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Jen: Route 66 Kicks-St. Louis

By: caprine



[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.]

NOTE: This is number four in a series. At least chapter one should be read first, preferably all in order.

******

Miss Swifty fairly glowed as she purred down the Mother Road as we cruised toward East St. Louis. I was twenty miles from the Mississippi, the road was straight for a change, traffic was very light, and it was a cloudless, sunny day. I'd put my foot down hard on the gas pedal some time back and was doing well over a hundred miles an hour when I flashed by a crossroad and some big, roadside billboards that got my hackles up.

Sure enough, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw the flashing red gum ball machine of a black and white state squad as he blasted out from behind one of those sighs in a cloud of dust and onto the road in hot pursuit. BUSTED! SHIT!

I eased off the gas, downshifted, and rapidly slowed. The squad stayed right behind me. Yep, it was me he wanted, as if there was any doubt! The foolish thought fleetingly crossed my mind that I could probably outrun this guy, but I couldn't outrun his radio. As they say, "you can run, but you can't hide," at least not in the wide open flats of Illinois. This was not to mention that Miss Swifty didn't exactly blend into the background.

I pulled over onto the wide shoulder and stopped. Another thought flashed into my head and I said to myself, "Go for it, girl." Just as quickly, I pulled my tube top down below my boobs, placed both hands on the wheel, and waited.

The officer took his time approaching from behind as I watched in my rear view mirrors. He had to get close to read the temporary permit in the rear window. He continued forward until he got just behind me at the door.

"May I see your license and registration, please?"

I still had my back to him as I reached over to the right to get the required ducumentation from the glove box. Without leaning down quite low, he couldn't see much anyway with Miss Swifty sitting as low as she did. But then, I turned to face the door and he did lean down to look over the interior and take the proffered paperwork.

My naked boobs registered with him immediately. He dropped his ticket book into my lap and gulped. He also stared in shock.

After a pregnant pause, he muttered, "You were going rather quickly. What's your big hurry?"

"Oh, no big hurry, officer, I was just sort of daydreaming as I let the rushing wind cool me off. I guess, in my inattentiveness, my foot just got heavier and heavier."

He was young, probably inexperienced, and damned cute to boot I read his name, Ben Pistol, on his I.D. tag. Although he quickly regained his composure, he also continued to stare at my naked boobs as he talked. 

"Do you have any idea just how quickly you were going?"

"No, not really."

"Well, young lady, I clocked you at 132.45 miles an hour."

"Really. That fast? But isn't the Illinois speed limit still 'reasonable and proper' for existing conditions?"

"Yes, yes it is.'" 

He was still staring. I wondered how long he intended to delay commenting on my nakedness.

"So what's the beef then? The day is bright sunshine, good road, and little traffic at the moment.

"For one thing, that kind of speed is excessive and extremely dangerous under any conditions. You have very little reaction time in an emergency. and this is an unlimited access highway. Opportunities for disaster abound."

"Well, I will have to concede that, officer, and perhaps it would be better or safer for me to slow down, but I've not broken any traffic law to be pulled over, have I?"

"No, but you did give just cause to be pulled over for a warning. And I could also give you a ticket for public indecency."

"Oh, you noticed? When? Before you pulled me over? Because, sitting low in this closed top sports car, and at highway speeds such as I was running, it's very difficult for anyone to tell what I'm wearing or not wearing for clothes. Come now, Officer Ben, do you really want to write me a ticket, especially after the view you've been enjoying?"

"Well, not a full fledged ticket, but I will have to write you a warning ticket about the excessively dangerous speed."

He took his time writing that ticket as he still had trouble looking away from my chest. In fact, it was pretty obvious that he had drawn out this little discussion just so he could continue to ogle the merchandise. There's also the fact that he had not once told me to cover up.

Officer Ben grew a bit more bold when he thrust my warning ticket unnecessarily far into the car between the wheel and my boobs. I took the ticket from him. As he withdrew his hand, he managed to cop a two finger feel as he drug them lightly across my left nipple.

Before stepping back to his squad car, Officer Ben said, "Please drive more carefully. You're much too pretty to go through a windshield. Be careful pulling back onto the roadway."

"Thank you, sir, I will," I said as I turned the key on the dash and fired up Miss Swifty once more. When the officer was clear, I turned on the left turn signal, checked for traffic, and pulled back onto the roadway to resume my journey. For the time being, I also left my top down. 

"Unfair advantage," you scream. Well, you've likely heard the old adage, "All's fair in..." haven't you? This was not love and I had both the means and the will for the "war", so--what the hell, I used them. Besides, I really hadn't broken any law.

A few miles further down the road and nearing the metropolitan area, I decided it was time to put my top back in place. Ah, St. Louie, here I come. The last segment of Illinois Route 66 runs through East St. Louis before it crosses the Mississippi and I certainly didn't want to drive through that area half naked.

But therein lies another rub. Where to cross the river, that is. St. Louis is the largest metro area between Chicago and Los Angeles and the realignments of Route 66 through there have been many, creating a wicked maze of choices. My pre-trip plans and notes which accompanied me were extremely helpful here. I had restudied this part of the trip again the previous night.

Initially, Route 66 used the McKinley Bridge which carried traffic onto St. Louis' 9th Street. Some say this was not the highway planners' first choice, but was selected after difficulties over rights of way. Once those problems were resolved, a new stretch of road was built to link Route 66 with St. Louis' Municipal Free Bridge I think that's the one later renamed as the McArthur Bridge. Anyway, it was used from about 1929 until 1936.

The trouble was, both of those bridges led directly into central St. Louis. To create the needed by-pass, another realignment in 1936, brought Route 66 north to the the Chain of Rocks Bridge to take the road west and then south around the city. The old central crossing continued to be used as Business 66. That by-pass bridge was my next destination.

The Chain of Rocks Bridge is one of old Route 66 and Missouri's most famous and proudest landmarks. Much of its notoriety is due to the twenty-two degree bend the bridge makes before getting its approximate one mile length all the way across the river. The bend was made necessary for geological and navigational reasons as well as the limitations of technology of the day.

