Fifteen minutes later, we’re back on the road. Polly beside me, cotton panties and cum-blood soaked tee clinging to her skin, face smeared with drying jizz. Me, shirtless, gripping the wheel of this dead trucker’s rig. His tank top’s ruined—my crazy babe’s got the Glock now, wedged between her thighs, barrel reeking of fresh violence. I stuffed his corpse in the reefer trailer, buried among Burger In’s beef carcasses. Irony bites: corporate cannibals chowing human now. Perfect.
She’s slumped in the leather seat, Fortuna dangling from her lips, feet propped on the dash, toying with cheap white plastic shades I scavenged. I’m rockin’ his ugly seventies aviators, flung back to an era I never lived. She lit up when I gave ’em to her, jumping my neck, lips smashing mine. Hates consumer bullshit holidays—Christmas, birthdays, Valentine’s. Nightmare fuel. Deep down, it’s her folks: dad stabbed mom, then slit his own throat in front of her. Kid sees that, she’s wired wrong forever. Lucky me, I snag the psychos. They crave my endless protection. Adrenaline junkies like us.
The Awakening
I shift to fourth, suck my third smoke, chug warm Bud from the cooler—Coors too, not my fave, but desert oasis for fugitives. Polly downs hers fast; I savor, letting it scorch my parched throat. Vixen slips ice cube over her face, nipples, then into her bush, rubbing clit, shoving it deep in her slit. Head thrown back, she shivers, truck frame rattling. I crank the fan, but trucker’s rancid sweat mixes with her sex stink, thick as fog.
“What’s next, baby?” She cracks two more cans.
Long swig. “Ditch this truck at first dive, head Cali or Vegas.”
Shades pushed up, her eyes darken. “You mad?”
I eye sweat-matted hair strands dancing in the fan. “How could I, baby?” Finger traces her cum-crusted lips.
She nests in my shoulder, seeking love’s tenderness. “The trucker… maybe I shouldn’t…”
Gear grind, beer in holder. “You did what felt right. But no more sprayin’ lead wild. Albuquerque was too close.”
Flashback: Texas heists net 140k. Crappy motel crash pad. Cops close in after she decks a flirt. Sheriff plays cowboy, draws heat. Fusillade. Escape.
She dozes as Vegas sign hits 314 miles. Ditch truck, shower, clean clothes. Corpse omen chills me. Half-hour later, two more Buds, endless smokes: rundown snack-shack appears, 5pm. Derelict building, busted neon. Gas pump lost in rust vats, scrap piles. Park amid sun-baked wrecks—five rigs, killer chopper star-spangled.
Polly stirs, stretches. “Where, baby?”
“New skin, honey.”
She grabs trucker’s razor, tucks in panty waist. I snag duffel—140k, holstered sawed-off Glock, shells. Light Fortuna, sweat-soaked back. Wind whips sand needles.
She’s at vats, diving headfirst into cast-iron tub, ass iceberg tease. I stroke chopper’s blue starry tank, long fork, low leather seat. Join her as she surfaces, hair spraying water arcs. Potable sign—miracle. She shakes, drenching me warm. Revived, her wet tee molds tits, transparent panties hug bush and cheeks, razor handle strains elastic. Hair drips like post-storm wheat.
The Act
I dunk, scrub blood flecks. Clothes pink-stained ghosts. She’s human again, mole winking. Tee shreds, navel peeks, tits brazen. Panties riot-bait.
I plot solo entry, buy bike. But shades down, smoke lit—she’s star. “My idea: I snag chopper keys. Wait here.”
Hips sway to door. I grab arm—she hushes, finger to lips. “For us. Turns you on. I’m your slut forever.” Elvis points, kisses sweet. Enters on wedge heels. Neon dies.
Window spy: six dudes. Boss serves biker—jeans, santiags, black tee, bandana. Fat redbeard plaid on bench. Trucker. Two Stetson locals yukking with boss. Cheap-suit salesman. Country jukebox, fan fights grease.
She storms in, heels pounding, hips lethal. Locals gape, drool. Biker clocks late. Stetson: “Where ya headed, doll?” Ignored. Bud gifted. Chats biker close, hand on his hip.
Heart pounds. One snaps her panty—clack! She startles. Hands invade: hair, ass, tits, neck kiss. Biker slaps first off. She boots second into table. Razor flashes, yanks hair, blade to throat: “Touch me, he bleeds!” Biker grins at ass.
Second rises. Boss racks shotgun: “Git, whore! No brothel!”
She folds blade, struts out smoking biker’s cig. Tosses keys, hugs. Flashed tits for prize. Sprint to bike, naked dash.
Straddle hot leather, duffel back. She mounts front, straddle-thighs, pussy on swelling cock. Stetsons gawk. Rev, roar, U-turn, peel—her tee whips overhead. Nipple bite, hand in panties, ass grope. She screams joy at losers, dust cloud.
Fifty yards, cig flick. She drapes engine belly, feet on rear pegs, hands on headlight, tee-wrapped. Back arches scorching metal. Bass grind signals want.
Thrust hips. She frees cock, jerks fierce. Pickup honks pass-by. Finger saliva-slick, spreads lips, impales full. Electric jolt—nearly skid. Pump slow, she moans bitten-lip, grip tight. Speed builds freedom rush. Abs clench— she convulses, screams. I erupt, flooding her, cum rivers thighs, balls. Bike veers left—recover.
She eyes serene. Free. Absolute.
Throttle twist—lightning split.
“Rock’n roll suicide!” Arms wide.