Jen a Girl a Car a Road getting Her Kicks on Route 66Chapter 10
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Jen: A Girl, A Car, A Road-getting Her Kicks On Route 66Chapter 7 free porn video
Amarillo, Tx
To say I was used up would be an understatement. After the frat house party back in Tulsa, I was more than done in. I just barely managed to get myself and Miss Swifty back to the motel without injury. Once there, I did a hot shower soak and clean up, then hit the bed for the next twenty hours straight.
When I finally did get up again, I spent a session enjoying the in-room jacuzzi before going out for food. That entire second day I alternated between long sleeping periods and soaking sessions in the jacuzzi. That felt so good, I did it again for a third day.
My God, the amount of sex I indulged in at that frat party should be enough to last me for quite a long spell. Or so I thought at the time.
On the fourth morning, I once again found my ravenous appetite. I had a trucker style breakfast of steak, three eggs, hash browns, biscuits with sausage gravy, and lots of coffee--and cherry pie. My waitress just shook her head in wonder as she watched me demolish the food set before me.
"Aren't you afraid of gaining weight?"
"No, I gain almost nothing no matter what or how much I eat," I said with a wicked grin. "I work pretty hard."
She just shook her head again and walked off to wait on another customer.
At last I again felt fit enough to hit the road further westward. I went back to the motel, checked out, and loaded Miss Swifty with my meager belongings. Since I've almost no room for baggage in Miss Swifty, I left the dress on the bed with a note to either give it to someone or burn it. Finally I left Tulsa, at six-hundred and ninety-seven miles past Go, on good old Route 66, heading for Texas.
But first, I had a fair amount of Oklahoma left to get across. As I pulled onto Route 66, I turned on Miss Swifty's Wonderbar radio and accidentally got an Oklahoma City station playing Woody Guthrie's music. He just happens to be Oklahoma's most celebrated musical son who was born in the small town of Okemah in 1912.
Many of Woody's songs convey the hardships of the Dust Bowl and the plight of the migrant workers who, as he put it in his Pastures of Plenty, "Come with the dust and ... go with the wind (on Route 66) as they seek jobs and shelter." By 1954, when his career was cut short by the onset of Huntington's Chorea, he had composed over a thousand songs. As I drove, I thoroughly enjoyed the program.
At seven-hundred and twelve Miles past Go, I drove through Sapulpa, named after a Creek Indian Chief. My pre-trip research revealed to me that the surrounding area passed through the hands of five different rulers: Spain, France, Britain, and the Choctaw Indian Nation in the past few hundred years, before becoming part of the USA. There's a ton of history in the area that most of which I'll have to leave to the reader to discover for himself.
But one thing I will say about Sapulpa. Incorporated in 1898, it became a boomtown of the new oil industry after the discovery of oil at nearby Glenpool in 1905. Post boom, it still retained a strong industrial base. But Sapulpa is best known for the Frankoma Pottery factory, established in the 1930's by John Frank. City Hall has a mural made from Frankoma tiles. A National Frankoma Festival is held in the town each September.
The small Oklahoma towns whizzed by as Miss Swifty cruised down the ribbon of concrete: Bristow, Chandler, Wellston, Luther, and then Arcadia at seven-hundred and ninety-seven miles past GO. That eighty-five mile stretch of road leads through what some call rolling and desolate countryside of dead or dying settlements--once the haunt of Indians, later the territory of cowmen and badmen, and then of farmers before the current oilmen.
Somewhat beyond Bristow, lies Lincoln County. At about the turn of the decade or so, the County Sheriff of that time named Bill Tilghman, once a deputy in Dodge City, was the one who brought in the infamous outlaw, Bill Doolin. Doolin was at the time the leader of the infamous Wild Bunch that once included the likes of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Tilghman himself was killed in a shootout in 1924. He's buried in the city cemetery at Chandler.
The time was midmorning as I rolled into Oklahoma City at eight-hundred seventeen miles past GO. Though there is a ton or two of history in this city alone, I drove on through. If my calculations were accurate, I figured I had roughly one-hundred and sixty miles or so yet before reaching Texola and the Texas border. I thought I could make that around noon or not too long after, so I just kept driving.