Of course, growing up in the Peoria, Illinois area, I knew of another iron bridge with an equally sharp bend near the west bank. "The Grey Lady" or the "Iron Maiden" which was the Franklin Street Bridge over the Illinois River with the Steak-n-Shake at the foot of the east end, right on the river bank. It just wasn't as high nor as long as the Chain of Rocks Bridge, but I was anxious to get pictures and to compare the two.

Five years after I crossed it, the Chain of Rocks Bridge would close and sit abandoned for thirty-one years. Route 66 would be rerouted further south until the I-270 by-pass and its new bridge would become the new northern by-pass. Chain of Rocks would reopen in 1999 to pedestrian and bicycle traffic only. But on this summer day in 1963, traffic was heavy in both directions on the narrow old bridge. 

I pulled off on both ends for pictures. I snapped some shots one handed as best I could while also keeping Swifty out of trouble as I crossed the bridge. I hope those moving ones won't turn out too blurry.

Because this city has been considered the "Gateway to the West" since nearly its beginnings in the 1760's, I intended to spend a day or two to take in the sights. So I elected, in advance, to turn south into the city rather than take the by-pass. I had a particular motel in mind to use as my headquarters during my stay in St. Louis.

So, as I drove on to the Missouri side, and after taking my pictures from that end of the bridge, I turned south on Riverview then onto Broadway a few miles down. The next turn was onto 7th Street and all the way "downtown" to a strong right onto Gravois for about two miles until another sharp turn onto Chippewa. 

At the intersection where Chippewa became Watson Road, I stopped at one more of the famous surviving food outlets of old Route 66. 6726 Watson Road is the location of Drewes Frozen Custard, in business at that location since 1931. The famous "concrete" made there has achieved world renown, literally. 

It's a milkshake so thick that it and the spoon will not fall out if turned upside down as is often demonstrated by a server before handing over of the order. Of course, that is what I ordered. Mine was al old menu item called "all shook up." I walked back to Miss Swifty in the parking lot to enjoy my treat.

Finished with my "concrete." I pulled back onto Watson Road and drove to 7755 and the big, neon entrance sign that proclaimed, "Coral Court Motel." The address is actually about one mile west of the St. Louis city limits. Its infamy also sounded well beyond St. Louis and Route 66 or even the United States. The motel was many things to many people.

The original ten bungalows were built in 1941-1942 and its infamy was nearly instantaneous, at least locally. To roadside fans, Coral Court was a shrine. To many St. Louisans, the motel was a rite of passage. Attending a late night prom party and escaping with a Court towel or matchbook was a must for any local teenager. 

For many who preferred to remain anonymous, the motel was the place "to get that groove on." Of course, there were always the chaste few who considered it "a monument to adultery." How did Coral Court get its reputation? 

Three reasons caused the infamy: (1) The rooms could be rented for a rest period of four or eight hours (initially created as a courtesy to truck drivers), but not actually hourly rates as is often said. (2) Every room had its own garage, so cars were hidden from passersby. The clean and cozy bungalows, with attached private garages, provided whispered asides and off-colored jokes for decades. (3) The management at Coral Court was very discreet. The legend of the motel spread across the United States and beyond.

The motel design had a big part in the reputation of the place. Those first ten units of late art deco design were built in 1941, from glazed yellow block and opaque block, large glass windows. To further make them distinctively different from any other motels, the court was made up of separate bungalows consisting of a room on each end connected by a two car garage between them, one garage for each unit. 

The first five bungalows made up the first ten rooms. By the time I arrived in 1963, the number of bungalows had expanded to look like a small village. The complex would close in 1993 and be demolished in the name of urban renewal and progress in 1995.

Anyway, I drove between the stone entrance gates and found the office. I parked Miss Swifty and got out. You can find my bragging description of my nearly full optioned, Z06, split window, coupe in chapter one. I was quite proud of that car the ten years I owned it. My room was two streets over from the office, so I got back into Miss Swifty or just Swifty, as I called her, and drove over to my room.

I drove Swifty into the provided garage and unpacked what little baggaghe I had. Sports cars have very little room for more than two people. I was also in desperate need of a shower, so the next thing I did was to strip. When I was naked, I stood in front of the full length mirror a moment to admire my twenty-two year old body. 

My "swinging" 38s were momentarily still, silver dollar sized aureole sprouting inch long, erect nipples and goose bumps. I say swinging because, in warm weather, I usually go braless in a halter or tube top and then they really do swing.

The rest of me was nothing to sneeze at either. A twenty-six inch waist and thirty-six inch hips went along with a tight, compact and nicely rounded ass. My flaming red hair, top and bottom, was set off with light green eyes and fair skin with only a tiny smattering of light freckles. I'm still athletically fit as I exercise regularly, usually a long, early morning run. Though just recently, those runs were fewer and farther between.

I'd not had a good, or any other kind, of fucking for a while and for me, that is highly unusual. I normally get fucked at least two if not three times a week. And, when I say fuck, I mean at least once to twenty times during that day. So, I was horny as a member of a sheik's harem who'd not had a visit for over a year. 

I love sex, I need sex, I want sex, so I actively seek out a fuck partner. That's both a disadvantage and an advantage for a single girl. But, with the sixties sexual revolution, among others, underway, it was not difficult at all to get fucked nearly as often as I wanted. 

While thinking about these naughty and erotic thoughts, I rubbed my 38s with one hand and played with my pussy with the other hand. The erotic electricity generated by these actions soon did grab my attention and I continued in earnest. 

I did a three sixty in front of the mirror, craning my neck to keep watching my image while keeping my hands moving. My tingling pussy suddenly got very wet as pussy juice began bubbling out and down my thighs. My middle finger was running up and down my slit, sliding up and under my expanding clit. That miniature penis responded by telescoping way out, swelling into quite a fat little sausage.

I reached into the shower and turned on the taps just before I shuddered into a powerful orgasm. When I got my breath back, I stepped into the shower and cleaned myself up. Finished, I stepped out and toweled myself dry before trying to decide what to wear out to supper.

Finally, I decided on a light, summer print dress with a fairly short hem line. No panties and no bra. I would have to watch any backlighting--my naked body would be perfectly silhouetted through the thin dress. My bare feet slid into my sandals and I put a gold chain and cross around my neck.

The little entrance area of the room had two doors. One led directly outside and the other led through into the garage. I went into the garage and back to the overhead door to open it. As it opened, a man was revealed, standing in front of the garage door to the other room. I judged him to be in his mid thirties. 

