My wife, Pam, and I live in a medium sized town a pubic hair north of the Georgia/Florida line. You may have heard of it; Valdosta. The name refers to Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus and is literally interpreted as "Valley of Augustus".
Not that you care about that kind of shit, I just like to tell people because most don't have a clue about the history of the cities they live in.
My spouse of twelve years came to me this morning and told me the need was upon her.
Unfortunately I knew exactly what 'need' she was referring to. Pam wanted a ROAD TRIP. I tried to convince my wife that we could invite a few guys over this up coming weekend to fuck her, but she was adamant; nothing short of a 'road trip' would be sufficient to scratch her itch.
When asked, we tell people that Pamela cannot have children because of a childhood illness. The truth is much more sinister than that. When my wife was thirteen, she experimented sexually with her fourteen year old boy friend. Beth was unaware that she had conceived during that first inept coupling and it was only a couple months or so after becoming pregnant that she was abducted by a group of young men, most of whom were black.
They kept her for several days, repeatedly raping and violently abusing her during her captivity. Near the end of this ordeal she miscarried. That miscarriage was probably the reason the rape ended when it did. She nearly bled to death before two of the men dumped her in the parking lot of an all night convenience store and sped off.
The ordeal scared her mind as well as her uterus, and any possibility of child bearing was lost. Through extensive physical therapy and years of emotional therapy she is who she is today, a loving, stable and fairly well adjusted foul-mouthed adult. But more than that, the experience created a dark side to her. For whatever twisted reason, from time to time, something wells up inside her: a desire—no, a NEED!—to repeat or recreate 'the incident.'
'The incident' was our first code phrase when referring to her need to be gang fucked by a horde of violent black men. Eventually that term morphed into 'road trip' because we never brought those kinds of individuals into our home.
Before we met, when this 'need' came upon her, she would venture into the ghettos pretending to be lost. More often than not some concerned black person would escort the stupid beautiful blond white woman to safety. When that happened she would simply return to a different part of the slum and try again. And eventually, of course, the inevitable would happen. Her first two successful attempts at satisfying this craving nearly killed her. It was during her third attempt, when she was only seventeen, that we met.
I was in downtown Atlanta taking the exam which was required by the state in order to get my real estate sales license. I was staying at a hotel near an area of Atlanta called Regent Park North. It was a mostly black, government housing project that was riddled with crime and drugs.
I had decided to go out for some air and stretch my legs. I had been cooped up all day in the state examination building and I didn't want to be cooped up in my hotel room any longer.
It was dark when I exited the hotel and the doorman cautioned me not to stray from his line of sight, as it was not safe in the city at this time of night. His reasoning was that, as long as he could see me, if someone accosted me, he would be able to call the police and hopefully I would still be alive when they arrived.
At six foot and one and hundred ninety pounds, I considered myself a fairly big man. I figured I could take care of myself and walked confidently into the night.
I came to the intersection of a street two blocks from the hotel, totally out of visual contact with the doorman, when a black man as big as the building I was standing next to emerged from the shadows. Like the proverbial deer, I froze. Then I noticed trailing behind him was a white woman who was cursing and futilely flailing at the ebony arm effortlessly pulling her along.
My mouth dropped open as he approached. One part of me said, "You have to rescue that woman!" Another part said, "RUN you stupid motherfucker."
Before I could act on either thought, the giant flung the blond at me, her back thudded into my chest and my arms automatically wrapped around her. He bent at the waist so that his eyes could meet mine on the same plane. The voice that came from this massive man was surprisingly high pitched. It reminded me of Mike Tyson speaking to reporters.
"Get this cunt out of here before she gets herself killed." Then he evaporated back into the shadows.
The woman was now trying to extricate herself from my arms. She was warm and soft and smelled like an Irish spring commercial. She had on a simple white sundress and it was clear that she had no bra on because I could feel her bare breasts moving over my arms as she struggled. I confirmed this by looking down into the top of her dress. Then, even with all of the confusion, I started to become aroused.
"Let go of me you cocksucker! I'll scream rape!" she angrily stated.
My arms sprang open like a reverse mousetrap and she stumbled away a couple of steps.
She turned to me and said, "Thank you," then under her breath, "asshole."
I'm sure my mouth was still open as the most radiant woman—no, girl—that I had ever seen stood before me brushing the wrinkles from her dress.
She turned as if to follow the black shadow.
"Wait," I said. "Where are you going?"
"I have to get my car," she stated, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.
I grabbed her wrist as she turned back to the darkness.
"Look," I stammered, "it's dangerous out there. You can stay in my room at the hotel until the morning. I'll even sleep on the floor. You can have the bed. I promise I won't touch you. Then tomorrow morning I will help you."
"Let go of my arm you mosquito dicked motherfucker." Then she added, "You can't help me."
I let go of her arm and said, "Sure I can."
She looked up at me and a mischievous smile rippled across her face. "Ok, you want to help me, shit-for-brains, you go get eight big mean black men. Then you bring them to your room at the hotel and have them fuck me like a whore until they tire of using me and leave."
Again, my mouth was hanging open.
"You had better close that cock-sucking thing before someone sticks a dick in it," she quipped.
My mouth involuntarily snapped shut. "Could you repeat what you just said?" I asked in disbelief.
"You had better close that cock-sucking thing before some..."
"No, no, the fucking part," I said blushing.
The devilish smile returned. "I said, dumb-ass, that if you want to help me, then you need to gather a group of hostile niggers and bring them to your mother-fucking hotel room so that they can stick their big black dicks in whichever hole of mine they choose and fuck me senseless."
She paused, looking at me. "Did you get that? Are you clear? Otherwise I'm going back into that hell hole until I find what I just asked you to do for me."
She stood with her hands on her hips waiting for me to answer.
My mind was racing, trying to sort out the insane information that she had just given me. If I let her go back into the projects she would certainly get hurt, if not killed. If I tried to detain her she would probably scream rape, have me arrested, and then go into the slum anyway. Or I could call a friend of mine and see if he could help meet her request.
"I didn't think so," she said in disgust and turned to leave.
"OK!" I said a little too loudly. "I'll get you the men."
"Black?" she demanded.
I swallowed. "Yes."
"Bullshit," she spat.
"No, really, I can. I know someone. He's big and black and I'm sure that some of his friends are mean. Very mean. They are football players."
She eyed me with more interest. "How long?"
Misunderstanding I said, "I have no idea how long their dicks are."
She laughed. The sound was heavenly, as was everything else about her except for the fucking groups of black men part.
"How long will it take to gather the men, you stupid fuck," she clarified.
"Oh ... I don't know. But I will make it happen as quickly as I can. I will need to contact my friend first."
She studied me again and apparently came to a decision about me and my claim to be able to deliver what she asked.
"What is your name?" she asked.
"Harry," I responded. "Harry Jennings."
"Well, Harry Harry Jennings," she said with that crooked grin still pasted to her face, "I guess you're going to have to fuck me until they get here."
That's the romantic story of how Pamela and I met.
Over the years we have collected several angry black men in different cities within a hundred miles of Valdosta who are willing to gather a group of like men for the purpose of USING Pam. Thus, the 'road trip' was born. None of these men knew of our true identities, nor did they know what city we lived in.
I called Anthony, a dependable provider who lived in Thomasville, Georgia.
"Tony," I said into the receiver, "it's Horace. Vickie is horny."
(Listening to Anthony)
"Yes, same deal as before, five hundred for you and a hundred a head for each satisfactory man, no more than ten."
"Why do I have to cover this every time?" I asked exasperated.