Chapter 1

Let me preface this story by mentioning that I am an American English speaker attempting to flavor this story as a British English storyteller. I acknowledge that this will possibly interfere with the flow, so be it. I enjoy reading stories from our fellow English speakers, especially the Brits, and like taking my time to check out the meaning of words and phrases that appear in their stories. I caution you, the reader, that if this is something that you dislike, please move on and read another story.

Please consider all this as you read and enjoy the tale.

Good evening, I would like to introduce myself, I am Jonathan Thomas, a British journalist. Yes, I am aware of my usual nickname from my fellow Brits. There are times however when it comes in handy as an icebreaker with a new lass. As a travel magazine writer for a British journal, on a year’s assignment in the States, I have been traveling by hire car for the last five and one-half months starting in New York City. I spent a bit over two very full weeks seeing the “Big Apple” and was quite impressed. Between the sights, the people, and the theater, I truly did not want to leave. But I did have an assignment which lead me to drive northeast heading into Boston and environs for about a week or so before driving onward to Philadelphia. This was very educational as this was my first extended trip to this area. I had traveled on my own to New York City as a gift from a favourite aunt prior to my continuing onto my sixth form. She provided the airfare and some extra monies for living on the cheap whilst sightseeing.

Leaving Philadelphia I headed on to Washington D.C. for a fortnight. There seems to be so much to see and do in the area after seeing the requisite museums. I drove through Virginia to see Mount Vernon prior to seeing some of the mid-Atlantic states. All this leads me to where I am still today, Little Beaver Creek, Georgia. The purpose of my assignment is to give some flavour of these regions to assist the magazine readers on their future travel plans across the pond. My further plans were to skim through the South with a nice break in New Orleans for perhaps a fortnight, and then hit the big cities and some of the small towns of Texas. I would then continue through the Southwest seeing the National Parks and countryside before arriving in Las Vegas for another break in my travels. My itinerary was to take me on to California with scheduled stops in San Diego, Los Angeles, Santa Barbara, Monterey and Carmel, before heading to a week or so in San Francisco with a day trip to Yosemite. The plan from there was to drive up the coast ending in Seattle where the car would be turned in. A flight to Chicago with a brief tour of the surrounding area, and finally to fly home from there. I was provided a car on a one year lease, and I also received a healthy per-diem to cover my lodging, meals and a small stipend for incidentals. My writing assignment had the proviso that I file a bi-monthly report in a publishable format for their online and traditional subscription post readers. In the word of Robert Burns, the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men...

I had made a petrol stop at an off-motorway facility, that employed the services of Billy Bob Carton, this was his given name, one evening almost two months ago. As I went inside to pay for my purchase of 13.4 US gallons, a large bag of what is commonly referred to as cracklin, which I had grown fond of in my southern travels, some potato crisps, and two chocolate bars, a frightening clap of thunder and an immediate bolt of lightning crashed overhead. My hire car was the unlucky recipient of the power contained in the lightning. I believe Billy Bob shouted out that my car was ‘fuckin’ toast’ or words to that effect. It was indeed. The electrical components were ruined and I was lucky that no fire ensued. I sought shelter inside the petrol station as the heavens opened up and pretty soon the entire area was up to the tops of my trainers in rain and mud. Fortunately the power grid remained intact in the area.

I had never experienced that much rain and mud in that short a time span. I realized that I was not going to progress any further that night and was in need of lodging within a short distance of the station. My cellular phone was unable to receive a signal because either the towers were down or this was a dead zone, perhaps both. When I lamented my plight to Billy Bob, he assured me that his cousin Helen would be able to provide both a bed and a meal for me. Her establishment was approximately one kilometer away. As soon as the rain let up, I fetched my baggage and computer bag from the boot, hoping that the computer was not ‘fuckin’ toast’, and made my way to the Shady Acres Inn, Little Beaver Creek, Georgia. Shady Acres was both a small residence hotel and primary residence of Helen Caton. She was quite an interesting woman and certainly not as crude as her cousin. She did let me know that the room, while adequate, came with an additional bonus, Helen. I was gobsmacked and quite randy and now very awake. She stood almost 168 cm and about 9 stone, quite fit and clothed in a revealing dress. She prepared a sandwich for me in her kitchen off the office as I was hungry and had left my snacks back at the station. Helen followed me to my room. She was totally starkers by the time I placed my baggage on the stand and turned around. I was hard as stone looking at her. Her hair while somewhat messy at this point of the day, what with the humidity and heat, was very sexy. While slender, she had full hips and was fairly busty. While I attempted foreplay, she said it was unnecessary tonight as she stripped off my clothes and expertly rolled a johnny over my cock. She pushed me back onto the bed, quickly mounted me, and commenced rocking to a beat only she could hear. Eventually I fell asleep sometime around midnight after finally eating my sandwich and, as I found out later, her personal choice, a Dr. Pepper beverage.

I woke up to Helen giving me a gob job! What a great start to a new day. Thanks to Helen, I seemed to have gotten lost in my immediate concern for my car. She explained that she had been without any loving for the last month or so, to explain her randiness last evening. She attempted to further distance her relationship with her cousin Billy Bob by saying her family dropped the ‘r’ in her last name a few years ago. I wasn’t sure how this made a bit of difference but far be it for me to understand women-logic. Leaving my belongings in the room, I walked back to the petrol station to ring the car-hire and let them know the condition of their car. The rain had ceased overnight but the mud seemed to be everywhere. Billy Bob was not on duty this morning but another cousin, Travis, was there. Is the entire population of this hamlet related? While the hire agent was not pleased, they promised to have an answer within 24 to 48hours and would contact me on my cellphone if it was working, or through Helen at the Shady Acres. Billy Bob appeared at the door as I was finishing my call. He asked if he could treat me to breakfast at the diner across the road. Since he had steered me correctly with Helen and the Inn, I was hoping that this too would be a great choice. After placing our order with “Hi, I’m Cindy Sue” with an overflowing top and a pasted on smile, Billy Bob, I’ll just abbreviate his name to BB, proceeded to tell me a very outrageous tale. Since I’m a writer by trade, I asked him to wait a moment while I set up my laptop to record what he wanted to tell me. Fortunately the computer booted right away and that the electrical storm had not affected its inner workings. What follows is the verbatim transcript that would not be part of my regular articles from the road. All spelling and grammar are as close to what BB said. I did not attempt to edit his tale: