2 comments/ 9637 views/ 3 favorites Jen: Route 66 Kicks-Springfield By: caprine CHAPTER Three © Springfield (IL) [This is a work of fiction. The story is an unadulterated and unabashed attempt to tickle male fantasies and perhaps some female fantasies as well. It is a fantasy and as such, the story may or may not conform entirely with reality. With historical exceptions, all other locations, events, and characters are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.] HISTORICAL NOTE: [This is the third of the kicks on 66 series with Jen, Since the stories carry the background information and theme through from Chicago to L.A., they are best read in chronological order although that's not an absolute requirement. Also, there are ghost stories all along the road from Chicago to L.A. I didn't know that until I did further research after I wrote the Elkhart incident. The real Elkhart ghost story is different from the one I tell here. The other ghost incidents in my series are real (in the folklore of the road) or based on real tellings. Since Jen is fictional, her relationship to any of these real or imagined ghost stories is also fictional.] ****** I soon had Miss Swifty up to speed back on the four lane, Illinois Route 66. I didn't even get my wake up cup of coffee! But I knew about a place a half hour down the road where I wanted to get something to eat. But first, after restudying my pre-trip planning notes, I just had to stop at a little place just a few miles out of Bloomington. That place was Funk's Grove. Funk's Grove has a fascinating history, dating back to its founding in 1824 as a farm amidst a natural maple grove by a pioneer farmer named Isaac Funk. It just might be the oldest family business along the old mainstreet of America. Maple sirup is spelled according to Webster's original spelling of the word and is the preference of the Funk family since the early 1920's. Its production was strictly for personal family use until Funks went commercial in 1891 and sold the sirup for one dollar per gallon. There is both the Funk's Grove sirup farm and a tiny community of Funk's Grove. The two form a quiet, pleasant place amidst a hectic world. In the stillness of the grove it's hard to believe that a modern highway with its frenzied traffic is just a few miles away. But the Funks held enough historic and economic sway that they would, in the early seventies, get the new interstate that would replace Route 66, rerouted around the grove instead of its originally planned route directly through the grove. I had a very pleasant sojourn there in the woods, the village, and the sugarhouse. Yes, I did buy a gallon of sirup, though I don't know what I'll do with it. I'd managed to get a cup of coffee in the village, but had missed breakfast. I was starved. So, it was back to the pavement and on down to the place where I'd now get me a late brunch. That place was McLean, one-hundred-forty-four miles past Go. There, I found the Dixie Trucker's Home truck stop, founded in 1928 by one of the first men in Illinois who began catering, in a big way, to the fuel and food needs of truckers and of the four wheel driver/travelers who had similar needs. That man was J. P. Walters and his son, John Geske, who together, introduced round-the-clock service to accommodate their customer's irregular hours. But they started small. They rented a quarter of a mechanic's garage to sell sandwiches to truckers and passing mortorists. They had a counter and six stools. During the thirties, they expanded to become a full fledged restaurant. Expansion and modernization became the name of the game. Since then, four generations of the Geske family have been involved in running the Dixie. I walked in and over to a booth, drawing many male and a few female stares in the process. I was leading with my prominent chest and trailing a fair amount of bare butt cheek. The plain, young waitress had a look of disdain on her face as she took my order, her nose almost out of joint. I quietly said to her, "Honey, if you got it, flaunt it. And, sweetie, I both got and do!" She took my order and huffed off to the kitchen window. My order came quickly--three egg-Denver omelet, hash browns, wheat toast without butter, orange juice, and coffee, lots of coffee. I ate with a hungry gusto, watched by a couple of horny truck drivers. One of them was young and kinda cute. I slowly sashayed my way to the cash register. My bill settled, I swished my ass back to the hall that led to the restroom area. I went inside and did my thing. On my way out, I paused before the mirrors and checked myself over as I washed my hands. When I stepped out, the "cute" truck driver was waiting for me. "Hi, my name's Jim. Would you care to join me in looking over the Route 66 museum they got here? It's just off that hall to the left here." "My name's Jen. Yes, I'd like to see the museum. I'm running that road all the way to L.A." "Great," he said as he offered me his arm. He led me around the long hall of exhibits, carefully explaining details about many of them. It was the Dixie Trucker's version of the many Route 66 museums to be found in every state along the fabled route. Sometimes every other little hamlet along the way seems to have one. Although a nice one, I did not