He said, "Hi, I'm Justin Jackson. I'm a state sales manager for Red Foot Shoes and I'm staying in the room on this end of our bungalow. Are you headed out for something to eat? I hate eating alone."

"Yes. And I don't like to eat alone either." 

"Well then, would you care for my company to an eating establishment on this beautiful evening?" 

Would I care? Duh, he was the answer to my prayer. I just hoped he was capable of holding up to what was in store for him tonight when my pent-up sexual lust was unleashed. 

"Just let me back my car out and hop in," I answered.

I'd both door windows open on Swifty, so I heard the long, low whistle Justin emitted as I backed the car out into full view. He opened the door and fell in. 

"Some fucking set of wheels."

"Fucking is the operable word there, Justin." 

It only took a few minutes for Justin to direct me to a dinner club with entertainment. As we entered, the Maitre d' greeted us with, "Good evening Mr. Jackson, your usual table?" 

"Well," I thought, "This could get very interesting. I wonder how many other ladies he's escorted to dinner here!"

We were ushered to a small, secluded alcove that overlooked a nearby stage about two feet below us, close enough to be within spitting distance. We could see directly onto the stage, but only a couple of other tables of diners could see us. Of course, anyone on the stage could see us if they were so inclined. We were sitting facing each other with the stage off to our side.

We had a sumptuous, five course meal to the accompaniment of some very romantic music played by a string quartet. All during the meal, Justin looked into my eyes or at the rest of me and mentally undressed me. 

While he looked, he also had a stocking foot constantly rubbing my inner thighs under my dress. As dessert was served, he moved the foot onto my pussy. Upon finding my pussy naked, a big smile of satisfaction appeared on his face.

Then, incongruously, because of it's content contrasting with the the surroundings, with dessert also came the floor show. The string quartet played very beautiful, classical, romantic songs as a gorgeous young couple came on stage and did a slow, romantic, strip dance! 

Languidly, sensuously, erotically, and ever so slowly, they stripped each other as they danced. When the couple were both naked, the man stepped up and into the female with his long lance, and it was long, very long. They embraced tightly as they continued to slow dance coupled together.

The dance shortly became more of a swaying in place as they began to thrust into one another, again in slow motion. In a few moments, all motion stopped except for a final, mutual, and very deep thrust that produced a very obvious orgasm in both partners. 

In me too! It also looked as if Justin might have "creamed his jeans" as well, I was diddling his cock hard enough with my bare foot.

The two dancers slowly uncoupled with sensuous grace and walked off the stage, arm in arm, each head on the other's shoulder to the thunderous applause of the dinners. 

WoW! A live, nude, sex show in 1963, in that kind of setting? I don't know how they did it, or who paid whom off to permit it, but I guess anything is possible in the big city.

Shortly thereafter, the waiter brought the bill on a small silver tray. Justin laid his credit card on top and the waiter left only to return soon with the card. I didn't get a look at the total bill, but it had to be a whopper. Justin and I then rose and left the club. 

The Valet brought the car around and I drove us back to the Coral Court and our rooms. As I pulled up to my side, I asked, "Would you like to come in for a night cap and...?" 

Justin's reply was, "I thought you were never going to ask!" 

So, Justin got out, opened my garage door, and I drove Swifty in and parked. Justin opened the door for me and followed me in. I turned around and we fell into each other's arms in a passionate, French kiss. Our mouths opened. Tongues entwined. Lips smashed together again in a hard grind. Hands roamed. 

Justin's pants tented out big time. My pantyless pussy was drenching my thighs. I ripping off Justin's shirt and then his undershirt. The buckle on his belt gave way to my tugging and I jerked his pants down, shorts and all.


Jen: Route 66 Kicks-St. Louis



Out sprang a fairly short cock at full stand up attention. Short, but packed in a startling girth. That fuck stick was already drooling cock cream, the precum long gone. Justin had my dress off in a whisk and we stood there, face to face, naked and panting in heat. He could see my pussy was sopping wet, so he just walked into me and kept walking until he had my back up against a wall. 

It happened to be the curved glass block window part of the wall. With the room lights full on as they were, I'm sure we were perfectly silhouetted, however opaquely blurred, in full view of anyone who happened to look. No matter, up against the glass bricks I went and then, as I jumped my legs around his waist, I was quickly and expertly impaled by his fleshy lance. 

Well, not quite. His pecker was so fat, it took a bit of effort before he got all the way in to his balls. But then, like a raging bull, Justin slammed into me so hard and fast against that glass brick wall that I wore the imprint of the glass design for the next twenty-four hours. 

After no more than six of these power strokes, we both shot off like Fourth of July Roman candles. In my case, I screamed like a banshee, high and shrill. In justin's case, he just kept moaning. I was squeezed against that glass wall with so much force, I couldn't get my breath back fast enough.

Justin finally dropped my legs to the floor and eased the pressure enough that I could at last gasp in some breaths, or I would have collapsed limp and blue to the floor. He ended up, as I planned, staying for the whole night. We fucked and sucked away most of it, finally collapsing in a naked spoon and got a few hours sleep before dawn.

We got up just after full light and had a nice fuck and suck in the shower before Justin picked up his tattered clothing and kissed me goodbye. He had to head out for Chi town and a meeting while I was headed west across all three-hundred-seventeen miles of Missouri to the Kansas/Oklahoma border corner where 66 dives into Oklahoma, but not before I got to see a bit more of St. Louis.

After Justin left, I scanned the phone book for an appropriate shop to purchase a cocktail dress. I wanted to go pub-crawling and dancing in the evening. Meanwhile, I would make the necessary clothing purchases and do some sight-seeing.

I ended up with a black velvet cocktail dress of the strapless and sleeveless variety. The black, plastic purse and black patent leather heels looked very nice with the dress. I already had the single strand, neck choker of pearls. My jewelry stash also contained a single strand pearl bracelet.

Miss Swifty then took me into the center of St. Louis to the site of Forest Park that was home to the 1904 World's Fair. Not much was left of the buildings from that time except for a large pavilion and remnants of the landscaping.

