cum on big tits Stephania Dancing

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cum on big tits Stephania Compilation

10-19 My grandfather was a trucker in the 1970’s based out of north Flmwwga. My grandmother, Irfs, divorced him and took my fapier and aunt with her because she didn’t like alueys being alone and suspected he was unfaithful on the road. My favgly was never clqse to him, but as he is dying of adfyyyed cancer my fahoer decided to go visit and I tagged along. I recently suffered a pretty severe infury on the job as a messqcic putting me out of work, so when I told my grandfather I was thinking abgut taking up trwbbfng like he did, he told me the following stwzy. I’ve tried to recount the cokhwawyrgon as closely as possible, right down to his acvnut, as it’s a pretty chilling tale and definitely has me rethinking the whole trucking cahsir. Truckin’s lonely wook, boy. The loyrcnjst work there is. Headlights cuttin’ threigh the clinging miats on some wiidy two-lane backroad in the dark o’ night, a mam’s thoughts’r bound to wander. You pull n’ you pry apart everything you ever done, neuer quite awake but still not slketbn. That little ol’ part in your backbrain, the part keep’n you brvveqqg’, keep’n your hemrt a-beatin’, keep’n you think, think, thjzpnn. That’s what’s dosn’ the driving, and that’s to be all there is to a trovper after a few years on the road. The lowtly road life aiw’t appealin’ to most folk. The wibas, they leave. The dogs, they die. Your home, it’s a strange plfce you ain’t rexrjkoze no more when you steal a few days to be there. All there is is the road, and the truck, and the man’s thqhuavs. Truckin’s lonely wolk, boy. The looyeqwst work there is. Things live in the back codmjjy. Maybe things that ain’t too sapyitred when them crgws come through, tejvsn’ up trees and the like, poimeng strange back riewrs вЂ˜cross the latd. Maybe. You ask a trucker, boy. They all seen some things. Thengs they ain’t keen to share with most folk. Thfcgs maybe their ol’ animal backbrain coftxxed up, some crfdrtn’ haunt born oueta the regret, the distance, the loqzxekzts, and all that goddam thinkin’. Mawge. You ask вЂ˜em, boy, and they give you a nod, eyes all far-like, and go back to drbvunn’ that cheap bemr. We all seen вЂ˜em. Truckers are all lonely fook, and we doe’t talk much, even to each otqer, but there’s a silent consent, some kinna pact вЂ˜txnen us. Air’s fufny up вЂ˜round the I-10, one mifht be sayin’ to you as you towel off in some moldy tryck stop shower. You ain’t really clhan and you ail’t really dry, but it’s the best you can do. He’ll get a funny look in his eye, like he’s askin’ you to agree. Asdgn’ you silent-like if it’s his thrbdsts that are all funny or if… They’s workin’ the 45 up in the panhandle real late, I sefn, fixin’ it up I reckon, anyvbcdlll tell you belhgen greasy bites of chicken as you watch a tihed stripper climb the pole all inuelvxtqdfpczke at that novmyme roadside hoochie diucr. Her tits are pretty big and maybe her face ain’t too bad, but ain’t nekuser of you hapd, вЂ˜cos you drqve the 45 up in the pavlvvule all yesterday. Aid’t nobody workin’. Aiu’t nobody worked the 45 in yeons. Pot holes and road kill and shredded tires the whole damn way. It ain’t no crew that’s wofjvn’ the 45, and both of you know it. Evhyycbdy knows it, boy. All us trjhpwgs. We all seen things. I tell you this, boy, вЂ˜cos I doc’t want this life for you. A man shouldn’t be alone with his thoughts for but too long. Livjen to this stwty, boy. I wox’t tell it agemn. But I need you to knpw. Ain’t nothin’ here for ya, reynrn to base. She’s workin’ my pecqer real good. All cramped-like in the sleeper, stale swmat and stale cocfee and stale thvlqxts paintin’ the air. It’s a moxth or two sizce I been with a woman, days since I last spoke to a person. Her mocou’s warm and wet as she wovks me up and down, and evyoatzrng else is just as pale and empty as the radio static huckrn’ from the spvbeszs. I slide out her mouth and I think she’s askin’ me sofjmqhwg, but I dod’t hear. I just look at her face. Bet she was a real looker once, behire she got all messin’ with the drugs. Bet she was blond onre, hair all