Susan From Susan
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Mult, Consensual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Safe Sex, Big Breasts, Public Sex, Prostitution,
Desc: Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Prison life is boring enough to plot escape for the adventurous Dutch. He hooks up with Susan and Trixie and they are off to a new story in fabulous Las Vegas.
As towns go, Susan was not the kind of town that one would want to visit to see beautiful buildings or scenic delights. In fact, few would argue the fact that Susan was not the sort of place that most people wanted to have as a destination unless it was for some business that couldn’t be avoided.
The closest city was a beautiful spot on the uniquely scenic Bay and it was a romantic hideaway for starry-eyed soul-mates. In the opposite direction, the faraway mountains beckoned with deceiving promise of adventure and carefully hid the hint of danger that hit with such devastating force when one least suspected it even existed at all.
My name is Dutch.
I know what you are thinking.
No, I am not some sort of foreigner with poor grasp of the King’s English. In fact, my vocabulary was unique and I seldom made an error in grammar that would embarrass me in front of some upper-class snob from that crowd with a corner on assets kept untouched regardless of economic swings in either direction. I got the name of “Dutch” from some nasty types up in the Folsom Prison area that delighted in re-naming fresh meat sent to the human grinder for some unwanted rehabilitation of antisocial proclivities.
Fortunately, I only had a three year stretch in front of me and I hoped the thirty-six months would go quickly and not drag out like a blind date with somebody’s cousin from Albuquerque. I remembered that torturous evening I stood on the yellow line like it was a slow-motion movie with me in a starring role.
The yard was covered with a light smattering of still frozen white flakes. Strangely, I thought it looked quite pretty and never appreciated the danger hidden in the warning of a fast approaching storm. The only other times I had actually seen snow it was scraped up by huge garbage trucks and carted off to God knows where like trash slowing people down and making driving impossible.
The snow was the real deal. The prison was the real deal and I soon learned to keep my trap shut and my eyes open to avoid any unnecessary confrontations with the hardened criminals all around me. It only took me a few short weeks to realize there was no chance I would be able to survive three full years in the “joint” and I would have to make my escape sooner rather than later if I wanted to get out in one piece and with my self-esteem still intact.
My careful study of the opportunities settled on the laundry truck as the most likely because it made round-trip runs almost every day and the guards were so used to seeing it that they tended to overlook the possibility of some shifty felon using it as a convenient escape route. Sure, they poked the dirty bags but not too up close and personal because they contained some ugly smelly secrets best left to the heated cleaning vats that pounded the clothes and sheets and towels into neatly packaged fresh stacks of hygienic piles for inmates and guards alike.
I had already decided the best hiding place was actually under the truck hanging onto the rails that kept one away from the hot drive train and the raw surface of the poorly constructed road. There was a mirror on a stick that stood at attention right at the front gate, but the guards were so used to constant travels by the laundry truck that they just waved it on through and continued to shoot the shit about this, that and the other thing that helped fill the long empty hours of endless boredom.
The laundry facility was located right on the outskirts of Susan. About all I knew of Susan was to see the sign on the highway that simply said,
“Next Exit ... Susan!”
I had no idea if it was a big or a small town, a quiet place to raise children or a wild stop where all sorts of sins were constantly repeated by residents and visitors alike. I did see that they had the almost inevitable “MacDonald’s” and even a twenty-four hour waffle house that promised fresh brewed brown stuff made regular like clockwork. It brought to mind a waffle house in San Diego that found me escorting a smiling Senorita with long black hair and an ass that waved in front of my greedy eyes like a patriotic call to duty making my little guy stand to attention as soon as we got through her front door. We didn’t even make it to the bedroom and simply fell to the fluffy white carpet like we were casualties of the game of love. That girl was so ready that it was like sinking into a pool of fire and she peppered me with a constant barrage of Spanish that made me think I was in school and learning a new language by the process of total immersion.
The girl in San Diego was called Teresa and she was constantly brushing her long silky hair sitting half naked on a low stool in front of a mirror bordered with photos of family and friends. Most of the people in the photos were on the chunky side, but Teresa was a delicate slice of petite female nubile passion. She was thin pretty much all over except her backside that jutted out like a pair of twin peaks of promised pleasure. I have to confess that sometime after midnight, I got lost in the valley between her soft skinned cheeks and her grunts of joy made me so hard that I threw all caution to the wind and entered her from the rear without any protection whatsoever.
Teresa had the tightest entryway I had ever encountered in a pick-up waitress with an interest in masculine assets and not making money on the side. I considered a proposal we might attempt a rear door entry but the religious statues on the bureau and her reference to her two kids made me shy about suggesting something so obviously kinky and insulting to her dignity. It was not until the next morning that she put a pillow under her tummy and gave me sign language that indicated she was yearning for that sort of humiliation and need for stretching of her anal entryway. I don’t believe I had ever met a female that enjoyed ass fucking more than that woman. I liked the way she positioned her torso in front of the bureau mirror so she could see me perched on her back pumping as hard as I could driving my business up her beautiful cheeks with serious intent. It was inspiring to see a girl that enjoyed that sort of kinky playtime without any pretense of being above such nasty desires.