think it anything to overly brag about. "Now that you've seen this one, could I interest you in some more Route 66 memorabilia that I've got stashed in my truck?" "Are you trying to seduce me, Jim?" "Weeell, yes, damn it, I am." "Ok, I guess I'll go for it." He offered me his arm once again and led me back outside. He walked me back to the truck parking area and a small group of trucks off to the back of the lot. He led me up to a bright yellow Peterbuilt Tow and recovery truck. It looked like it stretched out for a city block, it was so long. I also noticed the slogan on the huge bug shield that stretched across the hood on top of the radiator. It read: "The Happy Hooker." Jim saw where I was looking. "Yeah, I know some real hookers here and there and thought the name sounded neat." He unlocked and opened the door. I awkwardly climbed up to the cab with a lot of assistance on my ass from Jim. His hands were on and partly under my short shorts as he held onto me and helped push me up. He certainly copped a feel or two. "Step between the seats and into the sleeper. I'll follow you." The so called "sleeper" was a lot more than just a sleeper. It was a double wide and held a large, over and under bunk bed set up against the back wall. It also had a easy chair recliner and a small fridge. It was primitive by today's standards, but fairly luxurious for its day. Jim let me look for just a moment before he was all over me. With drool from his mouth and lust in his eyes, he made quick work of stripping me out of the few clothes I wore. He shed his clothes almost as quickly. I could see, when his cock broke free, that he wasn't as well hung as I'd hoped he'd be. Pretty damned average set of cock and balls. Maybe he knew how to use it really well. Turns out, he didn't. That one quick look at his bobbing and pulsing rigid pole was all I got. As I reached out my hand to grab hold of it, he roughly pushed me back onto the lower bunk on my back. I was lucky not to bang my head on the bottom of the top bunk. Jim quickly pinned my arms above my head and used his knees to roughly shove my legs far apart. He advanced his cock into position and I felt its helmeted head part my folds and pop into my pussy canal. It was a damned good thing I was already soaked with my own nectar in anticipation of things. He paused only a moment before plunging his cock all the way in to his balls in one hard thrust. If it hadn't been for my own copious lubrication, I'd of been hurt pretty bad. What a rough, crude son of a bitch. I'd lost control from the start and that wasn't like me. Boy, could I pick em or couldn't I? There was no thought for me or my pleasure. He just pounded away at my pussy, bruising my pubic bone and who knows what else he was so rough. He released my arms and grabbed on to both my boobs and really squeezed hard. So hard it really hurt like hell. There go some more bad bruises, was my flitting thought. Very quickly, hardly two minutes later, Jim gave a sharp grunt, arched his back, thrust the hardest and deepest yet, and unloaded his wad. I was nowhere close to cumming. I hurt too damned bad anyway, the bastard. No sooner had he dumped his load than the Son of a bitch withdrew his cock, wiped it on my belly and, then said, "Lick it clean, bitch." "Well, you 'Wham Bam, Thank You Ma'am' fucking bastard, clean up your own stinking cock, you mother fucker." "Fine, but you've had your fun, bitch. Get dressed and get out of my truck before I kick you out bare ass naked and I keep your clothes with me." "You asshole son of a bitch." "So you've said. I've got a schedule to keep. Get the hell out and be quick about it." I'd little choice in the matter. Quickly donning my top, shorts, and sandals, I nearly fell out of the truck as I tried to climb down with my crotch burning from the punishment he just gave it. That's not even mentioning my boobs that hurt like hell as well. Not all truckers are like this one. Back when I was living at home yet after high school and needed some release in a one night stand, I'd met some really nice drivers at one or another of the Peoria area truck stops and had a really fucking good time, literally. But this guy was one for the books. I stumbled my way back into the truckstop rest room and did a patch up job of cleaning myself up until I could get to a shower somewhere. I needed a long soak in some hot water. It'd be a while before I'd be able to manage that. I walked back out to Miss Swifty and fired her up. I was so mad and upset that I took my anger out on her. I burned rubber all the way on the long asphalt frontage road to the feeder ramp that would put me back on Route 66. That was unlike me and I apologized to Miss Swifty after I settled down on the open road in the direction of Springfield. Twelve miles past McLean, I drove around Lincoln on the bypass. There are many historical sites in Lincoln, one-hundred fifty-six miles past Go, but I did not want to stop. With my hurts and memory of the last two hours, I was not in any frame of mind to go sight seeing. Besides, to stop at every single town on the route, I never would get to California. But I did have time to reflect about the town on the long bypass ride. Lincoln was originally called Postville until Abe Lincoln rechristened