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P.J. was feeling good, had an extra spring in her step and glimmer in her eyes. Being in the country always made her feel both thankful and alive. The early afternoon sunlight warmed her arms and legs, bared to it by the sleeveless, form-fitting t-shirt and shorts. Although she felt great, she considered that the next few days might be like watching paint dry. Being out here in the middle of the East Texas pineywoods babysitting a crew of redneck water-well-drillers could possibly be boring beyond description.

As they drove in, dispersed in three Dodge trucks, P.J. steeled herself for the usual patronizing “yes, ma’ams” that floated effortlessly, probably since birth, from these young men’s mouths. For god’s sake, they drove Dodges, she sniffed, eyeing with passion her own bright red Ford F-350 dually.

The first young man out she recognized. It was the master-driller to whom she’d spoken the day before, Jimmie Ray. Tall, thin, quiet, he approached P.J. in a kind of sideways motion, tipping the brim of his CAT gimme cap.

“Mornin’ ma’am,” he drawled. He was silent for half a minute after P.J. returned the salutation. He continued.

“Where d’ya think you want this well? You gonna build somewhere here?”

“Well, yes, I’m thinking of building here within a year or two. The house will probably be right over there,” and P.J. pointed to an area that she and her cousin had been clearing over the past few months.

“Well,” he drawled. “That’s a fur piece from your trailer.” He paused, looking from where P.J. had pointed to where the fifth-wheel was parked. Any number of P.J.’s friends from the city would have thought he was talking about some kind of mink jacket. He meant that where she pointed to was quite a distance from the trailer.

“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, it is. But I can always have more line run when I finally build. As I said, it’ll probably be a while.”

She allowed him to take this in before she continued.

“So, can we drill somewhere down this way,” she pointed north of where they now stood. “It’s a bit out of the way, and I like that . . . if you think it’s a suitable site,” she deferred to his expertise.

And she didn’t doubt the young man’s experience. He’d come highly recommended. Both his father and grandfather had been drillers.

“Don’t make much difference where we drill around here. Lots of water.”

“Well, that’s heartening.”

“So, over there then,” he said as he pointed to where P.J. had just indicated.

“Yes, that’d be good if you think it’ll work.”

“Yes’m. That’s where you want it, that’s where we drill it.”

And in her brain, as some kind of portent, P.J. repeated his words, “that’s where you want it, that’s where we drill it.” She’d been in a rather lusty mood all day and his words, so ripe with rather randy connotation, seem to conjure some evil sprite within her. As he started to explain the first steps of the process, P.J. watched as behind him the other men were milling around and waiting to get to work. Some were still inside the trucks, and, soon, out of one of them leapt a young man who immediately caught P.J.’ s eye and started the evil sprite within to spinning like a top. He was the Homo sapiens version of a Clydesdale–beautiful and sturdy, quite serviceable. He walked with his hands in the pockets of his thin overalls, pulling the already tight canvas material even more tautly over his ample cheeks. P.J.’s eyes involuntarily followed the young man’s form as he sauntered down to the lake’s edge to determine placement of the large hose that would run water up to the drilling rig.

As P.J. watched him walk by, she caught herself openly gaping at the first full sight of his behind. “Good, god,” she thought. “Would I ever love to dig my fingers into those ass cheeks!” This would be no easy task, she mused. The young man had the highest, shapeliest, hardest-looking butt she’d ever seen. Each cheek was perfectly molded and large. The young man was built low to the ground–his powerful, muscular legs reminded P.J. of tree trunks. Well, she giggled to herself, he’d have to have sturdy limbs to hold up that massive butt. A quarter inch shorter or taller in height would have marred the unholy symmetry of his shape. She wondered what might be on the front side of the butt, but figured it wouldn’t really matter that much since she’d be reveling in the backside if given an opportunity.

The driller was still speaking to P.J., but she hadn’t heard all he’d said. Finally, as his voice grew purposely louder, P.J. turned her attention to him and answered more particular questions about placement of the well and other pertinent things.

“We’ll get started right away. Shouldn’t take more than three days,” he explained. “Shouldn’t have to drill more than two-hundred forty, two-hundred seventy feet.”

