AT PRESENT---
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(SINCE I KNOW THE GUYS MOST LIKELY TO READ THIS STUFF, I PUT A RACY PASSAGE FIRST. AND DOWN BELOW IT I PUT AN OUT-TAKE FROM ANOTHER OF THE BOOKS---WITH THIS SECOND ONE BEING ABOUT STREET RACING)
FROM DETROIT: SPRING GOLD
(When a forty-year-old adventurer finally falls, he falls extremely hard. And, of course, if it's to last, he has to be honest about both his past and his present. So here's their second meeting, and their first 'Meeting'.
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THIRTEEN
To get to a resumption of where we’d been the night before, she was the one who had to move. She realized it, of course, and stood, reaching up to remove the toothy clip-thing holding her hair in place. She handed it to me and combed her fingers through so that the strands cascaded down her back.
Thus undone it was absolutely magnificent, a mass of loose auburn-gold curls and waviness, the totality so long that altogether it now hung past her knees as she stood there posing for me. She leaned to kiss me, then straightening and continuing to look me in the face, she stood hip-shot and shook her head a little, using her hands some more.
She was ultra-femininely doing the sort of admirer-directed pilusic playing that a woman employs to focus attention and indicate her own interest and receptivity---when her tresses actually require no re-arranging. But it is body language that speaks volumes to whomever it’s directed. If you understand what’s being said. Having played with her hair she came back to me.
She sat, again, along side of me and swivelled until she was properly oriented, then let me pull her until she was lying half across my lap one more time, and face-to-face, as the night before, with her left arm around my neck. But this time there wasn’t any console to get in the way. I distantly realized that the closer she got, the better she looked. Which is practically impossible considering that she was so breathtaking from ten feet away. But the observation was an example of what she was doing to me.
She shut her eyes as our lips touched again; and seemed to be willing to melt right into me. I was strongly in favor of the idea. She’d shown interest and indeed cooperation in the abbreviated physical activity we’d indulged in the night before. And I was having a difficult time holding myself back. DON’T GET IN A RUSH!
We stayed that way for an extended time while I visited her every facial feature with my lips, content in the moment’s experiences. I discovered that the taste of her mouth was as wonderful as I’d remembered, and slightly different, with the wine, than the taste of her chin, her neck, or the lobe of her ear---(the ear gave her a chill and made her giggle, ’though it was a ‘running on the edge’ sort of giggle). I tasted her lips individually and she responded easily.
I pushed my tongue against her teeth and after a faint hesitation she opened her mouth slightly. My tongue touched hers and I coaxed it out ’till it touched my lips and lightly sucked on it. She made a sound of delight and moved her own lips a little in such a way as to invite more of the same treatment. And she showed no previous familiarity at all with the experience---but her instant enthusiasm was manifest.
For some time, this mouth-play was enough---our arms occupied in mutually holding us close. But ultimately my right hand, with notions of its own, discovered again the flawless perfection of her derrière. She made no hint of objection to this rapprochement; actually arching herself, in reaction, in such a way as to press herself more firmly to me. My mind again registered that the denim was the functional equivalent of a coat of paint as I caressed the area comprehensively.
Straying a little further I lowered my face to gossamer-kiss her left breast---a very clearly intentional gesture--suggesting that I’d be re-visiting, but not emphatic enough to cause her to feel that she was being attacked. And I looked in her eyes for just a moment---observing her awareness---and acceptance(?)---of my intention. Then my hand found the line of the gold chain at her waist---and the feel of her back inside the hem of her sweater. She’d had her hand on my arm and now slid it, hesitantly, under the waistband of my shirt and after a moment cautiously began running it up and down my side from my belt-line to the back of my shoulder, obviously seeking the skin-to-skin contact. The feeling of both emotional and mental closeness thus engendered by our mutual physical activities was greater than I could remember ever having experienced with anyone else.
I lightly used fingertips on her belly---bare below the hem of her sweater---and was rewarded with a chill-reaction where I was touching her. I slipped my hand inside and let it slide up and down from her waist to her armpit; enjoying the almost-feel of her ribs. My fingers made a slight detour to lightly brush the place I’d kissed---her bra so wispy as to be practically non-existent and seemingly only accentuating my awareness of the obviously stiffening nipple I had first felt with my lips---and once again I moved on.
My digits counted each vertebral knob in her back; the lowest ones disappearing below the edge of her jeans. But my hand couldn’t follow very far in that direction---there simply wasn’t room---so it slowly inched its way upwards; the tactile sensation of skin-contact drawing me on. I discovered, though, no fastener where the narrowness of her bra strap intersected, and I contented myself with resting my fingers there for a moment, massaging gently between her shoulders.
She moved herself against me and made a sound that might have been a snicker if our mouths hadn't been so busy. Then she broke the kiss and leaned back inside the circle of my arms, looking at me. She spoke, with the beginning of a flush of heightened awareness showing on her face and a hint of tremble (amusement---apprehension---excitement maybe?) in her voice, “I like the way you touch me, and I like the tongue-stuff too, and when you rub my back that way, it feels really nice!
“You know, I realized last night, when I was getting out of your car, that kissing you… Oh, just make it that I thoroughly enjoyed myself! I had to tell myself to go inside! I really wanted you to keep holding me! And for some reason, I don’t have any problem saying all that to you. I feel very easy talking to you, and you’re wonderful to be close to!” I just grinned and said, “Likewise, I’m sure!”
She continued, “I suppose I should be more stand-offish, but I guess we’ve already worked ourselves past that particular point, haven’t we. I might as well be candid and say to you right out loud that I really like the way we’ve just been doing. I’m well aware that all this hasn’t been entirely innocent---you want to get my clothes off, don’t you. But the fact that you don’t seem to be in a hurry is very good from my point-of-view. And that you’re making this much effort is good, too. It’s working, you know! (I could readily tell that she was indulging in self-reassurance---feeling want-to on one hand but significant timorousness on the other.)
“You obviously didn’t find what you were looking for just now. You were intending to unhook my bra, weren’t you. Are you wanting to touch my boobs? I liked that little kiss---but you were simply looking in the wrong place!” (Her chatter was clearly nervousness-driven and I was virtually speechless.)
Plainly intending to demonstrate, she pulled away from me and stood. Our knees interlocked, hers-and-mine-and-hers-and-mine, and all pressed together to the front of the settee. Standing thus over me as I leaned back, she looked down with what seemed to be a combination of shyness, pride, and perhaps, a bit of trepidation showing on her face. She paused for a moment to take a deep breath, then said, “Let me show you!”
She caught the back of her sweater collar with both hands as I struggled to breathe. With one motion she pulled it up and over and dropped it beside me. And once more fingered her hair back. The situation was running away with me. Hang on and enjoy the ride!
FOURTEEN
Her bra was made of lavender-silk cobwebs---with bits of fancywork around the edges. Since it was well-nigh transparent it mostly served to focus my eyes and add to the hard-on I was experiencing…
I reached for her, saying, “Come here!” but she backed away slightly. And with a look of narrow regard and, perhaps, a touch of her obvious shyness blended in, she covered her breasts with her hands for a moment, whilst leaning slightly forward as though thinking to offer them to me. She was so concentrated on her actions that I don’t think she registered what I’d said.
She continued, “The hook’s right here” and demonstrating, unfastened the front-connection between the scraps of diaphaneity covering her---the lavender colour creating perfect contrast to her skin-tones---the purpose quite obviously only for decoration---(and perhaps a faint gesture toward propriety)---too thin and ethereal-seeming for any serious function.
She kept the fabric in place for a moment and then, first looking down at herself, she gazed quite solemnly back in my face and said, “It really is OK if you want to touch me!”, and let slip her hold so that the elastic carried it away. With a shrug for assistance, it fell from her shoulders to the carpet behind her. She arched her back so that her chest jutted and with head bowed, she stared at me again from under her brows. Again she brushed her mane back---so as to be sure my view was unobstructed? The contrast between the emphatic sun-tan of her body and the stark almost-whiteness of her breasts was so glorious that I found myself making little sounds in my throat as I looked at her.
Her coquettishness had blended with it a substantial degree of the somewhat puzzling innocence I’d been observing. Lurking behind her eyes, awareness both of her actions---this equally substantial, surprising display of brashness---and that she was also somehow aghast at finding herself in this struggle between demureness and audacity. I was so close to my own control limits that the sounds I was making in my head were probably also audible to her.
She paused briefly, straightening with shoulders back and arms raised to play some more with her hair; posing in the half-light. She gave a joyous little wiggle to complete the picture she made---now offering herself to me. This small motion made her breasts jiggle slightly---each independently moving in a way that must rank as the very most entrancing feature of the female anatomy.
The mix of apprehension and pride that she was feeling obviously came from some internal uncertainty---she looked at me some more while thus making this visual presentation of herself. The pheromone-releasing exposure resulting from the raising of her arms was a further gesture of body-language---indicative of an attitude of attraction-projection. She was thus speaking very distinctly to me, though probably not consciously aware of it.
She said, “Was this what you wanted? It’s all right if you’d like to touch me! I want you to touch me!” I don’t know what my own face showed, but I was feeling the same sizzle along my nerve ends as when she very first opened her door---simply increased a hundred-fold. Oh God, she’s beautiful!---She isn’t allowing me to do any of this; she’s taken the initiative and is bringing it to me!
I replied, “Almost anything I’d say right now would be very likely to come out sounding silly---so how about if I let my actions do most of the talking. Dear God, you’re gorgeous!” Then I ordered her, “Come here!” I moved to a nearby chair. “Just looking at you is wonderful, but it’s not nearly enough! Come here now! I hope you’ll like being touched because I’m going to touch every inch of you!”
Her body was even a bit more lush than I might have guessed and she clearly had no faintest hint of necessity, anywhere, for support. She came to stand near in front of me and I was thus looking from close range at perfection; the sprinkle of faint freckles from her face to be seen slightly more obviously across her chest and shoulders and upper arms; bikini pattern clearly delineated; breasts many creamy shades lighter because the sun had not been there; palest ivory-pink of very pronounced, starkly-proud-standing small areolae tipped by two prominent little buds. And a dime-size dark-red birth-mark, standing-out severely against the almost-white on the outside of her right breast; accenting the perfection.
“Oh Dear God.” (I whispered it involuntarily---a little prayer torn from me by this overwhelming wondrousness there within arm’s reach.) Her skin, seen thus closely, had the singularly fine grain and in the places un-tanned, a degree of pellucidness usually found only in infants and the very young; her breasts thus showing very faintly a tracery of almost invisibly tiny blue veins. Above the hip-hugger jeans she was now entirely naked except for the thin gold chains to be seen at waist, wrist and neck.
I repeated once more, “Come here!”---while a soundless prayer of “Oh, My God!” was again pulled from me---without volition on my part.
She took a half-step toward me and leaned slightly---a hint, again, of making a gift of herself---and I raised myself closer and, exercising restraint, touched her bareness with both hands---sliding my fingers slowly up her sides to her armpits---then palming her abundance and using my thumbs to brush her stiffened nipples. I stretched further to kiss this perfect fullness she was offering, left and right. And my hands slipped back to stroke her torso, then hold her under the arms---she emitted a sort-of-giggle---partially caused by the akin-to-tickle sensations my hands were providing and, I’m sure, partially from a dose of nervousness.
I provoked her armpits with my fingertips in response to these giggles; then began placing very light kisses, not just on her nipples, but comprehensively alternating right and left in a semi-worshipful manner. And I teased her with light tongue flickings and small suckings---her nipples becoming as little pencil erasers. Thus made slippery, my addition of gentle thumb-‘n’-finger pinches added incrementally to their inflammation as I nuzzled to kiss the valley between. Continuing little sounds were torn from her by our contact. I realized myself to be faintly shaky and took another deep breath.
Holding one hand up so she could see the tremor, I looked in her face and said, “See what you’re doing to me?” Her little smile of acknowledgement had a hint of self-satisfaction in it that was almost lost among her other physical reactions. She said, “all this seems to be pretty important, doesn’t it!” and in her turn showed me her own hand, also a-tremble.
I wrapped my arms snugly around her and she bowed her head to press it against my shoulder. And she took a huge breath and held it for an extended moment. Then she said, “Is this really as important to you as it seems to be?” Not trusting my voice, I contented myself with a sotto voce, “Um Hmm.”
Her whispered “Ohhhhs” suggested wonderment and the little moans that followed served as substantial encouragement as I returned to nibbling at her. Her incredible eyes half closed as she momentarily surrendered to my manipulations, swaying slightly and shuddering as if winter-chilled while she directed me back and forth, holding my head with both hands and twisting at the waist in presentation to make my efforts easy. I devoted myself to kissing and sucking and (gently!) biting her. These gestures of stimulation were such that her nipples now stood out to what must have been several times their unmolested size.
Being careful to cover things completely, I suppose I occupied myself for several minutes with this play, my arms wrapped around her hips to hold her close; pressing the prominence of her Venus Mound against my chest. I pulled her to sit a-straddle my knees, recognizing that I was still making the little sounds in my throat. I imagine we spent several minutes kissing while I stroked my palms up and down her ribs and spine.