it, supposedly with watermelon juice, in 1853 before he was a nationally known figure. There are twelve specific sites related to Abe Lincoln activity in the town that, in the 1960 census, had a population of 16,890. Anyway, I was going to get my fill of Lincoln sites at my next major stop--Springfield. Another seven miles and I drove through Broadwell, site of the Pig Hip restaurant. This is another near charter member of the Route 66 Mother Road, founded by Ernie Edwards in 1937. The restaurant would remain in business for fifty-four years, until 1991. The place got its name after a local and hungry farmer entered the year old Harbor Inn, spotted a steaming pork roast, and blurted out that he wanted a sandwich "off that pig hip." The rest, as they say, is history. The Pig Hip was famous for its burgers and other sandwiches. At one-hundred-sixty-seven miles past Go, I came to Elkhart, population some 400 plus souls and Known far and wide for nearby Elkhart Hill and a large grain elevator/storage complex by the tracks in town. This hill rises starkly out of the flat, Illinois prairie like a huge, low mountain meatloaf. "The Hill" is actually a ridge formed by the glacier that once covered the area. "The Hill" is two miles long, a half mile wide, and rises to between one-hundred-seventy to two-hundred feet in height. Sited on and around the top is the home and burial site of former three term Illinois governor, Richard J. Oglesby (1829-1899), a cemetery, and a few other home sites. The Oglesby home, Oglehurst, was built in 1891, and is a thirty room, victorian mansion. The Mausoleum in the cemetery contains remains of the former governor and other family members. It's a gloomy, rather spooky looking place. There were no other visitors on the hill that day, or so I thought, anyway. There were no historical or visitors information signs back along the four lane in town, so I don't think the hill gets too many visitors. But the place does have a kind of "magical" quality about it. The house was locked and shuttered tight. It was not open to inspection or tours. My watch said three thirty, and it was a bright, shiny afternoon. I guess I have time to poke around a little yet. While wandering around the family cemetery, I thought I heard a soft voice, kind of whimpering or something. I walked around a large stone monument and found a young man, kneeling over a grave--the grave of a young woman. The tombstone dates indicated she died at twenty. The young man did not hear me at first. But then I saw him stiffen slightly. He turned his head and gasped. "Joanna!" he cried. "How can this be? We buried you, right here. Oh, how I have missed you." He rose and rushed over to me, arms outstretched as if to hug me. I felt something on my skin, but nothing really solid. As I involuntarily tried to hug him in response, My arms grabbed--nothing! I felt a tear drop on my chest and the young man suddenly vanished! Was he really ever there? what touched me--he or the wind? Was the tear his or mine? Was there really another voice? I looked down--the grave stone was real, as was the name on it that he had called me. What, exactly, did I see--or not see? I don't know, but I was thoroughly shaken. It was so very real. I could only shake my head and wonder. Well, I can at least say I now number among those who have "been on the Elkhart Hill," something apparently highly esteemed in some circles. And not only that, but I'd also joined the elite ranks as one of those who now had a personal ghost story about "the hill." Enough! Back onto the four lane and on Williamsville and Sherman to the Illinois state capital--Springfield at one-hundred-ninety-four miles past Go. Long ago, in my senior high school English class, I wrote the required and dreaded, 'Senior Term Paper' and my topic was, Abraham Lincoln. I spent some two hundred clock hours on that friggin' paper, counting from the start of my research, through note taking, to the writing of three draft revisions, to achieve the final product. I got my 'A'--and, surprisingly, a lifelong interest in the life and times of Abraham Lincoln. Although I'd seen some of the Lincoln sites around Springfield in my high school days, I'd not see all of them. So, I planned to stay in the state capital for three days to take in the "Lincoln sites" around town and nearby. Since the day was fast growing late, I decided to get a motel, get my much needed clean up, and then some supper. The motel I chose, the Lincoln Motel and Dining Room, was another landmark site along Illinois Route 66 in Springfield. I fled from the front desk to my room to find the shower. The room was cozy, the shower/tub absolutely divine. I spent a very long time soaking in the hot water and then standing in the hot shower after that. Glorious and cleansing of mind as well as body. Most of my pain and soreness was soaked away. I didn't want to eat in for supper, so the kitchen graciously packed me a more than generous picnic basket at my request. My thought was to drive out to Lake Springfield for a lazy, late afternoon or early evening of relaxation and then start the Lincoln sites touring on the morrow. The afternoon was mildly hot, so I had the windows down. I listened to Swifty's throaty gurgle out her pipes with