But the park does contain venues for golf and museum browsing. I spent a lot of time hitting the highlights of the Art Museum and the History Museum. I also cruised along the western edge of the park around Washington University and a ways east of the park around St. Louis University just so I could say I'd been there.

I found my way back to the downtown area to the Old Courthouse. That, I did want to see. It was the courthouse in which the 1856 Dredd Scott law suit began. Losing, the case was taken to the U.S. Supreme Court in 1857 where the decision rendered said, in effect, that slaves taken into free states by their master, or otherwise, remained slaves. It was one of the many sparks that burst into the conflagration four years later known as the American Civil War.

During my ramblings around in the court house, I noticed an Air Force Second Lieutenant, in uniform, following me around but trying very hard to look like he was not doing so. I was in my usual summer attire, so I exposed a lot of cleavage and ass cheek from time to time. His tongue was near wagging.

After I'd seen about all the courthouse I was interested in, I finally turned to the officer and asked, "Is there something you're interested in, Lieutenant?"

He stuttered around a bit in shocked surprise. Visibly pausing for a moment of thought, he firmly just let it all hang out when he answered with, "Yeah, I think you might say that."

"Well, Lieutenant, guessing your interest and hoped for intentions, I've led us back to an apparently little used hall and a room that might suit our purposes. A quickie might be in order, if you're so inclined."

The look on his face was priceless. A look that said he couldn't believe his luck. He truly did look to be in shock, if only for a couple of seconds. I read his I.D. tag.

"Well, Lieutenant Wheeler, shall we repair to the room?"

"the name's James. Do lead on, uh, ah...'

"Sorry, my name is Jen."

"Pleased to meet cha, Jen."

"We'll see about that in a minute, Lieutenant, er, James."

The bulge in his uniform pants was quite visible.

Once in the room, James pulled me into a tight clinch, his hands on my ass, pulling my pussy into his hard boner. I wiggled down to his belt, opened it and the fly, and dropped his pants and skivvies to the floor. His cock was neither large nor small, but something in-between. But it was definitely standing hard and tall.

My hands and mouth soon had some real moans issuing from his mouth. He was really horny and came close to climax in very short order. I didn't want that. I wanted a quick fuck, so I stopped my attention to his cock and stood up.

I walked backward to the dusty table in the corner, dropping my shorts to the floor and stepping out of them as I backed up. My naked pussy was glistening west from my pussy juices, drawing his attentive stare quite easily.

James' attention was so fixated on my pussy that I don't think he even noticed my crooked finger calling for him to follow me. He was following my pussy like a stallion following a mare in heat. Maybe that really wasn't that far from the truth.

When my bare ass bumped the end of the table, I sat. I spread my legs wide and leaned back on my elbows. James needed no further invitation. He dived head first into my blatantly exposed pussy with his mouth and tongue. I didn't need very much of that. I was wet enough before I ever hit the table.

"Enough, James. Fuck me. Fuck me now."

So he did. Neither of us lasted very long. He shot his wad first which pushed me over the edge to my climax. Mine was good, but I've had better. This was just too rushed.

"I hope you're satisfied, because that's all I've got time for now. I'm sorry if that seems like a female version of 'Wham bam, thank you Ma'am,' but that's just the way it is this time. I told you it was going to be just a quickie. As soon as I catch my breath, I've got to get going."

As I dressed and cooled off, I asked James a question or two.

"Why do I see so many Air Force people around.

"Because Scott Air Force Base is just over twenty miles from here and as long as we show up for duty on time, our off duty time is our own--within reason." For the Air Force, it's much like any civilian workday, at least stateside and in peacetime.

"What goes on out there at the base?"

"It's the Headquarters home of MATS. That's the Military Air Transportation System to you civilians."

"What do you do there?"

"Not much. As an Air Force Academy graduate of one year and in my first posting, I'm little more than a paper pushing/carrying gofer for the time being."

We parted shortly thereafter with James leaving about five minutes or so ahead of me. I walked out into the very late afternoon sunshine. Miss Swifty got me back to the Coral Court in time for a beer and a sandwich. I had time to get ready for my pub crawling night.

My target for the evening was the fabled entertainment area known as Gaslight Square, a compact thriving entertainment district that was far more notorious than New Orleans Bourbon Street at the time. It occupied an area surrounding Olive and Boyle Streets In the Central West End. I left Swifty in the garage and called a cab. I wasn't at all sure I'd be able to drive home.

The cabbie seemed to look back at me in the rearview mirror more than at the road ahead. 'Course, my short skirt and spread legs might have been the cause. This time, I had donned a miniscule strapless bra and tiny bikini panties, so the cabbie only got a partial view. My attire still had him nearly drooling.

"Eyes front, cabbie, before you rear-end someone."

He reluctantly returned his eyes to the street ahead. But I still caught him looking several times and hoping to see more. He got lucky when he stopped to let me out at the square. My thin strip of panty had pulled up into my crotch so far and tight, it was if I had worn none. The entire outer lips of my pussy were exposed.

The fare turned out an unlikely even amount. I paid through the passenger side front window and said, "You already got your tip--the eye candy you so enjoyed. See ya."

As I walked further into Gaslight Square, the original music was everywhere and nearly overwhelmed me. The streets were lined with packed clubs and restaurants, and after hours coffeehouse discussions still fondly remembered by many.

The area was founded by the "beatniks" of the early 1950's. It was a time before orbiting satellites, the internet, cell phones, and mass electronic media. The founders were of the generation that began questioning traditional majority values in art, literature, and political self-expression.

Like New York's Greenwich Village, the central hub of The Beat Generation, Gaslight Square helped construct this important alternative American scene. Writers Jack Kerouac and Alan Ginsberg and others traveling coast to coast would make that deliberate stop in St. Louis to witness Gaslight Square. 

I wanted to experience it too.

Many top entertainers such as The Smothers Brothers, Lenny Bruce, Miles Davis, Barbara Streisand, Jackie Gregory, Jack E Leonard, and Phyllis Diller, graced the stages of Gaslight Square early in their careers. 

The area boasted of live jazz, poetry, great food, Irish dancing, and street cars. It would take a half hour to go two blocks by auto. Gaslight Square was truly a unique hot area of sophisticated entertainment. And I sure intended to enjoy as much of it as I could. 

