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I own my own business.
I, and about 15 of my guys were working on a Telecommunications Engineering contract in Manchester, Kentucky. Clay County. The armpit of the United States. “Armpit” being the most generous of euphemisms.
A few years ago, several of the local coal mines got shut down. Most people in this area lost their jobs. Then, damn near everyone ran (not walked) to the free clinic where the doctors passed out OxyContin like communal wine. The dealers, the cops, and the public officials were all working in cahoots to maintain this drug-fueled economy. The town went downhill. Fast.
But of course, they had to have their internet and digital TV. What the hell else are you going to do while stuck at home, unemployed, and warm and fuzzy with Oxy?
Hence my reason for being here – engineering fiber optics.
I’m a Yankee. A Liberal Democrat to the core. I fit in down here like a carrot amongst a bunch of peas. And these people talk funny. I can’t understand them anymore than they can understand me. The word “What?” is frequently said by both parties during any of my interactions with them.
And the food. Jesus, the food. It’s all fried or pre-packaged. No wonder most of these people are obese.
Here’s a true story, an interaction that I had:
The smell of old chicken grease pounded me as I walked through the door of the only store or gas station open within 20 miles of where I was working.
I walked through the aisles, looking for anything remotely healthy, to no avail. These people apparently don’t know that you could grow (or possibly buy) fruit. I grabbed a bottle of water and headed up to the counter.
MALE CASHIER: Hep ya?
ME: Is there anything healthy in this store?
ME: Is there anything healthy in this store?
HIM: You ain’t from here.
ME: No sir.
HIM: Now what-choo lookin’ on?
HIM: What is it that you’re lookin’ fer?
ME: Anything healthy.
HIM: We might-could have some goober peas, yonder sommers (he waved vaguely toward the rear corner of the store).
ME: Peanuts? Yonder sommers?
HIM: Yeah. Back there, somewheres. Might be kinda old, though.
ME: How old?
HIM: You might-could just best stick with the water.
ME: (Shaking my head.) I hate this fucking state.
HIM: (And a little ruffled.) Then why you even here then, boy?
ME: Because nobody in this part of the state is fucking smart enough to do the job that I do.
I threw two bucks on the counter and left.
This is how it was in Clay County. Eastern Kentucky at its finest.
So I had a long day of chasing power poles down some back hollow. I was in a foul mood. Dealing with toothless, drug-riddled rednecks. Each one of them asking what I was doing, and if I could hook them up with high-speed internet. My standard response: “We’re working on it.”
It was late afternoon now, and I was standing in Walmart. The place explodes on the first few days of the month – when everyone gets their Government checks.
I’m standing in line with my shopping cart full of the healthiest food I could find. Three Hispanic guys in front of me, laughing, and talking in Spanish. I can understand most Spanish. I can’t speak it worth a lick (Hispanics usually laugh when I talk to them), but I’m pretty good at comprehending it.
I could tell these guys were dry-wallers. White dust and white mud on their clothing. They seemed in good spirits, though. Talking about an honest day’s work, and their families they were anxious to get home to. Their cart was half full of stuff you’d buy if living in a hotel. Like me, they were living and working on the road.
One of them was wearing an old green military jacket. The other guys were giving him grief about it. During their discussion, I heard him talking about how it was his Grandfather’s jacket, and how his Grandfather fought on the Island of Peleliu in World War Two.
That was a significant Marine Corps battle. And I was a Marine. Well, not anymore, but “once, and always.”
The guy in line behind me says, “You’re in America, speak American!”
I felt my pulse and heart rate increase. I felt the fight or flight adrenaline wash into my veins. I embraced it.
I saw the Hispanics turn around to face him. The man with the jacket (US Marines, it said) started toward him. I held up my hand in a stopping gesture to the Hispanic, and said, “I got this.”
I turned around.
Exactly what you would expect was standing right there. Glaring at the Hispanics.
I stepped toward him, intentionally invading his space, backing him down. He noticed me and stepped backward. He was about 5’9″ and about 50 pounds overweight. Looked in his mid-20’s. Ball cap (with a Rebel Flag, of course) over short greasy black hair. Unshaven. Pimples and blackheads. Rotting teeth. A gray T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, belly protruding. Dirty jeans and slip-on boots over the outside of the cuffs of his jeans. The pupils of his eyes were so polatlı escort dilated, I could barely discern the strip of brown iris. Yet another OxyContin disciple. Hence the lack of need for a jacket on a cool afternoon.