immense satisfaction on the drive to the lake. It wasn't only males who could appreciate that sound or the machinery that produced it. I don't know where that appreciation came from as no one in my immediate family was a car freak, but I certainly wasn't complaining. I'd been out and about the Lake as a high school senior and knew of a secluded, out of the way little spot to take my picnic. Although not a legal beach, the water stayed shallow for a short distance so that swimming was possible, if illegal. I laid out a blanket from my motel room on a warm, grassy little slope and set up my lunch. In that lovely sun, it wasn't long before I shed my loose halter top, freeing my more than generous boobs to the bright light of day. I just couldn't pass up the chance to improve my tan without strap marks. Hell, not much later, I decided to throw caution to the wind in my secluded spot and chucked the short shorts and sandals as well. Glorious. I loved to be naked inside but even more outside when chances permitted. The tickle of the warm, gentle breeze had my boobs tingling and my nipples erect in short order. My pussy grew moist as the tickling breeze brought out my natural nectar. It wasn't long before I found one hand in my crotch and the other play across my boobs. The bottle of wine I brought along was enhancing the mood as well. My truck driver bruises were still much in evidence, but the motel soak had pretty much eased the pain to a barely noticeable level. But I was in a dreamy mood and all of my hand actions were light and gentle as my mind drifted with the mood in a wafting daydream of self-pleasure. My climax, when it came, was also gentle. I just sort of drifted over the top and eased into a gentle shiver of sexual release that for all its gentleness, was still highly intense in the feelings released. I was just as wet with my natural nectar as any other climax--maybe more so. With my climax winding down, I lazily smeared my front side with sun tan oil. Then I laid back, facing the sun with my shades on and smiled. I must have drifted off to sleep for a while. I woke from the effects of the hot sun, I guess, and slowly sat up, still fight off the grogginess of sleep. "Hi, gorgeous, and you truly are gorgeous. My name's Rex." Enjoying your afternoon stint of voyeurism are you, Rex?" "As a matter of fact, yes, I am. Not to change your mind, but you certainly don't seem to be in any particular hurry to cover up." "Why should I be. You've apparently already spent some time ogling the goods. And speaking of that, just how long have you been sitting there beside me?" "Oh, about an hour, I suppose. You look like you've been run over by a Mack truck. Do you just like rough sex or did somebody beat you up?" "Something like that." "Ok, I won't press you any further on that." "Why don't you make yourself useful, Rex. Put some of this lotion on my back. I think my boobs and such are well enough done for now. What brings you out here to this spot? By the way, my name's Jen." Joe took the oil and started on my neck and worked his way down from there with the oil as we talked. "Oh, I found this spot quite some time ago on my regular hikes. I come here when I want to be alone and meditate." "And what do you meditate upon, Rex?" "Whatever's on my mind at the time. Life, troubles, girls, whatever. When school resumes this fall, I'll be a senior at the University of Illinois. I've been doing a lot of thinking about what direction my life is going after graduation." "Sounds normal, Rex." "Yeah, but things just got a lot more complicated, Jen." "How's that, Rex?" "My girl just told me she's pregnant." "Oh." "There's more." "That's not enough?" "According to her due date, at the time she got pregnant, we were at a frat party where she got drunk." Jen: Route 66 Kicks-Springfield "And somebody else fucked her, right?" "Ah, yeah, three other guys, to be exact. I fucked her first, but I passed out. She must've kept going." "So now you don't know which one of you is the father. How'd you find out about the other three?" "Two of them bragged the hell all about nailing her that night and mentioned the third guy. But, yeah, that's the problem. We were a couple, but I don't love her to the extent I want to marry her. If the kid's mine, I'd do what's right by her, even though it would end my university career. But that's not the basis for a solid marriage. Besides, the kid may not be mine anyway." I noticed Rex got a good grope of the sides of both my boobs as he applied the oil on the side of my rib cage. By the time he reached my sitting ass, he was copping a real feel of that portion of my exposed cheeks he could reach. Yep, he wasn't ready to settle down yet. Maybe I could give him something else to think about for a while. Kinda take his mind off his problem for now. Besides, that damned trucker had all the pleasure. I never got off and was horny as hell yet, despite the manhandling he'd given me. I leaned forward and lay prone with my legs spread wide. "Put some oil down my ass and on my pussy, Rex, I wouldn't like to get a sunburn there. Just be gentle, ok?" He was very gentle. He made a show of dabbing a little oil on his fingers as I watched, but most of what he spread around on my quim was my own natural honey. Lying