What a shame, P.J. silently thought to herself, I thought this was going to be bad, but I could watch this kid, her eyes went back to the Clydesdale, for more than three days, for sure.

As P.J. walked back to the trailer, lost in thoughts of the red-haired Clydesdale, she was unaware ten pairs of eyes were riveted on her own shapely bottom. Jimmie Ray thought to himself that it was just as well that she was going, apparently, inside. Keep the guys’ minds on their work.

P.J. climbed the three steps, entered the trailer, and settled herself inside the chair near the large window. She had an excellent view of the crew. Equipment was driven in–the drilling rig itself, a flatbed trailer filled with steel and PVC pipe and various utility items, and another on whose surface rode a backhoe. Because the near two-mile sandy dirt road was not always easily passable, they’d elected to leave the flatbed trailers and the drilling rig near the FM road until they’d determined the condition of the sandy one.

Little Red, as P.J. had now named the young man, jumped up and down and around as the tasks dictated. He wore tight white carpenter overalls and a white long sleeved t-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to reveal powerful forearms covered in golden red hair. On his head, the golden red hair was cropped close but with enough length to reflect the gold flecks in the hair in the sunlight. If he had freckles it wasn’t obvious, for the young man was so evenly bronzed that any freckles would have been obscured. She had yet to get a really close look at his face, especially now that all the crew had donned their hard hats.

This first day, half-day really, was one of preparation. The men scurried around, running the hose from the drilling site down to the lake and attaching it to the Honda generator which would pump the lake water up to the rig. Others pulled lengths of pipe from the trailer and carried them to the drilling site. Still others moved equipment into various places, preparing for the day ahead.

As the master-driller ambled up to the trailer, P.J. intercepted him, opening the door and stepping out.

“We gotta run the ‘lectricity down where you want the pump. Gonna dig a trench first though. Any place you don’t want us to dig?”

P.J. stepped down, closed the door behind her, and followed the driller around to the end of the trailer.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose the straightest course would be the best. There’s nothing underground between here and there. Just do it the shortest way. Make it easy.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sounds good.” A pause. “I won’t do the ‘lectricity ’til tomorrow, but we’ll get everything else ready today.”

And with that, he touched his cap and moseyed away.

P.J. had expected a ditchwitch to appear from somewhere amid all the machinery. Surely they had one on one of those trailers. But no ditchwitch. Suddenly, Mr. Master-Driller Jimmie Ray was directing Little Red, pointing from the utility pole to back where they now stood. As he grabbed a shovel from one of the flatbed trailers, P.J. now understood that Little Red was going to dig the trench by hand. Oh, my god. It was a good seventy-five feet from the pole to the area where the pump was going in.

She started walking quickly towards Jimmie Ray who, as he caught side of her coming his way, turned and headed back towards her.

She knew her look was incredulous as she asked the question.

“He’s going to dig the trench by hand,” and her voice went up as she emphasized the word “hand.”

“Why, yes, ma’am. It’s soft sand. Won’t be much to the diggin’. Just rained yestiddy.”

P.J. shook her head in astonishment. She hadn’t been thinking about the sand as much as she’d been thinking about the distance and the sheer physical exertion of wielding a shovel for that length of time. She returned to her perch in the trailer’s large window.

The next hour saw P.J.’s inner-sprite move from mild excitement to a feverish pitch as she watched the young man work his way methodically up to the window where she sat. Stand up, foot on shovel, push into sand, bend, scoop, dump, and stand again. She became so mesmerized by the predictable motion that she found herself rocking in time with it. She also rocked for other reasons. She noticed it was getting warmer and warmer inside the trailer.

The afternoon passed too quickly. Shortly after Little Red had finished the trench, Jimmie signaled to all that it was time to go. He made his way up to the trailer’s door where P.J. met him.

“Back in the mornin’,” her drawled. “Get an early start.”

And they were, in moments, gone, the sound of the diesel engines fading as they neared the paved road.

But the evil sprite remained, and P.J. spent the evening and too much of the night trying to make it go away.


