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What Would Aristippus Think

By Raziel Moore
Invisible Lines (Novella)

Are You Kidding?
by Cervo © 2006

The wind from The Road was sucking the last moisture out of him. Don had not changed out of his suit when he left the office on Wednesday evening for his week off. He had done a six week stint at 14 hours a day running currency price speculations and ore futures. Since he had not once stepped out of the building, he was ready to leave work and get out of town in one shot.

He staggered through the LA heat to the rental agency without a suitcase. The clerk looked at Don standing there sweating suspiciously when he asked to pick up the Chrysler Hydroporter. He was going to tell the clerk that he had clothes at his apartment, but stopped himself, wondering why he had to explain anything to this schmuck. The guy just smiled and shoved an unused starter code at Don as he went back to his puzzle magazine. It was no skin off the clerk's ass once Don hit the road.

Now it was Saturday and his lapels were pitted with deposits of fine grit that worked their way through the air exchange on the leaky gray Detroit-built tub. It navigated all right but there was a lot of rust in the pressure valves. Staying level with The Road was tricky. The tracking slipped. It was old, covered with greasy dirt, and out of tune just the way he felt. His face and hands burned from the fine dust. Lately it had rained a lot which was very unusual even with the erratic New High Weather. It turned the sand into gummy wads like tiny pellets that tore at your skin.

Right above the button on the door to the SPACEBAR was a sign that read, "Take a little pause between thoughts with us." Don smacked the button, and plodded inside from the desert's gritty abuse. His watch gave the temperature as a choking 33 C. and the time as 1200 11 6 2063. He needed to get out of the heat. He pushed a navigational button on the side and the screen said "1200 klm remaining."

The SPACEBAR was the same. Polished steel furniture glinted under a film of dust in the ambient light. A light sheen of atmospheric grease filled the air making it soft and hazy. The bartender was right where he had last seen her.

"Hi Sugar," said the bartender. She knew him from his other solo commutes. He always stopped at the SPACEBAR. She smiled in a way that showed she thought he was cute, as he walked to the bar and climbed onto a stool. She leaned down and forward onto the bar to reveal two large, round chocolate brown breasts easing themselves out of her top. She thought lots of the commuters were cute given that she was alone out here most of the time with two Janitor-in-a-Droid Units and a solar sex toy with an adjustable dick. "Nobody else here?" he asked.

"Not that I can see," she said.


"I'm not," she said and cocked her head at him.

"It must be tough. I mean without the income," he said. He had spoken to no one and nothing alive for over a week. His tongue felt stiff.

"It's tough, but you know what? I think about hard," she said leaving a hole in the air for him to fill.

He asked her for two quarts of Vitamoist concentrated guava water substitute which he sucked down at once. He belched. She smiled like she was feeding her baby birds as she watched him. Then he bought a half pint of clear whiskey made from distilled tree mold. It had less bite than the stuff made from crab grass.

"Hi, yourself, Melissa. I missed you," he said. He was looking at a press release of her in a white dress and black Mary Jane shoes with a bow in her hair. The headline said, "Sweet Melissa just for you!" He knew her real name was Brandy. Melissa was her stage name when she was the lead stripper in a three girl act on The Road from LA to everywhere else The Road went.

She was Melissa Jesissluvsya. The act was the Newly Newd and Never Lewd Darlin' Dewypants, a pseudo-teen lesbian cunnilingus act. It played the casino bars and hydrolate sandwich shops. Nothing big, but it was a living. She had had her own niche at the clubs on The Road until younger girls started doing really weird acts. The Darlin's couldn't compete.

After she developed her substantial top shelf and gloriously jutting brown behind, the whole idea seemed a little silly. She was out of the act, and the other two—who were skinny, Asian, short, and flat-chested—continued to lick their problems in the fast food and lube clubs. They worked along the newest version of show business Hell, or, The Road.

Now, Melissa was in her late thirties and a babe beyond compare, but she could not get rid of that show biz bug. So she had taken a job tending bar out here hundreds of clicks from nowhere in the "new" developments between LA and Vegas.

Since most commuters did the 20 to 24 hour trip to their high rise desert homes in a tube, business was slow. Travel was a pain and always got worse. The Road was full of broken tracking that could hold you up for hours at a time while they tried to find a crew willing to work. If you went by tube, you were shipped to a hub which might put you in a warehouse in Chicago for the night before they hauled your snoring ass all the way back to some sand-pocked high rise in Vegas.

The bartender watched him wash down the dust. "You didn't take a tube again?" she asked batting her eyelashes at him. She thought he might be sweet on her.

"No I rented a porter. The hydro costs a bundle, but I can't stand tubes. If the dope doesn't work and you don't have any Sockout, you are stuck in there with the cap sealed for over a day with those nasty hoses up your butt and dick. It's hot as hell, and you are in there with the farts of the last fifty slobs who rented it. Plus it's too cramped. I like a little air."

She knew they had rectal monitors in the tubes for wakers and the dope always worked, but she was not going to argue with a customer. "Me too, you must be tired."