naked on my stomach in front of him and his caresses with the oil in my ass cheeks and elsewhere, definitely had its effect on me. I was really wet by the time his fingers first touched my nether lips. His gentle caress of my labia had me going, "mmmmm" continuously almost immediately. He definitely knew how to stroke a pussy. "Don't forget the backs of my legs and my thighs with that oil." I had two orgasms while he worked. When he pushed his middle finger into my gate of heaven and then his thumb into my rosette, I crashed into a really good third climax. After coming down some from that last high, I came up to my knees and turned to face him on his knees. "Get out of your clothes, Rex, I want some of your cock." He disrobed quickly. While he was still standing, I knee walked into him and grabbed hold of his dick. It was average, I guess, for length, but nice and fat. A very good handful to play with. I wasted little time. I started playing. His precum and my spit lubricated him for a slow, steady stroking I administered. I loved to watch the helmet head of his uncut cock pop free on the down stroke. Each time it did, I put my mouth around it and sucked hard. I also gave it a one eighty with my tongue before releasing my mouth to do the upstroke. Then repeat. Naturally, it didn't take much of this before I felt his balls strain and his cock swell and pulse harder, indicating a near explosion. He erupted in a copious flood of cum, shooting several ropy strings into my face before I could I could get my mouth around him to swallow the rest of his load. "Now, Rex, I really need you to fuck me. But again, slow and gentle boy, slow and gentle." After I got him hard again, we did a missionary fuck to start off. His fat cock was a tight fit, but he eased it in slowly and then stroked slowly in and out. He held back his passion admirably for me. I rolled him over, losing his cock in the process, only to remount him face to face for a cowgirl ride where I could set the pace. I really think his fat cock felt much better and fuller in me than one that could knock my cervix a foot back into my insides. Rex could play to his heart's content on my boobs in this position. He took full advantage to do so. Fuck but I dearly liked this college stud's style of fucking. I popped off his dick and got on all fours, dropping my head and shoulders to the blanket. "Take me from behind, doggie style, Rex. Fill me full of your fat cock. Before you cum, stick your pole up my ass and unload in me there." I frigged my clit while Rex pumped my ass after some difficulty getting in. What a fucking rapturous climax we both got from that fuck. Because he'd just dumped a huge load of cum into me and because of his slow gentle pumping, it took a deliciously long time before either of us approached climax again. When we finally did climax, it was extremely satisfying for both of us. My pain was minimal, thanks to the gentleness of Rex. When we finally rejoined the world around us, we found dusk had arrived. In fact, it was getting damned dark. What an afternoon! I wasn't ready for it to end quite yet, though. Sore as i was getting again, I couldn't resist. "Rex, if you've nothing better to do tonight, come back to my motel with me. I'm not quite ready yet to give up your cock or your talented tongue." Well, he followed me in his car. I pulled into the motel lot, locked up Swifty, and waited for Rex to catch up with me. I handed him my room key and he jogged up the outside stairs to the balcony. It took me a bit longer to get up those damned steps. Once in the room, we shed our clothes and I pulled Rex by his stiff cock to the bathroom and the shower. We fucked in the shower. We fucked on the floor before we could get to the bed. We fucked on the bed. We fucked in the chair. What a fucking damned night! We finally dozed off a couple of hours before dawn. I awoke late morning from the laving tongue on my boobs and the finger in my pussy. At length, I pushed rex back and cried, "UNCLE." I'd had all I could take. "I don' know if I can get out of bed, let alone walk, Rex. No more. I need to clean up and get moving, if I can. You shower first, while I see if I can move. Then, unfortunately, we'll have to part." I was sitting naked on the edge of the bed when Rex, freshly showered, stepped equally naked back into the room. He had some trouble stuffing his hardon back into his clothes as he dressed. Looking at my nakedness as he dressed probably didn't help him any. "I don't know what you'll decided about your girl, but I wish you the best and hope it works out for you. All I can say is, follow your gut feeling." A passionate good-bye kiss followed and I bid him a fond farewell. It was a struggle for me to get to the bathroom to get the water running in the tub. I sat on the throne to pee and had a hell of a time getting back up. I climbed unsteadily into the tub and soaked for two hours. I drained half the water and refilled with more hot water three times. Finally, I drained the tub and stood under the hot shower for another thirty minutes. I could walk, barely, as I ambled out to get lunch next door. When I got back to room, I was exhausted. So much for today's sight seeing. I stripped and crawled into bed. It was about two in the