But a half hour later, I did have to pull over in Yukon for a pit stop. I had to pee again--all that breakfast coffee, and I needed a caffein hit of more coffee to stay awake. Highway hypnosis had bothered me on the bright, sunny drive. I did note the huge silos and building of the Yukon Flower Mill. The surrounding area was a huge wheat producing region. Sometime later, a boy by the name of Garth Brooks (country singer) would grow up in Yukon.
A short twenty minutes later, with a second coffee and a thermos to go, I pulled back onto the highway of history and the towns again flew by: El Reno, Hydro, Clinton, Foss, Canute, and Elk City at nine-hundred and forty-one miles past GO. There, I once again made another pit stop. My empty thermos of coffee was now filling my bladder.
By the way, Hydro was home to another one of those Route 66 icons, Lucille'S Service Station. The gas and grocery was run by Lucille Hamons from 1941 until well into the 1990's.
By Elk City, I was a mere forty some odd miles short of the Oklahoma/Texas line, so I decided to get a bite to eat and refill the thermos. On a whim, I stopped first at Queenan's Indian Trading Post Museum run by Wanda Queenan and got my ear bent a little on local Route 66 history.
"Jen, did you know Elk City was once called, Busch?"
"No, I didn't. Where'd the founding fathers get that name?"
"They named the town after Adolphus Busch, founder of the famous Busch-Anheuser brewery."
"Amazing, Wanda."
Wanda did some more reminiscing for me.
"Unhappily, the opening of Interstate Forty a couple of years ago cut us off from that new main highway. That really hurt my business as well as that of everyone else in town. I finally had to close the gas pumps and store to turn it into this museum."
Wanda eventually directed me to a small cafe for my coffee refill. I paid for my coffee and sandwich plus the thermos refill before I slid back behind the wheel of Miss Swifty and back onto the Mother Road. Just ahead--TEXAS.
YaHoo, Go Swifty, Go!
Late afternoon arrived--with rain, rain that was coming down in heavy, wind driven sheets. I passed through Sayre and Erick before I crossed the Oklahoma/Texas line a short way past Texola, Oklahoma, a town nine-hundred and seventy-nine miles past Go. Once a booming place on the old road, Texola was well on its way to becoming just another dusty little rural town where the local gossipers could gather for morning coffee.
I'd just completed some four hundred odd miles of Oklahoma US Route 66. There were only about one-hundred and seventy-eight miles of Texas Route 66 ahead of me.
Just across that line, I saw a highway sign telling me Shamrock, Texas was twenty some miles further on. I could make that, but not much more. It was one hundred and seventy eight miles across the Texas panhandle to the New Mexico line near Glenrio and I had to sleep before tackling that. Besides, full dark was coming on and I didn't like driving in the rain at night.
Shamrock, a small town of some three thousand, give or take, and Nine-hundred and ninety-five miles from GO, finally hove into view and I pulled into the first motel I came to. It was a very nice motel, clean and bright, but the desk clerk was napping. I had to ding the push bell on the desk pretty hard to wake him. He was an elderly, probably late sixties, balding man, but he appeared pretty spry as he snapped his head up and walked to the desk. He quickly registered me and I drove down to my room.
I grabbed my overnight bag and dashed through the rain to my door. I had trouble with the key and got thoroughly drenched before I finally got the damned door open. Well, nothing for it now but to get out of my wet clothes and take a hot shower before hitting the bed. As I stripped off my wet, cold clothes, my nipples responded. That brought an itch to my crotch. Before I knew it, I was massaging my swinging 38s with one hand and my pussy with the other.
Damn, girl, I thought you'd had enough sex for a while. Ha.
I did manage to get the shower on and running a nice, hot spray in between my masturbating, and then climbed into the tub under the water. God, did that feel good. My nipples were now poking out nearly three quarters of an inch despite the hot water; I was that turned on again.
The middle finger of my right hand was sinking ever deeper into my pussy slit and my pussy juices were dripping. I finger fucked myself in a fury for nearly five minutes as moans and whimpers escaped my mouth.
My finger fucking slowed as I reached said finger up and found my G-Spot. With a loud yelp, I orgasmed with a heavy shudder. Then two more orgasms rolled through me before I called it quits. A luxurious soaping and then a warm rinse left me warm and toasty as I stepped out and dried off. In two hops, I was over to the bed and under the covers and didn't see the light of day until noon.