"Yeah," he said.

"Well lie down under a throne-booth and let me sit on your face."

"Okay," he said and they smiled at each other a little sadly knowing it would be over as quickly as it began. Neither of them knew how long they had waited for each other to be here.

He knocked off half the whiskey in two gulps. The carbon distillate floating on top always made it smell like feet with bad cheese between the toes. He walked over to the low throne-booths along the wall. Each had a board like a mechanic's sled under it where a person could lie down and roll underneath for a quick nap. He slid himself under the end booth and waited. He could see the ceiling through the neat square hole that was now above his face.

He sang a schoolboy ditty to himself, "Here comes the Queen, sitting on my bean. Ain't this obscene? I just hope she won't be mean!" Some guy had written it over the condom machine in the boy's bathroom. It sold "Big Bottie Riders, the best ribs in town!"

Brandy took the rinse hose from the bar sink, turned it to warm and squirted her pussy under her short rubber tulip skirt until the water dripped down to the floor. It was a hot day and a girl wants to be fresh.

He realized she had no reason to do this for him. She was the bartender. He could hear her humming something with a beat to herself from some distant Motown past. He thought about the dark gold flecks in her deep brown eyes. He had touched her arm once in passing and he could still feel the velvet smoothness of her skin.

She unwrapped a roll of Soupsucker Paper Towels, and took two from the roll. She folded them neatly and wiped her pussy and anus a little roughly to get them as dry as possible. She was thinking she really liked Don and that he was really kind of hot, so nothing was going to make her puss stay completely dry.

She walked slowly over from the bar so he could hear her three inch heels pinging on the concrete floor. When she got to the booth she turned around and hiked up her skirt. Then she stepped over his body putting one foot on each side of him and sat down on the throne. The wide expanse of her dark chocolate ass descended slowly toward his face. It blotted out the light. He could see only the satiny brown sheen of her spreading bottom as it settled down inexorably to within a hair's breadth of his nose.

He felt a little panicky given the super size and power of her gorgeous rear cheeks. They blotted out his world for him which was just what he wanted. He wondered briefly what would happen if he got pinned under her. Claustrophobia was also what kept him from traveling by tube even when he could afford it. But no phobia or fear could overcome his adoration for her ass.

The buttery scent of Brandy's butt warmly surrounded him under the throne. It tickled his nose with her pubic hair. The hotter musk of her cunt came to his lips and rose to fill his mind. He could feel her undo his pants in order to pull out his thick reddish dick.

He inhaled the fresh-baked scent of her ass and slipped his tongue upward, until he found the warm damp lips of her cunt. He eased his tongue inside and she moaned happily as he found his way through the folds by licking side to side until he reached her clit. The tip of his tongue circled around it for a while until she said, "Tits McGuire was in last week."

She eased forward slightly so he could reply.

"So?" he muttered wanting to get back to work on her cunt.

"She has those big peachy boobs."

"Sit back and enjoy the ride. I'm happy back here."

She giggled and sat back again until he was licking her up and down and slipping his tongue into her opening.

"Don, you have a thick dick and a long tongue. Oh oh oh you doooooooooooo."

He made some muffled remark. She leaned forward again.

"I said you gotta look for the balance in life. Did you know I'm claustrophobic?"

"You, Don? But. Then how?"

"How nothing. It's your ass, Baby. How could a little claustrophobia keep me out of here?" She smiled and leaned back to get her bottom squarely settled on him.

"Are you kidding?" she asked. "You like my pussy that much?"

"Yeah. Yeah. almost as much as your ass, Brandy, almost as much as your sweet, lovely ass."

She wiggled back down over him. "Be sure you don't sprain your tongue," she said, even though she knew he could not reply now.

He licked, sucked, dabbled, and grooved in her pussy for the next hour. Time and time again she stroked his cock to a point near the edge, and he would grunt as if to say, "Gee, just a little longer, okay?" Then he thrusting deeper into her pussy he made her come in slow, steady waves, over and over again.

"Well I just gotta tell you, Don, you have some fat licks in you. That was too much," she said. He shoved in his tongue as he roared into her pussy. Thrusting his nose up her ass, his hips lurched upward and he shot his wad. His come fired out of him to land on the side of the stainless steel deep fat fryer. In her disconnected haze of pleasure, she noticed that it was a Maytag. "Well, isn't that nice," said to no one in particular.

They stayed that way panting for a while until she got up and pulled his sled from under the throne booth. He staggered to his feet. She kissed the taste of herself from his face. She had to agree that her pussy was delicious.

They had a couple of desiccated mineral beers as the sun set and she slit open some hot-packaged, Gray-Vitaform nutrient which they ate with their fingers. When it was dark he said softly, "I gotta go."

"Do you?" she said and eased her hand around him to cup the curve of his butt. She let her fingers drift between his ass cheeks. "You could stay. I'd really like that."

He looked her in the eye, "I'll be back. I got another 1200 clicks and I don't want the hydro to evaporate in this heat."

