing busily when the rare car came by. The cold stimulated me: I zipped down further and pulled my balls out into the wind, with my cock starting to come back to attention. Of course this took my mind back to Martha: we were into anal, two sessions during the weekend. I remembered my cocktip pressing against her asshole, then the little ring of muscle suddenly loosening and I went inside that soft, warm, endless grainy hole that is so different from a cunt. I’ve always been an ass man, and the memory of Martha’s muscular buttocks and full womanly hips, my cock forcing up and in, and her tight rung of muscle gripping further and further down towards my belly gave me a great hardon out there on the highway in the dark. I really didn’t think I had another shot in the locker after the weekend workout, but I was going to try. Standing there by the roadside in the dark with no lights anywhere in sight, no houses, no gas stations, I had to get off with this boner. Every time it swelled a little more, I thought of Martha’s ass, and every time I remember her ass cheeks pressing back into my belly, it grew some more. I started fisting myself, and felt the juice pumping into the bottom of my balls. In the dark, I loosened my belt, opened my trouser, pulled down the elastic of my shorts and let it all hang out. I was beating my meat in the dark, with a powerful erection that tightened my butt cheeks and my asshole. It wasn’t a quick one: my weekend with Martha had taken some skin sensitivity, but there was still plenty left in that thick muscle. The glow of headlights appeared beyond the hill to the west, and I kept on jerking it until the lights were coming up on me, then covered up with my left hand, put my right through the slit pocket, and kept fingering that sweet spot where the foreskin connects. I was getting ready to launch, and the last thing I wanted right then was a ride! This guy shot past paying no attenton, and I got back to the serious business of coming on the road. No headlights anywhere! I dfopped my pants and shorts, hitched the topcoat around my waist, and stood there naked from waist to ankles, knees bent and apart, jerking off in the cold wind. It felt fantastic! The juice was starting to pump up higher, and headlights appeared again in the west. I bent down, pulled up my pants and held the topcoat together. Come on, I thought, don’t be a good Samaritan, I’m just another pervert beating off in the dark, keep driving. He did. Dark everywhere, except his red taillights diminishing towards Boston. Back to my ass in the wind, and I could see my cock standing out by starlight. It was sticking out about two inches beyond my thumb, bigger than I could remember it and thicker too, unless the cold had shrunk my fingers. I began to pick up the tempo, and felt precum making me slippery. Definitely on the way. I passed the tantric point, no turning back, and more headlights came, this time from the east. It was a divided highway, and his lights weren’t shining on me. I was breathing deep, my cock filled to bursting, jacking away fast. I came as the car went by, jetting out onto the highway, a very satisfying finish deep into Martha’s ass and squirting out under the stars at the same time. For a long time, I was in that nice afterglow when you could go to sleep on nails, and began to breathe again. Headlight glow from the west; I went for my pants and shorts together and got organized enough to wave my thumb. The driver was going to Boston, right to Beacon Hill. He cranked up the heater and said, “Warm up. I’ll tell you when we get near Boston.” He was as good as his word. He left me at the door of my red brick apartment building ($55 a month, and clean). I tottered up three flights, stripped and showered. When the hot water hit my cock, damned if it didn’t start up again, and I soaped up and gave it one more try. The engine turned over cranky, and then caught and we were off again. My cream splattered on the wall of the shower stall, and I finally had to stop my mental massage of Martha’s lower intestine, wrap myself in the coverlet and went out in a few seconds. I slept through the alarm clock, ignored a hairy eyeball from the assistant city editor, sat at the typewriter and started on a bunch of rewrite stuck under the bail. That night I called Martha, and my luck, she wanted phone sex! I couldn’t handle it, and managed to convince her that she had wasted me the night before. And she had, but not quite the way she imagined. But she took a rain check.