Saturday morning, Little Red was wearing pale blue overalls, again not denim but a smoother, lighter sheeting material, and a white t-shirt. If possible, these overalls fit more snugly than yesterday’s. The material was thinner and the perfect globes of Little Red’s ass tightly bounced. Literally fuckin’ bounced, P.J. marveled, as he walked.

Today, the actual drilling began, and P.J. watched, fascinated, as the process developed. When the steel pipes had been buried to a certain length, drilling would cease and more pipe would be added. P.J. couldn’t tell exactly how it was done, but it appeared that some kind of metal collar was used to thread on to the pipe lengths and put them together.

From time to time, Jimmie Ray would closely inspect some of the core material brought up from underground. He’d smell it, rub it between his fingers, and one time, P.J. swore, he actually tasted it. It wasn’t long after lunch on Saturday that he came to the trailer to tell her that they’d hit water much earlier than he’d expected–about a hundred sixty feet. But he wanted to go down a bit more to make sure they got good water. And the drilling continued.

P.J. gaped at Red as he used his animal strength to tighten the collar on the pipe before it descended again, longer now, into the sandy soil. As he grabbed the pipe, P.J. had an excellent view of his backside, the power of his thighs, back, and arms. She wasn’t sure what to do with her pent up energy, but the evil sprite had been doing a full-fledged Riverdance in her brain for many hours before she finally decided she’d better put the energy to use and went outside and climbed on the riding mower.

When the crew finally took an afternoon break, P.J. was glad to see Little Red head down to the lake’s edge to check the generator and the hose. She stopped the lawn tractor, got off, and nonchalantly followed him.

What the hell, she asked herself. Life’s good. Short, too. You want ‘im, just go for it. Put the line out. See if he’s bitin’.

He felt her come up behind him. And smelled her. He hadn’t been close to her today, so he was just now getting a whiff of the perfume. But he, and the others, had taken advantage of their eyesight frequently since arriving this morning. She’d been riding the lawnmower, and the uneven terrain had made her breasts bounce, to Little Red’s mind at least, infernally. They were the kind he liked–not too small, not too large, round and seemingly firm.

As he turned around, P.J. stopped her forward approach, smiled, and asked her opening question.

“What do people do for entertainment around here,” she inquired of Little Red.

“En-ter-tai-un-ment,” he asked, drawing the word out to five syllables. “You mean whadda we do for fun?”

“Why, yes, that’s exactly what I mean. Where might you go to entertain yourselves?

“Hmmm,” he mused, stroking his chin before continuing. “Well, prah-bly T’s Club over to Shebbyville.”

What the young man meant was an establishment in Shelbyville, but he pronounced it in the local fashion, to Shebbyville.

Little Red eyed her for a moment, excused himself, then turned and completed his current task. But the way he had eyed her made P.J. think she might head the other red male in her life, her truck, out to Shelbyville tonight. And the sprite broke into an absolute jig. She returned up the incline and decided on a glass of iced tea. She’d offered tea to the workers earlier, but Jimmie motioned her over to one of the trucks and lifted the lid on a huge ice chest revealing bottles of water and a half-dozen or more kinds of canned drinks, including iced tea.

“Thanks anyway,” he’d said. Now, she definitely felt the need to cool her insides.

P.J. sought shelter, both from the sun and her increasing excitement, by pulling a chair under the shade of a huge sweetgum tree and slowly sipping the cold tea. Little Red was apparently hot as well, for she saw him slug down two cans of something in what seemed only a couple of gulps.

Before they packed up for the evening, the head driller came to tell P.J. that they’d return tomorrow. She was a bit surprised since tomorrow was Sunday. He explained that they had a big job on Tuesday and wanted to make sure they were through here in plenty of time. Surprises sometimes happened, he’d said. He added that they wouldn’t be early in the morning, probably around 10:00 o’clock, and projected that they’d be through by early afternoon.

She nodded assent and said she’d see them in the morning.

The trucks fired up, the purr, at least to her ears, of the diesel engines resounding in the usually quiet woods. The truck driven by the master-driller pulled out first. A moment or two later, a second one followed. The third truck idled, then slowly pulled up closer to where P.J. stood in the shade. Little Red rolled down the passenger side window and leaned his forearm on the truck.

