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The Scenic Route free porn video
The Scenic Route
By Cal Y. Pygia
... And the desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose.
Ahead, the desert highway was flooded. But for Rose's own car, a cherry
red 2008 Ford Mustang, the route had been empty for the past half hour.
It was no surprise that the road had been nicknamed "The Loneliest
Highway in America." The loneliness was fine with Rose, though. In
fact, she preferred to be the only motorist traveling the highway at
this time of the year, when the wildflowers were in bloom and the sandy
wasteland was bright, in places at least, with reds and oranges, yellows
and pinks, purples and many hues known only to an artist or a botanist.
As she approached the flooded portion of the highway, the water seemed
to evaporate, all at once, in an instant. The "water" had been only
another mirage, as Rose had known it would be. She smiled, thinking
that Mother Nature was quite a magician, when she wanted to be. She was
quite an artist, too, even here, in the hot, baked wastelands of the
northern Nevada desert.
Rose was glad she'd mentioned her love of nature to Kevin, the technical
writer for Desert Hydrology, Inc., where they both worked. She was the
new girl on the job; he was both a veteran technical writer and a native
resident of the Silver State. When she'd mentioned that she was an
outdoors girl, he'd mentioned the desert flowers. In fact, he'd offered
to accompany her on her weekend trip to view the blossoms in all their
magnificent glory, but she'd turned him down. She still hadn't gotten
over Bruce, or Bruce the Brute, as she now thought of him.
Bruce could be a sweet guy, in his own way--at times--but, in the
bedroom, he'd preferred rough sex. He'd liked to spank, and he'd
enjoyed water sports--as long as he was on the giving, rather than the
receiving end, of course. He'd also liked bondage, and he'd once tied
her in such a way that her breasts had turned purple. She'd feared the
bastard might have injured her, but, fortunately, the "tit torture"
session, as Bruce had called it, hadn't done her any lasting harm.
Nevertheless, it had been the final straw. She'd had enough of his
"tough love," and, the next day, while he was at work, she'd packed her
things and left him, settling in Las Vegas, when she'd been offered a
job as a graphic artist for Desert Hydrology. She'd been there a whole
week now, and here she was, on her first weekend off, really enjoying
Life After Bruce.
Kevin might be a possibility, down the road. He was cute, with curly
blonde hair and wide blue eyes. He had a nice physique, firm without
being muscle bound, and he had a good sense of humor and a friendly,
engaging personality--and a killer smile. He was obviously attracted to
Rose, too, as most men were. Nevertheless, it was still too soon.
After Bruce the Brute, she needed a little time to herself. She needed
a little time to heal.
And getting away, by herself, on this road trip through the northern
Nevada desert had been just what she'd needed to refocus herself and
clear her head. She'd traveled north on U. S. Highway 95, past a series
of mountain ranges to the northeast--the Pintwater, the Spotted, and the
Cactus, behind which lay the long-dry bed of Groom Lake and the
notorious Area 51, wherein government military scientists might or might
not be reverse-engineering alien spacecraft; took the jog west on U. S.
Highway 6 at Tonopah, where Wyatt Earp had once owned a saloon; and
turned left, onto U. S. Highway 95 again, passing the Excelsior
Mountains to the southwest and traveling through Hawthorne and Schurz
before turning right onto U. S. Highway 50. The desert was pretty much
in bloom, intermittently, on both the north and the south side of the
highway.
Except for a few tractor-trailer rigs, she hadn't seen more than a
handful of other vehicles since she'd left Fallon behind, dwindling in
her rear-view mirror, just as Kevin had predicted would be the case when
he'd described the roughly clockwise route she'd planned to take out of,
and back to, Sin City. The near-empty highway didn't bother her in the
least; nothing could have been better for her plans, she thought.
She consulted the road atlas she'd laid, open, in the passenger's seat.
According to the map, not more than ten miles ahead, on her left, a
paved road, numbered 121, led north, between the Stillwater Range to the
west and Clan Alpine Mountains to the east, toward Dixie Valley, a small
town at the end of an unpaved dead-end road that led toward the east.