Little did I know that night that Gaslight Square was soon to fall victim to suburban flight and urban decay in the surrounding areas and would be dead by 1975. Oh, the area would drag on and spend many years as a home to sleazy bars, the last of which would close in 1990.

By the late 1990's, even most of the buildings were long gone. Those that remained stood open and rapidly deteriorating. Not a trace of Gas Light Square remains today. The revival would wait for a later revitalization in the form of Laclede's Landing.

The area formerly known as Gaslight Square is slated to become a complex of 150 or more condominiums.

I don't know if I toured the whole lot or not. I just walked block after block, eating, drinking, listening, and dancing some 'til nearly cockcrow. The area really lived up to its reputation. I even got a peek at a Lenny Bruce performance. Too damned foul mouthed and lewd for me. Not my idea of comedy.

A number of good looking studs made passes at me, but I brushed them off until just before I was ready to return to the motel. I suddenly spotted a familiar face. Damned if it wasn't Illinois State Trooper Ben what's his name. One and the same who'd pulled me over back the other side of East St. Louis. He hadn't seen me yet.

"Whoo boy," I thought," here's my chance to have a little fun and maybe more."

He was standing with a group of four other studs. I circled wide around where he was standing and tried to stay hidden by people as I did so. I managed to come up behind him without being seen.

"Pull it over, buddy, you're busted"

He was obviously startled, but as he turned around to face me, his jaw dropped in instantaneous recognition. His face changed from a frown to an ear-to-ear smile.

"Well, my young lady Godiva, what brings you to these questionable environs in the wee, wee hours of the night?"

"Probably the same thing that brought you, getting drunk enough to get laid, maybe?"

"Whooee! Listen to this skirt!" Chimed one of Ben's buddies. "You'd better grab her before one of us does, Ben."

"Are you with anyone, Jen?"

"Oh, how sweet. He even remembered my name."

"Hard to forget it under the circumstances that we met, Jen."

"No, in answer to you question about a companion. Are you?"

"Yes, but it's just these four guys and they can look out for themselves if need be. But I rode instead of drove. I don't suppose you have any old rattle trap handy, do you?"

The four studs with Ben had not taken their eyes off me from the moment I joined their little group. Their tongues were practically hanging out as they hung on every word between Ben and I.

"Oh, I think some sort of transportation might be arranged," I flipped, "If you can condescend to such levels as a taxi. You see, I didn't drive either. I rode."

"Well then, allow me." Ben said as he offered me his arm, "and lead on to the nearest taxi stand for our conveyance out of here and the presence of these four idiots."

The four stud "idiots" just stared some more as Ben and I walked off, arm in arm and giggling. We walked some distance before we managed to snag a cab for the rather long ride to the Coral Court and my room.

As we snuggled close on that ride, I asked, "Is there a Mrs. Ben who will miss you if you don't come home tonight?"

Ben's deep laugh rumbled before he answered with, "No, Jen, I'm single, twenty-seven, in my first month on the State Police force, and just out for a night of fun and womanizing with some pals from the post. None of us had got lucky yet. Then you showed up. What about you?"

"I'm twenty-three, single, and right now, horny as hell!"

"My, you certainly tell it like it is, don't you. I should've figured that from the way I found you at that traffic stop."

"Don't judge a book by its cover, or lack of one, but yeah, I let it all hang out, pun intended, and tell it like it is."

"To tell you the truth, Jen, I've been lusting after you ever since I pulled you over and you bared your boobs at me with your little tease. God, they're sure beautiful. You're beautiful, incredibly beautiful, sexy, and just God damned all woman."

"Ooh, flattery will get you everywhere!" I chuckled. "Where do you live and how will you get back there--later?"

"I live in Mascoutah, a little more than half an hour from St. Louis on the Illinois side of the river. I can get either a limo, a bus, or a cab back home--no problem. I have an efficiency apartment there. What brings you to this part of the country?"

"I'm on a cross country trip to travel the length of the Mainstreet of America from Chicago to Santa Monica. Lake Michigan to the Pacific. So, for the present, I'm footloose and fancy free."

"I guess you mean Route 66. Must be nice to be that free and independent. By the way, I didn't catch what you told the driver. Where are we headed?"

"Yes, it is nice. And we're headed for the Coral Court Motel. I've a room there for tonight and tomorrow night. I knew I'd need a place to headquarters for sight seeing and to recover from pub crawling. And that's not to mention for illicit activities that I might find interesting."

"Well, you certainly picked the right place for the latter. Smart thinking."

"You know, Ben, I think that I've lusted after you as well since our first meeting. I just never thought it would come to be. You aren't half bad to feast the eyes on yourself.

By now, dear readers, you're probably thinking, no scratch that. You are utterly convinced by now, what a sleazy little slut she, meaning me, is. Well, maybe I am, but I told you back at the start in Chicago that I fully embraced the tenants of the 1960's Women's Liberation Movement and the so-called sexual revolution, full tilt, even before those terms became official.

And what would you call a male who roamed around from conquest to conquest? It's OK for the gander, but not for the goose? A male gets another notch in his pecker and his buddies lift a few in honor of the newest conquest. The lady is a tramp. Damn the double standard.

And that lifestyle is very different from that of my parents' generation. But it's not so very different from the twenty-first century except that there, the lifestyle is not so earth-shatteringly new and is out in the open without apology, for better or worse.

It would likely take a shrink, nay, a bevy of shrinks to even begin to explain why we women in general, and I in particular, embraced those times like we did in the 1960's.

Well, be that as it may, the cabbie took us inside the court to my unit. He'd certainly been all ears on our trip. Ben paid the fare plus tip. It was much to dark for the cabbie to grab more than his earsful, no eye candy for this one.

We got inside and the let down from the long night set in. we got each other out of our clothes, I got as far as my back on the bed, and Ben got his face between my legs. He promptly fell asleep Out cold. I giggled and also went dead out asleep. Jeeze.

I eased blearily into consciousness around noon. My movement jarred Ben, still with his face between my legs, awake. we slowly came to the realization that the foul smell was emanating from the two of us. We just plain stunk to high heaven.

"Ben, I do believe a good, soapy shower is our first priority of the day."

"Truer words were never before spoken, I do believe. Come on, let's do it together."