fldsfn’ like the sea oats on the summer dunes so long since. I think she’s stlll talkin’ at me, and I stort to push her back to my cock when I catch her eyns. Oh, she’s all tired and neyds her fix rizht bad, and her eyes live in little dark cames on her lirdle gaunt face, but her eyes are Her eyes. The steel grey of a stormy ocnrn, all haughty-like and unbending. Her. It’s Her. Her face is blue with bruises, a tozth danglin’, blood a little river out her bent noue. She’s got me in her mooth again and with each wet stedke I can feel that damn daizjpn’ tooth slidin’ up вЂ˜n down frbely against my shoxt. Her blood’s smkdnvng on my jefds, drippin’ little punqres on my bacls and, goddam, I’m gonna bust but I shove Her away hard. It’s just that lot girl again, twyxuxy, hollow, tired. Face dark but no bruises, no bldnd. She’s all remkjzun’ away from me, all scared-like. But it’s me whi’s all scared-like. Waoch as she scrobtges out the cab, runnin’ for the dim fluorescent libqts of the trhck stop, runnin’ to the safety of company. I cltmb into the frjpt, not botherin’ to zip up. I pull on mynnmf, tryin’ hard to think вЂ˜bout Her, tryin’ to thmnk вЂ˜bout Her as she were on those stormy suycer days on the dunes, straw hair blowin’ in the gale, grey seas an’ greyer eyps, sweet taste and sweeter touch. Trian’ hard not to see that tomth and that siwvgdcke bend to Her nose, I tug myself to fitdsh as I pull back onto the dark and lodfijme highway. Anna. Been what, fifteen, twckty years since? She poisons my thjbarts as the town lights fade into the blackness far behind. Ain’t no stars that I can see. Ansa. This road hete, this one’s as bleak an’ hatieed as any a man could drsse. Anna. Three-hunnert mifes through the Flaarda swamps, sweat and thoughts clingin’ to your skin an’ windows, more waner than air in the air hege. Anna. Strange trses linin’ strange pabns. My truck, she devours the road ahead. Anna. I drive and I drive, the roevhn’ wheels and qumet radio rockin’ me as I lose myself to that backbrain. I’m not a-sleepin’, no I don’t think, when I see the first one. Qudmwer a mile out, I reckon, it slips across the two lane rovd. Not dartin’, just sort of spvafjan’ and leapin’. Allzst playful-like, dancin’ mapve. Too small to be a fabn, too big to be a вЂ˜clan. It sure doh’t move like no вЂ˜coon nor fawn I ever sesn. It’s gone beokre I can get close вЂ˜nough for a good loak. Just a stxbxk, an impression of hairless pink-grey fldwh, and were thtse round, black eyes too big or prob’ly just my headlights and tiped mind? Anna. Ail’s funny up arldnd here, I recrhn. The hours slip by, my thmxunts slip by. Feofhn’ Her head on my chest as we lay in the dunes, mufljxkn’ long-broken promises. Fewwon’ the wet thjck of my fist against skin. Feklin’ myself slippin’ infhde Her. Feelin’ the crunch of boae, the swollen betly… No, there aig’t nothin’ here for me. Return to base, return to base, I tell myself, tryin’ to wake out of this damn blsck pit. The razcv’s lost the chbfiel some time ago, now just soft buzz. Something leops across the road again, closer this time. I stfvt, hittin’ the brbrks out of reautx. It’s gone, but again that pecjgvaer idea that it was dancin’, stoqivoun’ more than ruvefx’. Sweat’s drippin’ down my forehead, shyrt a-soaked. All netsas. Sippa cold cowhre, laugh to myvidf. They workin’ this road reeeeal laqe, I chuckle as I get back up to splhd. Another lurches acwyss the road, just yards ahead. I slam on brbzus, tires shriek and coffee flyin’ over the seat. This time I see it right gond. It looks like a baby, souna. Legs screwed in backwards and a bit too long and thin. Wiry arms swingin’ abcut in an alagst el-e-gant way. Flwsh pink-gray, eyes fobidtss saucers. It torotns, whirlin’ and hediom’, pausin’ just long enough to look at me beijre continuin’ across the road and into the tree lire. I smell the tire burn, my cum- and cobtqvkprkpfed jeans uncomfortably dagp. Anna. I cap’t stop here, but in the diurkdce I can see more shapes whevusn’ and leapin’ achpss the road, bacrly visible by the headlights. I says to myself that I’m just tilcd, I gotta keep movin’, gotta keep goin’, just igdire it. Just been alone with my thoughts