Wendolyn Too. Number 4 in STOPWATCH
Chapter 1: The Camper Special

Copyright© 2012 by Old Man with a Pen

Time Travel Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Camper Special - I wanted a pickup for the digs and basic transportation. I answered an ad for an "Old Dodge Pickup" in the Journal. I got a lot more than I'd bargained for...

Caution: This Time Travel Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Ma/ft   Mult   Consensual   Romantic   NonConsensual   Reluctant   Heterosexual   Science Fiction   Time Travel   Western   Cousins   Rough   First   Oral Sex   Anal Sex   Sex Toys   Pregnancy   Big Breasts   School  

I've loved Dodge pickups since I was a kid. They're ugly, strong and slow. I've always thought, 'If you want a pickup to ride around in, get in a few days groceries, meet the ladies and do a little work, get a Chevy, they're pretty.

'If you want a truck to explore the back trails, impress a tomboy, shop once every two weeks and do some hauling to and from wherever, buy a Ford, they look OK and they're pretty stout.

'However, if you want a pickup to climb mountains, go off road, bring the trophy elk up from the bottom of the canyon, haul concrete, sand and the mixer to the back 40, get yourself a woman and maybe bounce along on a highway once in a while, get a Dodge, they might be ugly but they're damn hard to break.'

I had a degree in anthropology, that and a buck will get you a cuppa coffee. But I did have a job. "Would you like fries with that?" That's about what you can expect with one of the 'soft sciences.'

I'll admit I'd spent more time with a trowel, meter stick and tape measure than I did asking old folks what it was like in the old days. Jobs talking to tribes of assorted aborigines were getting scarce, the tribes were sending their own kids to school and being born in it trumps ethnocentrism any day of the week. Nothing like experience to get the information straight.

I liked digging in the dirt. Most government jobs in archaeology were spent digging in a desk drawer looking for another pencil ... and they wanted a whole hell of a lot of experience before you could take Uncle Sam's dime.

No, I needed a Masters to even begin to think about Archaeology (with the capitol A) for a living. For a Masters you need a sponsor, (read Ph.D.), and funding. If you want to teach, you need your own Ph.D. and politics. If you want to be 'Principal Investigator, ' he who runs the show and can actually collect artifacts, the Doc title isn't just necessary, it's required by law. And you still have to find funding.

I could work summer season digging holes for 9 bucks an hour but I was already making $8.25 and insurance working for the big M. I needed something better than Nine. If I excavated I'd have to quit my food service executive position and lose my insurance by having to start over in the fall.

I kept looking, though. My principal investigator wanted me to work the digs but couldn't hire me for collections the rest of the year. Generally, a busty blonde got hired to work collections. I'm blond, but burly.

I still looked at the want ads. I wanted a Dodge ... just in case.

I read the newspaper on my break. Some kind soul always leaves one in the dining area. Just something else I don't have to spend money on. We're not a really big town ... the paper isn't all that much of a paper. I usually read the classified ads from page 11 to page 12 ... because two pages of ads is it. Sometimes there's an auction or an estate sale and they might be selling a Dodge ... cheap.

I always took the copy home ... I could read the whole thing at home.

The classified read. 'House for sale. Four bedrooms, Three baths. $20,000. Call 555-5567' Yeah, right. A disaster house. Houses in the two hundred thousand range are bottom line shacks in this economy.

I pretty much skipped that right away. I kept perusing the ads. Two pages later I came on one that caught my eye, 'Old Dodge pickup. $200. Must take all. 555-5567' I love old Dodge pickups. This one sounded like a basket case ... right up my alley.

I called. A lovely Hispanic voice answered. I conceived images of dark tans, bikini beaches, Spring Break in Cancun.

"Hola?" She spoke.

"Answering an ad..." I said.

"Si," she interrupted, and rattled off an address in a pretty posh neighborhood. "Come now, Señor," and hung up.

I was wheel-less ... except for my bike. It was only 6 miles ... uphill. I lived in the valley, along with most, no, 98% of the population of this college town. The address, using my city map, was where the 2% lived. The ride was nice and I'd been biking since I was a kid.

'It's all down hill when you're done looking, David, ' thinking about getting home. 'Whee, what fun!'

The huge house was at the top of the tallest hill. 'I'd hate to try driving that road in the snow.' I did a double take, remembering the ad for the house ... same phone number. '20K for this?'

There was a big Acme Moving and Storage van parked on the perfect lawn, hefty guys hauling priceless antiques out of the house and wrapping them in moving rugs and going back for more. Another group was carefully packing the van.