afternoon. When I next opened my eyes, my travel alarm read three in the morning. I was too wide awake to sleep any more, so I spent an hour or so planning my delayed sight seeing agenda and studying my trip notes. Then I watched a little late night or was it early morning tv. By then it was well past six. I packed up my few belongings, checked out, and headed Miss Swifty out to find a good breakfast. At least I could walk again, even if it was still just a bit bowlegged. Ah well, I guess nothing is really free whether it be "free" gas station air, "free" coupons, or "free" love. The plan I laid out a few hours earlier, covered the day and two more. First, I would spend as much of the morning I needed in Oakridge Cemetery north of town and the afternoon twenty or so miles to the north and west of that at New Salem. The remaining two days would be used to wander and peruse the downtown Lincoln sites: his house, the capital, the old state capital building, the state library, and others. There was one, non-Lincoln site I also wanted to see. I have long been intrigued by the architect, Frank Lloyd Wright and just had to see the Dana Thomas House. Ahhhh, that big, fuel injected V-8, at idle, purred through her twin pipes and glass pacs like a big kitten. Once on the road, I wanted to listen to Swifty some more. So, I decided to drive on to New Salem first and hit Oak Ridge Cemetery on my way back into town. Under throttle as I pulled her onto the road to New Salem, she roared like an angry lion--a pack of them. Yeah, as I indicated, I changed my mind (just like a woman, huh!) and decided to go to New Salem first and Oak Ridge Cemetery second. I was feeling good anyway, so I kept my foot on the throttle and laid a strip of rubber in first gear and got lots of rubber with each of the three remaining up shifts, including fourth gear. New Salem Village. It lies some twenty miles north and west of Springfieldjon the Sangamon River and State Route 97. It's the site of where Abe started out on his own and grew from a youth into manhood between the years 1831 and 1837. In this small, frontier like village, Abe Lincoln clerked in a store, enlisted in the Militia for the Black Hawk War (though he saw no combat), served as postmaster and deputy surveyor, studied law, and was elected to the state legislature. The village, situated on the very high north bank of the Sangamon River, consists of a scattering of cabins, stores, and two mills loosely connected, now, by an asphalt drive. In Abe's day, it was no more than a dirt trail. One building, the Onstot Cooper Shop, is a restored original, the remainder are expert reconstructions. The little village was established in 1828 and grew rapidly for nearly a decade. By the mid to late 1830s, New Salem could boast a combination saw and grist mill down below on the river, a carding mill run by oxen walking uphill on a wheel and located in the village proper, a tavern, several general stores, a post office, a stagecoach stop, and several craftsmen such as the hatter, the cooper and the blacksmith, among others. But, after nearby Petersburg secured the county seat, New Salem died as quickly as it grew and was essentially dead by 1840. The village slowly rotted away until restoration began in the middle of the twentieth century. I wandered down the line of buildings, marveling at the grit it must have taken to live in such near frontier conditions. Since it was a week day and not the week end, the place was nearly deserted. I saw only a few couples, several families, and two small tour groups. One of the tour groups appeared to be a school field trip. As luck would have it, my bladder suddenly decided to let me know that it required emptying. The walk to the nearest rest room was just too far for the urgency of the situation. Shit! I thought, just what I needed at this particular point and place in time. I was in front of the Martin Waddell Cabin. He was a hatter by trade, but there was a small outbuilding, probably used to house the family milk cow or something, that was open on one side. I stepped into the small, somewhat dark shelter and hoped to be alone. I dropped my shorts, no panties as usual, around my ankles and squatted. Just as I started to pee a good stream, I was startled by a gentle voice from the entrance. "Well now, what do we have here?" A good looking stud stepped forward into partial view in the doorway with a big grin on his face. Without batting an eye, I replied, "Either come further out into the light and join me, or get lost--fast, buster." With no further urging, "buster" said, "Don't mind if I do!" and stepped into the lean-to. He quickly whipped out hid baseball bat like cock and commenced to pee a long, forceful stream. I had a front row seat to his performance and what a bat he produced--a real Louisville Slugger--and then some! I stared with eager eyes. Naturally, he noticed. After he finished, he turned fully in my direction and stepped over to me. A new, fast pitch ball game commenced. First, second, and third base whizzed by almost unnoticed as with little foreplay, "Buster" stood me against a wall and rammed his cock into me, scoring home runs with his cock, frenzied home runs--one after another, after another, after... you get the picture, I'm