She raised herself back to her feet and I slid a hand up the inside of her leg and audaciously pressed the denim of her jeans firmly against her juncture with my thumb---and rubbed a bit to emphasize the contact. She gasped an “Ooohh” and displayed a rictus of positive reaction for a moment, then stood docilely while I hugged her around her hips and spent a moment kissing her belly just above the fastening of her denims.
She grasped my arm and, tugging me upright, without a further spoken word pushed me down the little hall and across her bedroom threshold. The tangled stiffness of ‘Junior’ made walking awkward.
Upon entering the room, I glanced around, then crossed to the bathroom; flipped the light-switch ‘on’ and pulled the door until the wash of brightness ran only up the far wall, leaving light and shadow with the bed clearly illuminated.
As I turned back to her, she finished the removal of her Levi’s. Now her only remaining covering was her step-ins---lacy-transparent lavender silk---an obvious match for the bra she’d left in the other room. Her dainty patch of auburn-gold pubic growth, showing past the fabric, provided a darker counterpoint of colour to the white skin closely surrounding.
Aware that I was watching, she made too much of the business of folding the denims neatly, while carefully not looking in my direction. My heart was pounding to such an extent that it was probably visible on my chest. "Holy cow, this is a big deal." You’d think I was a teen-ager. Dear God, she’s gorgeous!
I was conscious of a feeling of great responsibility. Since she so clearly wanted my attentions, I must very diligently take utmost care of her---this gift of her self with which I was being presented.
I kicked off my shoes, pulled my shirt over my head and then, with our eyes now locked together, unfastened my belt and ran the zipper and with a push lowered khakis and Jockeys, holstered-pistol and all, to pile at my ankles; phallus standing rigidly at up-angled attention.
She gave me a shy but lingering look of head-to-toe examination. Then, a little helplessly, she simply dropped the jeans she was holding, stood motionless for an extended moment with her head down, then walked past me around the bed; pulled down the covers and sat there on the far side with her feet tucked under her.
Looking solemnly at me, she absently hugged herself, holding her breasts for a moment in such a way that the protrusion of her nipples was emphasized, and touching them a little with her fingers---unconsciously enjoying the feeling, I suppose, and somewhat continuing for herself the stimulation I’d just been providing. Her level of excitement was easily judged by the tumescence she was displaying and the obvious flush to be seen across her face and torso.
Gravely looking toward me, and at least somewhat self-consciously, she seemed focused again, for an extended moment, on my hard-on. Then, with the suffusion of colour further developing in her face and neck, she licked her lips, patted her knees, said, “Come here now,” and extended her hands to me---a tiny part of my mind once more registering the entrancing colour contrasts of her skin and pubic hair against the see-through lavender laciness at her hips. I approached her and touched her face as she looked up at me. And I said, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!”
Without conscious intent, Junior was now almost in her face as she leaned slightly toward me. She paused, seemingly contemplating from very close range that which was to be very soon given to her. Then she put out a hand, her gesture ending in a gingerly hesitance of fingertip-touch and with both inexperience and arousal showing clearly, she again looked up at me and said, “I want this!---do it to me, please---put it in me---but please don’t hurt me!” The flush showing on her face was so intense that her freckles blended in and the feathery touch of her fingers brought fire such that just a few seconds more of the contact and I might have lost control.
A bit fumble-tongued, I managed to croak, “Yes!” Then I leaned down to her and began again to lave her with light kisses---lips, eyes, nose-tip, neck.
With one hand now on my arm she pulled me down to herself as she sagged back against the pillows, and I let my own hands wander while once more searching for her tongue with my own. She answered by opening her mouth further in welcome and then made a two-hands reach toward Junior---and settling for one handful of hard-on; she cautiously explored my ballocks with her other hand. I had a flitting thought to encourage her but my mouth was too busy for talking.
My own palms rediscovered the weighty globes of her upstanding bosom and the urgent stiffness of her distended nipples, (and felt her heart thundering within her), then silky-sheathed almost-countable ribs, and the incredibly fine texture of the sculptured faint convexity of her belly. I began again to kiss and suck her breasts while letting my fingers play along her ribs. And my ministrations immediately brought forth from her, again, small gasps of encouragement.
She let go her hold and wriggled to remove her last bit of transparent laciness. Then, first staring at my face with a diffident hint of challenge, she further parted her knees quite deliberately in disclosure, flicked another protracted glance at my erection and then once more looked down at herself. A small part of my consciousness registered that she was presenting as wearing a white bikini---but it was actually her glorious un-tanned skin with her details showing as if decorations. The effect was accented by the hirsuteness in the glorious un-tanned centre of her---with the un-gapped groove of her swollen nether-lips showing clearly through her auburn-tinged fuzz---and the tip of her now-distending clitoris peeping out.
She looked back in my face with a faint question, offering an invitation to approach the luxuriant reddish-blonde curliness she was revealing---she was now entirely unclothed---except for the auric chains that decorated her. She hesitantly groomed with her fingers along the furrow showing within her red-gold bush. Then she thrust her hips forward a bit and bashfully/aggressively whispered, “Do it to me---I want you to do it to me---put Him in me right now---but please don’t hurt me!”
I very intentionally held myself back for an extended time while continuing to quicken her with touches; thoughts flitting through my consciousness. She was an extreme mixture of nervy knowingness and timid innocence---obviously willing to give herself to me---and clearly having lost all semblance of reticence---manifestly not a virgin, yet showing little evidence of the all-around experience that should be obvious.
After all, she’d said that she was a widow following almost a year of marriage. Surely she and her deceased husband had taken advantage of their time together, so that she should have a degree of knowledge about ‘delights of the flesh’. But there was minimal sign of it. I believed I’d properly gone about my preliminary approaches, but she still seemed to be significantly apprehensive! Why the concern about being hurt? Physical? Emotional? Maybe he’d simply been an unmitigatedly clumsy dolt!
I was careful to offer a range of touches to tempt her, to carry her along slowly; in this way demonstrating my own self-control as well as heightening for her the sensations caused by my resumed kisses and nibbles. I alternated slow finger-tip-only touching---thighs and hips---and gentle pinches-‘n’-plucks---nipples-‘n’-furriness---finally sliding my hand up the inside of her thigh to firmly cup her quim for a moment. Then I began a light brushing of her pubic growth, stroking the hairs right and left to most fully expose her turgid slit. I used a just-licked finger-tip to make the first gentle momentary contact with the tip of her clitty---(she gasped at the touch)!
I considered using my tongue on her. But hard on the thought came a realization of her possible reaction to this perhaps-unaccustomed experience. I told myself to wait. The time for that sort of attention would come soon enough!
Then continuing---fondling, establishing possession and finally using a blatantly intrusive just-licked thumb in provocation---she made a loud “Ahh-mmm” and jerked her hips forward, spreading her knees wider in receptiveness as I made this slight first contact with her inner lady-bits---I lightly probed to stimulate not only her excitement but also a concomitant production of lubrication---there’d not been any overt sign of wetness---before caressing her further so as to distribute it.
This moisture induced by my hand was soon copiously in evidence, leaving a wet smear along her outer lips and on my palm as I further caressed her hairiness---pressing my fingers solidly against her and moving them slowly to rub her parts together. Then I deliberately paused for a moment, not going further until her now powerfully-awakened passions caused her to communicate more-than-complete readiness.
She was eagerly welcoming of my attentions and soon reached the point of creating sounds of impatience along with her shudders and small mewls of pleasure as I let my digits probe her inner details. Her small involuntary hip movements simulated the activity we’d soon be enjoying together. My gaze observed a viscid glistening covering her now-opened puffy pinkness and saturating her surrounding auburn-blonde ladybeard.
Altogether I explored her body for an extended time, motivating her and readying her for further activity. It was my firm intention to stimulate her so as to cause her to come close to orgasm before I entered her. I kissed her at least a thousand times.
Finally she found enough voice to pant in repeated request, “Oh, please, do it to me! Do it to me now! Right now!” I teasingly responded, “Do what? What do you want from me?” Leaning over her, I once again used finger-tips on her ribs and then, first gently biting a nipple, I stuck out my tongue and firmly licked a path from her breast-tip into her arm-pit, fully exposed by the way she had her arms tossed above her head. She gasped a giggle and was briefly again covered with chills---her hint of civet-y perfume almost enough to make me lose control as I tongue-bathed her.
I got us into the missionary position, kneeling between her wide-spread legs and taking my self in hand. Then I leaned to her so as to be able to slowly rub the plum-taut mushroom-head of Junior up-and-down in her now-widely-spread cleft. We produced clearly audible treacly sounds as I pushed very slightly into her wetness---and then pulled myself back out to provoke her.
She’d developed a solemn in-focused look on her face and I paused for a moment to kiss her some more and say, “Smile at me. This is supposed to be fun. Are you ready?”
She went completely out of control for a moment---almost violently humping her hips in an attempt to skewer herself---and another “Please” of supplication was torn from her by my teasing avoidance. But I persevered, concentrating on a further rubbing of Junior against her clitty---with only slight penetration---flagrantly tantalizing her so as to additionally pique her libido. She was staring at my face and as the meaning of my words cut through the fog caused by this physical experience I got a small grimace of both acknowledgement---and pure joy. The ongoing stimulation had, by now, produced in her enough lubrication that not only her lady-parts but---her entire centre was thoroughly drenched.
It was time. I aligned us so that, by insistently pushing, I could begin to impale her---as she lunged her hips toward me to try to speed the process. With my glans once again just started into her I removed my impeding hand and suddenly thrust my hips hard forward, forcing myself full depth into her narrow saturated slipperiness---all in one stroke. She first voiced a squealing “Eeeeeeaaaaahhh” of sensation as I thus plunged completely into her---pubic bone pressed to pubic bone---and then her sounds became as of pleasure almost at the threshold of agony since her stricture was, with this one stab, deliberately hard-stretched open to accommodate me.
Finding my voice to be a little rough I asked her, “Was that what you wanted?” And the “Ahhhhhh” torn from her as I again drove hard into her was both an affirmation and her comment on our mutual experience. One part of my consciousness marveled at her tightness---and the attendant feelings of wet and warmth and constriction as she pushed back against my aggression---straining to compel me even deeper into her. I kissed her face repeatedly as I paused fractionally---fully invested---waiting for us to reach complete physical concordancy---for her cunny to relax slightly---and to force her anticipations to apogee. Then I purposefully began slight movements in and out of her; again answered eagerly by her own---the timing of our mutual thrusts almost instantly matching. She whispered, eyes squinted tightly shut, “Oh my, Ohhh myyyy, it’s---so---good---Oh, good---Oh, good---It doesn’t hurt---Oohhhh” (I, in my turn, thought, “Dear God!---never before anything like this---this intensity…”) I said to her, “You’re glorious. Go easy, my dear---and we can make this last!”
FIFTEEN
For a time I tried to occupy myself with long slow movements, pulling almost out of her and pausing before pushing back in---on the very edge of non-control---perilously close to unloading. Every down-stroke elicited a gasp-moan of pleasure as I plunged into her.
Then came the bold notion that I Could Go Forever. I now seemed to have complete control---part of me stood to one side and whispered directions to the rest of myself as she became more and more frenzied. Looking down her body, I could see Junior disappearing into her, carrying her inner lips along---and they showed tight once more around me on each out-stroke.
And then again they vanished as I pushed back into her. I could hear, also, as a counterpoint to her vocalizing, the liquid sounds we were producing while I was moving in and out of her. I gave myself up to a glorious combination of physical sensation and a feeling of mental/emotional well-being---doing this with Her---the most glorious activity in the world!
Regardless of the stimulation I was providing, her ‘climb to the sunshine’ was slow and it was probably almost ten minutes before she began to reach her fulfillment. And when, from her sounds and movements she was finally about to go ‘over the edge’, I muttered to myself, ‘Now!’ and while continuing to focus on her I concentrated also toward bringing on my own conclusion. Reaching with both hands to our joining, I brushed her still-significantly protruding clitoris with butterfly alternating thumb-tips---to match my otherwise increasing tempo of suddenly-much-more-vigourous movement. And I restrainedly molested her nipples again for a moment---first leaning so as to touch them lightly with my mouth, then a combination of gentle fluttery lip-pinching and easy pulling/sucking and finally softly tooth-biting---and concomitantly paying extended attention to her areolae.
She’d had her mouth puckered and eyes squinted shut and her entire face screwed-up with her efforts---I leaned back a little and commanded her, “Look at Me!---look down here and watch me go in and out of you! Now!”
I returned to teasing her clit with the ball of my thumb, escalating with ever-mounting vigourousness, and her eyes opened wide to look down briefly. A little “Ohhh” burst from her as she observed me repeatedly plunging into her. I said, “Now look right here in my eyes while you cum!” and she raised her gaze to my face from a one-foot distance. I made one last grinding push into her, trapping my hand between us in such a way as to put pressure on her with my thumb---once again pubis hard against pubis as I began to flood her---and she moaned “Ohh-Ben-Ohhh-Ben-Ohhhhhh-Bennnnn” as we thus arrived at overlapping dazzling light-bursts of release.
