A Really Good Mood free porn video

With a spray of gravel, the ’66 Chevelle Super Sport sped away from the American Legion parking lot, raced down a narrow, blacktop access road, then slowed imperceptibly before making a tire-squealing right onto the main highway. The car quickly accelerated until it was speeding through the muggy, North Louisiana night.

The cherry-red Chevy was always speeding — the only question being by how much. The better the driver's mood, the faster it traveled. According to the speedometer, the driver, Bernadette "Bebe" Boudreaux, was in a really good mood.

Windows down, her long, brown hair whipped about in the damp, evening air. While usually a fanatic about her appearance, tonight she didn't mind. It felt so sexy and uninhibited. Besides, she’d soon be home, so it didn't matter.

The radio, set to a New Orleans station, began playing an Otis Redding ballad. With an angry, “Damn nigger music,” she shoved a tape into the car’s 8-track player.

An upbeat blast of sound by the Dave Clark Five replaced the melancholy refrain. Bebe grinned and began moving with the rhythm.

Everything was going her way, she decided, while firing up her first Taryyton of the evening. Her performance at the dance had been really great. The one slip-up being when she almost said “nigger” back there in the parking lot with Mark.

Everyone knew he had this thing about that one stupid word. So it made sense to watch what she said.

The same went for not smoking around him. She didn’t know if he smoked or not. But she’d never seen him with a cigarette, so why take a chance?

The main thing is, the way Mark acted made it clear he still had it bad for her. If she kept playing her cards right, he’d soon be begging her to marry him.

And that’s just what she wanted.

By marrying into Mark's family, she could stay near her daddy working in the office and helping out with some of his Klan activities. It would also give her a secure position in the upper reaches of Pinefield’s clannish social world. And since Mark was so nuts about her, handling him after they were married should be a snap.

She swerved around a dead armadillo without losing her train of thought. Everything would be perfect, except he’s such a boring Boy Scout. Come to think of it, he really had been a Boy Scout. Still, he didn’t have to be so damn boring.

The land dipped, and she passed over a small, sluggish stream. For a moment, the air cooled slightly as oaks and cypress replaced pines. The spot resembled the bayous near her old home in south Louisiana. The short stretch of road had long been her favorite. Tonight, it went unnoticed as she reminded herself that while Mark could be boring, he was also nice, respectable, and planned on coming home after law school.

As her stepmother kept saying, those things can mean a lot in a marriage.

Over the last few weeks Bebe had decided that, for once, Martha might be right.

Bebe made a brief, half-hearted attempt at objectivity. Outside of his being a bore and having nigger friends, Mark wasn't really that bad. While no movie star, his looks were okay. He was nice and tall with a nice big body, a nice smile, nice hair, nice eyes and, except for being boring, had a nice personality. That was the problem. He was too damn nice.

And that’s a shame because nice is just what you need, Bebe girl, a nice guy from a nice family with a nice future who, after your nice wedding, will always treat you nice, someone like nice, boring, Mark Cahill.

Bebe’s foot stayed glued to the accelerator as she passed a new Cadillac with Texas license plates. Not for the first time, she wondered what her life might have been like had she been born into an old, well-to-do Pinefield family like the Cahill’s. Not that she’d ever been ashamed of her family or French heritage, far from it. Being a Cajun around all these rednecks made her feel special. Still, moving up here from south Louisiana had been such a drag and being the new kid in junior high even worse.

Those first days in school were torture. She almost died of shame the first time she overheard someone call her a ‘coon-ass.’ God, how she despised that word. It was such a rude, hateful insult. Hell, they might as well call her a nigger.

Well, "Bec mon chu, redneck," she shouted into the night. "You can all kiss my fine coon-ass."

Though a Cajun, a newcomer and no brain in the classroom, she'd won almost everything worth having in high school. Everything, that is, except Homecoming Queen. “I’d have won that, too,"” she muttered, “if it hadn’t been for that damn Amy Marshall.”

Every time she tried for anything, Amy Marshall got in the way. She was everything Bebe wanted to be: tall, elegant, smart, self-assured, a winner at everything she did, and rich.