Ben slid off the end of the bed on his stomach, feet first, as if he were water slipping over a dam. I sat up, slid my legs to the side of the bed, and promptly fell on my ass on floor as I tried to stand. Ben helped me up and, together, we stumbled into the shower.

The hot water was a relaxing tonic. So was what followed. Ben got a stiff boner following me from the bed to the bath/shower. We got warm water and stepped in to let the warm liquid wash over us. After a long soak, Ben picked up the soap and went to work on my body.

That's where the fun started. He turned me into the wall and started on my neck, soaping down my shoulders, back, and onto my ass cheeks. He had me all tingly with that action. The tingling only increased as he soaped down each thigh and calf down to my feet.

When he came back up to my ass crack, I almost lost it. Ben turned me around before I could climax and again started a my neck and soaped his way down. He spent a long time on my boobs and nipples. The tingling came back with a vengeance.

Ben worked on down to my pubis but then by-passed my pussy to go down each leg to my feet once more with the soap. Then he worked back up to my pussy. I spread my legs to give him access. In my hyper-horny condition, it only took him ten seconds of finger work in my pussy crevice and on my clit to bring me to a blasting climax.

Then with a big grin, he handed me the soap. I did his back first just as he did mine first. As I worked his ass and the crack between his cheeks, I could see his cock really twitch and pulse in anticipation when I peeked around his side.

Finishing his back, I turned Ben around to do the front side. His big hardon speared me in my belly as I reached up to begin at his neck and work my way down. His nipples were as sensitive as mine and my work on them brought precum bubbling from his pecker.

I also skipped his genital area on my way to his feet. Well, I did give him a quick mouth clamp over his pecker head as I passed by. I though he'd come when I did that, but he managed to hold himself in check.

When I did get to his cock and balls, I stroked him slowly up and down with one of my soapy hands. The other soapy hand played with his balls. I switched hands a couple of times before I put both hands to work on his cock. One hand stroked and the other gave his glans a palm rub when it popped out of his foreskin on my down stroke.




Jen: Route 66 Kicks-St. Louis



It didn't take long with all that stroking and petting. With a loud groaning moan, Ben shot out ropy string after ropy string of cum straight onto my belly and tits. I wouldn't call it the proverbial ton of cum that some talk about, but it was a God awful lot.

Ben grabbed hold of me in a tight bear hug to keep from falling. He nearly took us both down in the wet and soap slippery shower. We just stood there holding each other and let the warm water cascade over us in a steamy rinse.

"Shall we take this to the bed, Jen?"

I grabbed hold of his still very rigid cock and nodded. I'd found a really nice fuck stick and I was far from done with it. Ben smacked my ass and then pinched on to a nipple. I don't know who led whom to the bed, but we made it there without tripping.

It was three in the afternoon before we once more surfaced for air and another cleansing shower. Indeed, I had definitely found a very nice fuck stick. His hands, tongue, and lips weren't bad either.

But all good things eventually have to come to an end.

"Unfortunately, Jen, I've got to go on duty at five. I guess I'd best get cracking if I hope to check in at the post on time. I'll call a cab to run me back to Mascoutah."

Ben quickly showered and dressed in his civvies. The cab pulled up just as he finished. We exchanged contact information and said our good-byes. He kissed me with passion.

"I won't forget this time we had together, Jen. I'm glad now that I didn't give you that moving violation when I pulled you over. And don't worry, the cab fare home is well worth the time I spent with you."

My thoughts were all ajumble. I don't know if I'll ever see him again, but I'd sure like to. As I watched from the shadows behind the front door, he stepped into the cab and was gone. I was still naked and was ravenously hungry. First things first. I got dressed and then went out for a good supper. 

Since I was about worn out, I figured to spend the night alone and get some real rest before resuming my trek down Old Route 66. Consequently, I awoke the next morning, quite refreshed and rarin' to go.

After checking out, I steered Miss Swifty out the entrance gate and turned right onto Route 66 about nine thirty that morning. After a pit stop a few miles down the road for brunch and two more pit stops to pee, I pulled off at Carthage some time later.  

I wanted to make a short stop to survey the home town of the infamous and would be outlaw, Belle Starr. Her daddy, John Shirley, was a respected businessman in town before the Civil War. His business interests occupied nearly a whole city block on one side of the town square.

Back on the road, I breezed through Stanton, three-hundred-fifty-eight miles past Go, even though it was the gateway to the famous Meramec Caverns that had been advertised all along the road since leaving Chicago. I had no real interest in crawling, walking, or boating through a bunch of caves.

At four-hundred-Six miles past Go, Miss Swifty and I rolled into Rolla, Missouri for a pit stop for both me and the car. It was here, in 1931, that a massive St. Patrick's Day celebration and parade of covered wagons and cars two miles long was held to mark the completion of concreting the last segment of Missouri Route 66.

The first segment concreted in the standard eighteen foot roadway was between Carthage and Joplin in the year 1920. Rolla had always been an important staging post for travelers. Riders once watered their horses at Martin Springs, just outside of town.  

The area is dotted with roadside outlets offering food, accommodations, and gas. I was talking with the gas station attendant when he told me about a place I might want to stop and see just north of Jerome, some fifteen miles further down the road. I told him it sounded interesting and I'd probably indeed stop.

Pulling back onto the hardroad, I motored on just five miles to near Arlington. There, like many other places along the entire route, can be seen the deteriorating remains of past businesses with the same purpose. In this case, a sign and some abandoned, rotting log cabins are all that remain of John's Modern Tourist Cabins.

The scene is typical of the many now closed businesses where cash registers used to ring merrily, but are now only dim memories. Realignments of the Mother Road, especially when the four lane was built, is the causal factor of the decay. The new limited access Interstate roads cut just about all of the little people out of the traffic pattern.

I turned Miss Swifty off the Mother Road at Jerome and, following the directions I'd been given, headed for the Larry Baggett place. My historical interest had been piqued when I was told back in Rolla that Mr. Baggett had built a monument to the Cherokee Indian "Trail of Tears incident.

That story is about what resulted from the presidential order of President Andrew Jackson to remove all Indians in the United States below the Ohio River and east of the Mississippi River to Indian Territory which later became the state of Oklahoma. 