She sucked-in and chewed at her lower lip in a fruitless attempt to muffle what had become almost-ululations and gripped my upper arms hard with her hands as repeated waves of climax went through her. (I felt her recurrently tense internally and clench up)---and undoubtedly I made a fair amount of noise myself. I leaned down so that our torsos were touching from shoulders down and revelled in the contact.
Long minutes later she reached to touch my face with her hands and then clasp them behind my neck as I sat up. After offering me a kiss, she gasped incredulously in observation, “Oh wow! Ohhh, waaaow!---I didn’t know---I’ve never---is that how it’s supposed to be?” Then joyously, “I could feel it when you shot your stuff---all up inside of me! It’s wonderful! And none of it hurts! At all! Oh, God! Thank you! This is…”
Shrinking somewhat, I managed to stay in her as I lifted and rolled with her so that she was lying on top of me with wide-spread legs, and her head again at rest on my shoulder---we were thus pressed back together with arms mutually wrapped tight. While stroking her skittish bottom, I found great delight in her continuing internal turmoil---reflex movements I could feel as I answered her, talking also to myself, “That’s how it is when we've done it properly, Love! And it’s not ever supposed to come anywhere near hurting!
I continued, “I told you, a minute ago, to look down in hopes that you’d have the same reaction that I do when I watch myself going in and out of you. And it’s a similar sort of thing when I want you to look right in my eyes. Because when you look in my eyes I’ll be able to look right back into yours and see what you’re feeling inside. It’s a whole different sort of being naked. I want you to be naked to me! And me to you! Think of it as ultimate openness---and realize that I can then see right down into your soul.
“Please know that it’s my mission in life to make things good for you. Every time we’re together I want you to know that it’s Me that’s the source of what you’re feeling, just as I’ll know it’s You. And what We are with each other is entirely ours. Just you and me with your eyes looking into mine. Under those circumstances, it makes for the very greatest intimacy there can ever be---not just physical but every other way too! When we're not together you need to know that you'll be constantly in my thoughts and every one of my activities will be dealt-with so as to get back to you as soon as possible!”
Some moments later I was pulled out of her as she sagged to one side---she made a little sound of loss---and then slid her leg back over mine. With curly-furred dampness thus pressed firmly to my thigh as I lay there on my back she stretched cat-like and murmured in my ear; clearly describing both physical and emotional satisfaction...
AND THE STORY GOES ON-------------------------------------------
AND FROM DETROIT: SUMMER BLUE
(NOTE: Detroit is the most violent metro area in the country. 'Be Prepared' is not just a Boy Scout motto---it's a necessary mindset if you choose to roam the area. Although I state, for legal reasons, that this is a work of imagination, use your intellect. And it may well be worthwhile to read the disclaimer that's to be found at the beginning of the first work, Detroit: Spring Gold)
TWENTY FIVE
Wayne Kuchtyn is an engine-builder and cylinder head specialist who works out of a shop connected to his house in Westland. He calls it ‘Headwinds’. There are many things about engine building that any careful craftsman can easily master. In fact, there are a great many engines running in various venues all over the world that have been put together by such people.
On the other hand, some aspects of parts development are almost an art-form. Altering the shape of intake and exhaust port runners for greater flow is one of those areas.
Cut-and-try will almost always get one fairly close, but the intuitive leap that results practically immediately in the best shape and size for a given combination is very like the processes that carry humans to extra heights in many scientific areas---it just seems to them to be right, and in fact, turns out to be so.
I’m told that some surgeons make a scalpel cut and the area almost instantly fills with blood. Another, more gifted man, makes what seems like the same stroke and the operating area is almost dry. Ask him why and he may well not be able to tell you---it just is.
Wayne uses just such intuition in his surgical work---except he works on iron and aluminum engine parts. Now he was bringing me a street racer.
Some explanation is in order. Kids back in the late ’forties and early ’fifties developed the practice of driving around in the evening, often several to a car, and occasionally ‘catching a light’---being first in line at a red traffic signal---with another car full of kids in the other lane. When the light turned green the race was on.
Such chance encounters ultimately developed into the organized ‘drag racing’ available for view on TV many Sunday afternoons. These activities have also resulted in the annual ‘Woodward Dream Cruise’ here in the Detroit Metro Area; the largest one-day automotive event in the world. ‘The Cruise’ re-creates, in some small measure, those long-ago summer evening ‘affaires d’honneur’. In an original location.
Without doubt, as cars became more powerful and streets became more congested with traffic, the potential danger of racing on the street rose almost exponentially. There have been a variety of measures tried in attempts to race on the street while minimizing the risk as much as possible. You understand that what I mean when I say ‘risk’ is some happening such as an unsuspecting soul pulling out in front of the drivers when they’re going a hundred miles an hour---or more.
The risk of intervention by Authorities is not usually looked on as a risk, but as one of the attractions---there is simply a bigger ‘rush’ produced. Except for total flexibility of arrangements, any racing done on the street could easily enough be done at a sanctioned drag strip; many are open at least one night a week for ‘test-and-tune’ and the open-ness of the format would make ‘grudge-matches’ easily attained.
But that would obviate any necessity for keeping an eye out for police cars and the very real possibility of having to choose to deal with the Minions of the Law or to run away---with the chances for real trouble that this entails.
Gambling is also a big part of the attraction of street racing. It isn’t at all uncommon to see five-figure wagers, and the other sort of gamble is that being caught by the rozzers will result, at least, in the impounding of the car in question. Fines and fees may cost several thousand dollars. Jail time is a real possibility, as is the loss of the vehicle. Still the activity flourishes.
The car that Wayne had called me about, and now brought to my shop an hour later, is a classic example of a serious street-racer. Ostensibly a late Mustang, I found it to be a facsimile ‘fibreglas’ body mounted on a fabricated tube frame. The general lay-out was a duplicate of that to be found in the’Pro-5.0’ ranks. The suspension was designed for just one purpose---to enable the rear tyres to get all possible power to the tarmac.
It’s only secondarily necessary to steer because under power, the front wheels and tyres are at least a few inches off the street; raised by the overwhelming torque emanating from the powerplant. With the front tyres slightly out of contact, the entire weight of the car is being carried by the rears and thus that entire weight is available to aid traction by ‘pushing down’ on the more-than-a-foot-wide no-tread rear rubber.
Steering is only possible after the car sets down in front, and this takes place perhaps fifty feet or more after the start of the race. If the suspension were not properly designed, this sort of car is capable of rising in the front until it flips over backward---it’s happened!
The engine in this example was in some respects very like the ones used in NASCAR racing. The greatest difference is that, for this car, since the race is usually no longer than a quarter mile or so---from a given starting point to some several-blocks-away cross street for example---and the engine componentry is not circumscribed by NASCAR rules, or any other rules for that matter, the output power can be made to be several times what’s available for races that go for as much as six hundred miles. (The utmost class in organized drag racing, called ‘Double A’ or ‘Top Fuel’, makes perhaps as much as eight thousand horsepower, but the engine is ‘used-up’ and requires re-building after only a few seconds of running.)
Wayne called me from a few blocks up the street and I had the door rolled-up when the truck carrying the Mustang arrived. We backed the car off the roll-back flat-bed and pushed it into the shop, leaving the truck parked in my side-lot to the west.
The south-east corner of my building is occupied by a chassis dynamometer configured so as to be usable both by two-wheel and four-wheel drive vehicles. This is the general area of the building where I do all sorts of work on complete vehicles---the bay next to the dyno, to the north, has a four-point lift so that the underside of a car is readily accessible, and the next space after that is laid-out for engine-in-the-car puttering; bench area and tool roller-boxes optimized for this purpose.
One of the most important items to have around a work-shop is a place to sit down; more accurately several places to sit down. I have sundry stools the right height to sit and work at the benches and I have a couple with rollers that are just right to be comfortable while working at wheel-well height such as on brakes.
I also have a pile of the stacking sort of plastic armchairs like those often found on a deck behind a house, close by a barbecue grille. These last are specifically for getting a small group to gather and look at a project. Whether we’re ‘brain storming’ or just lazily ‘bench racing’, a place to relax is an important tool to use in getting things just right.
I invited Wayne and the owner of the car to sit down and tell me what seemed to be going on. The complaint went this way: When Wayne had the engine completely assembled, it had been set up and run-in on a dynamometer at Roush’s facility. It had been well tested for output. Then it was placed into the chassis and all the powertrain assembled as well.
When the car was test-run at Milan Dragway, the numbers suggested that it had somehow lost a very substantial amount of horsepower. Elapsed times---the time from start-to-finish-line of the dragstrip---are subject to such variables as air temperature and humidity as well as traction, but the miles-per-hour figures will quite reliably tell you how much power you’re making. A bunch had gone somewhere.
Please understand that there will always be a certain amount of loss through a powertrain. Each of the mechanisms---the transmission, (five-speed Lenco), the differential, (Mark Williams Ford nine-inch), axle bearings, etc,---each shows an increment of loss. Friction, if nothing else, will take a toll. But by any realistic evaluation, something beyond the powertrain had stolen power.
The configuration of this engine was such that it relied on a combination of centrifugal supercharging and electronic fuel injection in order to make power. At 408 cubic inches, it was not overwhelmingly large in terms of displacement. But with more than thirty pounds of boost available, and all other components optimized for making use of this forced induction, on a drag-race basis, this powerplant should---and did, on the engine dyno---make well into four digits, horsepower-wise. The combination of the dedicated chassis, low weight (in comparison to a factory-sourced vehicle), and supposedly available horsepower should have had the car running at more than 210 MPH in the quarter mile.
In fact, the best it could muster was a little better than 190. Since the speeds were consistent, it was fair to assume that the power was actually down and not somehow fluctuating.
I could detail all the diagnostic tests we performed over the next several hours, but the details would just bore you. (I once, many years ago, spent almost an hour fiddling around before I discovered that the throttle linkage was bent and not pulling the induction butterflies fully open. Now that’s one of the first things I check!) A dedicated computer with the proper diagnostic and tuning software is a marvelous instrument for working on a modern electronically-controlled engine. But there’s just no substitute for observation.
After we’d exhausted all the plethora of possibilities in the way of a mis-step in the programming of the injector fuel curve, and its interrelationship with the ignition timing and supercharger boost, the little light finally came on.
I asked ‘Bill Jones’ (the owner, who for obvious reasons doesn’t want his real name in print) how the electronic control unit---the ‘black box’ that directs all the electronics, and into which the tuning computer-cable is plugged ---was mounted when the engine was on the dyno at Roush’s. He explained that an aluminum plate had been mounted to the dyno frame above the bell-housing, with short runs of wiring hooked to all the appropriate places.
When the engine was placed in the car, the ECU was mounted in the passenger footwell. Rubber shock mounts on the side of the transmission tunnel supported the plate which carried all the electronic equipment including the ECU and the ignition components.
I had been observing the readouts on the plug-in computer all afternoon while trying this adjustment and that. It finally dawned on me that the amplitude of the trace I was looking at could be interpreted as indicating a lack of sufficient ‘grounding’ or making sure that the entirety of the electric circuits were completely unimpeded.
Just on the off chance that I’d found something, I got out a piece of ‘double aught’ welding cable and turned it into several individual lengths with copper lugs soldered to each end of each portion. Shrink-tube finished the ends neatly.
Then I used one of these connectors to tie each component to each other component and the whole system to the engine block and to the frame of the car. Rubber shock-mounts are great for protecting delicate electric components from vibration---they are lousy for grounding. Re-starting the engine showed what seemed to be a much better ‘trace’, and the engine even sounded more authoritative---though that could come from an active imagination. Sometimes the most obvious things are the hardest to find!
We fastened the car back onto the chassis dyno and did a quick check. Now the power showed as about what you’d expect from the readings at Roush’s, after the power’d gone through a complete drivetrain.
The reason for the flurry of activity that had resulted in coming to me for assistance was that there was a big-money match scheduled for that evening. In the complex world of street-racing, it would almost have been better to go out and lose than to make excuses that things weren’t working correctly. Now, if I had accurately isolated the problem and solved it, there would be a much better chance of prevailing.
High dollar street-racing in Detroit owes its present configuration to the availability of the cell ’phone. There are literally dozens of places in the Detroit Metro area where there is enough room for two serious cars to run off side-by-side. The service drive at Clay Street, once a hotbed, seems to have been taken over by motorcycles, but there are certainly many others. On the West Side, ‘College Road’ comes to mind. Another place is the section of Plymouth Road a few blocks east of Telegraph. McNichols, also going east. The industrial park in Westland. There are others, particularly on the east side.
But trying to find one that is not only long enough for the acceleration phase, but also has enough room to ‘shut down’, and where there is also as little likelihood as possible of someone getting in the way inadvertently, does limit the choices. A half mile, total, is the minimum length and more is better. And the more uninhabited and quiet, the better it gets, making the intended spot one of the best.
