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The Scenic Route

By: Cal Y. Pygia



Ahead, the desert highway was flooded. But for Rose's own car, a cherry red 2008 Ford Mustang, the route had been empty for the past half hour. It was no surprise that the road had been nicknamed "The Loneliest Highway in America." The loneliness was fine with Rose, though. In fact, she preferred to be the only motorist traveling the highway at this time of the year, when the wildflowers were in bloom and the sandy wasteland was bright, in places at least, with reds and oranges, yellows and pinks, purples and many hues known only to an artist or a botanist.

As she approached the flooded portion of the highway, the water seemed to evaporate, all at once, in an instant. The "water" had been only another mirage, as Rose had known it would be. She smiled, thinking that Mother Nature was quite a magician, when she wanted to be. She was quite an artist, too, even here, in the hot, baked wastelands of the northern Nevada desert.

Rose was glad she'd mentioned her love of nature to Kevin, the technical writer for Desert Hydrology, Inc., where they both worked. She was the new girl on the job; he was both a veteran technical writer and a native resident of the Silver State. When she'd mentioned that she was an outdoors girl, he'd mentioned the desert flowers. In fact, he'd offered to accompany her on her weekend trip to view the blossoms in all their magnificent glory, but she'd turned him down. She still hadn't gotten over Bruce, or Bruce the Brute, as she now thought of him.

Bruce could be a sweet guy, in his own way--at times--but, in the bedroom, he'd preferred rough sex. He'd liked to spank, and he'd enjoyed water sports--as long as he was on the giving, rather than the receiving end, of course. He'd also liked bondage, and he'd once tied her in such a way that her breasts had turned purple. She'd feared the bastard might have injured her, but, fortunately, the "tit torture" session, as Bruce had called it, hadn't done her any lasting harm. Nevertheless, it had been the final straw. She'd had enough of his "tough love," and, the next day, while he was at work, she'd packed her things and left him, settling in Las Vegas, when she'd been offered a job as a graphic artist for Desert Hydrology. She'd been there a whole week now, and here she was, on her first weekend off, really enjoying Life After Bruce.

Kevin might be a possibility, down the road. He was cute, with curly blonde hair and wide blue eyes. He had a nice physique, firm without being muscle bound, and he had a good sense of humor and a friendly, engaging personality--and a killer smile. He was obviously attracted to Rose, too, as most men were. Nevertheless, it was still too soon. After Bruce the Brute, she needed a little time to herself. She needed a little time to heal.

And getting away, by herself, on this road trip through the northern Nevada desert had been just what she'd needed to refocus herself and clear her head. She'd traveled north on U. S. Highway 95, past a series of mountain ranges to the northeast--the Pintwater, the Spotted, and the Cactus, behind which lay the long-dry bed of Groom Lake and the notorious Area 51, wherein government military scientists might or might not be reverse-engineering alien spacecraft; took the jog west on U. S. Highway 6 at Tonopah, where Wyatt Earp had once owned a saloon; and turned left, onto U. S. Highway 95 again, passing the Excelsior Mountains to the southwest and traveling through Hawthorne and Schurz before turning right onto U. S. Highway 50. The desert was pretty much in bloom, intermittently, on both the north and the south side of the highway.

Except for a few tractor-trailer rigs, she hadn't seen more than a handful of other vehicles since she'd left Fallon behind, dwindling in her rear-view mirror, just as Kevin had predicted would be the case when he'd described the roughly clockwise route she'd planned to take out of, and back to, Sin City. The near-empty highway didn't bother her in the least; nothing could have been better for her plans, she thought.

She consulted the road atlas she'd laid, open, in the passenger's seat. According to the map, not more than ten miles ahead, on her left, a paved road, numbered 121, led north, between the Stillwater Range to the west and Clan Alpine Mountains to the east, toward Dixie Valley, a small town at the end of an unpaved dead-end road that led toward the east. She'd try her luck along this track. Perhaps, bypassing Dixie Valley by traveling a bit beyond the paved portion of 121, along the unpaved portion of the route that connected, well over a hundred miles to the north, with Battle Mountain and Interstate 80, she'd put herself well past any point to which anyone else would want to journey and would have the whole land to herself, just as she'd planned.

As she drove along The Loneliest Highway in America, her thoughts drifted to Kevin's hard body. He had broad shoulders, a deep chest, and well-toned limbs; even a suit and tie couldn't disguise his Adonis-like build. She wondered what he'd look like naked. Would he be as bronzed of body as he was tan of face? Would he have a firm, tight ass? Would his cock be big or small, cut or uncut, and would he have cute little balls or giant low-hangers? Would he fuck like a stallion or make the half-hearted humping thrusts of the hesitant neophyte? Rose guessed, by his easy manner and his obvious comfort in his own skin, that Kevin would be everything she'd want and expect in a man and then some--if they ended up as a couple. She wasn't planning to rush into anything, that was for sure, not after Bruce.