sure. When we finally broke away, "Buster's" cock dropping out of me with a satisfying pop, satiated at last, he said, "I have to get back to my group. Thanks for a great piece of ass!" And off he sped at a fast walk. I never did get his name. There had been no place to sit or lay down, so it had been, as I have said, a standing room only ball game--up against the semi smooth, hewn or squared log walls. Somehow, I had managed to unknowingly acquire a fair size splinter in my butt during the ball game. I managed to get the splinter out and pulled some tissues from my bag. I cleaned up as best I could without any water. With my shorts and tube top back in place, I was ready to resume my own solitary tour of the village. My tour took until well after lunch time, but I managed to grab a couple of hot dogs and whatever at the concession stand before I got back into Miss Swifty for the return to Springfield and a visit to Oak Ridge Cemetery and Lincoln's tomb. Back in Springfield and driving up Monument Avenue, I entered the gates of Oak Ridge Cemetery and its 340 acres, twelve miles of roads, and the final resting place of not only Abraham Lincoln, but of numerous other notables as well, such as the likes of labor leader John L. Lewis, poet Vachel Lindsay, four former Illinois governors, and lawyer William Herndon, one time law partner of Lincoln, among many, many others. Lincoln's Tomb is a magnificent edifice. Buried inside are Lincoln, wife Mary, and three of their four children: Willie, Eddie, and Tad. The fourth son, Robert, Who outlived them all, is buried in Arlington National Cemetery by his request. The interior of the tomb appeared very cathedral like and awe inspiring. The silence was deafening. A bronze head of Lincoln is outside, near the entrance and the nose is very highly polished and shiny--a result of the custom of visitors rubbing the nose to bring good luck. The burial and the many subsequent reburials of Lincoln's remains is a long and interesting story that I won't go into here in any detail. Because of the attempted kidnapping of Lincoln's body for ransom, he was reburied in September of 1901 in the vault room after the structurally unsound building had been rebuilt between 1899 and 1901. His five-hundred pound, lead lined coffin lies ten feet deep under the marble floor. The casket lies inside a custom built wooden box. Surrounding the wooden box is an enclosure of heavy, flat steel bars bolted together and encased in Portland cement. A monster marble memorial sarcophagus sits on that same marble floor directly over the burial site. Very impressive. One of the grounds keepers at the time allowed his thirteen year old boy, Fleetwood Lindley, to stay home from school so he could witness this burial. He was one of twenty-three witnesses and the last living person to view the remains when the casket was opened for the last time to ensure that the body was indeed that of Lincoln. Lincoln's remains had been moved and consequently re-embalmed so many times that the body was perfectly preserved and recognizable. Three days before he died on February 1, 1963, Fleetwood was interviewed and said, "Yes, the face was chalky white. His clothes were mildewed..." but there was no question of the identity of the remains. I spent a long time inside the tomb and on the parapet top outside, looking at all the memorials and memorabilia displayed. I spent an equally long time, cruising the myriad of lanes within the cemetery, prowling for the graves of the famous and near famous with Miss Swifty growling along under me. Dusk was descending as I decided the time had come to return to the motel and some supper. My day had been long and tiring. I was really looking forward to a long, soak and shower. So, my food stop was a quick sandwich. Back at my motel, I retreated to the bathroom and slowly stripped. Once again admiring my naked reflection as I stood momentarily before the large door mounted mirror. I was so tired, I didn't even lament the fact that I would be sleeping alone that night. All I really wanted to do was sleep anyway. HA HA Ha! I stepped into the warm cascade of water falling from the shower head and began to soak my tired and aching body. God. that water felt almost orgasmic! There's nothing like a hot shower to wash away fatigue as well as the dirt and grime. I stepped back out of the spray and began to soap myself. I was doing fine. I was relaxed and my mind was floating almost fee as I rubbed and soaped myself. Therein lay the "rub," pun intended. The more I rubbed and soaped, the more the erotic feelings began to rise. Soaping over my torso and especially my chest really added fuel to the fire. But I really lost it when Irubbed and soaped between my legs. In a frenzy of motions, I brought myself to a climax. I collapsed onto my butt and let the water cascade over my body. Apparently my body had decided that sleeping alone was ok, but it was not to be denied at least some form of pleasure. Clean and scrubbed, I filled the tub with hot water to soak some more. At long last, I crawled out of the water, toweled off, and crawled into bed, au natural, as usual. I drifted off into a deep and restful sleep. I awoke just ahead of the nine o'clock alarm, instantly wide awake and fully refreshed