If the participants make final plans very much ahead of time, the word goes out in such a way as to produce dozens if not hundreds of spectators. This, of course, will quickly bring the bluebottles. And cars of this ilk are not often driven to the race scene. The suspensions are so specialized for drag racing that they don’t lend themselves easily to ordinary street driving; not least the lack of clearance between the underside components and the pavement being a most significant deterrent. So they are usually brought to the scene by flatbed truck such as was used to get this car to my shop, or in many cases, in enclosed trailers. All of this makes it awkward in the extreme to try to effect a speedy escape if such were to prove desirable.
Therefore, ‘scouts’ are sent out to look over possible localities---with communication by cell ’phone at the last possible minute---and when a place is chosen, the whole thing can happen with a good deal of dispatch. Wayne uses an unobtrusive brown Ranger pick-up truck to take the few necessary items when he goes, in his role as engine builder/tuner, to one of these events.
It was decided that since I had been involved in the final trouble-shooting and tuning session, I’d ride with Wayne. We should expect a call soon after one o’clock in the morning.
TWENTY SIX
Wayne and I were sitting in my upstairs lounge when the ’phone rang. It was ten minutes to one. I halfway expected it to be the ‘call-to-action’ but it was Annie who, accompanied by Brit, had gone back to the Canton condo. We said “Good Night” and mutual “I Love You”s before we hung up. They were in an unlikely-to-be-known-of place while I paid attention to business.
It’s nice when business is also fun, and as further insurance regarding non-interference, a call to the hospital had told me that Blake was still sedated because of the aftereffects of the broken bones. (I had become, supposedly, his younger brother, calling to check up on him.) Another call informed me that Tom’s computer activities, while proceeding, had not yet produced the proper combination.
Then the ’phone rang again, and this time it was to tell us that we had a half-hour to get to the corner of Outer Drive and Dix Road, close to the Lincoln Park-Melvindale border; a couple miles from The Rouge. The intent was to run on Dix from just north of Outer Drive, at the traffic light at Grace Street, to Wabash Street, which cuts off to the right.
This had been measured to be just more than a quarter mile. Close enough for the intended purpose. This is primarily a residential area, but at that time of night the streets should be very near to deserted for relative safety, and after Wabash the area becomes light industrial/commercial as it goes under the train tracks, and there are no cross streets close by.
The favored place in the area for this sort of business has been, until fairly recently, to stay on Outer Drive and go past the expressway to Fort Street. If you go just northeast of Outer Drive on Fort, you’re going into Detroit, and Fort is wide and mostly deserted in the early morning hours. However, there was an unfortunate incident there, not too long ago, when a race car got away from the driver, and not only hit a parked car but a woman out walking down the sidewalk as well. I don’t know what she was doing out at that time of night, but it cost her life. It was reported in the newspapers that it also negatively impacted the careers of two local police officers who were in their cruiser on the other side of the intersection in a party store car park. Their superiors allegedly took it amiss that they were said to be obviously spectating and claimed that they had not made any official objection to the activities. Their supposed answer, that it all took place across the line in Detroit, where they had no official standing, didn’t seem to help much. It all created quite a ‘hoo-ha’ in the newspapers for a while. (Please notice all the ‘weasel-words’ in the foregoing comments. I wasn’t there but I had it described to me by actual observers during lunch the next day.)
Since our answer to any official inquiry as to our activities was to be injured innocence, not flight, it made good sense to take an unobtrusive vehicle. There’s no law against driving on any ordinary, open public street at any time. In addition, a definition of freedom, due to all humans and specifically given voice in the US Constitution, is the ability to come and go as one pleases.
I am perfectly capable of offering any inquisitive cop a polite half-hour sermon on going about one’s business without harassment in the absence of any probable cause to believe that I am breaking a law, and that therefore my activities are, properly speaking, none of his business. Boring, dogged pomposity is a perfectly workable alternative to unobtrusiveness. And in the event of a ticket, the subsequent suit for false arrest helps the word to go out that fucking with citizens in the absence of a serious reason is counter-productive.
Our trip to the chosen site was completely uneventful. We passed the time with casual conversation---chiefly with Wayne filling me in on the known characteristics of the opponent car.
A first design brilliant metallic orange ‘Z-28’ Camaro, it actually started life in a GM assembly plant. Since all such cars have unibody construction, with the Chevrolet product having a bolt-in front stub frame, there had been a good deal of welded-in stiffening---the car had been worked over in the front and then ‘back-halfed’ as they say. ‘Ladder bars’ were the control method of choice for holding the front end down and restraining the rear axle; the ubiquitous Ford nine-inch.
The engine was known to be a ‘rat’, or big-block Chevrolet. It had a 6-71 GMC supercharger carrying two Holley carburetors. Thus, this competition was, in effect, the old against the new. The Camaro was a classic example of the late ’60’s-early ’70’s Gas/Supercharged-type vehicle.
Since some versions of the rat motor are capable of as much as eight hundred cubic inches, there was no telling what the displacement of this engine might be, and no one was definitively offering the information.
On the other hand, if it were truly a ‘Monster Motor’, the likelihood is that it would be carrying more than a 6-71 supercharger. Properly feeding one of the really large versions would call for a larger capacity blower.
The bright competition-yellow Mustang, as already detailed, had a complete list of the latest in electronics. Although almost surely the engine was smaller in displacement than the rat, a Paxton centrifugal supercharger is much more efficient than a Roots-type blower such as the GMC, and had the additional advantage of an intercooler. The electronic fuel-injection, likewise had the ability to deliver just the right amount of gasoline to each cylinder; something the carbs on top of the blower could only approximate. Again, greater efficiency.
This was, in street parlance, a ‘haid-up’ race. The start was, therefore, to be dead-even, controlled by the traffic light at Grace Street. There would be a group watching at Wabash Street consisting of representatives from both sides. They’d also be holding the money. Absent any disagreement, the whole affair would be concluded in less than half-an-hour.
The race, itself, including the final positioning of the cars and the return to the starting place afterwards would probably take not much more than five minutes. As a concession to safety, some of the inevitable hangers-on would be detailed to block the entrances from the side streets onto Dix by parking cars across the street mouths. This would ensure that some late-returning drunk didn’t inadvertently become involved in the action.
When we arrived at Outer Drive and Dix, having followed Outer Drive south from Michigan Avenue, we discovered that, by cutting the chain on the gate, both car-hauling trucks had been tucked into the fence-surrounded drive for what looked to be a defunct gas station on the more-or-less southeast corner. The cars had both then been unloaded onto Dix on the south side of Outer Drive and the last minute discussion and negotiation was going forward. Since the best place to see the important part of a drag race is at the finish line, we ascertained that there was more than ten minutes before the start of festivities and drove down to the corner where Wabash goes east from Dix.
Wabash only goes about fifty feet before the street makes a ninety-degree turn north and for a distance runs parallel to Dix; we parked around this corner and watched the final preparations.
Two guys had the ends of a length of clothesline long enough to go across both lanes of the northbound side. When all agreed that the line was stretched at right angles to the lanes of pavement, it was placed against the tarmac and a third guy carefully walked the distance along the cord, depositing a clear line of white paint on the street from a rattle can. This was the agreed upon means of marking the finish line.
A cell ’phone in the pocket of one of the line-stretchers buzzed; obviously someone at the starting area asking if all was ready at our location. The race cars would have been hand-pushed into their approximate pre-starting positions and the drivers would be ready to go through the last-minute details before the race. The time interval between one green light and the next would have been ascertained so that the very last activities could be carried out expeditiously.
We had been told that impromptu ‘bleach-box’ puddles for both cars would be placed a hundred feet or so behind the starting line. This would enable the drivers to heat their slicks in the water, and leave room for a couple of ‘dry-hops’ before getting to where the starting line had been sprayed on the street. After both cars were ‘staged’ the next green light would start the race.
Both engines fired-up at almost the same instant and the overlapping resonance of a pair of three to five thousand RPM blasts in the water was heard. Then the tyre-drying ‘hops’ noises came in their turn. Following that, the belly-shaking rough sound of the idling engines for a moment as we watched the green-to-yellow-to-red sequence observable from our location.
Next, after a pause, the melody of power straining against rev-limiters, as the interminable seconds of this final red light counted away, and the clamour became the overwhelming, senses-destroying cacophony of thousands of horsepower mechanically ululating as the race cars thrust toward us.
The discussion afterwards, at a Denny’s on Michigan Ave., told us about the activity at the starting line. The owner said, “The ‘leave’ was virtually perfect---both cars moved at the same instant.” He went on to explain that the combination of the greater displacement and the more linear boost from the 6-71 gave the initial advantage to the Camaro. But as the RPM’s climbed, the superior efficiency of the centrifugal supercharger and the flow available through the Roush-sourced NASCAR-type heads gave the upper hand decisively to the Mustang. It was out front before the driver pulled third gear and was a bus-length ahead as he flashed past our position.
Both cars had gathered their ’chutes, turned around and with a single good blast of acceleration had coasted most of the way back to Dix. Willing hands had helped push the cars to where the winches could pull them back onto the trucks. The representatives had completed the money transfer before leaving the finish line area.
As is common in these ‘after-engagement’ sessions, every aspect of the contest was examined at great length. At our table were gathered the owner of the Mustang and the two guys who make up his regular crew, as well as the driver (a friend of the owner), and Wayne and myself.
In such situations, I commonly sit back and mostly keep my mouth shut. They were all strangers except Wayne, although I’d got to know the owner to a certain extent during the afternoon’s thrash. I found myself, with the part of my brain not following the flow of conversation, mulling over the sociological aspects of our activities as I kept my hands and mouth busy with a ‘Super Bird’ and a Coke. Somehow, these occasions always call for a ‘Super Bird’ and a Coke---it’s either habit or something deeply buried in my psyche. Oh, Well.
One of the things Wayne told me during our discussion on the way from my shop was that the Camaro was a toy for an upper-management doper who goes by the street-name of ‘Chubs’. When the money is coming in as fast as it does with drugs, it’s fairly common locally to have this sort of hobby.
The results of a race are all over the community by the next day and such antics become part of the legend these guys seek to have surrounding themselves. A race car such as the Mustang, or for that matter the Camaro, will cost at least a hundred thousand dollars, and can easily enough go far beyond the hundred thou, particularly if one considers the ancillary expense for the support vehicle and the parts and equipment necessary to do the maintenance.
Please understand, though, that it’s entirely possible to win more than that amount in one season---in fact, although this was a new car in its first trip out into competition, the owner stated that he’d, “Made the racing pay for itself for the last six years.” He said it with the kind of grin on his face that made it a certainty that he was being at least somewhat modest.
On the other hand, because it takes money to begin to compete in this kind of endeavor, if the source isn’t some illicit enterprise it may somehow actually grow out of a full-time business. Therefore I roused myself to ask, “How’d you get started in this stuff?”
He replied, “I first discovered drag racing when I was a kid, and with only a little observation found out that there were, at that time, virtually no ‘persons of color’, like myself, involved. Then I did enough background reading to find out about Stone, Woods, and Cook---the famous ‘gas-class’ drag-race team from back in the ’sixties.
“Since the spectators only saw the driver, Doug ‘Cookie’ Cook, who was white; most never realized that the two guys who built and owned the car were both (here with a grin) ‘Black Like Me’. So I decided that I’d become an owner, and because their best car was a Mustang, that’s what I wanted.
“I own a tree service---we do specialty arboreal work and other landscaping in the warm weather, and snow plowing in the winter. It didn’t take very many years before I had enough money to be able to do what I’d wanted. I got a Mustang and began to make it faster and faster. Finally, I got to the place where I decided to have this car built, and here we are!”
I responded, “Well, if tonight is any indication of what you have in your future, you’re going to be very successful.”
“Thanks, and by the way, here’s a little ‘thank you’ for your efforts this afternoon.” He handed me a fold of hundreds, and I, with the same air of ‘this is an ordinary situation, like paying for lunch’, stuck it, with a nod of acknowledgement, in my pocket without counting.
He continued, “There was twenty thousand on the table tonight, and Jerry, here---(indicating the driver)---says the car felt much more responsive than it did at Milan three days ago.
“You must have found the problem. I had no idea that it took that size of cable to make a good ground.”
I replied, “If you were running a more conventional combination, with the sort of ignition that we used a few years ago, and a pair of carburetors, what you had would undoubtedly have done fine. Most people, even if they sorta understand, don’t really realize that with a negative ground system such as cars use these days, the spark actually travels from the ground to the ‘hot’ side and not the other way around. If you don’t have enough ground capacity, you’re ‘choking’ everything else you’re doing, with all your electrical systems.
What I did this afternoon really just gave the rest of the equipment enough of a beginning electrical ‘path’ to be sure it could do its job.”
“Well, it certainly seemed to have worked. Is everybody done? I got a business to tend to in the morning!” And with that, we departed in several directions. I rode with Wayne, having left Orca at his place.
When I got back to the (undisturbed) shop, I found a message on the box to call Tom in the morning. And another, from Annie, telling me in great detail, what she intended to do to my body---and what she expected in return---when we got back together. She surely is highly inventive.
She must have called right after our conversation on my cell ’phone. She finished by saying “Good night” one more time.
THE ENTIRETY OF THE FOREGOING EXCERPTS HAVE BEEN COPYRIGHTED.
