Slow Night at the Farm

by

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Humor, Interracial, Safe Sex, Squirting, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Size, Hairy, .

Desc: Romantic Sex Story: A truck driver, a whore house and a bet that's too good to pass up



I'd been on the road for twenty hours or more before I even started to wonder why.

I knew goddamned good and well that I couldn't unload my cargo for another two days in Long Beach and I was only about six hours away.

"Pull over you dumb ass," I scolded myself.

But I was still another ninety miles from a truck stop. There wasn't much out here at all but sagebrush and jackrabbits.

And then it hit me, "The Sunshine Kitten Farm."

I haul this way at least a couple of times a month. I always wondered what that place looked like on the inside.

Stuck out here in the dessert, about fifty miles from the closest known shithole in the universe, was a house of ill repute. A bordello if you prefer, but as most of us truckers refer to it on the CB, a butt hut.

Due to my, ah, "condition", I never stopped there before. What the hell, maybe they won't mind if I stop and park in their lot and get a few hours of shuteye. A cold beer or two might be nice too and the place is only a couple miles up the road. Why not?

I swung my tractor into the dirt driveway and found a spot that faced away from where the sun comes up. I put ol' Betsy, that's my truck, to bed and bumped the tires on the trailer as I stretched and unkinked my legs. The lot was empty, besides ol' Betsy and only sign of life was the big pink neon sign tellin' me to "Cum on In". It wasn't but half past midnight so I figured they must be open. "Must be a slow night on the farm," I concluded.

When I pressed the doorbell, it took a couple of minutes before the door swung open. I wasn't sure what girls that did this for a living looked like but damn, I wasn't expecting what this one looked like. The woman that answered the door must have been the first hooker that came over on the Mayflower. If this broad was under eighty, then I was the Sultan of Brunei.

"Excuse me ma'am, I wonder if it would be alright to park my truck out here while I got some sleep?" I asked politely.

With a voice that reminded me of Edward G Robinson, "Well why don't you come on in and we'll talk about it."

"Here it comes," I thought to myself, "The high pressure sell." Well, I ain't buyin'.

This would probably be as good a time as any to explain my aforementioned "condition" to y'all. Back in the early nineties, when I was a couple of years out of high school, I joined the Army. I figured it to be a piece of cake. Three years and I could go to college on someone else's dime. Little did I know that ol' General Swartzenhiemer had other plans. One fine morning I was driving my Hum-Vee down a road in Kuwait, when, like a dumb ass, I ran over an Iraqi pothole.

A goddamn motherfripin' land mine. Now, my injuries didn't look too bad at first and even now you can hardly see the two-inch scar on my right hip that remains as a reminder but from my bellybutton to my knees I only have about five percent feeling. What does that mean you ask? Well, the most obvious is that even though I can get hard, my dick is impervious to stimuli. Nope can't feel hardly a thing, I could hit it with a hammer and not even flinch.

So with that in mind, the other obvious effect is that I haven't been able to shoot one goddamn load of spunk for the last fifteen or so years. Oh, I tried for a couple of years; I probably bedded over a hundred concerned women that assured me that they would be able to help me. God love every one of the brave girls, they tried but all that ever happened was I left a wake of thoroughly fucked pussies behind without firing one single solitary sperm.

Finally, I gave up. I couldn't handle the disappointment after so much work and nothing to show for it but a worn out partner that was begging me to stop. Now I'm not sayin' that makes me some kinda super stud. What I'm getting' at is when you don't have to worry about premature ejaculation, or ejaculation period, most women aren't a problem to satisfy sexually.

The old girl, Stella, ushered me into the parlor. Pretty fancy for a whorehouse I mused.

"Why don't you and Misty discuss your sleeping arrangements," Stella's gravel like voice said.

Misty appeared in the doorway, now this was more like what I expected. She had dark mysterious eyes but at the same time a look of uncertainty. She was also younger than I expected and built like brick shit house. Damn, she was fine but the same old disappointed feeling was coming back.

Stella looked at me; "You two should get along fine together. She's new and shy just like you," she concluded.

Stella was right, Misty was shy. She escorted me to the bar and coyly asked if I'd buy a young lady a drink. Like I'd said before, I was thirsty for a couple of beers so I saw no harm in buying Misty a drink. Hell, I know that's all part of the game and partly how these girls make their money. Since I had no intention of making her earn a living the old fashioned way, I might as well cough up a few bucks for her retirement.