“Know where Shebbyville is?”

“Yep,” P.J. replied.

“Welp, we’ll be there this evenin’. At T’s. Y’know. Case you wanna come.”

“Well,” P.J. waited before finishing her thought. “Maybe I’ll see ya there.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And with that the window rolled up and the truck rolled out.


P.J. determined on the short skirt, but eschewed the low-cut blouse. The long-sleeved t-shirt, fairly snug, would do nicely. She looked rather like a toy person, a doll, in relation to the big truck she crawled into. The drive to Shelbyville was about half an hour. She popped a Lucinda Williams CD into the player and screamed “Car Wheels on a Gravel Road” along with Lucinda, repeating the same song all the way to T’s, a private club not hard to find since the whole town of Shelbyville consisted of two major streets and only a dozen or so minor ones. She hadn’t even had to ask anyone. The parked vehicles in a large parking lot led her the way.

When she pulled in, the lot was jammed, not surprising since T’s shared the parking space with the all-you-can-eat-catfish restaurant next door. In fact, the lot wound its way behind the buildings and it seemed that nearly every space was taken. She had to park pretty far away, a bit worried about leaving Big Red so far from the front door. She laughed at herself when she looked around and counted no less than forty similar trucks within a stone’s throw.

She jumped down out of the truck and made her way to the front door of the club. A group of men idled on the porch that stretched the width of the building, sucking in their collective breath as P.J. approached them.

As she slowly climbed the five steps, the three men wearing cowboy hats slowly put their fingertips to their hat brims. Quite a compliment to an old woman, P.J. thought. She smiled broadly and offered a “good evening, gentlemen,” and again the sprite danced to her inner tune.

“Evenin’, ma’am,” came responses from all around.

It was dark, noisy, and smoky inside. P.J. made her way to the bar in an effort to locate either Little Red or some of the men from the crew. Finally, beer in hand, P.J. spotted Little Red on the other side of the room moving around in a collection of mostly-western attired young men, two of whom she recognized from the crew.

Little Red, too, had followed the uniform code of the evening. He wore starched and creased Wranglers, she wondered to herself where he’d gotten a pair to fit that body, and a crisp white shirt, no hat. The red hair glowed when he stepped under various faint spotlights located around the dimly-lit room.

It wasn’t long, a buzz seemed to have accompanied her arrival, before Little Red headed her way. He wasn’t shy. He wasn’t cocky. He simply wanted to have a good time. They made small talk over the fairly loud music and finished their beers. Then, hand outstretched, Little Red asked P.J. to dance.

And around they went, two-stepping along with the rest of the crowd, laughing and enjoying the band and each other, eventually falling into a comfortable pattern. Four songs later, Little Red asked if she wanted another beer. P.J. nodded yes, then managed to communicate that she was headed to the ladies’ room and would be right back.

The restrooms were located down a long wooden hallway at the back of the building. P.J. smiled wryly as she read “Dude-ettes” on the ladies’ room door. Hmmm, she thought to herself, it certainly was not as insulting as the designation of “Sluts” in a Los Angeles nightclub she’d once visited. She went in and relieved herself, checking her reflection in the mirror before returning to the melee outside. Her face was pleasantly flushed, and the sprite was apparently attempting a getaway through her sparkling eyes. She was having fun. More fun than she’d had in a while.

He met her in the hall. Just enough beer to make him lose what little inhibition he exhibited around the older woman. He stood in front of P.J., smiling down at her. Although he wasn’t tall, perhaps 5’8″ or so, he was taller than her 5’3″ frame. He lightly pushed her back to the wall and leaned into her, placing a surprisingly good kiss on her lips. She returned the kiss, increasing its fervor as he pressed into her with more of his weight.

In less than two minutes, P.J.’s hand tucked into Little Red’s, they headed out the exit door at the end of the restroom hallway. Exit Only — No Entrance, the sign on the door read. Moments later they were in Little Red’s vehicle, not a truck, parked in the lot at the back of the building. Must’ve been Daddy’s old car. And a fine one it was, too. The 1970 Roadrunner had an ample backseat area.