READ AND ENJOY THEM BUT YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO MAKE ANY OTHER USE OF THEM!!!
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(SINCE I KNOW THE GUYS MOST LIKELY TO READ THIS STUFF, I PUT A RACY PASSAGE FIRST. AND DOWN BELOW IT I PUT AN OUT-TAKE FROM ANOTHER OF THE BOOKS---WITH THIS SECOND ONE BEING ABOUT STREET RACING)
FROM DETROIT: SPRING GOLD
(When a forty-year-old adventurer finally falls, he falls extremely hard. And, of course, if it's to last, he has to be honest about both his past and his present. So here's their second meeting, and their first 'Meeting'.
}---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------{
THIRTEEN
To get to a resumption of where we’d been the night before, she was the one who had to move. She realized it, of course, and stood, reaching up to remove the toothy clip-thing holding her hair in place. She handed it to me and combed her fingers through so that the strands cascaded down her back.
Thus undone it was absolutely magnificent, a mass of loose auburn-gold curls and waviness, the totality so long that altogether it now hung past her knees as she stood there posing for me. She leaned to kiss me, then straightening and continuing to look me in the face, she stood hip-shot and shook her head a little, using her hands some more.
She was ultra-femininely doing the sort of admirer-directed pilusic playing that a woman employs to focus attention and indicate her own interest and receptivity---when her tresses actually require no re-arranging. But it is body language that speaks volumes to whomever it’s directed. If you understand what’s being said. Having played with her hair she came back to me.
She sat, again, along side of me and swivelled until she was properly oriented, then let me pull her until she was lying half across my lap one more time, and face-to-face, as the night before, with her left arm around my neck. But this time there wasn’t any console to get in the way. I distantly realized that the closer she got, the better she looked. Which is practically impossible considering that she was so breathtaking from ten feet away. But the observation was an example of what she was doing to me.
She shut her eyes as our lips touched again; and seemed to be willing to melt right into me. I was strongly in favor of the idea. She’d shown interest and indeed cooperation in the abbreviated physical activity we’d indulged in the night before. And I was having a difficult time holding myself back. DON’T GET IN A RUSH!
We stayed that way for an extended time while I visited her every facial feature with my lips, content in the moment’s experiences. I discovered that the taste of her mouth was as wonderful as I’d remembered, and slightly different, with the wine, than the taste of her chin, her neck, or the lobe of her ear---(the ear gave her a chill and made her giggle, ’though it was a ‘running on the edge’ sort of giggle). I tasted her lips individually and she responded easily.
I pushed my tongue against her teeth and after a faint hesitation she opened her mouth slightly. My tongue touched hers and I coaxed it out ’till it touched my lips and lightly sucked on it. She made a sound of delight and moved her own lips a little in such a way as to invite more of the same treatment. And she showed no previous familiarity at all with the experience---but her instant enthusiasm was manifest.
For some time, this mouth-play was enough---our arms occupied in mutually holding us close. But ultimately my right hand, with notions of its own, discovered again the flawless perfection of her derrière. She made no hint of objection to this rapprochement; actually arching herself, in reaction, in such a way as to press herself more firmly to me. My mind again registered that the denim was the functional equivalent of a coat of paint as I caressed the area comprehensively.
Straying a little further I lowered my face to gossamer-kiss her left breast---a very clearly intentional gesture--suggesting that I’d be re-visiting, but not emphatic enough to cause her to feel that she was being attacked. And I looked in her eyes for just a moment---observing her awareness---and acceptance(?)---of my intention. Then my hand found the line of the gold chain at her waist---and the feel of her back inside the hem of her sweater. She’d had her hand on my arm and now slid it, hesitantly, under the waistband of my shirt and after a moment cautiously began running it up and down my side from my belt-line to the back of my shoulder, obviously seeking the skin-to-skin contact. The feeling of both emotional and mental closeness thus engendered by our mutual physical activities was greater than I could remember ever having experienced with anyone else.
I lightly used fingertips on her belly---bare below the hem of her sweater---and was rewarded with a chill-reaction where I was touching her. I slipped my hand inside and let it slide up and down from her waist to her armpit; enjoying the almost-feel of her ribs. My fingers made a slight detour to lightly brush the place I’d kissed---her bra so wispy as to be practically non-existent and seemingly only accentuating my awareness of the obviously stiffening nipple I had first felt with my lips---and once again I moved on.
My digits counted each vertebral knob in her back; the lowest ones disappearing below the edge of her jeans. But my hand couldn’t follow very far in that direction---there simply wasn’t room---so it slowly inched its way upwards; the tactile sensation of skin-contact drawing me on. I discovered, though, no fastener where the narrowness of her bra strap intersected, and I contented myself with resting my fingers there for a moment, massaging gently between her shoulders.
She moved herself against me and made a sound that might have been a snicker if our mouths hadn't been so busy. Then she broke the kiss and leaned back inside the circle of my arms, looking at me. She spoke, with the beginning of a flush of heightened awareness showing on her face and a hint of tremble (amusement---apprehension---excitement maybe?) in her voice, “I like the way you touch me, and I like the tongue-stuff too, and when you rub my back that way, it feels really nice!
“You know, I realized last night, when I was getting out of your car, that kissing you… Oh, just make it that I thoroughly enjoyed myself! I had to tell myself to go inside! I really wanted you to keep holding me! And for some reason, I don’t have any problem saying all that to you. I feel very easy talking to you, and you’re wonderful to be close to!” I just grinned and said, “Likewise, I’m sure!”
She continued, “I suppose I should be more stand-offish, but I guess we’ve already worked ourselves past that particular point, haven’t we. I might as well be candid and say to you right out loud that I really like the way we’ve just been doing. I’m well aware that all this hasn’t been entirely innocent---you want to get my clothes off, don’t you. But the fact that you don’t seem to be in a hurry is very good from my point-of-view. And that you’re making this much effort is good, too. It’s working, you know! (I could readily tell that she was indulging in self-reassurance---feeling want-to on one hand but significant timorousness on the other.)
“You obviously didn’t find what you were looking for just now. You were intending to unhook my bra, weren’t you. Are you wanting to touch my boobs? I liked that little kiss---but you were simply looking in the wrong place!” (Her chatter was clearly nervousness-driven and I was virtually speechless.)
Plainly intending to demonstrate, she pulled away from me and stood. Our knees interlocked, hers-and-mine-and-hers-and-mine, and all pressed together to the front of the settee. Standing thus over me as I leaned back, she looked down with what seemed to be a combination of shyness, pride, and perhaps, a bit of trepidation showing on her face. She paused for a moment to take a deep breath, then said, “Let me show you!”
She caught the back of her sweater collar with both hands as I struggled to breathe. With one motion she pulled it up and over and dropped it beside me. And once more fingered her hair back. The situation was running away with me. Hang on and enjoy the ride!
FOURTEEN
Her bra was made of lavender-silk cobwebs---with bits of fancywork around the edges. Since it was well-nigh transparent it mostly served to focus my eyes and add to the hard-on I was experiencing…
I reached for her, saying, “Come here!” but she backed away slightly. And with a look of narrow regard and, perhaps, a touch of her obvious shyness blended in, she covered her breasts with her hands for a moment, whilst leaning slightly forward as though thinking to offer them to me. She was so concentrated on her actions that I don’t think she registered what I’d said.
She continued, “The hook’s right here” and demonstrating, unfastened the front-connection between the scraps of diaphaneity covering her---the lavender colour creating perfect contrast to her skin-tones---the purpose quite obviously only for decoration---(and perhaps a faint gesture toward propriety)---too thin and ethereal-seeming for any serious function.
She kept the fabric in place for a moment and then, first looking down at herself, she gazed quite solemnly back in my face and said, “It really is OK if you want to touch me!”, and let slip her hold so that the elastic carried it away. With a shrug for assistance, it fell from her shoulders to the carpet behind her. She arched her back so that her chest jutted and with head bowed, she stared at me again from under her brows. Again she brushed her mane back---so as to be sure my view was unobstructed? The contrast between the emphatic sun-tan of her body and the stark almost-whiteness of her breasts was so glorious that I found myself making little sounds in my throat as I looked at her.
Her coquettishness had blended with it a substantial degree of the somewhat puzzling innocence I’d been observing. Lurking behind her eyes, awareness both of her actions---this equally substantial, surprising display of brashness---and that she was also somehow aghast at finding herself in this struggle between demureness and audacity. I was so close to my own control limits that the sounds I was making in my head were probably also audible to her.
She paused briefly, straightening with shoulders back and arms raised to play some more with her hair; posing in the half-light. She gave a joyous little wiggle to complete the picture she made---now offering herself to me. This small motion made her breasts jiggle slightly---each independently moving in a way that must rank as the very most entrancing feature of the female anatomy.
The mix of apprehension and pride that she was feeling obviously came from some internal uncertainty---she looked at me some more while thus making this visual presentation of herself. The pheromone-releasing exposure resulting from the raising of her arms was a further gesture of body-language---indicative of an attitude of attraction-projection. She was thus speaking very distinctly to me, though probably not consciously aware of it.
She said, “Was this what you wanted? It’s all right if you’d like to touch me! I want you to touch me!” I don’t know what my own face showed, but I was feeling the same sizzle along my nerve ends as when she very first opened her door---simply increased a hundred-fold. Oh God, she’s beautiful!---She isn’t allowing me to do any of this; she’s taken the initiative and is bringing it to me!
I replied, “Almost anything I’d say right now would be very likely to come out sounding silly---so how about if I let my actions do most of the talking. Dear God, you’re gorgeous!” Then I ordered her, “Come here!” I moved to a nearby chair. “Just looking at you is wonderful, but it’s not nearly enough! Come here now! I hope you’ll like being touched because I’m going to touch every inch of you!”
Her body was even a bit more lush than I might have guessed and she clearly had no faintest hint of necessity, anywhere, for support. She came to stand near in front of me and I was thus looking from close range at perfection; the sprinkle of faint freckles from her face to be seen slightly more obviously across her chest and shoulders and upper arms; bikini pattern clearly delineated; breasts many creamy shades lighter because the sun had not been there; palest ivory-pink of very pronounced, starkly-proud-standing small areolae tipped by two prominent little buds. And a dime-size dark-red birth-mark, standing-out severely against the almost-white on the outside of her right breast; accenting the perfection.
“Oh Dear God.” (I whispered it involuntarily---a little prayer torn from me by this overwhelming wondrousness there within arm’s reach.) Her skin, seen thus closely, had the singularly fine grain and in the places un-tanned, a degree of pellucidness usually found only in infants and the very young; her breasts thus showing very faintly a tracery of almost invisibly tiny blue veins. Above the hip-hugger jeans she was now entirely naked except for the thin gold chains to be seen at waist, wrist and neck.
I repeated once more, “Come here!”---while a soundless prayer of “Oh, My God!” was again pulled from me---without volition on my part.
She took a half-step toward me and leaned slightly---a hint, again, of making a gift of herself---and I raised myself closer and, exercising restraint, touched her bareness with both hands---sliding my fingers slowly up her sides to her armpits---then palming her abundance and using my thumbs to brush her stiffened nipples. I stretched further to kiss this perfect fullness she was offering, left and right. And my hands slipped back to stroke her torso, then hold her under the arms---she emitted a sort-of-giggle---partially caused by the akin-to-tickle sensations my hands were providing and, I’m sure, partially from a dose of nervousness.
I provoked her armpits with my fingertips in response to these giggles; then began placing very light kisses, not just on her nipples, but comprehensively alternating right and left in a semi-worshipful manner. And I teased her with light tongue flickings and small suckings---her nipples becoming as little pencil erasers. Thus made slippery, my addition of gentle thumb-‘n’-finger pinches added incrementally to their inflammation as I nuzzled to kiss the valley between. Continuing little sounds were torn from her by our contact. I realized myself to be faintly shaky and took another deep breath.
Holding one hand up so she could see the tremor, I looked in her face and said, “See what you’re doing to me?” Her little smile of acknowledgement had a hint of self-satisfaction in it that was almost lost among her other physical reactions. She said, “all this seems to be pretty important, doesn’t it!” and in her turn showed me her own hand, also a-tremble.
I wrapped my arms snugly around her and she bowed her head to press it against my shoulder. And she took a huge breath and held it for an extended moment. Then she said, “Is this really as important to you as it seems to be?” Not trusting my voice, I contented myself with a sotto voce, “Um Hmm.”
Her whispered “Ohhhhs” suggested wonderment and the little moans that followed served as substantial encouragement as I returned to nibbling at her. Her incredible eyes half closed as she momentarily surrendered to my manipulations, swaying slightly and shuddering as if winter-chilled while she directed me back and forth, holding my head with both hands and twisting at the waist in presentation to make my efforts easy. I devoted myself to kissing and sucking and (gently!) biting her. These gestures of stimulation were such that her nipples now stood out to what must have been several times their unmolested size.
Being careful to cover things completely, I suppose I occupied myself for several minutes with this play, my arms wrapped around her hips to hold her close; pressing the prominence of her Venus Mound against my chest. I pulled her to sit a-straddle my knees, recognizing that I was still making the little sounds in my throat. I imagine we spent several minutes kissing while I stroked my palms up and down her ribs and spine.