While proud of her own family, they weren’t part of the town's little social circle, and sure as hell weren't rich. Her daddy’s business did okay. But they still owed a lot of money to the bank, the one run by Amy's father.

As for looks, Bebe knew from experience her own, in particular, her eyes and butt, could stop traffic. Her legs, however, were just passable. And they were so damn short. Of course, so was she. Being short, she had to diet all the time. Even then the best she could hope for was the cute, sexy look.

Meanwhile, that damn Amy could walk into a room wearing cut-offs and a t-shirt and look like a damn fashion model.

Speaking of Miss Perfect, where had she been tonight? Maybe decided a country-club girl like her was too high class to go to a dance at the Legion Hall. Well, she blew it by not showing up. Judging from tonight's reaction, by the end of the summer, Amy's old buddy, the nice Mr. Mark Cahill, would be the personal property of the one-and-only Bebe Boudreaux.

And after what happened this spring, that’s just what she needed, if not exactly, wanted. The dose of cold reality erased her smile. In high school, she’d been a fun loving, party girl who enjoyed skirting around the edge of the town’s social norms. For the last two years, she’d lived away from home while going to junior college. That had let her party a lot harder and in a much bigger field.

Then she missed her period. The thought of being pregnant had been terrifying. She wasn’t, thank God, but the experience left her shaken and convinced the time had come to cut back on the party scene and look for a safe nest. If possible, a comfortable one near her daddy in Pinefield.

Recalling those horrible days always made her cringe. How could she have told her daddy if she really had been pregnant? Even worse, what would she have said when he asked about the baby’s father? She wouldn’t have known, not for sure. The leading suspect, based on the number of times they'd been together, would have been Darrell Ray Sims.

Being positive he’d marry her hadn’t made Bebe feel better. She didn’t want to marry Darrell Ray, never had. Not that she didn't like him. The big, good-looking, party animal, always knew how to show her a good time. But those things, plus a new pick-up and a reputation as a fighter, were about all he had going for him.

Sure, he now worked for her daddy in the lumber yard. But odds were he’d wind up in the paper mill like the rest of his redneck, holy-roller relatives. In short, Darrell Ray might be fun, but he wasn't respectable, safe, or nice.

Memories of all the good times they'd spent together flooded back. He’d been her first, and probably still thought he'd seduced her. Bebe smiled at the idea. She knew better.

Back during her junior year, a fellow cheerleader had confided in glowing detail that she and her boyfriend had ‘gone all the way.' Her apparently unfeigned, total happiness convinced Bebe the time had come for her to join in the fun. After settling on Darrell Ray to be the one for the task, she carefully scheduled her seduction for the coming summer. For them, traditional dating was not an option. Her parents didn’t like his ‘bad boy’ reputation while his Bible-thumping Mama thought Bebe was too fast, flashy and might be Catholic. Bebe didn’t care. She wanted Darrel Ray for a lover, not a steady boyfriend. Besides, having to slip around and meet on the sly made everything feel so wicked.

The usual trip around the ‘bases of love’ had been a blast, but went by faster than expected. In her plans, it would take all summer for Darrell Ray to seduce her. But within a few weeks, they had past third and were ready for the final sprint to home plate.

That night, the moment the truck stopped in an abandoned, dead end road, they were all over each other. Neither wanted foreplay. Bebe managed a feeble protest or two while trying to hurry along her deflowering.

They didn’t pause until she was stretched out on the truck’s bench seat. The skirt to her sun dress bunched around her waist, panties gone somewhere, legs splayed apart, her small breasts and hard nipples exposed in the light from the dashboard while Darrell Ray did fantastic things with the two fingers he’d buried inside her still virgin pussy.

She’d made sure this would happen during one of her ‘safe’ periods, just in case, in all the excitement and rush, Darrell Ray forgot about using a rubber.

But even as her belly churned with anticipation, she noticed him reach into the glove box, pull out a condom and quickly fit it into place. She’d handled that cock before, of course. Last week, during her period, she’d even let herself be coaxed into giving it a blow job. But now, the latex encased cock approaching her looked impossibly large. With a mixture of fascination, anticipation plus a twinge of fear, she watched as the swollen cockhead slipped between the slippery lips of her labia, Then paused at the opening to her wet, eager pussy.