P.J. practically broke into girlish laughter as Red gallantly opened the backdoor and swept his hand before him in a gesture of invitation. She crawled in, Red right behind her. As they settled down, each near one of the corners of the backseat, P.J. realized that Little Red smelled very good. He did not smell of pine, not of English Leather or Brut. In fact, he smelled of Dolce & Gabbana, the cologne that many of her male students back in fashion-conscious Big D wore. Suddenly, she wanted to know Little Red’s real name.

“What’s your name?” she asked. “I’m P.J.”

“Yes, ma’am. I know.” He paused. “Don’t laugh at mine, okay?” he asked defensively.

“Of course I won’t laugh. Go ahead. Tell me.”

“Well, I’m named after my grandfathers. All four of them. My full name is Archibald Jackson Caleb David McNeff.” He eyed her for a response when he finished.

Not seeing any laughter hidden on her face, he continued.

“But everybody calls me Red.”

Hmmm. Real surprise, P.J. thought.

“Well, I can see why,” she returned. “But what does your mom call you?”

He looked away, then back.

“My mom, well, she’s dead.” And he paused, looking away again.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, a sudden wave of regret hitting her. “I didn’t mean to remind you of something sad. I just wondered if she called you Red, too.”

Eyes back on hers, he smiled a little.

“No ma’am. She called me Caleb. That was her momma’s daddy’s name. She loved him a lot. Me, too. He died when I was ’bout twelve.” Another pause while he glanced away and back. “Ma died a coupla years after that.”

P.J. waited a few seconds before responding. Red looked as if he needed a bit of recovery time. Finally, she continued.

“Well, with your permission, I’d like to call you Caleb. I like that name very much.”

“Why, yes ma’am. That’d be fine.”

“Caleb, if you keep callin’ me ma’am, you’re going to ruin my rather, uh, heated mood,” and she delivered this with a huge smile.

He smiled back.

“No, ma’am.” His eyes got big when he realized he’d done it again. “I mean, yes, P.J.”

She grinned.

“Much better.”

She’d wondered about the car and asked him now.

“Did you buy this car? Or did you inherit it from someone?”

“Oh, it was my uncle’s. He bought it new back in high school. Cool, huh?”

“Yes, it is. I have to admit, Caleb, I’ve been in the backseat of one of these a time or two,” and she winked at him.

In response, Caleb leaned forward, reached his arm around her waist, and pulled her body towards him, her face near his. Giddily, P.J. grabbed him back, caught up in the swirl of emotions created by the memories of those Roadrunner days.

Caleb didn’t hesitate in making a move. During one of those inner-thigh-wettening kisses, his hand went almost immediately to P.J.’s breast. She was glad the slightly-scooped neckline was not too tight fitting. In a moment, he easily plunged his hand down the neckline and into the bra.

Ahhh, Caleb thought to himself. Hard nipples. Soft flesh.

As Caleb’s hand explored her breasts, her hand finally rested between his inner thighs, and she was a bit surprised.

Little Red did not possess a Hemi. No, sir, it was even better. Little Red was packin’ under the hood of his Wranglers a full-fledged super duty power stroke diesel! Oh, my. P.J. never expected such a powerful shaft although she’d been admiring the drive train for two days now.

Lordy, she mused, and I thought the ass was good!

In a flurry of hot lips and hand signals, she made Caleb know that it was time for the clothing to start disappearing. Navigating the Wranglers was not easy. They had to come off all the way. But, after switching positions several times, the jeans finally rested somewhere in the front seat. Anxiously, P.J. pulled the crisp shirt up in order to inspect the powerful torso and was rewarded with a delightful sight. She lightly ran her fingertips up Caleb’s abdomen, looking him in the eyes. His brawny arms, easily able to crush her, went around her lightly and pulled her close. He held her briefly, then leaned back. There he was, she smiled at herself, looking down at his underwear, snug and white, ready for the taking.

Caleb had helped her all he could in getting off his jeans, but his mind was occupied on getting her clothes off. Was this, he wondered happily to himself, really about to happen? His hands went to the hem of the t-shirt, no resistance. Then he began to slide the t-shirt in an upward motion. Still no resistance. Seeing his way clear, Caleb simply finished his task in one easy movement, P.J. assisting by lifting her arms as high in the air as the roof of the car allowed.