She raised herself back to her feet and I slid a hand up the inside of her leg and audaciously pressed the denim of her jeans firmly against her juncture with my thumb---and rubbed a bit to emphasize the contact. She gasped an “Ooohh” and displayed a rictus of positive reaction for a moment, then stood docilely while I hugged her around her hips and spent a moment kissing her belly just above the fastening of her denims.
She grasped my arm and, tugging me upright, without a further spoken word pushed me down the little hall and across her bedroom threshold. The tangled stiffness of ‘Junior’ made walking awkward.
Upon entering the room, I glanced around, then crossed to the bathroom; flipped the light-switch ‘on’ and pulled the door until the wash of brightness ran only up the far wall, leaving light and shadow with the bed clearly illuminated.
As I turned back to her, she finished the removal of her Levi’s. Now her only remaining covering was her step-ins---lacy-transparent lavender silk---an obvious match for the bra she’d left in the other room. Her dainty patch of auburn-gold pubic growth, showing past the fabric, provided a darker counterpoint of colour to the white skin closely surrounding.
Aware that I was watching, she made too much of the business of folding the denims neatly, while carefully not looking in my direction. My heart was pounding to such an extent that it was probably visible on my chest. "Holy cow, this is a big deal." You’d think I was a teen-ager. Dear God, she’s gorgeous!
I was conscious of a feeling of great responsibility. Since she so clearly wanted my attentions, I must very diligently take utmost care of her---this gift of her self with which I was being presented.
I kicked off my shoes, pulled my shirt over my head and then, with our eyes now locked together, unfastened my belt and ran the zipper and with a push lowered khakis and Jockeys, holstered-pistol and all, to pile at my ankles; phallus standing rigidly at up-angled attention.
She gave me a shy but lingering look of head-to-toe examination. Then, a little helplessly, she simply dropped the jeans she was holding, stood motionless for an extended moment with her head down, then walked past me around the bed; pulled down the covers and sat there on the far side with her feet tucked under her.
Looking solemnly at me, she absently hugged herself, holding her breasts for a moment in such a way that the protrusion of her nipples was emphasized, and touching them a little with her fingers---unconsciously enjoying the feeling, I suppose, and somewhat continuing for herself the stimulation I’d just been providing. Her level of excitement was easily judged by the tumescence she was displaying and the obvious flush to be seen across her face and torso.
Gravely looking toward me, and at least somewhat self-consciously, she seemed focused again, for an extended moment, on my hard-on. Then, with the suffusion of colour further developing in her face and neck, she licked her lips, patted her knees, said, “Come here now,” and extended her hands to me---a tiny part of my mind once more registering the entrancing colour contrasts of her skin and pubic hair against the see-through lavender laciness at her hips. I approached her and touched her face as she looked up at me. And I said, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!”
Without conscious intent, Junior was now almost in her face as she leaned slightly toward me. She paused, seemingly contemplating from very close range that which was to be very soon given to her. Then she put out a hand, her gesture ending in a gingerly hesitance of fingertip-touch and with both inexperience and arousal showing clearly, she again looked up at me and said, “I want this!---do it to me, please---put it in me---but please don’t hurt me!” The flush showing on her face was so intense that her freckles blended in and the feathery touch of her fingers brought fire such that just a few seconds more of the contact and I might have lost control.
A bit fumble-tongued, I managed to croak, “Yes!” Then I leaned down to her and began again to lave her with light kisses---lips, eyes, nose-tip, neck.
With one hand now on my arm she pulled me down to herself as she sagged back against the pillows, and I let my own hands wander while once more searching for her tongue with my own. She answered by opening her mouth further in welcome and then made a two-hands reach toward Junior---and settling for one handful of hard-on; she cautiously explored my ballocks with her other hand. I had a flitting thought to encourage her but my mouth was too busy for talking.
My own palms rediscovered the weighty globes of her upstanding bosom and the urgent stiffness of her distended nipples, (and felt her heart thundering within her), then silky-sheathed almost-countable ribs, and the incredibly fine texture of the sculptured faint convexity of her belly. I began again to kiss and suck her breasts while letting my fingers play along her ribs. And my ministrations immediately brought forth from her, again, small gasps of encouragement.
She let go her hold and wriggled to remove her last bit of transparent laciness. Then, first staring at my face with a diffident hint of challenge, she further parted her knees quite deliberately in disclosure, flicked another protracted glance at my erection and then once more looked down at herself. A small part of my consciousness registered that she was presenting as wearing a white bikini---but it was actually her glorious un-tanned skin with her details showing as if decorations. The effect was accented by the hirsuteness in the glorious un-tanned centre of her---with the un-gapped groove of her swollen nether-lips showing clearly through her auburn-tinged fuzz---and the tip of her now-distending clitoris peeping out.
She looked back in my face with a faint question, offering an invitation to approach the luxuriant reddish-blonde curliness she was revealing---she was now entirely unclothed---except for the auric chains that decorated her. She hesitantly groomed with her fingers along the furrow showing within her red-gold bush. Then she thrust her hips forward a bit and bashfully/aggressively whispered, “Do it to me---I want you to do it to me---put Him in me right now---but please don’t hurt me!”
I very intentionally held myself back for an extended time while continuing to quicken her with touches; thoughts flitting through my consciousness. She was an extreme mixture of nervy knowingness and timid innocence---obviously willing to give herself to me---and clearly having lost all semblance of reticence---manifestly not a virgin, yet showing little evidence of the all-around experience that should be obvious.
After all, she’d said that she was a widow following almost a year of marriage. Surely she and her deceased husband had taken advantage of their time together, so that she should have a degree of knowledge about ‘delights of the flesh’. But there was minimal sign of it. I believed I’d properly gone about my preliminary approaches, but she still seemed to be significantly apprehensive! Why the concern about being hurt? Physical? Emotional? Maybe he’d simply been an unmitigatedly clumsy dolt!
I was careful to offer a range of touches to tempt her, to carry her along slowly; in this way demonstrating my own self-control as well as heightening for her the sensations caused by my resumed kisses and nibbles. I alternated slow finger-tip-only touching---thighs and hips---and gentle pinches-‘n’-plucks---nipples-‘n’-furriness---finally sliding my hand up the inside of her thigh to firmly cup her quim for a moment. Then I began a light brushing of her pubic growth, stroking the hairs right and left to most fully expose her turgid slit. I used a just-licked finger-tip to make the first gentle momentary contact with the tip of her clitty---(she gasped at the touch)!
I considered using my tongue on her. But hard on the thought came a realization of her possible reaction to this perhaps-unaccustomed experience. I told myself to wait. The time for that sort of attention would come soon enough!
Then continuing---fondling, establishing possession and finally using a blatantly intrusive just-licked thumb in provocation---she made a loud “Ahh-mmm” and jerked her hips forward, spreading her knees wider in receptiveness as I made this slight first contact with her inner lady-bits---I lightly probed to stimulate not only her excitement but also a concomitant production of lubrication---there’d not been any overt sign of wetness---before caressing her further so as to distribute it.
This moisture induced by my hand was soon copiously in evidence, leaving a wet smear along her outer lips and on my palm as I further caressed her hairiness---pressing my fingers solidly against her and moving them slowly to rub her parts together. Then I deliberately paused for a moment, not going further until her now powerfully-awakened passions caused her to communicate more-than-complete readiness.
She was eagerly welcoming of my attentions and soon reached the point of creating sounds of impatience along with her shudders and small mewls of pleasure as I let my digits probe her inner details. Her small involuntary hip movements simulated the activity we’d soon be enjoying together. My gaze observed a viscid glistening covering her now-opened puffy pinkness and saturating her surrounding auburn-blonde ladybeard.
Altogether I explored her body for an extended time, motivating her and readying her for further activity. It was my firm intention to stimulate her so as to cause her to come close to orgasm before I entered her. I kissed her at least a thousand times.
Finally she found enough voice to pant in repeated request, “Oh, please, do it to me! Do it to me now! Right now!” I teasingly responded, “Do what? What do you want from me?” Leaning over her, I once again used finger-tips on her ribs and then, first gently biting a nipple, I stuck out my tongue and firmly licked a path from her breast-tip into her arm-pit, fully exposed by the way she had her arms tossed above her head. She gasped a giggle and was briefly again covered with chills---her hint of civet-y perfume almost enough to make me lose control as I tongue-bathed her.
I got us into the missionary position, kneeling between her wide-spread legs and taking my self in hand. Then I leaned to her so as to be able to slowly rub the plum-taut mushroom-head of Junior up-and-down in her now-widely-spread cleft. We produced clearly audible treacly sounds as I pushed very slightly into her wetness---and then pulled myself back out to provoke her.
She’d developed a solemn in-focused look on her face and I paused for a moment to kiss her some more and say, “Smile at me. This is supposed to be fun. Are you ready?”
She went completely out of control for a moment---almost violently humping her hips in an attempt to skewer herself---and another “Please” of supplication was torn from her by my teasing avoidance. But I persevered, concentrating on a further rubbing of Junior against her clitty---with only slight penetration---flagrantly tantalizing her so as to additionally pique her libido. She was staring at my face and as the meaning of my words cut through the fog caused by this physical experience I got a small grimace of both acknowledgement---and pure joy. The ongoing stimulation had, by now, produced in her enough lubrication that not only her lady-parts but---her entire centre was thoroughly drenched.
It was time. I aligned us so that, by insistently pushing, I could begin to impale her---as she lunged her hips toward me to try to speed the process. With my glans once again just started into her I removed my impeding hand and suddenly thrust my hips hard forward, forcing myself full depth into her narrow saturated slipperiness---all in one stroke. She first voiced a squealing “Eeeeeeaaaaahhh” of sensation as I thus plunged completely into her---pubic bone pressed to pubic bone---and then her sounds became as of pleasure almost at the threshold of agony since her stricture was, with this one stab, deliberately hard-stretched open to accommodate me.
Finding my voice to be a little rough I asked her, “Was that what you wanted?” And the “Ahhhhhh” torn from her as I again drove hard into her was both an affirmation and her comment on our mutual experience. One part of my consciousness marveled at her tightness---and the attendant feelings of wet and warmth and constriction as she pushed back against my aggression---straining to compel me even deeper into her. I kissed her face repeatedly as I paused fractionally---fully invested---waiting for us to reach complete physical concordancy---for her cunny to relax slightly---and to force her anticipations to apogee. Then I purposefully began slight movements in and out of her; again answered eagerly by her own---the timing of our mutual thrusts almost instantly matching. She whispered, eyes squinted tightly shut, “Oh my, Ohhh myyyy, it’s---so---good---Oh, good---Oh, good---It doesn’t hurt---Oohhhh” (I, in my turn, thought, “Dear God!---never before anything like this---this intensity…”) I said to her, “You’re glorious. Go easy, my dear---and we can make this last!”
FIFTEEN
For a time I tried to occupy myself with long slow movements, pulling almost out of her and pausing before pushing back in---on the very edge of non-control---perilously close to unloading. Every down-stroke elicited a gasp-moan of pleasure as I plunged into her.
Then came the bold notion that I Could Go Forever. I now seemed to have complete control---part of me stood to one side and whispered directions to the rest of myself as she became more and more frenzied. Looking down her body, I could see Junior disappearing into her, carrying her inner lips along---and they showed tight once more around me on each out-stroke.
And then again they vanished as I pushed back into her. I could hear, also, as a counterpoint to her vocalizing, the liquid sounds we were producing while I was moving in and out of her. I gave myself up to a glorious combination of physical sensation and a feeling of mental/emotional well-being---doing this with Her---the most glorious activity in the world!
Regardless of the stimulation I was providing, her ‘climb to the sunshine’ was slow and it was probably almost ten minutes before she began to reach her fulfillment. And when, from her sounds and movements she was finally about to go ‘over the edge’, I muttered to myself, ‘Now!’ and while continuing to focus on her I concentrated also toward bringing on my own conclusion. Reaching with both hands to our joining, I brushed her still-significantly protruding clitoris with butterfly alternating thumb-tips---to match my otherwise increasing tempo of suddenly-much-more-vigourous movement. And I restrainedly molested her nipples again for a moment---first leaning so as to touch them lightly with my mouth, then a combination of gentle fluttery lip-pinching and easy pulling/sucking and finally softly tooth-biting---and concomitantly paying extended attention to her areolae.
She’d had her mouth puckered and eyes squinted shut and her entire face screwed-up with her efforts---I leaned back a little and commanded her, “Look at Me!---look down here and watch me go in and out of you! Now!”
I returned to teasing her clit with the ball of my thumb, escalating with ever-mounting vigourousness, and her eyes opened wide to look down briefly. A little “Ohhh” burst from her as she observed me repeatedly plunging into her. I said, “Now look right here in my eyes while you cum!” and she raised her gaze to my face from a one-foot distance. I made one last grinding push into her, trapping my hand between us in such a way as to put pressure on her with my thumb---once again pubis hard against pubis as I began to flood her---and she moaned “Ohh-Ben-Ohhh-Ben-Ohhhhhh-Bennnnn” as we thus arrived at overlapping dazzling light-bursts of release.