She remembered Kevin's smiles as he'd told her about the wildflowers and described the scenic route she was taking, right now, without him. Just as he'd promised her, the scenery was gorgeous. So was Kevin, she thought. He had the cutest dimples! When he smiled, long, deep, Clint Eastwood-like creases appeared in his cheeks. He was a handsome cuss; there was no doubt about that. She was just as sure that he was attracted to her, too. Maybe, in time. . . .



The road was paved. Sort of. It meandered quite a bit more than its representation in the road atlas suggested, and, it was more that a little rough at times, with big, jarring potholes to avoid and shoulders that, without warning, crumbled away, victims of the tireless, eroding forces of wind and sand, assisted, on rare occasions, by heavy rains. A weathered sign warned, "Caution: Area Subject to Flash Floods." Rose smiled. There wasn't much danger of that on a day like this. The sky was as clear as the sun was bright. It was so hot that she felt as if she were in an immense oven, slowly baking. Her Mustang's air-conditioning couldn't compete with the heat of the midday desert. Rose didn't mind, though. She liked the heat, and, inside her car, she didn't have to fear skin damage from the penetrating rays of the sun.

The road rose steeply through the rugged terrain, and, over the rise, she saw the road that led west, dead-ending in Dixie Valley. Not long after this junction, the pavement gave out, and Rose slowed as her car encountered rough, washboard ripples that made the vehicle's entire frame shudder beneath her. Ahead, the road wound to the right, with high rises on either side. Rose couldn't see much beyond fifty yards at a stretch, and she slowed further. She passed no other cars or trucks. The road, except for her, was completely empty. On her right, the shoulder leveled off into a wide expanse, and she turned into this natural parking space, turned off the Mustang's engine, opened the door, and climbed out of the vehicle, arching her back. Whether a couple of vertebrae actually popped or she'd only imagined hearing them do so, her spine seemed to shift and settle, relieving stress that she hadn't realized had been upon her lower back muscles. She stretched. It felt good to be out of her car after having driven several hundreds of miles.

Although it hadn't been easy to get to this place, the trip had been worth the effort, she decided. It was more isolated than she'd imagined it might be. She hadn't seen a soul in nearly an hour, and she was unlike to see anyone in at least as long. Few, if any, travelers would have followed this road as far north as she had done, especially after its pavement had given way to the hardscrabble surface she'd traveled north of Dixie Valley. She felt safe in doing what she'd come to do, and, standing beside her Mustang, she unhurriedly undressed, kicking off her suede boots; removing her socks; shrugging out of her simple cotton top; sliding her unsnapped, unzipped mini-skirt down her sleek thighs and stepping out of the heap it formed about her bare feet. She wore neither bra nor panties, and her nude body felt the warm caresses of the slight breeze and the fierce heat of the afternoon sun. She collected her castoff clothing and tossed it into the driver's seat she'd just vacated.

From the trunk, she took her tripod-mounted, computerized video camera, set it up so that it would film her according to its preprogrammed instructions, and, rounding her car, she scrambled down the slight slope to the west, and entered the draw below. The terrain was resplendent with wildflowers in a vast variety of dazzling colors, their scent sweet wafting on the warm breezes. The sandy soil felt cool and soft against her toes and the soles of her bare feet, and the leaves of the flowering plants tickled her flesh as they whispered against her calves.

Immediately, Rose felt as if she were one with nature. She didn't feel like an intruder. She didn't perceive herself as being a trespasser. No, she belonged here, among the cacti and the wildflowers, a desert nymph communing with the wilderness. The sky was her father; the earth, her mother; and the arrowleaf balsamroots, tidy tips, big-head clovers, Beckwith's violets, desert peaches, larkspurs, paintbrushes, phloxes, purple sages, and rayless daisies were her brothers and sisters. The desert was her home, and she was glad to be free of the flashing neon lights of the Las Vegas nightclubs and casinos, free of the responsibilities and duties associated with her graphics artist career, free of the brutality of Bruce the Brute and of the flirtatious banter of Kevin the Golden Boy.

Out here, she was free to be herself, her true self. Out here, she need keep no secrets, such as the one that Bruce the Brute had tried to accept but could not, the one that had made her his punching bag until he'd punched her one time too many and she'd gathered the strength of will to leave him. She'd never looked back, and she'd never been as happy as she was now, this moment, with a new career before her, living in an exciting town of glitter and glitz, able to travel at will and dance, if she liked, among the wildflowers of the northern desert, with, perhaps, a boyfriend, in the person of Kevin, in her future, provided that he could accept her for herself and live with the secret she must ask him to keep, the secret that she'd never dared to tell anyone except Bruce. The Brute had kept that, at least, although he'd kept her secret more for himself than he had for her, she knew.

Her secret had become their secret, and their secret was necessarily also his secret. If he were to tell on her, he'd be telling on himself as well, and he couldn't bear that, any more than he'd been able, finally, to accept her for who and what she was, for her true self, although, at first, he'd supposed he could, and she had believed that he might. In the end, though, he hadn't been man enough.

But Bruce was of the past. She'd left him back in the Oklahoma-Is-OK state of her existence, and she'd moved on. To better things, she hoped.