They were, finally, about to do ‘it.' Unable to breathe, much less speak, when he asked if she was ready, all she could do was nod to signal the beginning of the end of her virginity.

To her surprise and delight, doing ‘it’ had been good. In fact, after the first few uncomfortable strokes ended with every inch of Darrell Ray’s hard cock encased inside her stretched pussy,’it’ had been really good. She didn’t get off, not that time. But it did happen a few minutes later during their second go around. That had been really, really good.

In fact, it had been so good she had no hesitation about trying it again that night or in the future, and not just with him. But with all that experience, she now knew it was the stuff leading up to sex she liked most. As for sex itself, in her opinion, unless she was really horny or the guy really great, about the best it had to offer was something between okay and pretty good.

Still, Darrell Ray had been a very good lover that night. He still was. What's more, he always seemed ready, not just to screw, but to party and show her a good time. It's just a damn shame his people were such trashy, low-class rednecks.

As she sped into Pinefield, Bebe remembered it was Friday night. That meant Darrell Ray should be at his favorite hangout over in Hawthorn. The more she thought about shaking loose with him, the less she wanted to go home.

Near the turn-off to her house, she decided to change destinations. She tossed out her cigarette, rolled up the window, and switched on the air-conditioner. A quick search under the seat produced a well-used hairbrush.

The traffic light across from the Dixie Pride supermarket turned red. She stopped, turned on the car’s interior lights, checked her looks in the rearview mirror, ran the brush through her hair several times, and evaluated the results.

The traffic light turned green. She decided the reflection would do. Following a last glance in the mirror, she shoved the brush back under the seat, killed the dome light, then floored the accelerator, and raced away towards Hawthorn.

After all those slow dances with Cahill, she really, really needed some serious party time. That damn Darrell Ray just better be there, she thought, wiggling in unconscious anticipation.

###

A lighted sign with the familiar, faded red words, The Rooster, soon came into view. It had a precarious perch atop a tall, rusting pole. A large, flashing, yellow arrow directed would-be patrons toward the front door.

Once in the crowded parking lot Bebe looked for Darrell Ray’s pickup, a customized Ford that, against her protests, he’d painted a bright yellow. At least that bird-shit color made it easy to spot, she thought.

As she suspected, the pick-up occupied its usual place of honor at the right front corner of the building.

Bebe parked nearby, gave her hair and lipstick a last check in the mirror, then got out, locked the car, and began negotiating her way through the usual collection of pickups, hot rods, and worn-out family sedans toward the front door.

The building resembled, at best, a weather-beaten cigar box. A large assortment of signs covered most of the windowless front wall. Some were sheet metal painted in vivid colors. The dominant motif, however, was garish neon. Day and night, the signs extolled the virtues of beers such as Jax, Pabst, and Falstaff plus cheap bourbons and blended whiskeys. To some, these signs were just decorative. Others suspected they were all that kept the walls upright.

Even the bar’s most loyal patrons would admit it possessed little charm during the day. A few might argue that things improved after dark when the lighted signs, the constant flow of cars and trucks, the sounds of country music coming through the building’s thin walls combined with an occasional brawl to give the place a distinctive atmosphere.

The Rooster’s rundown exterior gave potential patrons fair warning about the interior. An aging Sebring jukebox held pride of place near the front door. A short bar cluttered with jars of pickled pig feet, hard-boiled eggs, and a peanut machine occupied the opposite wall. Smaller versions of the outside signs plus a string of Christmas lights provided most of the illumination around the bar. In the dim light next to the cash register, an old, printed sign announced, “You’re white today because your ancestors practiced segregation.”

This same lighting scheme extended into the large dance area. Plastic covered booths and small, scarred tables lined the walls. The place had a pervasive odor of beer, cigarette smoke, hair tonic, cheap aftershave, and testosterone.

The chief bartender and sole owner was a thin, balding man named, Sam Spillers. For a successful bar owner, Sam had a remarkably sour outlook and viewed most customers, especially male ones, with wary hostility.