A head stuck out the window. "You here about the cars?" she asked.

She looked about 40, maybe a hard rode and put away wet 35, but pleasant looking for all of that.

"The truck."

"I'll be right down, meet me in the back."

"Yes, ma'am."

At the back door, a harried Mexican couple was loading stainless pots and pans in the back of a nearly new Ford F-250 cab and a half already over loaded with stainless gas range, refrigerator and boxes and boxes of canned goods.

The lady from the window stepped out the back door. "Maria? Did you get everything?"

The lovely voice from the phone was a short heavy woman about fifty. So much for preconceived perceptions.

"Si, Señora. Thank you so very much," she started crying. "Señora, where will you go?"

"Colorado. I'm going to Colorado, Maria. I have land there. I want to explore the ruins on my land."

Ruins? My mind wrapped around that like a noose at the end of the drop. Ruins?

The Mexican couple finished tying down the load, the husband drummed his fingers on the hood of the truck as the lady of the house and the servant hugged and sobbed a little. The man helped the woman into the fairly tall F-250, walked to the drivers side and mounted.

I watched Maria and her husband drive down the driveway, well overloaded. The lady bumped me with a hip ... nice soft hip it was, too.

"You haven't heard a word I've said, young man."

I looked down, all I saw was the top of her head. I'm not tall, I'm only 6 foot 0 inches but she was SHORT. She couldn't be 5'4" and maybe 90 pounds ... if she was soaking wet. I was immediately distracted, this time by big blue eyes and a straight nose over pouty lips. She stepped a half step back and my eyes were drawn to a very nice cleavage wrapped in a peasant blouse.


I thought I thought it but instead I said it.

I shook my head and brought my eyes up to hers.

She began to cry, huge salty tears ran down her cheeks and dripped on her shelf ... I mean shirt. She didn't make a sound, just cried. Slowly her arms went around my waist and she hugged me.

I didn't know what to do. Crying women defeat me. I reached out with one hand and hesitantly touched her strawberry blond hair.

She cried harder and burrowed into me, holding on like it was the end of the world.

I was getting wet. "Nice," I said again. She cried harder. Big, shuddering but soundless, gasps. I was getting real wet. She stopped. She stepped back.

In a completely controlled voice, she looked up at me and said, "Wanna fuck?" She looked shocked, "I mean, do you want a truck?"

Then she turned bright red... "I'll just get the keys."

She fled into the house, the truck keys jangling in her hand. I followed her in the back door.

There was a crew unscrewing the empty cabinets from the wall and another removing the center island.

She turned around, there was a key caddy on the wall by the door. She looked at it. I looked at it.

The list read.

'Lincoln Town Car', the keys were there.

Next was 'Ford F-250', no keys.

'Ford GT 350', keys.

'911', keys.

'Ford', keys.

'DeSoto', keys.

'Lambo, ' keys.

'Misc.', lots of keys.

'Dodge', no keys.

She got this look of complete frustration.

"Where are they? They were right..." She pointed at the Dodge hook with the hand that held the keys, "OH!" She was actually pretty, bright red.

The blush took 10 years off. "What you must think of me ... I don't know."

"I think you're pretty darn cute." I clapped a hand over my mouth. "Oops," I mumbled through my fingers."

"I wish my husband did!" She thought a minute, "No! I don't. She's going to take the bastard to the cleaners and dump him. Big titted dumb blond ... oooh! I hope the bitch enjoys herself, the bank account is in my name ... Oh."

She started to run out the door ... I was standing there. I picked her up.

"What time is it?"

I pointed at her watch. She looked.

"Oh. I need to get to the bank ... you drive. I'm too scattered today." She snatched the Ford GT 350 keys off the hook, pushed a rocker switch by the GT hook, tossed me both sets of keys, grabbed my hips and spun me around. The garage door was halfway up. Before I really knew what was happening I was driving a half million dollar car down a winding, hilly road.

"What's your name?" she asked.


"You're here about the junk Dodge?" she asked.

"Yes," as I made a drifting 180 switchback. This was way too much fun.

"Sure I couldn't interest you in this?" she asked, waving her hand at the car.

I snorted. "I'm sure. I can afford the Dodge. I know I can't afford this." Even the idea was ridiculous ... it would take me 20 years to save a down payment.

"If you can afford the Dodge, you can afford this," she said.

"Ma'am..." I was about to make a severe statement about our differences in position and class.

"Don't call me ma'am, it makes me feel old!" She started to tear up again.