Caleb stared at her in the moonlight. The natural light was augmented by the rather unearthly glow from the high parking lot lighting standard as well. There they were, he grinned. The boobs. Nestled in a pink bra. A pink lacy bra.

Caleb buried his face in her chest. God, she smelled good. Soooo good. And she was soft, too.

He wondered about the skirt. It was short, sorta stretchy. Maybe he could just pull it up around her waist. He sat up and tugged at the skirt, raising it to the desired position, a shift of P.J.’s weight assisting in the task. Pink lace panties, too. Nothing much to ’em, he smiled to himself. Wouldn’t take more than a little finger to push them out of the way.

He wrestled her around and flattened her on her back, his body pressing down on hers. She was dizzy with the jeans-removing effort and welcomed his direction. He began the kissing assault again. It was nice, very, but she was ready to test the power stroke. She maneuvered his hand between her thighs and the fingers of both her hands finally found their way down his back and to his butt.

It was like trying to grasp two well-inflated basketballs–couldn’t get much of a grip. Finally, she gave up and simply rubbed them, a movement he apparently enjoyed.

His hands were not idle. The hand she’d placed between her thighs was doing a fine job of bringing her near the edge, his fingers edged under the thin film of pink material. Although close to it, she didn’t allow herself to get off, but squirmed to avoid going over the edge right now. She wanted to let it build–build to something volatile.

As the momentum grew, their kisses felt hotter, their hands and fingers dug into flesh more keenly, and their breathing signaled a new direction. Somewhere inside the swirling sensations–Caleb’s smell, his taste, his breathing, his hard body–P.J. wondered about the position in which they’d end up. The evil sprite was driving her to the last round of this dance. The backseat area was roomy enough, but the seat itself was not that deep. At least one set of limbs would be hampered on both of them. Before she could contemplate it much more, Caleb sat up on his knees and pulled her up with him.

She seized this moment to tug down his underwear and took an audible breath at the sight before her eyes. Oh, the sprite went absolutely wild. She helped Caleb quickly get the briefs all the way off and tossed them over the back of the passenger seat.

He guided her to the space between the bucket seats, facing her towards the windshield. There, her knees on the floorboard, she leaned over the console, but apparently this position did not allow Caleb enough room to settle in behind her. He leaned over her now to push down the driver’s seatback and shifted her body, left knee included, into an angle which aimed her upper body over the now prone seatback. P.J. liked this better. The seatback was not as uncomfortable as the hard, jutting console.

This angle must’ve given Caleb sufficient room because soon P.J. felt his fingers in her, testing the water, so to speak. And she thought of his boss, Jimmie Ray, as he had tested the core samples from the pipe from time to time, attempting to divine when the desired gush would come.

P.J. gasped when Little Red thrust his drillin’ rig into her private land. He wasn’t frantic, but he imparted to her a feeling of urgency. She felt like the expiring canary in the mine shaft as Red steadily pumped the air out of her with his measured strokes.

And Caleb, for his part, didn’t mind obliging the lady. In fact, Caleb liked older women, liked this one a lot. They knew when to hurry and when to take their time. When to lead and when to follow. And this one was in a perfect position right now with a perfect round ass and a perfect tight slit to delight his senses. And she knew it was time for her to relax and let him direct because right now he was driving to a place that was soon to be reached. He’d been fantasizing about her for a couple of days now, and this first trip to the promised-land would be short. No matter. He had other things to do in between.

Caleb gasped when P.J. reached her hand down and wormed it between his legs and gently cupped his balls. God, he loved that feeling, that extra sensation while he pumped away. Lightly, she massaged him as he worked himself to the pay-off. It wasn’t long before he sped up his strokes and delved farther into her depths, soon finding the release he’d driven for.

Offhandedly, P.J. wondered if anyone had sauntered by the car, noticed the motion, and peered in. Ah, no matter. They wouldn’t be enjoying it anymore than she.