The moment someone threw a punch, Sam would apply a large blackjack against the head of the nearest combatant. The law of averages being what it is, about half the time the blackjack connected with the wrong skull. This apparent injustice never bothered Sam. “Odds are,” he’d explain, “they’re both at fault. This way I’m protecting my other customers and my property.”

Moral arguments aside, the threat of this arbitrary approach to peacekeeping served its purpose. The well-grounded fear of Sam’s blackjack justice meant most would-be warriors took their disputes outside to the parking lot.

Sam noticed her the moment Bebe walked in. So did all the lover boys at the pool table. He paused to light another Camel and watch as she flirted with them while checking out the place. Why’d she have on that sexy little party-type dress instead of her usual boots and tight-ass jeans? Of course, it didn’t matter. She could show up dressed like a damn nun and still distract guys away from the business of drinking.

While he appreciated the show, Sam considered his appraisal more professional than glandular. To him, Bebe Boudreaux was a short, cute, package of walking trouble.

Things got even worse if she and Darrell Ray were fussing. Somebody once said they had never been on a real date, much less gone steady. That seemed strange. But it didn’t change things. Everyone knew they spent a whole lot of time together which had to mean something. And with Darrell Ray’s reputation as a fighter, plus the Rhodes brothers to back him up, no one wanted to risk hustling Bebe when the two of them were all lovey-dovey.

All that changed when they weren’t getting along. The other young bucks would start swarming around her like damn flies to honey. Sooner or later, and most of the time it’d be sooner, the redneck Romeos would start fighting. Every time she showed up, there’d be more fights. It was terrible for business. But when she and Darrell Ray made up, it’d all blow over.

Sam couldn’t remember hearing any talk about them squabbling. On the other hand, it’d been weeks since he’d last seen them together. So now he wasn’t sure what to expect.

Bebe’s name often came up during afternoon bull sessions among the married guys dropping in for a quick one on their way home from the paper mill. Sometimes Sam joined in, like the time he joked that he’d fuck her for a quarter…even if she wouldn’t pay him. But more often than not, he’d grouse that women like her were more damn trouble than they were worth.

Despite this jaundiced opinion, he couldn’t help but like the little coon-ass.

Not a lot of gals with her kind of looks came in. The few that did always acted like they were too damn good for his joint. Most of ‘em just ignored him. The rest seemed to think he must be the house nigger.

Bebe was different. She never pulled any of that high-tone shit and always stopped to talk. Just like now.

“Hi, Sam. How’s business?” Bebe gave him her brightest smile.

“Worse than ever. Guess nowadays everybody’s doing dope instead of drinking.”

She motioned toward the crowded dance floor. “Looks like a pretty good crowd.”

“Yeah. But it would be even better if I could ever get the place fixed up.”

“You’re right, Sam. And I’m doing my best, I really am, to convince Daddy to extend you that credit.”

“Thanks for the help.” The local banks didn’t want to lend him the money to re-model. Sam kept hoping Jack Boudreaux would let him have the building supplies he needed on credit.

He reached for a glass. “You want your usual?

“You always remember my bourbon and Tab.” She beamed and began fishing around inside her purse.

“Some things are hard to forget,” he said. To his way of thinking those things included her fine, young ass and this disgusting drink she always ordered.

He set the plastic glass on the bar and waved away Bebe’s feeble attempt at paying. Leaning close, he spoke in a low voice so other customers wouldn’t hear. “Keep your money. Put it in the jukebox if you wanna. But for God’s sake, don’t play anything by Buck Owens.”

Everyone knew there were three things Sam couldn’t abide, uppity niggers, guys with long hair, and music by Buck Owens and the Buckaroos. No one, including Sam, knew for sure which came first on his list. Bebe agreed, with a laugh, then picked up her drink, said bye and turned away.

Sam watched as she gazed through the thick smoke to where Darrell Ray sat. For an instant, they looked at one another. But instead of going over to him, she gave him a nod and a little smile, then sashayed, slow and sexy as hell, over toward the jukebox.

A rare grin interrupted Sam’s usual dour expression. For the life of him, he didn’t know whether to envy or to pity, Darrel Ray.

As Bebe reached the jukebox, his smile vanished, and he turned toward another customer. “So whaddya want?”