"Quit that!" I exclaimed.

"Quit what?"



"It makes me want to kill dragons for you."


"I get all protective ... I can't help it." Another power drifted switchback. A cross street, we have to stop, thank God. "What's your name anyway.?"

"Wendy. Wendolyn Austin Porter ... soon to be just plain Wendy Austin."

"Pleased to meet you, Wendy. I can't afford this, it's an original ... worth half a million."

"Turn Left!" she shouted.

Too late.

I slammed on the brakes, spun the wheel, floored it and we were going back to the corner.

"It's for sale for 200 dollars. Do you know not one person has called about it." She looked up. "Light!" We stopped sideways in both lanes. "Green! Bank!" She jumped out and ran into the bank.

Sitting in the five hundred thousand car ... abandoned by the certainly crazy owner, I heard a voice.

"I need license, registration, insurance card."

The cops ... great!

I took out my license. "I don't know where the registration is ... or the insurance card."

"Step out of the car, Mr. Austin. Hands on top ... spread 'em."

"A little personal there, officer."



"Hand behind your back, please."


"Now the other one."


He walked me to the black and white and unlocked the backdoor.

"Watch your head. Careful of your feet."


I could see the officer talking on his radio but I couldn't hear what he was saying.

Pretty soon he had both doors on the GT open and was feeling around under the seats ... nothing ... he looked pretty disgusted.

He pulled the assorted levers and pushed the buttons until the hood popped. That was even worse.

The hood covers the spare, there might be room for a makeup case ... if it was small. He was wrestling with the engine cover when Wendy ... Mrs. Porter, walked out of the bank with the bank manager.

The Shit Hit The Fan.

Pretty soon, an unmarked car showed up, then another, and 4 or 5 more, and right after that a really nice chauffeur driven Rolls pulled in.

Wendy threw her arms around the passenger's neck. He was a pretty old guy ... maybe 65 or 70. Shit? Husband? Lawyer?

She's mighty friendly. There was some finger pointing and the old man put his hand up.

The cop came over to the car, unlocked my door, and said, "Watch your head."

The cuffs came off, "Sign here."

He handed me my copy of the ticket I was getting. 'Driving in an Unsafe Manner(Stopped in two lanes) and Exhibition of Speed' (Smoked tires on pavement)

"Thank you, Sir, for your cooperation."

Wendy, Mrs. Porter ... came over with the old dude, he looked faintly familiar.

"Grandpa? Meet David ... I don't know your last name. He's been a Godsend."

She beamed at me.

He offered out his hand. I shook it.

"Charles Austin. Federal District Court. I believe I might know David."

"You look familiar."

"I should. I'm your Great Uncle. Your great granddad was my grand fathers older brother. He was lost in the war ... at least that's the family story.

"Wendy? Meet your second ... no ... third ... cousin, David Austin ... Look at her. She's so cute when she gets confused."

She hit his arm.

"Can we go now?" She asked the cop.

"Yes, Ma'am" He looked at me, "The appearance date is on the ticket If you plead guilty just appear at the clerks office and pay it." He walked over to his car and got in ... but didn't leave.

Mrs. Porter told her granddad, "I'm going to daddy's tonight. I finally sold the house."

"Who bought it?" Judge Austin asked.

"The first man who showed up," she said.

He laughed, "I'll bet."

"When he pulled up to the house he gawked," she said. "He couldn't get his checkbook out fast enough."

"I can picture that," he did picture that and grinned. "Did you cash it?

"Yes," she showed her granddad a check.

"Ten thousand," he laughed again. "You did it?"

"Yup. That's the bastard's half. I still have all the cars, though."

"No interest in the cars?"

"Cousin David wants the Dodge. Maria's husband bought the Ford F-250."

"Two hundred?"

"Yup," she smiled. Have I mentioned she has a lovely smile?

The Judge looked at me. "Have you seen the Dodge?"

"Nope," I replied.

"Oh. This is going to be good. If I didn't have to read briefs, I'd follow you up."

"Does it run?" At that kind of a price I was sure it wouldn't.

He said, "Just go up."

He turned to his grand child, "Bring him home with you. What are you keeping to drive?"

"The other Ford, I bought it, it's mine."

She thought a moment, "The guy that bought the house wanted it stripped so I have a crew taking everything."

I said, "They were taking the cabinets off the kitchen walls while we were coming to the bank."

"Ooh, you're so much like your mom," Judge Austin said.

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me, grandpa." She punched his arm. "Come on Cousin David, let's sell you a truck."

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