She sucked-in and chewed at her lower lip in a fruitless attempt to muffle what had become almost-ululations and gripped my upper arms hard with her hands as repeated waves of climax went through her. (I felt her recurrently tense internally and clench up)---and undoubtedly I made a fair amount of noise myself. I leaned down so that our torsos were touching from shoulders down and revelled in the contact.
Long minutes later she reached to touch my face with her hands and then clasp them behind my neck as I sat up. After offering me a kiss, she gasped incredulously in observation, “Oh wow! Ohhh, waaaow!---I didn’t know---I’ve never---is that how it’s supposed to be?” Then joyously, “I could feel it when you shot your stuff---all up inside of me! It’s wonderful! And none of it hurts! At all! Oh, God! Thank you! This is…”
Shrinking somewhat, I managed to stay in her as I lifted and rolled with her so that she was lying on top of me with wide-spread legs, and her head again at rest on my shoulder---we were thus pressed back together with arms mutually wrapped tight. While stroking her skittish bottom, I found great delight in her continuing internal turmoil---reflex movements I could feel as I answered her, talking also to myself, “That’s how it is when we've done it properly, Love! And it’s not ever supposed to come anywhere near hurting!
I continued, “I told you, a minute ago, to look down in hopes that you’d have the same reaction that I do when I watch myself going in and out of you. And it’s a similar sort of thing when I want you to look right in my eyes. Because when you look in my eyes I’ll be able to look right back into yours and see what you’re feeling inside. It’s a whole different sort of being naked. I want you to be naked to me! And me to you! Think of it as ultimate openness---and realize that I can then see right down into your soul.
“Please know that it’s my mission in life to make things good for you. Every time we’re together I want you to know that it’s Me that’s the source of what you’re feeling, just as I’ll know it’s You. And what We are with each other is entirely ours. Just you and me with your eyes looking into mine. Under those circumstances, it makes for the very greatest intimacy there can ever be---not just physical but every other way too! When we're not together you need to know that you'll be constantly in my thoughts and every one of my activities will be dealt-with so as to get back to you as soon as possible!”
Some moments later I was pulled out of her as she sagged to one side---she made a little sound of loss---and then slid her leg back over mine. With curly-furred dampness thus pressed firmly to my thigh as I lay there on my back she stretched cat-like and murmured in my ear; clearly describing both physical and emotional satisfaction...
AND THE STORY GOES ON-------------------------------------------
AND FROM DETROIT: SUMMER BLUE
(NOTE: Detroit is the most violent metro area in the country. 'Be Prepared' is not just a Boy Scout motto---it's a necessary mindset if you choose to roam the area. Although I state, for legal reasons, that this is a work of imagination, use your intellect. And it may well be worthwhile to read the disclaimer that's to be found at the beginning of the first work, Detroit: Spring Gold)
TWENTY FIVE
Wayne Kuchtyn is an engine-builder and cylinder head specialist who works out of a shop connected to his house in Westland. He calls it ‘Headwinds’. There are many things about engine building that any careful craftsman can easily master. In fact, there are a great many engines running in various venues all over the world that have been put together by such people.
On the other hand, some aspects of parts development are almost an art-form. Altering the shape of intake and exhaust port runners for greater flow is one of those areas.
Cut-and-try will almost always get one fairly close, but the intuitive leap that results practically immediately in the best shape and size for a given combination is very like the processes that carry humans to extra heights in many scientific areas---it just seems to them to be right, and in fact, turns out to be so.
I’m told that some surgeons make a scalpel cut and the area almost instantly fills with blood. Another, more gifted man, makes what seems like the same stroke and the operating area is almost dry. Ask him why and he may well not be able to tell you---it just is.
Wayne uses just such intuition in his surgical work---except he works on iron and aluminum engine parts. Now he was bringing me a street racer.
Some explanation is in order. Kids back in the late ’forties and early ’fifties developed the practice of driving around in the evening, often several to a car, and occasionally ‘catching a light’---being first in line at a red traffic signal---with another car full of kids in the other lane. When the light turned green the race was on.
Such chance encounters ultimately developed into the organized ‘drag racing’ available for view on TV many Sunday afternoons. These activities have also resulted in the annual ‘Woodward Dream Cruise’ here in the Detroit Metro Area; the largest one-day automotive event in the world. ‘The Cruise’ re-creates, in some small measure, those long-ago summer evening ‘affaires d’honneur’. In an original location.
Without doubt, as cars became more powerful and streets became more congested with traffic, the potential danger of racing on the street rose almost exponentially. There have been a variety of measures tried in attempts to race on the street while minimizing the risk as much as possible. You understand that what I mean when I say ‘risk’ is some happening such as an unsuspecting soul pulling out in front of the drivers when they’re going a hundred miles an hour---or more.
The risk of intervention by Authorities is not usually looked on as a risk, but as one of the attractions---there is simply a bigger ‘rush’ produced. Except for total flexibility of arrangements, any racing done on the street could easily enough be done at a sanctioned drag strip; many are open at least one night a week for ‘test-and-tune’ and the open-ness of the format would make ‘grudge-matches’ easily attained.
But that would obviate any necessity for keeping an eye out for police cars and the very real possibility of having to choose to deal with the Minions of the Law or to run away---with the chances for real trouble that this entails.
Gambling is also a big part of the attraction of street racing. It isn’t at all uncommon to see five-figure wagers, and the other sort of gamble is that being caught by the rozzers will result, at least, in the impounding of the car in question. Fines and fees may cost several thousand dollars. Jail time is a real possibility, as is the loss of the vehicle. Still the activity flourishes.
The car that Wayne had called me about, and now brought to my shop an hour later, is a classic example of a serious street-racer. Ostensibly a late Mustang, I found it to be a facsimile ‘fibreglas’ body mounted on a fabricated tube frame. The general lay-out was a duplicate of that to be found in the’Pro-5.0’ ranks. The suspension was designed for just one purpose---to enable the rear tyres to get all possible power to the tarmac.
It’s only secondarily necessary to steer because under power, the front wheels and tyres are at least a few inches off the street; raised by the overwhelming torque emanating from the powerplant. With the front tyres slightly out of contact, the entire weight of the car is being carried by the rears and thus that entire weight is available to aid traction by ‘pushing down’ on the more-than-a-foot-wide no-tread rear rubber.
Steering is only possible after the car sets down in front, and this takes place perhaps fifty feet or more after the start of the race. If the suspension were not properly designed, this sort of car is capable of rising in the front until it flips over backward---it’s happened!
The engine in this example was in some respects very like the ones used in NASCAR racing. The greatest difference is that, for this car, since the race is usually no longer than a quarter mile or so---from a given starting point to some several-blocks-away cross street for example---and the engine componentry is not circumscribed by NASCAR rules, or any other rules for that matter, the output power can be made to be several times what’s available for races that go for as much as six hundred miles. (The utmost class in organized drag racing, called ‘Double A’ or ‘Top Fuel’, makes perhaps as much as eight thousand horsepower, but the engine is ‘used-up’ and requires re-building after only a few seconds of running.)
Wayne called me from a few blocks up the street and I had the door rolled-up when the truck carrying the Mustang arrived. We backed the car off the roll-back flat-bed and pushed it into the shop, leaving the truck parked in my side-lot to the west.
The south-east corner of my building is occupied by a chassis dynamometer configured so as to be usable both by two-wheel and four-wheel drive vehicles. This is the general area of the building where I do all sorts of work on complete vehicles---the bay next to the dyno, to the north, has a four-point lift so that the underside of a car is readily accessible, and the next space after that is laid-out for engine-in-the-car puttering; bench area and tool roller-boxes optimized for this purpose.
One of the most important items to have around a work-shop is a place to sit down; more accurately several places to sit down. I have sundry stools the right height to sit and work at the benches and I have a couple with rollers that are just right to be comfortable while working at wheel-well height such as on brakes.
I also have a pile of the stacking sort of plastic armchairs like those often found on a deck behind a house, close by a barbecue grille. These last are specifically for getting a small group to gather and look at a project. Whether we’re ‘brain storming’ or just lazily ‘bench racing’, a place to relax is an important tool to use in getting things just right.
I invited Wayne and the owner of the car to sit down and tell me what seemed to be going on. The complaint went this way: When Wayne had the engine completely assembled, it had been set up and run-in on a dynamometer at Roush’s facility. It had been well tested for output. Then it was placed into the chassis and all the powertrain assembled as well.
When the car was test-run at Milan Dragway, the numbers suggested that it had somehow lost a very substantial amount of horsepower. Elapsed times---the time from start-to-finish-line of the dragstrip---are subject to such variables as air temperature and humidity as well as traction, but the miles-per-hour figures will quite reliably tell you how much power you’re making. A bunch had gone somewhere.
Please understand that there will always be a certain amount of loss through a powertrain. Each of the mechanisms---the transmission, (five-speed Lenco), the differential, (Mark Williams Ford nine-inch), axle bearings, etc,---each shows an increment of loss. Friction, if nothing else, will take a toll. But by any realistic evaluation, something beyond the powertrain had stolen power.
The configuration of this engine was such that it relied on a combination of centrifugal supercharging and electronic fuel injection in order to make power. At 408 cubic inches, it was not overwhelmingly large in terms of displacement. But with more than thirty pounds of boost available, and all other components optimized for making use of this forced induction, on a drag-race basis, this powerplant should---and did, on the engine dyno---make well into four digits, horsepower-wise. The combination of the dedicated chassis, low weight (in comparison to a factory-sourced vehicle), and supposedly available horsepower should have had the car running at more than 210 MPH in the quarter mile.
In fact, the best it could muster was a little better than 190. Since the speeds were consistent, it was fair to assume that the power was actually down and not somehow fluctuating.
I could detail all the diagnostic tests we performed over the next several hours, but the details would just bore you. (I once, many years ago, spent almost an hour fiddling around before I discovered that the throttle linkage was bent and not pulling the induction butterflies fully open. Now that’s one of the first things I check!) A dedicated computer with the proper diagnostic and tuning software is a marvelous instrument for working on a modern electronically-controlled engine. But there’s just no substitute for observation.
After we’d exhausted all the plethora of possibilities in the way of a mis-step in the programming of the injector fuel curve, and its interrelationship with the ignition timing and supercharger boost, the little light finally came on.
I asked ‘Bill Jones’ (the owner, who for obvious reasons doesn’t want his real name in print) how the electronic control unit---the ‘black box’ that directs all the electronics, and into which the tuning computer-cable is plugged ---was mounted when the engine was on the dyno at Roush’s. He explained that an aluminum plate had been mounted to the dyno frame above the bell-housing, with short runs of wiring hooked to all the appropriate places.
When the engine was placed in the car, the ECU was mounted in the passenger footwell. Rubber shock mounts on the side of the transmission tunnel supported the plate which carried all the electronic equipment including the ECU and the ignition components.
I had been observing the readouts on the plug-in computer all afternoon while trying this adjustment and that. It finally dawned on me that the amplitude of the trace I was looking at could be interpreted as indicating a lack of sufficient ‘grounding’ or making sure that the entirety of the electric circuits were completely unimpeded.
Just on the off chance that I’d found something, I got out a piece of ‘double aught’ welding cable and turned it into several individual lengths with copper lugs soldered to each end of each portion. Shrink-tube finished the ends neatly.
Then I used one of these connectors to tie each component to each other component and the whole system to the engine block and to the frame of the car. Rubber shock-mounts are great for protecting delicate electric components from vibration---they are lousy for grounding. Re-starting the engine showed what seemed to be a much better ‘trace’, and the engine even sounded more authoritative---though that could come from an active imagination. Sometimes the most obvious things are the hardest to find!
We fastened the car back onto the chassis dyno and did a quick check. Now the power showed as about what you’d expect from the readings at Roush’s, after the power’d gone through a complete drivetrain.
The reason for the flurry of activity that had resulted in coming to me for assistance was that there was a big-money match scheduled for that evening. In the complex world of street-racing, it would almost have been better to go out and lose than to make excuses that things weren’t working correctly. Now, if I had accurately isolated the problem and solved it, there would be a much better chance of prevailing.
High dollar street-racing in Detroit owes its present configuration to the availability of the cell ’phone. There are literally dozens of places in the Detroit Metro area where there is enough room for two serious cars to run off side-by-side. The service drive at Clay Street, once a hotbed, seems to have been taken over by motorcycles, but there are certainly many others. On the West Side, ‘College Road’ comes to mind. Another place is the section of Plymouth Road a few blocks east of Telegraph. McNichols, also going east. The industrial park in Westland. There are others, particularly on the east side.
But trying to find one that is not only long enough for the acceleration phase, but also has enough room to ‘shut down’, and where there is also as little likelihood as possible of someone getting in the way inadvertently, does limit the choices. A half mile, total, is the minimum length and more is better. And the more uninhabited and quiet, the better it gets, making the intended spot one of the best.
