Free Desire by Madame B Page B

then at Charlotte.
    “Yes, mistresses,” he said.

THE HITCHER

    Think “sex on the road” and you conjure images of steamy trysts with strangers at roadside cafés. That’s the fantasy, anyway. But the reality is often the dull grayness of highways, service stations, and traffic jams. Alice and her boyfriend Paul had often shared their fantasies, but it wasn’t until a chance encounter with a young hitchhiker that they were able to turn their road trip into the ride of a lifetime.
    G oing for a drive in the car is my favorite way to spend time with Paul. We work together, live together, and play together, so that a major part of our lives is spent driving the country’s roads in our vintage sedan. I like to watch him as he drives, with his slightly muscular forearm resting on the gearshift and his other hand on the steering wheel. Sometimes we find a local radio station and sing along with the tracks they play or listen to the local news. Other times, we’ll stock up the car with our favorite CDs and create our own sound track.
    Mostly we just talk. We talk for hours. We reminisce about the good times we’ve had and discuss our hopes and dreams for the future. We also swap sexual fantasies in which we imagine doing depraved, delicious things to each other and then describe them in explicit detail. We really get off on some of these scenarios, like the story I made up about me being with another woman or the one about my tying him up and going down on him.
    There are a few we return to time and time again, and there’s one in particular that gets us so hot that we’ve had to pull over and make love on the side of the road. It’s the one where Paul describes how he’d like to see another man fuck me while he stands there, tugging at his own cock and balls, watching me flat on my back with another man’s dick sliding in and out of my pussy. And how during these proceedings I talk about feeling that dick while I watch Paul frantically masturbate himself until one dick shoots a load of spunk into the air and the other pumps its load inside me. We’ve shared this fantasy so often that it’s now my favorite.
    We had no idea that one day it would become a reality.
     
     
     
    We were driving back from a long weekend with friends last summer. It had been a great few days full of surfing and pubs and food and laughter. Our car roared along the tiny uneven roads that wind around the countryside like ribbons—we always prefer to take the back roads rather than the highways. Paul was behind the wheel and I had my feet up on the dashboard, one arm draped over his shoulder. It was late afternoon, and the mood was calm and content, that Sunday feeling of tired but happy after a big weekend with good friends. Neither of us spoke, not wanting to shatter the holiday illusion and certainly not wanting to think about going back to work the next morning.
    As we drove, dark clouds gathered above us, and it wasn’t long before big, fat droplets of rain began pelting the windshield in one of those freakish summer downpours. The landscape was bleak and utterly featureless apart from one lone figure on the horizon.
    “I wouldn’t like to be out in this rain,” I said to Paul. As we drew nearer, we saw the man’s outstretched thumb and realized he was a hitchhiker, a young guy of no more than twenty-five dressed in jeans and a denim jacket, sporting a backpack, and about to be drenched to the skin. He held out a piece of cardboard with something scrawled on it in felt pen, but the rain had blurred the ink and his destination was illegible. Paul and I often saw hitchhikers and didn’t usually stop for them, but this fresh-faced student type looked very different from the hippies we habitually whizzed past on the highway. I glanced at Paul.
    “Let’s see where he’s going,” he said. “Give the poor fucker a lift if he’s heading east. We’ve hardly seen a car for miles, and God knows who else he’ll find to take him