When I finally got up, I went for food again. I chose the U Drop Inn Cafe, another icon of the Mainstreet of America. Its unique, Art Deco design was conceived by its co-owner, John Nunn, who is said to have sketched its outline in the sand with a nail. The cafe opened in 1936, and it was still run by Nunn and his wife as of the time I passed through its doors.
While eating, I recalled from my pre-trip research the Shamrock had once been called Wheeler. It acquired its Irish name after an immigrant Irish sheep farmer christened his nearby homestead "Shamrock" to remind him of his roots in the old country. The local railroad stop took up the name and it just caught on as the new name of the growing town.
Back on the road again, I passed through Lela, an even one-thousand miles past Go, with its Devil's Rope Museum. That museum contained displays depicting the history of barbed wire and its influence on the history of the American west. That history is beyond the scope of my trip.
At one thousand and nine miles past GO, I entered McLean, Texas. The panhandle of Texas with its vast desert and sparse population was considered ideal for POW camps during World War Two. One of those camps was located near McLean.
The McLean camp was designed for up to 3,000 POWs with the first contingent arriving in July of 1943. They worked for eighty cents a day on ranches or cleaned up the streets of town under armed guard. There were few problems. They lived in dry, comfortable barracks and were well fed. It was a far cry from the treatment U.S. servicemen received in German POW camps in Europe.
Another fourteen miles down the road brought me to Alanreed, a much smaller town than in the distant past and one with a string of colorful names. Such names as: Spring Tank, Prairie Dog Town, and Gouge Eye. The last name came after a barroom fight left a pile of grapes on the floor that local punsters claimed to a traveler, were eyes gouged out in the fight. That name stuck for a while.
A few miles further lay the infamous eighteen mile Jericho Gap and town of the same name and nearby Groom. This stretch of road remained unpaved for a long time and became an impassable quagmire of mud in the event of rain.
Finally, at one-thousand and ninety-five miles past Go, I reached Amarillo. The name means "yellow" in Spanish and was taken from the nearby lake and creek. I drove to the nearest restaurant for a bite to eat. I'd just started on my lunch when a studly young guy walked up to my table.
"You look a little lonesome over here all by yourself. Do you mind if I join you? I'm by myself too."
Well, last night's solo sex before bed had me in the mood for at least a twosome, so I said, "Yes."
So much for my self imposed abstention for rest and recuperation!
Lon introduced himself and said, "I'm a park ranger at Palo Duro Canyon and I've another day of vacation before I have to report back for duty."
"Interesting, Lon, because that's exactly where I'm headed next!"
"Now that really is interesting, Jen. Where'd you hear about Palo Duro Canyon"
"An old boyfriend by the name of Doug from my former days at Peoria's Bradley University, had told me about Palo Duro Canyon and I researched it further for this trip. Doug was a history buff, probably still was, especially of the old west. He told me of some of the canyon's history and that if I ever got to Texas, I should go see the place. Here I am."
"What do you know about the canyon, Jen?"
"Just some basics without going back to my notes. It seems that Palo Duro is the second largest canyon in the United States; only the Grand Canyon is larger. The canyon is some one-hundred-twenty miles long, twenty miles wide, and eight-hundred feet deep. It has a long history of occupation from the cave man to the native Americans and buffalo, to the ranch of Charles Goodnight, and finally to the state park that it is today."
"That's very good, Jen. Not a lot of locals could recite that much history on demand."
Anyway, I told Lon that the canyon was my next stop and he said, "Hey that's just great. I can give you a personal guided tour of Palo Duro on my last day off. It would certainly be my great pleasure."
"And it would be my pleasure to accept your offer, Lon."
Lon looked to be about ten years older than I, but being the outdoorsman ranger that he is, he was still quite athletic and fit. Tall, broad shouldered, well muscled, with an outdoor, weathered appearance, he was quite studly looking. I was looking forward to this "tour" and hoped his equipment lived up to the rest of him.
After we'd both finished eating, Lon picked up my check saying, "Please, allow me."
As we walked out to the parking lot, Lon said, "I have a bachelor apartment four blocks from here, why don't you follow me there and I'll leave my car. we can then take yours to the canyon."