She'd try her luck along this track. Perhaps, bypassing Dixie Valley by
traveling a bit beyond the paved portion of 121, along the unpaved
portion of the route that connected, well over a hundred miles to the
north, with Battle Mountain and Interstate 80, she'd put herself well
past any point to which anyone else would want to journey and would have
the whole land to herself, just as she'd planned.
As she drove along The Loneliest Highway in America, her thoughts
drifted to Kevin's hard body. He had broad shoulders, a deep chest, and
well-toned limbs; even a suit and tie couldn't disguise his Adonis-like
build. She wondered what he'd look like naked. Would he be as bronzed
of body as he was tan of face? Would he have a firm, tight ass? Would
his cock be big or small, cut or uncut, and would he have cute little
balls or giant low-hangers? Would he fuck like a stallion or make the
half-hearted humping thrusts of the hesitant neophyte? Rose guessed, by
his easy manner and his obvious comfort in his own skin, that Kevin
would be everything she'd want and expect in a man and then some--if
they ended up as a couple. She wasn't planning to rush into anything,
that was for sure, not after Bruce.
She remembered Kevin's smiles as he'd told her about the wildflowers and
described the scenic route she was taking, right now, without him. Just
as he'd promised her, the scenery was gorgeous. So was Kevin, she
thought. He had the cutest dimples! When he smiled, long, deep, Clint
Eastwood-like creases appeared in his cheeks. He was a handsome cuss;
there was no doubt about that. She was just as sure that he was
attracted to her, too. Maybe, in time....
The road was paved. Sort of. It meandered quite a bit more than its
representation in the road atlas suggested, and, it was more that a
little rough at times, with big, jarring potholes to avoid and shoulders
that, without warning, crumbled away, victims of the tireless, eroding
forces of wind and sand, assisted, on rare occasions, by heavy rains. A
weathered sign warned, "Caution: Area Subject to Flash Floods." Rose
smiled. There wasn't much danger of that on a day like this. The sky
was as clear as the sun was bright. It was so hot that she felt as if
she were in an immense oven, slowly baking. Her Mustang's air-
conditioning couldn't compete with the heat of the midday desert. Rose
didn't mind, though. She liked the heat, and, inside her car, she
didn't have to fear skin damage from the penetrating rays of the sun.
The road rose steeply through the rugged terrain, and, over the rise,
she saw the road that led west, dead-ending in Dixie Valley. Not long
after this junction, the pavement gave out, and Rose slowed as her car
encountered rough, washboard ripples that made the vehicle's entire
frame shudder beneath her. Ahead, the road wound to the right, with
high rises on either side. Rose couldn't see much beyond fifty yards at
a stretch, and she slowed further. She passed no other cars or trucks.
The road, except for her, was completely empty. On her right, the
shoulder leveled off into a wide expanse, and she turned into this
natural parking space, turned off the Mustang's engine, opened the door,
and climbed out of the vehicle, arching her back. Whether a couple of
vertebrae actually popped or she'd only imagined hearing them do so, her
spine seemed to shift and settle, relieving stress that she hadn't
realized had been upon her lower back muscles. She stretched. It felt
good to be out of her car after having driven several hundreds of miles.
Although it hadn't been easy to get to this place, the trip had been
worth the effort, she decided. It was more isolated than she'd imagined
it might be. She hadn't seen a soul in nearly an hour, and she was
unlike to see anyone in at least as long. Few, if any, travelers would
have followed this road as far north as she had done, especially after
its pavement had given way to the hardscrabble surface she'd traveled
north of Dixie Valley. She felt safe in doing what she'd come to do,
and, standing beside her Mustang, she unhurriedly undressed, kicking off
her suede boots; removing her socks; shrugging out of her simple cotton
top; sliding her unsnapped, unzipped mini-skirt down her sleek thighs
and stepping out of the heap it formed about her bare feet. She wore
neither bra nor panties, and her nude body felt the warm caresses of the
slight breeze and the fierce heat of the afternoon sun. She collected
her castoff clothing and tossed it into the driver's seat she'd just
vacated.