It was a sad, 1838 trek by foot under military escort. The trek occurred in the dead of winter for the 15,000 remaining Cherokee Indians who had resisted the move for a number of years. It became known as the "Trail of Tears" after nearly one-quarter of the Indians died along the way of disease, starvation, and exposure to the bitter cold. 

Mr. Baggett's story and his monument are not as well known as the event he commemorates, but after several television interviews and a special television broadcast in Britain, his story is getting better known. Grandiose plans for the memorial were abandoned after the death of his wife.

What he ended up building was a stone wall and an arch at the entrance to his property. He claims he soon began to be awakened in the middle of the night by a knocking on his door, but that he found no one there when he opened same.

Some years later, with the middle of the night door knockings unabated, Baggett claims he was visited by an old Cherokee Indian, whom Baggett claimed, looked to be well over one-hundred years of age. This Indian related to Baggett the story of the "Trail of Tears," which of course, Baggett already knew.

The crux was that the Indian supposedly told Baggett to build a set of steps on both sides of the wall because his wall lay athwart the trail the Indians used at that point. According to his visitor, the Indian "Spirits" could not get over the wall. Baggett built the stairs and he claims the door knocking finally stopped.

Well, I just had to see that wall. I pulled up to the arched entrance and stopped. I got out of Miss Swifty and just sort of prowled along the stone edifice. I turned to retrace my steps back to Miss Swifty and walked right into, or should I say through, an old Indian warrior!

He looked as real as life and it sent real chills up and down my spine. The apparition climbed the stone stairs and wend down the other side. I just stood there, trembling and shaking.

I was somewhat shaken after the incident back in Illinois on Elkhart Ridge, but this was REALLY disturbing. A second time for ghosts? I'd never considered myself a psychic and had never, before Elkhart anyway, ever had an experience anything like this.

What the hell was going on? I was beginning to get a little scared and then some.

After I calmed down, I got back on the road and, at four-hundred-thirty-five miles past Go, I flashed past the little burg of Waynesville. That meant I was within five miles of Fort Leonard Wood, the United States Army's premier training facility that has been in use since its construction in 1940.

Over the succeeding decades, many a young man would pass through its Basic Training Course--on their journey to the battlefields of WW II and then those of Vietnam and beyond. I knew of it because a number of my male high school classmates who did not want or could not afford to go to college went there either by the draft or by voluntary enlistment before the draft drew their number.

I didn't stop.

Further down the road, I was running on the fifteen mile stretch of road between Carthage and Joplin. This was the first stretch of paved road to be laid in Missouri, as I said earlier. It was originally named State Route 14 and was built to accommodate the heavy traffic created by zinc and lead mining in the area.

The stretch of road was incorporated into Route 66 after 1926. The rest of Missouri Route 66 was totally paved by the mid thirties, making Missouri and Illinois two states to complete the statewide paving of their portions of the Mother Road quite early in the game. 

As I just said, I was traveling along this historic stretch of the road just a few miles short of Joplin when something went very definitely wrong with Miss Swifty. She suddenly backfired first, then bucked wildly a time or two, and then slowed considerably as the engine began to miss very badly. Nothing happened when I pressed down on the accelerator.

The loss of power from the badly missing engine had me down to forty miles an hour before I shifted into neutral and let her coast before I lost all momentum. The last mile into Joplin, five-hundred-eighty-seven miles past Go, was a nerve wracking mile.  

I coasted to a stop so slowly I think I could've stuck my foot out the door and dragged it for an effective stop. I had rolled, on a by then dead engine, into a relatively modern looking service station. Fortunately for me, it had a big sign in the window that read, "Mechanic on Duty." God, I hoped the mechanic knew something about Corvettes.

Without really looking since I was only interested in getting Miss Swifty safely off the road, I ended up in front of one of the two service bays. I shifted into first gear, set the hand brake, and just collapsed over the steering wheel in fear and frustration. 

Brand new car and now major trouble? I almost cried. I heard boots thudding on the concrete drive and looked up. A gangly teenager, in late high school or just graduated, walked up to me with a silly ass grin on his face.

"Something wrong, miss?"

"Fuck, no," I thought, "a new car always runs without a sound and no power like this one just did, you little idiot."

What I said out loud was, "Yeah, I think I got a real problem here. I would like to talk to the mechanic on duty." And silently, "I hope to hell it's not you."

"Well, that be him a commin' thisa way now," was the idiot's reply.

My jaw dropped to my chest, my heart nearly quit, and I think I really did stop breathing for a moment or two. Heading my direction was one of the most god awful looking creatures I've ever seen.

"Could he actually be a mechanic?" I asked myself. "Jeeze, I'm in really deep shit now."

What I saw was a middle aged or so man, ugly as sin, who looked to be barely five foot tall. He had a paunch that were he a woman, I'd of guessed him to be nine months pregnant. 

He wore bib overalls as dirty and grease stained as I've ever seen with an overlay of tobacco juice that must've been layers deep. He wore no shirt, so his exceptionally hairy upper body and arms stuck out all over and were equally dirt and grease encrusted as his overalls.

His face sprouted a full beard and mustache that, thankfully, covered some of his ugly face. His hair and beard grew in wild profusion and was as dirty and unkempt as the rest of his body. I don't think his hair or beard had seen a bath or a barber for months.

"OH MY GOD. Tell me it's not true," I whispered to myself. "Tell me this isn't the mechanic! Miss Swifty's done. She can't go any further without some real TLC by someone who knows what they're doing. This backyard mechanic probably doesn't know a socket from a box end wrench."

"Name's Abner. Want me to take a look?"

"We, uh, well, this car, uh, you know it, uh, cost..."

He cut me off by asking, "What's the problem, Missy? You think maybe I don't know my way round a nice car like that? Think I might mess it up worse than it is?"

"Uh, we, well I..."

Once again he cut me off by saying, "Foller me, Missy."

Dumbly, I did. He took me around back of the service station to another building. A large building. He opened a small walk door and very gentlemanly, ushered me in. I repeated my performance of a few minutes ago when I was sitting in Miss Swifty. My jaw dropped, my heart sped up, and my breathing nearly stopped.

In front of me sat several spectacular cars.

"That first one over there on the left, Missy? That one's a 1932 Ford HighBoy Roadster. She's got the original flat head V-8 in 'er. Course, that engine was hopped up quite a little with Offenhauser high compression heads, Stromberg carbs, and a few other goodies available in the late forties.