I said loud enough for everyone around to hear (and not caring), “The FUCK did you just say?”
I took another step closer to him. He took another step back.
I’m 6’1″. I’m not huge, but I have shoulders. I was bigger than Fatboy Redneck, and I used that to my advantage to intimidate.
I took another step closer. He again stepped backward.
He didn’t say anything, and looked down and away.
“Did you just tell that man to speak American?”
He wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“Did you mean ‘speak English?'”
He said quietly, “We’re in America.”
“Yes we are. We speak English in America. You know why we speak English in America?” I was getting louder. Causing a bit of a scene. I knew that. Still didn’t give a shit. Everyone was looking at us.
He didn’t say anything.
“Look at the jacket that man is wearing. What does it say over the left breast pocket?”
“US Marines,” he said quietly.
“Yes. It’s his Grandfather’s jacket. If it weren’t for men like that man’s Grandfather who fought in a war you know nothing about, you’d be speaking Japanese or German right now.”
Fatboy Redneck continued to stare at the floor.
Then he raised his eyes, squared his shoulders, and said in an act of defiance, “But we were here first. They should talk like us.”
I leaned forward and said through gritted teeth, “If that were the case and using that logic, you’d be speaking Cherokee.”
He looked down at the floor again.
I said, “Look at me.”
I said again, intensely, “Look at me.”
I bitch-slapped him with my right hand. Open palm. Not hard. Just hard enough to make a good loud slap.
I heard the watchers (Crowd? Audience?) collectively gasp.
He looked up at me, shocked. I bitch-slapped him again, this time with my left hand. Then he looked back down at the floor, and I could see his eyes watering.
I reached behind him and grabbed the wallet out of his back pocket. Of course he had it chained to his belt loop, just like every good Redneck. I pulled it hard and it came off. Didn’t know if the chain broke, or the belt loop broke. Didn’t really care, either.
I opened it up and removed four 20’s from it. I left him a 20. He must have just went to the ATM, or had just made a drug deal.
I threw the wallet on the ground, kinda like a Frisbee, then walked back to the gape-mouthed cashier.
“Run these guys through,” I said, pointing to the Hispanics.
She immediately started scanning their items.
I said to the three guys,” Lo siento por la conmoción. Pido disculpas por esta grasa de cerdo . Por favor, hágamelo paga por sus artículos de compra . (Translation: I’m sorry for the commotion. I apologize for this fat pig. Please let me pay for your shopping items.)
They had the grace NOT to laugh at my Spanish. The one with the USMC jacket said in perfect English, “Thank you, sir. Semper Fi.” (Semper Fi – meaning semper fidelis — a Latin phrase that means “always faithful” or “always loyal”. The motto of the US Marine Corps. He had assumed correctly that I was a Marine.)
“Keep your chin up,” I said, and nodded goodbye to him and his friends.
I paid for the Hispanic’s items. Then the cashier scanned my items, which I paid for. Fatboy Redneck was conspicuously absent.
I loaded my stuff back into my cart and headed out to my truck. Still miffed at Fatboy Redneck.
I saw the Manager glaring at me as I walked out. Like I really gave a shit about the opinion of another Redneck.
As I was loading my groceries in my truck, I heard someone yell, “Hey!”
I looked up. Walking toward me was a young woman. I was guessing her age in the early 20’s. Not exactly sure. Was pretty sure that she’d get carded if she tried to buy alcohol, though.
I also wasn’t sure about her hair color. Gonna call it “pinkorangeredblondlimegreen.” Something like that.
As she got closer, I could see she had a small nose ring and an eyebrow stud. And her skin. Her skin was perfect. It looked like she didn’t have any pores.
“I’ve never seen anyone do that before,” she said.
“Do what, exactly?” I questioned. I knew exactly what she was talking about, I was just being a dick.
“What you just did in there. To… that guy.”
“What did I do to him?” I asked, trying to hide a smile. I was just fucking with her.
She stammered. “Well… Like… Um…”
I wasn’t any good at talking to younger people. They’re just stupid. Well, not stupid, I guess. They just haven’t had enough life experiences for me to communicate with them effectively. In addition, I have the memory of a gnat and can’t remember what it was like to be that young. Shit, I’m 45. I’ve slept quite a bit since then. I decided pursaklar escort to let her off the hook. Anyway, she was cute and this might go somewhere.
