I'm en route home along the most boring stretch of beautiful road ever, and currently staying the night in Statesville, NC. As I drove (and sat in traffic due to a wreck south of Charlottesville), an idea built up for CK...and so I've written it down. Maybe this is a better opening to the story, with Grady's demise coming later.
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Chase Trottel wasn’t the best-looking guy in the world; he knew that. His power-builder-body made him seem fat, even though he was solid muscle (thanks to hGH and Anabolic Steroids). The swagger in his walk was more from his thighs chafing together than from actual attitude, something that became obvious when he wore tight jeans and a plain cotton shirt on clubbing nights. That’s why he’d cut back his workouts to just two hours a day. He wanted to shed the musclehead profile because too many people had set ideas about guys like that. It didn’t help that a pug nose and thick brown hair made him look younger than twenty-four while a round face and big eyes made him appear stupid. He wasn’t; he’d graduated college with a BS on a GPA of 3.45, good enough to get him a decent job with Geilenschvants Oil, in Houston, and a hot Camaro as his company car. And money enough to enjoy a Friday or Saturday night of trying to pick up girls at his favorite club, even thought he usually went home with just his right hand.
However, this Friday night, he struck gold. Just minutes after he entered Club Reichen, he accidentally bumped a chick who was almost as tall as him but slim and sleek and built like a brick shithouse. Of course, Chase didn’t really know what a brick shithouse was or meant or anything; it was just a phrase his rancher father used to say that something was fantastic. But it sounded right, because this girl fit that, and more. Smooth skin. Curves where there ought to be curves. Tits like melons and legs all the way to the floor. Eyes just a bit slanted and dark as coal. Auburn hair. Lips full and rich with perfect teeth, to match. He’d noticed because she actually laughed when he apologized for making her nearly spill her drink.
Usually, women like that never gave Chase anything more than a glance, noting his body size in one quick dismissive swoop before hurrying off. However, this one got to talking and asked his name and found out all about him and let her elegant fingers caress his beefy right forearm, tracing the design of a colorful tattoo he’d decided not to finish. Damn, was he glad he’d rolled the sleeves up, that night. Just the feel of her nails on his skin was enough to bring on the world’s fastest boner, and he blessed the fact that he’d worn tightie-whities instead of boxer briefs; less chance of embarrassing bumps in his jeans.
They talked. About what, he had no idea; he was too focused on not saying something stupid and turning her off…and on keeping enough eye contact to let her know he was interested in more than just her tits, even though he wasn’t. They danced a little, once even slow and close enough for her breasts to press against his. Drank a little more. And when she asked him to drive her home, her eyes promising more than just being her taxi service, he didn’t think twice about saying, “Sure.”
“Home” was trailer outside Brookshire, more than twenty miles from the club and surrounded by farmland, but Chase didn’t mind. The drive gave him a chance to show off a little, weaving in and around the light traffic as she laughed and laid her hand on his thigh, scratching against the fabric with her red, red nails. Damn near making him shoot his wad, right then.
Man…he could not believe his luck.
The trailer was in the middle of farmland and about a mile off a two-lane blacktop. It was furnished in the usual style – cheap and functional…and very neat. Just a single-bedroom, which he instantly noted as he sat on the couch. She brought him a beer, sipping on her own as she handed it to him. He guzzled some then pulled her onto his lap and kissed her. She shifted to straddle him, let him bury his face in her breasts, pushed him back, and held his beer for him to sip. He drank then worked at the buttons of her blouse. She ran her hands up his sides to his shoulders and leaned him back on the couch, with a chuckle. He laughed, his dick ready to be released from its blue denim and white cotton prison…but then he felt dizzy. And drunk. And tired, so damn tired.
He noticed she was focused on him, her lips smiling but her eyes as hard and cold as ice. The dizziness grew. He tried to get up but she held him down, even though he was twice her size. He felt numb and euphoric and lost and confused and excited and scared and wanted to go but couldn’t find the will to do anything but sit there and watch her watch him until darkness took over.
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However, this Friday night, he struck gold. Just minutes after he entered Club Reichen, he accidentally bumped a chick who was almost as tall as him but slim and sleek and built like a brick shithouse. Of course, Chase didn’t really know what a brick shithouse was or meant or anything; it was just a phrase his rancher father used to say that something was fantastic. But it sounded right, because this girl fit that, and more. Smooth skin. Curves where there ought to be curves. Tits like melons and legs all the way to the floor. Eyes just a bit slanted and dark as coal. Auburn hair. Lips full and rich with perfect teeth, to match. He’d noticed because she actually laughed when he apologized for making her nearly spill her drink.
Usually, women like that never gave Chase anything more than a glance, noting his body size in one quick dismissive swoop before hurrying off. However, this one got to talking and asked his name and found out all about him and let her elegant fingers caress his beefy right forearm, tracing the design of a colorful tattoo he’d decided not to finish. Damn, was he glad he’d rolled the sleeves up, that night. Just the feel of her nails on his skin was enough to bring on the world’s fastest boner, and he blessed the fact that he’d worn tightie-whities instead of boxer briefs; less chance of embarrassing bumps in his jeans.
They talked. About what, he had no idea; he was too focused on not saying something stupid and turning her off…and on keeping enough eye contact to let her know he was interested in more than just her tits, even though he wasn’t. They danced a little, once even slow and close enough for her breasts to press against his. Drank a little more. And when she asked him to drive her home, her eyes promising more than just being her taxi service, he didn’t think twice about saying, “Sure.”
“Home” was trailer outside Brookshire, more than twenty miles from the club and surrounded by farmland, but Chase didn’t mind. The drive gave him a chance to show off a little, weaving in and around the light traffic as she laughed and laid her hand on his thigh, scratching against the fabric with her red, red nails. Damn near making him shoot his wad, right then.
Man…he could not believe his luck.
The trailer was in the middle of farmland and about a mile off a two-lane blacktop. It was furnished in the usual style – cheap and functional…and very neat. Just a single-bedroom, which he instantly noted as he sat on the couch. She brought him a beer, sipping on her own as she handed it to him. He guzzled some then pulled her onto his lap and kissed her. She shifted to straddle him, let him bury his face in her breasts, pushed him back, and held his beer for him to sip. He drank then worked at the buttons of her blouse. She ran her hands up his sides to his shoulders and leaned him back on the couch, with a chuckle. He laughed, his dick ready to be released from its blue denim and white cotton prison…but then he felt dizzy. And drunk. And tired, so damn tired.
He noticed she was focused on him, her lips smiling but her eyes as hard and cold as ice. The dizziness grew. He tried to get up but she held him down, even though he was twice her size. He felt numb and euphoric and lost and confused and excited and scared and wanted to go but couldn’t find the will to do anything but sit there and watch her watch him until darkness took over.
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