Caleb’s movements ground slowly to a halt as he emptied all he had into P.J. But he didn’t waste time and soon pulled out and pulled her up by the waist. He maneuvered himself around at the same time he lifted her up and then placed her, back down, on the backseat. The pink panties had been pulled to the side as he’d drilled into her, and they were soaked as Caleb reached for them now. He slid them down her legs and over her feet, tossing them to the front somewhere near where his jeans lay.

Within seconds his head buried between her thighs and his nose traveled up and down the length of her slit. P.J. was so near the edge that she grabbed the sides of Caleb’s head and attempted to speed his rhythm so she could get off. Caleb didn’t respond. He’d take his time. P.J. was torn between cursing him and thanking him. And the sprite screamed for the dance to end.

Caleb switched from nose to tongue. She smelled and tasted like vanilla and woman. It wasn’t more one than the other, but a heady blend of each. He lapped and lapped, switching between short, quick movements like a starving kitten’s and long, slow movements like one uses to savor an ice cream cone as long as possible. P.J. had her wish. The wait was to prove worth it as she slowly shuddered her way to a blinding orgasm, Caleb holding her inner thighs down with the insides of his forearms, feeling her buck and squirm as the sprite shook its head and laughed.

More, P.J. thought. She wanted to feel him in her again. She unlocked her hands from behind Caleb’s neck, pulled him towards her, and sought his drilling rig. And there it was. Fit and ready to drill again. Young men, god love ’em, she smiled.

As P.J. leaned forward to get a better grip on Caleb’s cock, he sought her nipples again. She thrilled as he took one in mouth and the other in hand, sending all kinds of electric impulses to her still hot center.

As her mouth went to the top of his head to kiss that golden red hair, Caleb suddenly released her nipples and rose up to settle himself in the corner of the backseat. He was not in a seated position as much as a half-lying one. The edge of the stiff white shirt was bunched up around his waist and the hard on threatened to poke a hole in the Roadrunner’s roof. It was an invitation, an invitation to ride, and it was one that P.J. and her sprite gladly accepted. She grinned wickedly at Caleb as he smiled from the corner of the car.

One foot planted firmly on the floorboard and the other planted on the backseat on Caleb’s left side, P.J. aligned her body directly over the cock Caleb held for her. She smiled at him and he smiled back as she slowly lowered herself. Oh, let him last a while, she thought. And, he did.

Caleb enjoyed watching her. She closed her eyes from time to time, threw her head back, and made low moaning noises. Then, she’d raise her head, open her eyes, and smile at him a wicked smile. His hands roamed back and forth from her breasts, to her waist, to her buttocks. So much to hold on to. She rocked on him sometimes slowly, sometimes not. He appreciated her change of rhythm, aware that it had staved off his orgasm more than once.

P.J. tightened her muscles around Caleb’s cock. She had found a position that rubbed her clit in an oh-so-exquisite way and she and her sprite had waltzed around that position long enough that she was about to explode again. She also heard herself begin the moaning crescendo that generally accompanied this wondrous explosion.

As her breathing deepened and both his and her moans came more closely together, Caleb’s eyes got larger and he gripped her butt firmly, kneading his fingers into the dough of her flesh. She rode him harder now, pushing herself to oblivion.

It didn’t always happen, the simultaneous orgasm, but the Roadrunner was good luck. As if on cue, Caleb and P.J. both began their delightful deliverance. The Roadrunner rocked and, if there were passersby, they must’ve thought an earthquake had hit East Texas. They locked, and they rocked. And they made noise to wake the dead.

Slumped down on Caleb, P.J. nestled her cheek into his chest. Caleb placed his chin on top of her head, smiled to himself, then took a deep breath and sighed, contentedly. She raised up briefly and smiled, placing a kiss on the tip of his bronzed nose. And then it hit her. Jimmie Ray’s words. How accurate they’d been. “Yes’m,” he’d said. “That’s where you want it, that’s where we drill it.” And so Caleb had. Drilled her where the drillin’ was good. She let out a short giggle after realizing the premonition had come true. And her head went back to burrow into the chest. Ain’t life grand, she thought. And the moonlight shone on the roof of the Roadrunner and all was quiet within.

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