From the trunk, she took her tripod-mounted, computerized video camera,
set it up so that it would film her according to its preprogrammed
instructions, and, rounding her car, she scrambled down the slight slope
to the west, and entered the draw below. The terrain was resplendent
with wildflowers in a vast variety of dazzling colors, their scent sweet
wafting on the warm breezes. The sandy soil felt cool and soft against
her toes and the soles of her bare feet, and the leaves of the flowering
plants tickled her flesh as they whispered against her calves.
Immediately, Rose felt as if she were one with nature. She didn't feel
like an intruder. She didn't perceive herself as being a trespasser.
No, she belonged here, among the cacti and the wildflowers, a desert
nymph communing with the wilderness. The sky was her father; the earth,
her mother; and the arrowleaf balsamroots, tidy tips, big-head clovers,
Beckwith's violets, desert peaches, larkspurs, paintbrushes, phloxes,
purple sages, and rayless daisies were her brothers and sisters. The
desert was her home, and she was glad to be free of the flashing neon
lights of the Las Vegas nightclubs and casinos, free of the
responsibilities and duties associated with her graphics artist career,
free of the brutality of Bruce the Brute and of the flirtatious banter
of Kevin the Golden Boy.
Out here, she was free to be herself, her true self. Out here, she need
keep no secrets, such as the one that Bruce the Brute had tried to
accept but could not, the one that had made her his punching bag until
he'd punched her one time too many and she'd gathered the strength of
will to leave him. She'd never looked back, and she'd never been as
happy as she was now, this moment, with a new career before her, living
in an exciting town of glitter and glitz, able to travel at will and
dance, if she liked, among the wildflowers of the northern desert, with,
perhaps, a boyfriend, in the person of Kevin, in her future, provided
that he could accept her for herself and live with the secret she must
ask him to keep, the secret that she'd never dared to tell anyone except
Bruce. The Brute had kept that, at least, although he'd kept her secret
more for himself than he had for her, she knew.
Her secret had become their secret, and their secret was necessarily
also his secret. If he were to tell on her, he'd be telling on himself
as well, and he couldn't bear that, any more than he'd been able,
finally, to accept her for who and what she was, for her true self,
although, at first, he'd supposed he could, and she had believed that he
might. In the end, though, he hadn't been man enough.
But Bruce was of the past. She'd left him back in the Oklahoma-Is-OK
state of her existence, and she'd moved on. To better things, she
hoped.
She smelled the perfume of the flowers and smiled at their glorious
beauty. She watched a butterfly flit among the blossoms, and she
thought, like it, she, too, had found true beauty, both in the desert
wildflowers and within her own soul. Kevin's smiling face--the
sparkling blue eyes gone crescent, the smile an upside-down bow, the
dimples deep in his cheeks, a day's dandelion fuzz on his cheeks and
chin--appeared to her, out of the desert landscape, as if it were a
flower itself, tossing in the breeze. He, too, might be a beautiful
blossom to be planted in the garden of her life, she thought.
She spent the rest of the afternoon frolicking in the canyon, among the
flowers, pausing, occasionally, to dance and prance, her breasts
bouncing and her buttocks flexing, as a lightness of being filled her
heart and mind as if it were helium; sometimes, she imagined that she
drifted, like a cloud, across the countryside, or flew, flitting from
flower to flower, like a butterfly. Such were the thoughts that nymphs
entertained, she told herself, when they strolled through the gardens of
the earth, and such were the thoughts that she herself had come to
entertain.
That night, she stayed at a motel outside Ely, where she watched the
video she'd recorded of her journey through the state's mountains,
valleys, forests, and towns. She watched herself undress and walk
through the canyon that wound to the northeast of Dixie Valley. She was
beautiful, a naked nymph among the wildflowers and blooming cacti, her
buttocks, her breasts, her groin as lovely as any blossom in the land;
she fell asleep as the camera began to pan down, past the fluff of her
pubes and her creamy thighs.