###

Bebe stood in front of the music machine, savoring the erotic, pulsating vibes of a wailing pedal steel guitar pounding against her body. As she’d expected, hoped, the reflection of Darrell Ray’s face soon appeared over her shoulder. His hard, familiar body pressed against hers.

Neither spoke. They stared into the jukebox, paying no attention to the playlist.

Each wanted the other to make the first move. It was an old game. Most of the time, Bebe won.

Then Darrell Ray began pumping his thigh against her hip in rhythm to the music. Allowing herself a small smile of triumph, Bebe reached past him and dropped a quarter into the coin slot. She hesitated, then punched B-3 and, on a whim, F-12.

“What’d you pick?”

“That new song by Johnny Cash and something by Buck Owens.”

“Sam might not believe it, but you could have done worse, and probably would have ‘cept there’s no Dave Clark Five songs. It’ll do him right. He charges too damn much. Frank Stevens gives you three plays for a quarter over at his place.”

Bebe made a slow turn towards him, looked up into his smoky, gray eyes. She cocked her head and gave him a small smile. “So why don’t you go there?”

“Better looking women here.” He gave her a big wink.

The formalities over, he continued, “Where’ve you been all dressed up? This place ain’t the same without you.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls you try to pick up.”

“You’re right about that.” His voice had a cocky, teasing self-confidence. “But of course, in your case, it’s the truth.”

“Well, for your information, I decided to check out the Junior League dance. No one there, of course, except for Mark Cahill.” She was pleased to see a scowl make a brief appearance on Darrell Ray’s face.

“If Cahill was the pick of the litter, you were in a world of hurt.”

“You’re right.” She gave him an amused grin. “Things were so bad I even danced with him a few times. But like I said, no one else was there. So I left early and came here to check things out.”

“Their loss is our gain. What do you say we start making up for lost time?”

“Sounds good. But I can’t stay long.” They moved away from the overworked Wurlitzer and headed toward the dance floor.

Bebe loved to dance. The faster the beat, the more frenetic the music, the better. Out on the dance floor, with her body moving to the music, she didn’t have to worry about the future or being nice or anything else, not until the music stopped.

Most guys were like Mark and tried to avoid dancing to the fast songs. They’d wait for some slow love song, then try for a three-minute grope session. She did have to give Mark credit for not trying to feel her up. Still, one of the many things she liked about Darrell Ray was his willingness to match her fast dance for fast dance.

Several songs later, they headed toward his table. Waiting for them were Dusty and Mack Adam Rhodes. Their father, Rufus, was nicknamed, “Rough.” This had inspired him to name his sons, Rocky, Dusty, and Mack Adam. The baby of the family, their sister, he named Connie Creek Rhodes.

Bebe joined them while Darrell Ray went to get everybody new drinks. “Hi fellas, Is Rocky back yet?”

“He’ll be getting out in a couple of weeks,” said Dusty. Rocky Garaziano Rhodes was their big brother. His misspelled middle name reflected their father’s desire to have his first-born grow up to be a prizefighter.

Despite his name, Rocky never made it past racial brawler and sneaky bar-room fighter. Instead, he became a mechanic who considered himself a shrewd thinker. He got to thinking cutting up stolen cars for spare parts would be a shrewd way to make easy money. He had thought wrong and had spent the last year working on farm equipment at the state prison.

“That’s great. Did Y'all come with Darrell Ray?”

Mack Adam nodded, “Yep, Dusty busted up our truck.”

Darrell Ray returned with another bourbon and Tab for Bebe and three beers. “Talk about low-life friends. Here you guys are trying to move in on Bebe while I’m buying you a beer.”

Dusty shook his head and reached for one of the beers. “Not us, hoss. Of course, I gotta admit she does make it a real temptation. But you keep buying the beers, and we’ll be your faithful friends for life.”

“He’s right,” agreed Mack Adam. “We believe in beer before beauty. That don’t mean I’m not willing to take up your slack by dancing with her while you rest a spell.”His primacy reconfirmed, Darrell Ray laughed and agreed as Bebe scooted out of the booth

She had always loved being the center of male attention. With three men to herself, she let them talk her into staying later and later. Of course, that meant a few drinks too many. An hour before closing, she announced she really did have to go.