If the participants make final plans very much ahead of time, the word goes out in such a way as to produce dozens if not hundreds of spectators. This, of course, will quickly bring the bluebottles. And cars of this ilk are not often driven to the race scene. The suspensions are so specialized for drag racing that they don’t lend themselves easily to ordinary street driving; not least the lack of clearance between the underside components and the pavement being a most significant deterrent. So they are usually brought to the scene by flatbed truck such as was used to get this car to my shop, or in many cases, in enclosed trailers. All of this makes it awkward in the extreme to try to effect a speedy escape if such were to prove desirable.
Therefore, ‘scouts’ are sent out to look over possible localities---with communication by cell ’phone at the last possible minute---and when a place is chosen, the whole thing can happen with a good deal of dispatch. Wayne uses an unobtrusive brown Ranger pick-up truck to take the few necessary items when he goes, in his role as engine builder/tuner, to one of these events.
It was decided that since I had been involved in the final trouble-shooting and tuning session, I’d ride with Wayne. We should expect a call soon after one o’clock in the morning.
TWENTY SIX
Wayne and I were sitting in my upstairs lounge when the ’phone rang. It was ten minutes to one. I halfway expected it to be the ‘call-to-action’ but it was Annie who, accompanied by Brit, had gone back to the Canton condo. We said “Good Night” and mutual “I Love You”s before we hung up. They were in an unlikely-to-be-known-of place while I paid attention to business.
It’s nice when business is also fun, and as further insurance regarding non-interference, a call to the hospital had told me that Blake was still sedated because of the aftereffects of the broken bones. (I had become, supposedly, his younger brother, calling to check up on him.) Another call informed me that Tom’s computer activities, while proceeding, had not yet produced the proper combination.
Then the ’phone rang again, and this time it was to tell us that we had a half-hour to get to the corner of Outer Drive and Dix Road, close to the Lincoln Park-Melvindale border; a couple miles from The Rouge. The intent was to run on Dix from just north of Outer Drive, at the traffic light at Grace Street, to Wabash Street, which cuts off to the right.
This had been measured to be just more than a quarter mile. Close enough for the intended purpose. This is primarily a residential area, but at that time of night the streets should be very near to deserted for relative safety, and after Wabash the area becomes light industrial/commercial as it goes under the train tracks, and there are no cross streets close by.
The favored place in the area for this sort of business has been, until fairly recently, to stay on Outer Drive and go past the expressway to Fort Street. If you go just northeast of Outer Drive on Fort, you’re going into Detroit, and Fort is wide and mostly deserted in the early morning hours. However, there was an unfortunate incident there, not too long ago, when a race car got away from the driver, and not only hit a parked car but a woman out walking down the sidewalk as well. I don’t know what she was doing out at that time of night, but it cost her life. It was reported in the newspapers that it also negatively impacted the careers of two local police officers who were in their cruiser on the other side of the intersection in a party store car park. Their superiors allegedly took it amiss that they were said to be obviously spectating and claimed that they had not made any official objection to the activities. Their supposed answer, that it all took place across the line in Detroit, where they had no official standing, didn’t seem to help much. It all created quite a ‘hoo-ha’ in the newspapers for a while. (Please notice all the ‘weasel-words’ in the foregoing comments. I wasn’t there but I had it described to me by actual observers during lunch the next day.)
Since our answer to any official inquiry as to our activities was to be injured innocence, not flight, it made good sense to take an unobtrusive vehicle. There’s no law against driving on any ordinary, open public street at any time. In addition, a definition of freedom, due to all humans and specifically given voice in the US Constitution, is the ability to come and go as one pleases.
I am perfectly capable of offering any inquisitive cop a polite half-hour sermon on going about one’s business without harassment in the absence of any probable cause to believe that I am breaking a law, and that therefore my activities are, properly speaking, none of his business. Boring, dogged pomposity is a perfectly workable alternative to unobtrusiveness. And in the event of a ticket, the subsequent suit for false arrest helps the word to go out that fucking with citizens in the absence of a serious reason is counter-productive.
Our trip to the chosen site was completely uneventful. We passed the time with casual conversation---chiefly with Wayne filling me in on the known characteristics of the opponent car.
A first design brilliant metallic orange ‘Z-28’ Camaro, it actually started life in a GM assembly plant. Since all such cars have unibody construction, with the Chevrolet product having a bolt-in front stub frame, there had been a good deal of welded-in stiffening---the car had been worked over in the front and then ‘back-halfed’ as they say. ‘Ladder bars’ were the control method of choice for holding the front end down and restraining the rear axle; the ubiquitous Ford nine-inch.
The engine was known to be a ‘rat’, or big-block Chevrolet. It had a 6-71 GMC supercharger carrying two Holley carburetors. Thus, this competition was, in effect, the old against the new. The Camaro was a classic example of the late ’60’s-early ’70’s Gas/Supercharged-type vehicle.
Since some versions of the rat motor are capable of as much as eight hundred cubic inches, there was no telling what the displacement of this engine might be, and no one was definitively offering the information.
On the other hand, if it were truly a ‘Monster Motor’, the likelihood is that it would be carrying more than a 6-71 supercharger. Properly feeding one of the really large versions would call for a larger capacity blower.
The bright competition-yellow Mustang, as already detailed, had a complete list of the latest in electronics. Although almost surely the engine was smaller in displacement than the rat, a Paxton centrifugal supercharger is much more efficient than a Roots-type blower such as the GMC, and had the additional advantage of an intercooler. The electronic fuel-injection, likewise had the ability to deliver just the right amount of gasoline to each cylinder; something the carbs on top of the blower could only approximate. Again, greater efficiency.
This was, in street parlance, a ‘haid-up’ race. The start was, therefore, to be dead-even, controlled by the traffic light at Grace Street. There would be a group watching at Wabash Street consisting of representatives from both sides. They’d also be holding the money. Absent any disagreement, the whole affair would be concluded in less than half-an-hour.
The race, itself, including the final positioning of the cars and the return to the starting place afterwards would probably take not much more than five minutes. As a concession to safety, some of the inevitable hangers-on would be detailed to block the entrances from the side streets onto Dix by parking cars across the street mouths. This would ensure that some late-returning drunk didn’t inadvertently become involved in the action.
When we arrived at Outer Drive and Dix, having followed Outer Drive south from Michigan Avenue, we discovered that, by cutting the chain on the gate, both car-hauling trucks had been tucked into the fence-surrounded drive for what looked to be a defunct gas station on the more-or-less southeast corner. The cars had both then been unloaded onto Dix on the south side of Outer Drive and the last minute discussion and negotiation was going forward. Since the best place to see the important part of a drag race is at the finish line, we ascertained that there was more than ten minutes before the start of festivities and drove down to the corner where Wabash goes east from Dix.
Wabash only goes about fifty feet before the street makes a ninety-degree turn north and for a distance runs parallel to Dix; we parked around this corner and watched the final preparations.
Two guys had the ends of a length of clothesline long enough to go across both lanes of the northbound side. When all agreed that the line was stretched at right angles to the lanes of pavement, it was placed against the tarmac and a third guy carefully walked the distance along the cord, depositing a clear line of white paint on the street from a rattle can. This was the agreed upon means of marking the finish line.
A cell ’phone in the pocket of one of the line-stretchers buzzed; obviously someone at the starting area asking if all was ready at our location. The race cars would have been hand-pushed into their approximate pre-starting positions and the drivers would be ready to go through the last-minute details before the race. The time interval between one green light and the next would have been ascertained so that the very last activities could be carried out expeditiously.
We had been told that impromptu ‘bleach-box’ puddles for both cars would be placed a hundred feet or so behind the starting line. This would enable the drivers to heat their slicks in the water, and leave room for a couple of ‘dry-hops’ before getting to where the starting line had been sprayed on the street. After both cars were ‘staged’ the next green light would start the race.
Both engines fired-up at almost the same instant and the overlapping resonance of a pair of three to five thousand RPM blasts in the water was heard. Then the tyre-drying ‘hops’ noises came in their turn. Following that, the belly-shaking rough sound of the idling engines for a moment as we watched the green-to-yellow-to-red sequence observable from our location.
Next, after a pause, the melody of power straining against rev-limiters, as the interminable seconds of this final red light counted away, and the clamour became the overwhelming, senses-destroying cacophony of thousands of horsepower mechanically ululating as the race cars thrust toward us.
The discussion afterwards, at a Denny’s on Michigan Ave., told us about the activity at the starting line. The owner said, “The ‘leave’ was virtually perfect---both cars moved at the same instant.” He went on to explain that the combination of the greater displacement and the more linear boost from the 6-71 gave the initial advantage to the Camaro. But as the RPM’s climbed, the superior efficiency of the centrifugal supercharger and the flow available through the Roush-sourced NASCAR-type heads gave the upper hand decisively to the Mustang. It was out front before the driver pulled third gear and was a bus-length ahead as he flashed past our position.
Both cars had gathered their ’chutes, turned around and with a single good blast of acceleration had coasted most of the way back to Dix. Willing hands had helped push the cars to where the winches could pull them back onto the trucks. The representatives had completed the money transfer before leaving the finish line area.
As is common in these ‘after-engagement’ sessions, every aspect of the contest was examined at great length. At our table were gathered the owner of the Mustang and the two guys who make up his regular crew, as well as the driver (a friend of the owner), and Wayne and myself.
In such situations, I commonly sit back and mostly keep my mouth shut. They were all strangers except Wayne, although I’d got to know the owner to a certain extent during the afternoon’s thrash. I found myself, with the part of my brain not following the flow of conversation, mulling over the sociological aspects of our activities as I kept my hands and mouth busy with a ‘Super Bird’ and a Coke. Somehow, these occasions always call for a ‘Super Bird’ and a Coke---it’s either habit or something deeply buried in my psyche. Oh, Well.
One of the things Wayne told me during our discussion on the way from my shop was that the Camaro was a toy for an upper-management doper who goes by the street-name of ‘Chubs’. When the money is coming in as fast as it does with drugs, it’s fairly common locally to have this sort of hobby.
The results of a race are all over the community by the next day and such antics become part of the legend these guys seek to have surrounding themselves. A race car such as the Mustang, or for that matter the Camaro, will cost at least a hundred thousand dollars, and can easily enough go far beyond the hundred thou, particularly if one considers the ancillary expense for the support vehicle and the parts and equipment necessary to do the maintenance.
Please understand, though, that it’s entirely possible to win more than that amount in one season---in fact, although this was a new car in its first trip out into competition, the owner stated that he’d, “Made the racing pay for itself for the last six years.” He said it with the kind of grin on his face that made it a certainty that he was being at least somewhat modest.
On the other hand, because it takes money to begin to compete in this kind of endeavor, if the source isn’t some illicit enterprise it may somehow actually grow out of a full-time business. Therefore I roused myself to ask, “How’d you get started in this stuff?”
He replied, “I first discovered drag racing when I was a kid, and with only a little observation found out that there were, at that time, virtually no ‘persons of color’, like myself, involved. Then I did enough background reading to find out about Stone, Woods, and Cook---the famous ‘gas-class’ drag-race team from back in the ’sixties.
“Since the spectators only saw the driver, Doug ‘Cookie’ Cook, who was white; most never realized that the two guys who built and owned the car were both (here with a grin) ‘Black Like Me’. So I decided that I’d become an owner, and because their best car was a Mustang, that’s what I wanted.
“I own a tree service---we do specialty arboreal work and other landscaping in the warm weather, and snow plowing in the winter. It didn’t take very many years before I had enough money to be able to do what I’d wanted. I got a Mustang and began to make it faster and faster. Finally, I got to the place where I decided to have this car built, and here we are!”
I responded, “Well, if tonight is any indication of what you have in your future, you’re going to be very successful.”
“Thanks, and by the way, here’s a little ‘thank you’ for your efforts this afternoon.” He handed me a fold of hundreds, and I, with the same air of ‘this is an ordinary situation, like paying for lunch’, stuck it, with a nod of acknowledgement, in my pocket without counting.
He continued, “There was twenty thousand on the table tonight, and Jerry, here---(indicating the driver)---says the car felt much more responsive than it did at Milan three days ago.
“You must have found the problem. I had no idea that it took that size of cable to make a good ground.”
I replied, “If you were running a more conventional combination, with the sort of ignition that we used a few years ago, and a pair of carburetors, what you had would undoubtedly have done fine. Most people, even if they sorta understand, don’t really realize that with a negative ground system such as cars use these days, the spark actually travels from the ground to the ‘hot’ side and not the other way around. If you don’t have enough ground capacity, you’re ‘choking’ everything else you’re doing, with all your electrical systems.
What I did this afternoon really just gave the rest of the equipment enough of a beginning electrical ‘path’ to be sure it could do its job.”
“Well, it certainly seemed to have worked. Is everybody done? I got a business to tend to in the morning!” And with that, we departed in several directions. I rode with Wayne, having left Orca at his place.
When I got back to the (undisturbed) shop, I found a message on the box to call Tom in the morning. And another, from Annie, telling me in great detail, what she intended to do to my body---and what she expected in return---when we got back together. She surely is highly inventive.
She must have called right after our conversation on my cell ’phone. She finished by saying “Good night” one more time.
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