I rolled out from under the laundry truck only a short distance from the waffle house. Of course, I was still dressed in the prison jumpsuit and made a beeline for the nearest clothesline with men’s clothing. The guy that filled these trousers must have been eating for two people because the waistline was almost double my size. I pulled a horrible shirt down over them to hide the fact they didn’t belong to me and hoped nobody would recognize the silly pandas that made it look better suited to a female teenager than a slightly battered adult male with a need to stay incognito. I valued my new-found freedom enough to try anything to make it work.
Fortunately, the waffle house was filled with travelers and tourists, not locals at that time of night and only a forlorn older woman with a cheap wig and drooping tits took the orders and shouted them in some sort of code to the dark-skinned cook with a look of boredom in his eye that contrasted to his obvious lack of sleep for a very long time. Regardless of their state of exhaustion, the pair was oddly efficient and things were running smoothly despite lack of reinforcements to handle the midnight rush.
A couple of transparent whores was soaking up the freshly brewed coffee in the booth right next to me and I gave them a second take because the younger one had what looked like real double “D”s acting like searchlights in the middle of her chest.
These days, most breasts of that size were artificial and not natural and I was itching to check them out up close and personal just to see if they were real or man-made.
The older one was called “Trixie” from the gist of their conversation and the short, younger one was called “Susan”. I thought that was quite apropos since we were sitting in the middle of Susan right on the State highway that carried major traffic east to west and vice versa, twenty-four/seven. I started to make up dirty rhymes using Susan as a key element and found it oddly stimulating but a bit frustrating since I hadn’t had a real piece of ass for almost three months. I was in such a desperate state of mind, I would have bent over the waitress with the sagging tits or done the older whore with the weariness of long nights and multiple partners if that was all I could muster on short notice. I didn’t think sweet Miss Susan would be receptive to allowing me to give her an emergency transfusion of sticky male juices at two AM in the morning wearing stolen trousers and no wallet in my pocket. I would be lucky to talk my way into a complimentary cup of coffee even with the best of luck.
It must have been my lucky night because the double D enhanced Miss Susan asked me in a sort of sultry filled-with-promise voice,
“Do you have any sugar on your table, honey?”
I gave her an assortment of sweet packaged goodies and let my fingers caress her cold hands with tingling sensations of implied need for sex. She got the message loud and clear and before I knew it, the both of those hot little numbers were in my booth with me. Susan was practically sitting on my cock-hard lap and Trixie was pretending not to notice my bulging shirt front sticking out like a flag unfurled on a national holiday.
A group of noisy travelers left through the not properly working front door making the place more comfortable and Susan started to play footsie with me under the table like we were a pair of teenage truants practicing for a prom.
I pretended to be in a post-accident status with my wallet missing and just waiting for my company to send me funds for continuing my sales-trip further west. I could tell the sharp-eyed Trixie correctly identified my line of bull-shit but she kept her mouth shut. I knew she knew I had recognized her alertness and that I appreciated her reluctance to spill the beans.
Susan must have had a couple of martinis earlier in the evening or something a bit stronger and she ate up my story like a girl scout doing her best to sell the most cookies. Her foot was starting to cozy up to my package and I knew she was itching to get some “Dutch” dick for desert at the earliest opportunity.
Trixie saw my need for hooking up and she mentioned that they shared a doublewide right across the street and I was welcome to “freshen up” whilst I was waiting for my funds to be wired to me by my company. Of course, she knew it was all bull-shit, but she was quick to validate my story and help me to get to home plate in nailing Susan’s pretty pussy to the bedpost. I guess they were fairly close, what with living together and being close in their line of work helping to reduce masculine stress in the city limits of Susan. I could just picture the gallery of pictures of happy smiling clients visiting their doublewide at odd hours.
Susan was staggering slightly, when we walked up the trash strewn walkway, but she was still on her feet as we walked into the bedroom at the back of the doublewide. It was amazing how quickly she was able to shed all her clothing and get into a “down on all fours” position on top of the zebra striped bedcover looking like some sort of African animal ready for a lesson in mating rituals in the middle of the night. Trixie was pouring a drink and getting ready to watch the festivities and I found that only appropriate considering her assistance in setting up Susan for my carnal pleasure.
Sometime later after Susan fell asleep with her smile of satisfaction lighting up the dimly lit room, Trixie straddled me wearing only her leather boots and I discovered her skills were honed to perfection by years of hard work and lots of practice getting laid. I had to admit that Susan was undeniably tight but Trixie was like coming home after a long trip with very little rest or relaxation. I was able to get comfortable way down deep inside her until my “happy ending” was achieved just before I dropped off to la-la land with her sturdy legs wrapped around me with complete control.
Sure, she was in control, but I was willing to play her game if that was how she rolled. Apparently, she and Susan were close for a long time and I deduced correctly that they were like tag team wrestlers always ready to take over when the other was too winded to continue the battle.
I came clean with the both of them the next morning and we decided it was time to batten down the hatches and move the doublewide to greener pastures. The suggestion that Las Vegas was not that terribly far and the roads were easy for moving a separated mobile home on a pair of flatbeds seemed number one in plans. It would not break the bank and make it a lot easier on the pocketbook at the other end. The two girls were more than enthusiastic about the opportunity to boost their bankrolls by dishing out some stress reduction to the tourists and gamblers that rotated though the city that never sleeps. Of course, I was ready to start a new page in the adventures of Dutch the felon and Susan from Susan.
I shouldn’t forget Trixie because she was the glue that made us a trio in more ways than one.