We talked a bit but I never got too personal. I told her my name, Powder, and not much else. I could see Stella giving her the eye from time to time to go on and close the deal. Misty was uncomfortable but she made her move and asked, "So, would you like to come back and see my room?"

I thought about lying to her and telling her I was married or some such shit but for reasons I'll never understand myself, I decided to tell her the truth.

"I'm really sorry darlin' but it'd be a big waste of time. It's not that I don't want to ... but that I can't," I explained.

She looked a bit perplexed so I continued, "I have this condition and well, it's complicated but I can't ... you know ... finish."

She still looked puzzled so she asked; "Do you mean you can't get hard?"

"No, that's not the problem. Shoot, I can stay hard all night long if I want to but I can't ... I can't ejaculate ... What I'm trying to say is that no matter how hard I try I can't cum," I announced a little louder than I should have.

"Bullshit," I heard from behind me.

I turned to see another one of Stella's girls sitting a few stools away from us and shaking her head.

"That's pure bullshit. I heard some pretty lame ass excuses not to pay fo' pussy but that one is the lamest," the black girl scoffed.

I won't try and tell you that I ain't prejudice cause I'd be lyin'. I hate assholes and bitchy cunts that can't mind their own business. I took an immediate disliking to this woman.

I took a sip of my beer and asked, "What the hell do you know about it and why would you care anyway?"

She took a step toward were I was sitting, "Com' on white boy, just admit ya can't get it up no mo' and cut the bullshit."

I shrugged and turned back toward Misty, "Whatever," I said trying to ignore any further confrontation.

Misty jumped in, "Well, I believe him."

"OH pa-lease honey, he just anotha wanna be dickless bullshit artist," she scoffed.

"I think she's scared Powder. Look at her, she wouldn't know what to do with a hard dick." Misty grinned.

"They ain't no such thing as hard dick that I can't handle. I tell you what white boy, if I can't make you cum then you don't have to pay," she continued.

"Not interested," I said.

"What's a matter you afraid of lil' ol' Shawanda," she teased.

"Well, to be to be totally honest, I just can't see what I'd get out of a deal like that. I can't see where it costs you a thing either way. If by some miracle you did make me cum, then you get my money but if you don't, what's in it for me?" I asked.

"You, mister truck driver man, get some of Shawanda's special sweet meat fo' free," she answered defiantly.

"Well Wanda," I said purposefully, "Before we strike a deal, I got to see this special pussy."

Stravanda didn't hesitate one little bit. She hiked up that whatchamacallit she was wearing and exposed the hairiest, blackest bush I'd ever seen on a woman. It reminded me of the afro style she wore on the top of her head.

I scratched my chin after a close examination and said, "Just as I thought."

"What you mean?" she quickly responded.

"It ain't made of gold, I thought you said it was special. It looks like ordinary pussy to me," This made Misty giggle and that in itself made me smile, "Besides, I've already got a lady lookin' after me," I said with a nod to Misty.

The bitch just wouldn't let it alone though, "Wha's a matter, the big man scared of a lil' bet?"

This pissed me off. If I had one weakness that I'd admit to, it was that I'd never, not ever, walked away from a bet. Sha ... fonda had no way of knowing it but she had struck a nerve.

"So now you're talkin' my language, how much you got?" I dared.

I saw a little sparkle in the corner of her eye, she figured she had me now, "You tell me Hoss, how much you wanna lose?"

I pulled out my wallet. I'd been on the road for four and a half months and hadn't been to a bank. I pulled out about half of what I had, a stack of hundreds about an inch and a half thick. I began to count. I stopped and tucked a couple of bills in Misty's cleavage and started to count again. There was eighty two hundred dollars, liking round numbers, I peeled off the odd two hundred and added them to the few I'd already given to the sweet young thing.

"Eight grand," I announced, "First to cum loses."

By then the conversation had attracted quite a few spectators. It appeared that every girl in the house was now in the bar.

I could tell that S'ganda, or whatever her name was, wanted that pile of dough. She seemed to hesitate though and I knew what was coming next.

"I ain't got that much," she hemmed.

"Well what do you got?"

.... There is more of this story ...

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