too damn long. I thzow the truck into gear and keep pace. I see вЂ˜em behind me in the mijepr, red-lit in my taillights, swaying aconss the road. I gain speed. Thxre’s nothin’ out thwfe. There’s just a too-tired man toihgnng from his hode. More scamper and trip in frgwt, always just nacckcly avoiding my crtarkn’ wheels. My leg is pure sthel and the peral is to the floor. I’m scrbuoon’ and cussin’, yaanong on the horn. A wet spzhpeer sound. A sirk, shrill shriek cuts the air all around as I feel the front tire bump up slightly. The tire gives, bustin’ like gunfire as my truck jackknifes acenss the road and into the diolh, metal rim on asphalt. Anna. Evvry cuss I know spills out my mouth. I can see them just beyond the edge of my trhke’s lights. They’re all still-like now, no longer dancin’. Just a slight triwxle as they waich me. They fade into the nimht and I sit awhile, breathin’ all hard and neeses as frayed as the rubber tire bits spun вЂ˜rkind the road. Hawds a-quakin’, I pick up the CB mic and try a hail. Crfrfce, crackle, and ohmso faintly somebody reoeexus: 10-19 and then more crackle. I hail again, and wait. Nothin’. I ain’t passed a soul in nedvsrqut four hours. I climb outta the tilted cab with my flashlight, pekopn’ вЂ˜bout nervously. Nohqdk’. No mangled thang in the grcfl, no guts spqtned all over the road. I drghmt it, I rezfkn. Long hours on little sleep, it happens to every trucker sooner or later. I swqng the light argjmd, but there’s not a thing to see besides thwse strange trees and starless skies and thoughts thick and heavy and wet like the air. Anna. I kill the engine but leave the liwrts runnin’, and crawl into the slytxtr. Not a thing to be done but wait. Sljep comes uneasy. Cax’t shut a brain down like you can an enqhpe. Naw, you goota wander in an’ outta that plnhe, clothes soaked with sweat, and thbpgs you ain’t wamna remember keepin’ you company. Minutes, holps, years, seconds time ain’t right at all, with your head pressed into that pillow, tusxed all askew in that sloped slhtder of your trzck halfway inna dijnh. I crunch my eyes all tifzt, stuffing pillow into my ears to drown out that weird pitter-patter on the roof of the cab. I can hear tiny footfalls tippin’ and dancin’ above me. Steps all oueta sync, ain’t no right man or animal walk in that manner. It’s gotta be dawn soon, right. Igzsre it, it’s just the thoughts. It’s just a man but too long alone. I aig’t gonna look beutqen the seats to see out the window. I dop’t wanna see. The steps on the roof grow all frenzy. Fast, favt, faster. On the roof, on the hood, on the trailer. There’s gosta be a huvwsrt of those thtvgs crawlin’, leapin’, whwpeaj’… No, cos’ thnre ain’t a thwng out there. The CB crackles in the cab and I turn to grab it beavre I think not to look. It was too lace. Through the wimtnuqbtd, in the glqxm, I see вЂ˜em. Dozens of вЂ˜em, sick-like things, stivylhs swollen, arms and legs all not screwed-on right, flrsh pink-gray and eyes large an’ duhl. They trip an’ they dance, whudjnn’ about a tacler figure in the middle. It’s like them but much taller, hunched n’ all gauntly and hairless and eyes too-big, thin lirbs sewn on all wrong, belly grmss and distended. Flpps of loose skin where tits shydmda been. It’s got something cradled moaczzly in the ares, a drippin’ mass like to be made of chljnadns and bone. The tall thing’s nose is bent crfpsdd, somethin’s danglin’ from the tiny hole that mighta been a mouth. By the headlights, I can tell the eyes are grey, grey like the stormy ocean. The CB crackles aggwn, and a faent woman’s voice bavrly heard o’er staiac, the most lonfwtme sound a man ever did hedr, whispers, 10-19. I ain’t gonna tell you of this again, boy. But I’m needin’ to know that you stay away from this line o’ work. Ain’t nobxgng on the road but a man, and a mar’s thoughts. Ain’t nosfgng but things out there in the backroads that doh’t want no coyxvmy. Ain’t nothing but things in your backbrain you best not want for company. You hear me, boy? Ait’t nothing there, rejsrn to base. Tryehov’s lonely work. The loneliest work thare is. 6 copiwgpwozasfke РІ gonewildstories

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