“Put him in his place?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said, and visibly breathed a sigh of relief.
“Do you think what I did needs to be done more often?”
“I do,” she said, and smiled a rueful grin.
I continued to look at her. She looked like a cross between Emma Watson and Haley Williams. 5’1″ with brown eyes. Little bitty girl. Heavy eye makeup. Nice smile and white teeth. The teeth weren’t perfectly straight, but they were well cared-for. She was wearing a black denim jacket over a cropped pink shirt that showed a pierced bellybutton (a chrome stud with the “infinity” symbol). Short black skirt with black nylons and (wait for it) combat boots. She had several necklaces, several bracelets, and was wearing some kind of dangly earrings. When she smiled, dimples appeared at the sides of her mouth, but above her lips – like at the 11 and one o’clock positions, rather than the usual nine and three o’clock positions. She was blushing.
“Do you like that kind of thing?” I asked.
“I like watching that kind of thing,” she said. As she said the word, “watching,” she cocked and eyebrow to emphasize the word. It was her attempt at sexy. It pretty much worked. “I like a man who handles shit,” she said.
I had dated a girl like that. Loved to watch live cage-fighting. Any time she watched it, I knew I was getting laid, and fucked fiercely. Some women were just wired that way. I can play along, and knew which buttons to push.
“Is that right?” I said.
She lowered her chin and cocked a sideways grin.
“I’m at ‘The Chair.’ Room 21. Be there at 8,” I said. “The Chair” being the town’s shit-hole-tel.
I got in my truck and left. Didn’t wait for a response.
I’m in the hotel, on my laptop figuring out payroll for my guys. Recently showered, in boxer-briefs and a T-shirt. Pandora (Bebop jazz) running quietly in the background.
A knock on my door. Glanced at the clock. 7:56pm.
I smiled. Naughty little girl.
I opened the door and there she stood. “Hi,” she said. Same denim jacket, but now wearing a cropped white T-shirt, black jeans, and the same combat boots. I could see she had redone her eye makeup, and was sans all the previous accessories. She was looking me straight in the eyes. Her brown eyes were dilated a bit, but I registered movement of the pupil – indicating the dilation was caused by pleasure, rather than chemicals.
I had all the signs and signals I needed.
I stepped out of the way and she walked in. I closed the door, put my hand on her chest and gently pushed her back against the wall, keeping my hand there, applying light pressure to her chest. I looked her straight in the eye, my face just a few inches from hers.
“You. May. Not. Talk. Period. I’m not going to hurt you. If you tell me to stop, I will. You got all that?”
She nodded, eyebrows raised.
“Take off your coat and boots.”
She walked over and sat on the bed. Removed her jacket. I had assumed incorrectly she was wearing a T-shirt. It was a wife-beater. And to my pleasant surprise, she wasn’t wearing a bra. Nipples protruding as she leaned over to unlace her boots.
“I like those boots,” I said.
She looked up and smiled. I noted that she was willingly following protocol and not talking.
“What color are those panties?” I asked.
She got the hint, laid back on the bed and unbuttoned her jeans. Unzipped them, did that “raising of the hips thing” to pull her jeans off, and gracefully pulled them off.
Black, lacy, thong panties. Head on the pillows, she smiled at me.
“You’re gonna like this,” I said. I straddled her legs.
“Do NOT touch me,” I said. “Raise your hands over your head, near the headboard.”
“Keep them there,” I ordered. I pulled her shirt off over her head, and threw it on the floor.
I leaned down and put my mouth on her erect nipples – eraser head nipples. They were small, yet firm. Left, then right. Then right, then left. Every now and then, I would bite them gently. Whenever I did so, she would arch her back and make an “Ooooo” cooing noise.
I felt her touch my head and right shoulder.
I stopped and sat up. “Do NOT touch me,” I said.
She quickly put her hands back over her head, eyes wide.
I got off the bead and reached into my bag to retrieve standard-issue police hand cuffs, as well as the key.
“Hands out front.” She compliantly sat up, and put her wrists out for me. I noticed zero sag in her tits. The small, firm body of a young woman.
I clasped both wrists, and told her to lie back down and put her hands above her head. She did. I showed her the key, and set it on the nightstand. There’s an element of trust that’s involved in games like this. I wanted to ensure her that this was merely a game, and she could quit at any time.
“You are going to ankara escort do what I tell you,” I said, standing over her.