Darrell Ray suggested she ride around with him first. “We’ll just cruise a bit ‘till your head clears.”

“I’m fine, really,” she kept insisting as, hand-in-hand, he guided her through the dancing couples and out the door.

Five minutes and one cigarette later, they were making out on a nearby deserted road. Unrequited passion held no appeal for either of them. Still, she made the usual symbolic protests as he undressed her. These ended when she raised her hips to speed up the familiar process of his overwhelming her virtue.

This automatic, if token, resistance was a by-product of their small town, southern environment. To make it clear she wasn’t easy, the girl would put up some token resistance.

Bebe wasn’t alone in practicing this charade. She’d had a college roommate who specialized in regenerating her virginity. Whenever Kathy decided to let yet another guy deflower her, she’d make sure to be just a little drunk and to act even drunker. Of course, she’d never do anything so common as go to a motel room.

Since her numerous seductions must always be “spontaneous” most occurred on the cramped seats of parked cars.

The next day, she’d call the boy, say she couldn’t recall much about their date and ask in an innocent, somewhat worried, voice if anything, “happened,” the accepted code for did they have sex?

Being aware of the rules of southern courtship, the boy would be gallant and answer, no. With that testimony to her virtue, Kathy could still claim to be a virgin.

“What happens if the guy says you two got it on all night long?” Bebe once asked.

Kathy gave her a knowing smile. “Everyone knows a guy who’d say something like that’s no gentleman. So he’d be lying.”

Bebe considered that sort of game a bunch of crap. Still, she adhered to the principle that even a little resistance made her look better and the guy appreciate his good luck even more.

Although she and Darrell Ray had made love many times since that first night three years ago, Bebe usually played the game, but just a bit and only to make sure he never took her for granted.

But not tonight.

For them, sex had become more a friendly competition than an act of love. They didn’t worry about their own pleasure, or with pleasing one another. Each went about the process of coupling with an intense desire to prove their own superiority as a lover. Tonight would be no exception.

Tonight, both sensed they wanted, needed, not to make love, but to get fucked. Bebe’s limber legs were spread wide, resting on Darrell Ray’s shoulders. Each time his engorged cock pounded into her, she urged him on with demands he do it harder, deeper, faster.

But while there were some minor variations, they once again ended with clothes pushed aside, their semi-nude, exhausted bodies entwined on the wide bench seat in Darrell Ray’s truck, both savoring the post-coital moment and pleased with their individual performances.

For Bebe, it made for a perfect ending to her best evening since coming home to Pinefield. She had managed to get everything she wanted from both Mark and Darrell Ray. Tomorrow morning would be hell. But considering what she’d accomplished, Bebe decided she didn’t really mind.

Back at The Rooster, she kissed Darrell Ray good night and got into her own car. Once he’d gone inside for the Rhodes brothers, she cranked the engine and pushed in the cigarette lighter.

In the mood for something a little mellower than the Dave Clark Five, she removed the 8-track tape. Freed from that restraint, the radio burst to life in the middle of a Ray Charles country and western song.

“Damn nigger music,” she hissed and reached for the changer before she noticed the tune was one of the slow songs she and Mark had danced to back at the Legion hall. It reminded her that marrying him would mean no more Darrell Ray. The thought was a real downer to end what had been a perfect evening. Then her face broke into a pleased smile. Maybe, just maybe,, if everything kept going her way, she could have them both. She shook her head at such an outrageous idea, though the smile stayed in place. While wicked and exciting, it would be way too dangerous. Still….

Gravel scattered as she drove through the parking lot. A couple more yellow light bulbs had burned out on the big blinking arrow. She really needed to start working on her daddy to help Sam fix up the place. Whatever else might happen, she didn’t want the lights to ever go out on The Rooster.

Once out on the main highway, she accelerated and was soon rushing home through the muggy, North Louisiana night air

As always, the cherry-red Chevelle Super Sport was speeding; the only question being by how much. The better the driver's mood, the faster it traveled. According to the speedometer, the driver, Bernadette "Bebe" Boudreaux, was once again in a really, really good mood.