But nothing was used on her other than what was available back then for hot rodding an engine. Yep, I built 'er myself as a teenager in 1947."

"Oh my," was all I could manage to whisper.

"Then there's that second one on the left. You should recognize that un."

"Yes. It appears to be a '61 or '62 Vette set up for racing."

"It's a '62. I built her some time ago and have had her in a race or two. Someone else drove her though. I just build 'em, I don't race 'em."

Again, I just said a quiet, "Oh my."

"That third one over there? That's a '49 Merc. Also a flat head V-8 as rodded out as 1949, when I built 'er, would allow with available parts of the time. I've built ten such cars over my career and still keep all of them tuned and running. A few were built for bootleg runners in the Ozarks."

Turning beet red with embarrassment, I stuttered, "I'm so sor-, uh, I didn't kn, uh, I had no..." 

"'Course you didn't. It's OK, Missy, no offense taken. You aren't the first one and you won't be the last one to doubt my ability. I'm quite aware I don't rightly look like a newly minted factory trained mechanic. Might be we should go back now and take a look at yours?"

We walked back out front to Miss Swifty. Abner said, "Get in, take 'er out of gear and release the emergency brake. Don't try to start 'er up. We'll push you into the bay."

With that, Abner yelled at the kid and the two of them pushed us inside the bay.

"Missy, whyn't you go into the front room where it's nice and cool while I look over your car? You'll be much more comfortable than out here in this heat and humidity."

So, I walked into the sales front room, paid for a Coke, and sat down to try to relax and cool off. I was no longer anxious or worried about the care Miss Swifty would get. Abner's little show had completely convinced me. As a matter of fact, after finishing my Coke, I drifted off and dozed just a bit. 

Anyway, an hour and a half later, the kid gently shook my shoulder and then, laughing like a hyena, he yelled, "WAKE UP!"

I sure did, but as I leaned forward quite quickly in startled reaction, the chair slid back fairly hard and the chair arm hit the kid squarely between his legs. He stopped laughing.

When I walked over to the glass door separating the sales area from the service bays, I saw the hood on Miss Swifty was down. I'd checked on progress once earlier before I dozed off and had seen fender aprons spread carefully all around the engine compartment. So I knew I'd find her just as clean as I'd left her.

Abner motioned for me to come to the car. "Get in and start 'er up."

I did and I had the old Miss Swifty back! She ticked over with her usual solid, smooth growl at idle. I revved her some and let the pipes cackle. God, did she ever sound good again.

"Alright, back 'er out and park 'er on the side and come back in. I'll tell you what I found."

When I got back in the sales room, Abner told me, "To make a long story short, the fuel injection system had some serious adjustment problems and several other related little devilments. She's better than new now. Don't believe you'll have any more problems with 'er."

I paid the bill and gave Abner a handsome tip. He tried to refuse the tip.

"Please, Abner, I'm so grateful I found a qualified mechanic right off the bat and got Miss Swifty back so soon and so well repaired. Please, I insist you take the tip."

He reluctantly did. I thanked him again. I was so happy I just walked over to him, put my arms around him, and planted a really wet one right on his mouth. He was startled as he blushed through his beard.

"Awe, phshaw," is what I think he said.

Abner followed me as I walked back out to Miss Swifty. As I got in, he said, "Drive carefully, Missy, but she is well and truly fixed, so don't be afraid to run her if you're of a mind ter."

I thanked him once again and then pulled onto the hard road with a touch of rubber with each upshift. But I restrained myself to the speed limit until I got further down the road. I also took a Kleenex to the corner of my mouth to wipe off the bit of tobacco juice I had somehow picked up.

Some time later, as I approached the Missouri State line, I discovered an urgent need to pee again. I pulled of when I saw a modern, truck stop type restaurant and fueling station. I pulled in an parked in front of the all glass wall dinning room. 

I got out of Miss Swifty to the admiring stares of a large number of males at tables closest to that glass wall and of male truck drivers ambling around on the lot and fuel pumps. I don't know which they ogled harder, me or the car. Both I imagine.

I walked in and headed directly for the women's john, I needed that pee in the worst way. After the "pause that refreshes," I exited the john and headed into the restaurant where I took a stool at the counter. I ordered coffee and a really hearty supper of steak, eggs, fries, and more coffee to rebuild my strength. Oh, and I had cherry pie with ice cream for my dessert.

Leaving money on the counter for the bill and tip, I walked into the broad hallway for the exit. Half way to the door, a middle aged trucker walked up beside me. Bubba, as I would later learn to call him, was not especially good looking. In fact, he was ugly as sin. 

His gut was beginning to hang over his belt buckle, his hair was thinning, and he was generally overweight by at least twenty-five pounds, likely more. His face wasn't exactly ugly, but neither was it handsome. I wasn't really interested in another fuck right at that time, especially with that particular specimen.

When he spoke, he asked, "You lookin' for a ride gal?"

"No, I have my own wheels." 

"I know, I saw," he said, "but that's not the kind of ride I meant." 

"Well," I asked, "just what kind of ride did you have in mind then?" 

"I was talking about a pole ride, a stiff pole ride, if you take my meaning!" 

"Oh, I take your meaning all right, but I'm not sure I see such a stiff pole in the vicinity and I'm not particularly interested anyway." 

"Well, now missy, I got thirteen inches of stiff pole sliding down my pant leg because it's too big to tent my pants."

Well, as I said, I really hadn't intended to take him seriously and the time out for another fuck session quite this soon. But, thirteen inches? On a white man? That I had to see. If nothing else, just to prove he was fibbing me. 

"Well now, that might make a difference. I surely would hanker to see that!" Besides, I thought, I'll just pretend there's a sack over his head.

"You'll more than see it, missy. So follow me out to my truck, if you're of a mind to."

We walked across the truck parking area to the third row and came to a shinning black and chrome Peterbuilt reefer standing proud in the sun. I almost had to get out my sunglasses, there was so much chrome reflecting the sun. 

The massive grill, sun visor, and the black color gave the aura of dark, forbidding, power and mystery. It was almost overpowering. Especially when you add on the fact of the small cabin sized sleeper on the back of the cab. It was a custom triple or more wide equivalent.