I pulled off my T-shirt. My cock was hard and clearly visible in my boxer-briefs, but I left them on for the time being.
“You will not touch me. You will not talk. Understood?”
“Stay right there.” I walked over to the bathroom sink area and got a bottle of baby oil. Walked back over and put it in the microwave for 30 seconds. She was watching my every move.
I sat down and lit a cigarette while the microwave hummed.
The microwave “dinged.”
We looked at each other.
I continued to sit where I was, smoking my cigarette. Looking at her, lying on the hotel bed, handcuffed with her hands above her head. Nipples protruding. Black, lacy thong. I wasn’t in such a foul mood anymore.
I just sat there. Smoking my cigarette. The microwave beeped again. A reminder.
I continued to smoke. Playing mind games. Seeing if she’d say something.
She didn’t. A good girl. I’d give her what she wanted. Snuffed out my cigarette.
I got the baby oil out of the microwave, then walked to the bed and pulled off my boxer-briefs.
My cock can be defined as “average.” Merely well-proportioned to my body size, and with no strange curves or other oddities. I’m an average guy, in every way. I’m about the size of a banana. I was comfortably erect and looking forward to this.
I pulled off her black thong panties. As I expected, she was shaved completely clean. I also got a fresh whiff of her sweetness. It smelled like comfort. She was already ready.
“Open your legs, Baby.”
I sat between her legs, my feet toward her head.
I poured the warm baby oil over her tits and stomach and down each leg. I started at her neck, slowly rubbing the oil over her skin and hard nipples. I continued south to her stomach, then back to her erect nipples. I gently pinched and twisted them. Her nipples were hard, and her respiration was quick.
I continued to move south, intentionally avoiding her pussy. I slowly took each leg, one at a time, and leisurely, unhurriedly, massaged the oil into her thigh, calf, and foot (toenails painted black), paying particular attention to her instep and between her toes. Kneading the muscles of her calves and thighs. I did the same with the other leg. As I was rubbing her inner thighs, I could visibly see that her pussy was wet, dripping, and her clit was swollen, begging for attention.
“You will not touch me. You will not talk,” I reaffirmed. “You will do what I tell you.”
She nodded, again.
“Did you jack off before you came here tonight?”
She blushed and nodded.
“How many times did you come?” I asked.
She blushed some more. Waited a bit. Then sighed a heavy sigh. She raised her hands above her head in the hand cuffs. Using her fingers, indicated the number seven.
I chuckled. “Well then,” I said. “Let’s continue that run.”
I put my right thumb on her clit, my fingers over her mons pubis. I gently rubbed her clit with my thumb. I took the middle finger of my left hand and inserted it into her warm, wet pussy.
She arched her back. I inserted both my middle and ring finger and continued to massage her clit with my thumb, while slowly sliding my fingers in and out of her sweetness.
Her legs and ass started shaking, then she came.
I had never seen a woman come so easily. This girl could come on a dime. I could feel her vagina spasm on my fingers.
“You liked that,” I said.
She nodded. I noted again that she was following protocol by not talking.
“That’s my girl. There’s more where that came from.”
She nodded again, then giggled.
I stopped playing with her pussy, to give her “recharge time.” Didn’t want to over-stimulate. I continued to rub the oil on her hard nipples, as well as gently biting them periodically. In addition, I rubbed the oil on her neck, grabbing and clenching her neck as I did so. She liked that, too.
I got off her, said, “Stay there,” and went back to my bag and got a condom.
I put some oil in my hand and started beating-off while standing next to the bed. She was watching intently, pleading.
I unwrapped the condom and unrolled it down over my cock.
“You ready for me?” I asked.
I kneeled between her legs and slowly, gently, slid the head of my cock into her pussy. Just the head. Then I pulled back out, and gently slid it back in again. Then repeated the process. Just a little bit further inside each time. Completely out, then in. Then completely out, then in. Slow progression. A little bit deeper each time. I felt her hips rise to me each time as I went in. Her pussy was warm, and wet, and tight.
I felt her hips and legs begin to shake, then buck as she came again. Her teeth were clenched, eyes closed and chin up. Her vagina squeezing my cock. I had never been with a woman that came this easily or quickly. I was enjoying it, and I had yet to be all the way inside her.
Afterward, I pulled out my throbbing cock and said, “Get up.”
She did, and stood by the side of the bed. Her legs were still shaking. Hand cuffs in front of her. I laid down on my back, where she had been. It was warm, where she had lain.