In the morning, she left Route 50 to drive south on U. S. Highway 93.
By early evening, the next day, she was back in Las Vegas, and, on
Monday morning, she was seated in her cubicle, working on graphics for a
hydrology project. All the artwork--pipes and drains and aqueducts and
things--seemed alien to her.
Kevin came by, just before noon, and invited her to have lunch with him,
his treat. She accepted, and, over an egg salad sandwich on rye, a dill
pickle, French fries, and a diet soda, she asked him over, to her house,
having decided to show him the video she'd taped of her trip into the
high desert of northern Nevada, including the footage of herself dancing
naked in the canyon, wildflowers all around her, with her buttocks
flexing and swaying, her breasts bouncing and swinging, and her cock and
balls jiggling and waggling between her smooth thighs. If he could
accept her secret, if he could keep it, for her sake, and not his own,
until she was ready to share it with the world, as some day she would,
she had no doubt, then--and only then--Rose would gladly open her heart
to him. She'd willingly and happily be his, body and soul, but, she'd
decided, she must know up front, at the very outset of their
relationship, if a relationship they were to have, whether he could
accept her for herself, and, not later, when he found he couldn't accept
her secret or stomach her any longer and, so, became a Kevin-version of
Bruce the Brute.
She served refreshments, but not wine. She didn't want him to have an
ounce of liquid courage, nor did she want his senses or thoughts dulled
to even the tiniest degree. She wanted him alert and oriented. She
wanted him to be completely aware of what he saw, and she wanted his
courage to be his own, not the false bravado loaned to him by a glass of
Chianti.
The video footage ran, and Rose watched her date as Kevin watched her,
on the TV screen. His eyes widened as she doffed her clothes. After a
few moments, Rose ran through the wildflowers. She stopped, her back to
the camera. She paused, her backside beautiful among the flowers.
Then, slowly, she turned, her magnificent breasts displayed to the
distant lens. The camera zoomed in, and Rose's concave belly receded as
the lens focused upon the cute cock and balls that occupied the place at
which Kevin had every right to expect to glimpse a woman's pussy. His
mouth gaped as his eyes stared at the male genitals.
Her cock and balls looked cute, Rose thought, but incongruous, to be
sure, among her breasts and womanly buttocks. She held her breath,
waiting to see whether her life would, at last, be complete or she'd
lose the man of her dreams before she'd ever really won his heart.
Kevin turned from the image on the screen, staring deeply into Rose's
eyes. "Wow!" he cried, and he was grinning, the dimples deep in his
cheeks, as he leaned sideways to kiss the beautiful young ladyboy beside
him on the loveseat they shared.
Rose's hand closed over his as she returned his kiss. Afterward, she
said, "My cock and balls are a secret."
"My lips are sealed," he assured her, "but my heart is full."
"Mine, too," she whispered.
"I'm glad you took the trip. You seem so much more relaxed than you did
last week."
"New town, new job," she told him. "A flirty colleague with goldilocks
and dimples, too. I was under a lot of stress." There was no need,
now, to tell Kevin about Bruce the Brute, she thought, although she
might, someday. "I'm glad you advised me to take the scenic route. It
was just what I needed."
He kissed her again, his hand gentle upon the erection that made the
front of her mini-skirt into a tent. "I liked you naked," he whispered.
"Every inch of you."
Smiling, she kissed him back, gathering his genitals in her own delicate
hand. "Then, join me while I get naked again."
That night, as they lay in one another's arms, cocks rigid, balls risen
in taut scrotums, soft breasts against firm chest, Kevin's prick inside
the deep, tight embrace of Rose's smooth bottom, the room, the city, the
desert, and the whole, wide world seemed filled with the perfumed scent
of the wildflowers that Rose had savored all along the scenic route.
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