He said he could hitch a ride back to Amarillo at the end of the week with one of the other employees he knew. So, that's what we did.
As Lon slid into the passenger seat of Miss Swifty, he said, "Hey, great set of wheels you got here."
"Yeah, they get me from here to there pretty well."
It was twenty five miles south of Amarillo and then eight miles back east to the park and canyon. We chatted and got acquainted more on that forty minute drive. Lon's eyes were on me most of the way, just as they had been on me most of the time at the restaurant.
I was dressed, as usual, in a skimpy halter top, short shorts, and wore sandals barefoot. No bra, no panties. My twin 38s were barely contained and threatened to pop out at any moment, again, as usual. No doubt Lon was hoping they would, pop out, that is.
Upon our arrival, Lon directed me to the paved road that dropped rather precipitously down eight hundred feet to the canyon floor in a series of very sharp curves. It had been a foot and burro trail for centuries, including the original trail down which Charles Goodnight drove his first heard of cattle to establish his ranch on the canyon floor in 1876, or so Lon told me. My canyon research had already given me that information and more. But I let Lon talk.
At the bottom, I parked and Lon said, "The best way to see the canyon is on horseback, unless you want to hike it all."
"No, I can ride. Horses will do fine, thank you."
So Lon rented a pair of horses, at a substantial employee discount I might add, and we packed saddle bags with food, water, and a two pair of blankets before we set out. We had some four or five hours of daylight left to sight-see. But, eight hundred feet down between two relatively narrow walls, twenty miles isn't very far apart, it gets dark earlier than it does up on top.
In twilight, Lon stopped at an isolated spot along the Red River that had cut the canyon and, under a mesquite tree, we picketed the horses. We laid out our blankets on a verdant stretch of grass to rest and eat a bite. I laid with my head in Lon's lap and we watched the night slowly to descend.
Lon wasn't shy and I soon found his left hand under my halter, giving my tits and nipples a wake up call. He no sooner got my tits awake than he did the same thing to my pussy with his right hand. He was under my shorts with a finger in my cunt quicker that I can tell you about it.
But Lon was tender, gentle, and slow in his motions. He'd lived long enough to learn a few things. My hips had a mind of their own. In short order, they moved up and down in rhythm with Lon's fingers. His middle finger was up and down my slit, sinking slowly but ever deeper into the soft folds of moisture laden flesh he found there.
As Lon's finger moved, he was spreading my flowing pussy juices, slicking me up more and more. His finger inched up under my clit and then his thumb joined his finger to roll and twitch my clit until he had me panting.
"Ohhh Goooood, don't stop, don't stop."
He didn't, and his actions brought on the shudder and shake of a terrific orgasm. As I was recovering, Lon withdrew and stood up. He slowly stripped out of his clothes until he stood in just his boxers. I reached up and slowly pulled them down.
As the boxers dropped low enough, his rock hard dick popped out at a forty five degree angle. It stood up straight and tall, not overly big, but not overly small either. His foreskin was intact but retracted with the tight erection. His "equipment" was more than enough to satisfy me--especially if he knew how to properly use it.
On my knees, I used one hand to stroke that lovely piece of man meat while my mouth found the helmet head and engulfed it. I tasted some moisture--his precum was pearling out of his cock. My other hand played with and squeezed his balls, suspended in a long, swinging sack. Lon groaned and pushed me back down onto the blanket on my back.
Lon straddled me, placed his flesh pole in the valley between my boobs, and proceeded to tit fuck me. I helped by squeezing my boobs tight as Lon thrust up and down. When his cock head popped out the top of my cleavage, I grabbed it in my mouth for several seconds before releasing him for his down stroke. Lon must've been pretty hot to trot, because he only made a half dozen strokes before his cock swelled even fatter, throbbed harder, and then spewed forth cock cream to give me quite a facial.
Several really large shots hit me in the face and one eye before I gobbled him into my mouth again and swallowed all the rest of Lon's donation as he continued to shoot squirt after squirt. Warm, sticky, cock cream cascaded into my mouth and down my throat. Only a small amount got away from me and trickled out one corner of my mouth. When he was finally done shooting, he backed off, still hard as a rock while I used my finger to clean around my face and lick it off.
Miracle
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