for a change. Dressing was quick and painless as I once again slipped into my summer dress of as few, and skimpy items as possible. In the dining room, I had a huge, truck driver breakfast. Day two! I decided to concentrate my time viewing the downtown Lincoln sites. I started with the Lincoln home at 8th and Jackson Streets, the only home the Lincolns ever owned. The Lincoln family lived in this home for only seventeen years, from 1844 until 1861 when they left for Washington, D.C. and the White House. The home has been beautifully restored with some of the original furnishings. I next went to 6th and Adams Streets to visit the former law offices of Lincoln and Herndon above Tinsley's Store. The two partners practiced law from this building between 1843 and 1852. It was only a short hop away to visit the Old State Capital Building. This building held nearly all the state government offices of Lincoln's day. It was from here that Lincoln tried several hundred cases before the State Supreme Court, borrowed books from the state library, and used the law library. The building also contained Representatives Hall in which Lincoln served as a state legislator, gave his "House Divided" speech, and, at the end, was the place in which Lincoln's body lay in state May 3 and 4, 1865. While I was still downtown, I decided I would take the time to visit the train depot, now known as the Lincoln Depot, at 10th and Monroe Streets. This is the depot from which Lincoln departed Springfield in 1861 for Washington, D.C. and the one to which his body returned in May of 1865. The depot contains restored waiting rooms, one for women with a second one for luggage and tobacco spitting men. By the end of my visit to the train depot, it was once again well past lunch time. I motored Swifty to the nearest eatery I could find and had a very late and light lunch. I thought I might as well take in the Dana Thomas House in the time left in the afternoon. So, after paying for my lunch, Miss Swifty and I found our way over to 301 East Lawrence street. The year was 1902, and local socialite, the youngish widow Susan Lawrence Dana, hired a new and rising young architect from Chicago by the name of Frank Lloyd Wright, to remodel her family home. What remains today in fully restored form, is a prime example of one of Wright's finest Prairie Style buildings, complete with original furniture, art glass doors, windows, light fixtures, and on the lower level of the three levels, a single lane bowling alley. It was a delightful tour of a delightful house. Jen: Route 66 Kicks-Springfield Evening had descended in a rain shower as I exited the tour of the house and I was starved again. So, Swifty and I once more set off to find some more culinary delights for me and a fuel supply for her. Day two had been so chock full of activity that I groggily turned the alarm off on day three and slept through until noon. I finally managed to get up, shower, dress, and go for a slightly late lunch in the dining room of the motel. Since I'd completed my site seeing objectives earlier than planned, I decided to spend several hours shopping in downtown Springfield before once again hitting the four lane. I did more window shopping than actual buying, but I did make a few purchases. Then it was definitely time to get back on the road. There remained about one-hundred some odd miles of Illinois Route 66 before the road reached St. Louis. But first, I had to get out of Springfield. On the south end of Springfield, there has occurred a lot of realignment of the original Route 66. Pre 1930, the road ran west of Springfield for a ways and then south through Chatham, Virden, Girard and on. After 1930, the road went more directly south through Glenarm, Divernon, Waggoner and on. The two alignments eventually reached Staunton and came back together a couple of miles south of that town. Another Illinois Route 66 landmark is found a few miles beyond Waggoner at two-hudred-twenty miles past Go. This is a marble statue of the Virgin Mary with an inscription asking protection for travelers and is known as "Our Lady of the Highways." The statue was crafted in Italy and is a replica of the statue displayed at Lourdes in France. The Route 66 statue was erected in 1959 by a group of local Catholic youth organizations. The complex is sited on land owned by a local farmer, Francis Marten, whose daughter was one of the original fund raisers. By the way, Mr. Marten, in his eighties in 2001, was still tending the shrine regularly and paying for the electricity that illuminates it at night. Further down the four lane, outside another small burg, I found another piece of the original two lane Route 66. It is interesting to note, in contrast to the wide four lane, that the original Route 66 paving was of two lanes, each nine feet wide and the concrete was six to ten inches thick, depending on the subgrade. The two lanes were separated only by an expansion joint to prevent cracking. The abutting two slabs were tied together with steel rebars. Well, back on the four lane and on to St. Louis. Yahoo! Go Swifty, go! Finis ***** (Please? Whether you liked or disliked this story, constructive feedback and votes are appreciated and are strong encouragements for an author to keep producing.)