She smelled the perfume of the flowers and smiled at their glorious beauty. She watched a butterfly flit among the blossoms, and she thought, like it, she, too, had found true beauty, both in the desert wildflowers and within her own soul. Kevin's smiling face--the sparkling blue eyes gone crescent, the smile an upside-down bow, the dimples deep in his cheeks, a day's dandelion fuzz on his cheeks and chin--appeared to her, out of the desert landscape, as if it were a flower itself, tossing in the breeze. He, too, might be a beautiful blossom to be planted in the garden of her life, she thought.

She spent the rest of the afternoon frolicking in the canyon, among the flowers, pausing, occasionally, to dance and prance, her breasts bouncing and her buttocks flexing, as a lightness of being filled her heart and mind as if it were helium; sometimes, she imagined that she drifted, like a cloud, across the countryside, or flew, flitting from flower to flower, like a butterfly. Such were the thoughts that nymphs entertained, she told herself, when they strolled through the gardens of the earth, and such were the thoughts that she herself had come to entertain.



That night, she stayed at a motel outside Ely, where she watched the video she'd recorded of her journey through the state's mountains, valleys, forests, and towns. She watched herself undress and walk through the canyon that wound to the northeast of Dixie Valley. She was beautiful, a naked nymph among the wildflowers and blooming cacti, her buttocks, her breasts, her groin as lovely as any blossom in the land; she fell asleep as the camera began to pan down, past the fluff of her pubes and her creamy thighs.

In the morning, she left Route 50 to drive south on U. S. Highway 93. By early evening, the next day, she was back in Las Vegas, and, on Monday morning, she was seated in her cubicle, working on graphics for a hydrology project. All the artwork--pipes and drains and aqueducts and things--seemed alien to her.

Kevin came by, just before noon, and invited her to have lunch with him, his treat. She accepted, and, over an egg salad sandwich on rye, a dill pickle, French fries, and a diet soda, she asked him over, to her house, having decided to show him the video she'd taped of her trip into the high desert of northern Nevada, including the footage of herself dancing naked in the canyon, wildflowers all around her, with her buttocks flexing and swaying, her breasts bouncing and swinging, and her cock and balls jiggling and waggling between her smooth thighs. If he could accept her secret, if he could keep it, for her sake, and not his own, until she was ready to share it with the world, as some day she would, she had no doubt, then--and only then--Rose would gladly open her heart to him. She'd willingly and happily be his, body and soul, but, she'd decided, she must know up front, at the very outset of their relationship, if a relationship they were to have, whether he could accept her for herself, and, not later, when he found he couldn't accept her secret or stomach her any longer and, so, became a Kevin-version of Bruce the Brute.

She served refreshments, but not wine. She didn't want him to have an ounce of liquid courage, nor did she want his senses or thoughts dulled to even the tiniest degree. She wanted him alert and oriented. She wanted him to be completely aware of what he saw, and she wanted his courage to be his own, not the false bravado loaned to him by a glass of Chianti.

The video footage ran, and Rose watched her date as Kevin watched her, on the TV screen. His eyes widened as she doffed her clothes. After a few moments, Rose ran through the wildflowers. She stopped, her back to the camera. She paused, her backside beautiful among the flowers. Then, slowly, she turned, her magnificent breasts displayed to the distant lens. The camera zoomed in, and Rose's concave belly receded as the lens focused upon the cute cock and balls that occupied the place at which Kevin had every right to expect to glimpse a woman's pussy. His mouth gaped as his eyes stared at the male genitals.

Her cock and balls looked cute, Rose thought, but incongruous, to be sure, among her breasts and womanly buttocks. She held her breath, waiting to see whether her life would, at last, be complete or she'd lose the man of her dreams before she'd ever really won his heart.

Kevin turned from the image on the screen, staring deeply into Rose's eyes. "Wow!" he cried, and he was grinning, the dimples deep in his cheeks, as he leaned sideways to kiss the beautiful young ladyboy beside him on the loveseat they shared.

Rose's hand closed over his as she returned his kiss. Afterward, she said, "My cock and balls are a secret."

"My lips are sealed," he assured her, "but my heart is full."

"Mine, too," she whispered.

"I'm glad you took the trip. You seem so much more relaxed than you did last week."

"New town, new job," she told him. "A flirty colleague with goldilocks and dimples, too. I was under a lot of stress." There was no need, now, to tell Kevin about Bruce the Brute, she thought, although she might, someday. "I'm glad you advised me to take the scenic route. It was just what I needed."

He kissed her again, his hand gentle upon the erection that made the front of her mini-skirt into a tent. "I liked you naked," he whispered. "Every inch of you."

Smiling, she kissed him back, gathering his genitals in her own delicate hand. "Then, join me while I get naked again."

That night, as they lay in one another's arms, cocks rigid, balls risen in taut scrotums, soft breasts against firm chest, Kevin's prick inside the deep, tight embrace of Rose's smooth bottom, the room, the city, the desert, and the whole, wide world seemed filled with the perfumed scent of the wildflowers that Rose had savored all along the scenic route.