"Well okay then," she said. She turned from him and leaned on the bar. Her skirt eased up to reveal two glistening slices of her bottom. It seemed insane to her, but she had urge to cry. He was leaving and that would be that.

Outside some chompers pulled up to the bar. They had been chewing up dust into a converter as they chugged along the verge. They probably just wanted a rest. It was a slow dirty way to travel left over from the 30s. They would not be able to afford the services of the SPACEBAR. Then again, neither could he, but she had no intention of charging him.

She laughed. "I think I'm in love," she said as the chompers pulled away. She did not think he had heard her say that, but when she looked up, she could see him looking at her very closely.

"Well, I gotta go," he said again as he rearranged his ruined clothes. He felt a burn around his eyes.

"Yeah," she whispered. Then she hoisted herself onto the bar and crossed her muscular legs. She let one three-inch black pump dangle from her toe. She knew from this height that the secrets beneath her skirt, though recently explored, would be on his mind again. She was right. He walked to her, kissed her, shook his head, and left.

Five clicks along the road, Don passed the chompers. Their faces had collected a shitload of dust to such an extent that he could only see their eyes. He pulled the porter off onto the verge and waited for them to catch up.

Then he cut off the engine and stepped out of the porter's side hatch into the battering wind. He muttered, "Why the Hell not?" but the sound was whipped away into the desert which made no reply.

"Hey! Y'all," he yelled. It did not pay to be too polite on The Road. People might think you were an armed cop looking to score.

They stopped.

"You are one filthy bunch," he said.

They looked at each other and laughed clearly unafraid of him. One guy said, "Well yeah, you right about that, fella."

"This thing is old," said Don," but it'll get you out of the desert. Its got a shower and some vibro knob seats if you like to ride in style. I'm sick of the fucker, but I hate to waste the hydro. You want it?"

The guy looked at the hydroporter sizing up its potential. Then he looked at Don. "Want it? It's a rental though, isn't it? So yeah we want it, but don't the comp'ny owns it want it too? But yeah, we want it."

Don smiled and looked the guy in the eye,"Who the Hell are you anyway?"

"We're nobody, that's for sure, Friend. At least we ain't nobody as far as we know. Why we ain't even here if you look close," said the filthy man. The others laughed again.

"And I'm a man with something better to do; I'm about to disappear. So what you do with this thing is your business so long as you keep your head down. You tow those chompers into a dealer, you could sell 'em as antiques and buy yourself a perma tank for this thing until it falls apart."

"Now that's a point you got there. That's a good point you're making."

"It's yours."

The riders got off the chompers and slapped the dirt off their filthy butts before chaining their old vehicles in a tow line. They took six cases of cheap slag beer, and some rendered bone vodka out of their compartments and slung them into the inner accessible top hatch on the porter.

One guy carefully set a guitar and a rifle case inside. Two girls tossed in a couple of side-arms, a hair dryer, a box of explosives, a copy of the LA yellow pages, some ratty back issues of Teen Fashion, half a case of tampons, a box full of assorted pill bottles, and a beat up ten-yea-old George Foreman Grill and Fuel converter.

Everybody broke open their shotguns to reload since the rental company could not be counted on to be as dumb as most. They were ready to ride as soon as they had all filled their pockets with different kinds of ammo. A few of them huddled while the lead guy and Don chatted about the fuel system.

A slightly less dirty girl came out of the group towards him. She looked thirsty, in dust-encrusted chaps with no pants, a thong, and no top. She came up to him, smiled, and said softly, "Thanks, Fella', you wanna fuck? I think you're cute." She twirled once. Her butt had two clean circles from the chomper saddle. Each circle was surrounded by road smudge. Don thought she could hardly be more cute. The others giggled a little. She squinted up at him looking uncertain.

Don reached out and gently touched her cheek with his fingertips. She seemed small and brave. His throat closed and his eyes burned at how soft and smooth her pretty little face was even beneath the dust and grit that covered it. Her hair was cut close to her skull but he could see the brownish red glimmer of it that set off her large brown eyes nicely.

He bent down to her and kissed her cheek. "No, darlin', you're too pretty for me." Her heard a smatter of applause. She blushed and seemed relieved. Then she smiled and tried not to scamper back to her friends. A tall guy hugged her to him and smacked her bottom gently.

The wind started to build. They piled into the porter and the party got underway. Loud, ancient, rock poured out of the porter and across the desert. He waved as they disappeared with the old chompers whipping along riderless in a tow line behind them.

"Gee haw," Don muttered.

It took him almost an hour to drag himself back to the SPACEBAR in the dark. Sand kicked up all around him in the wind. His city shoes would soon give in to the sharp pebbles. He had to be careful not to fall into the fresh cracks and fissures that constantly opened in the drying desert floor. He smacked the button to get inside the SPACEBAR. The place was dark. He could see Brandy's silhouette, but she couldn't see who he was. The curves of her body were outlined in the dim light.

"I'm closing. Sand storm," she said. He could see her behind the bar closing and locking the booze cabinets.

"No, you're not," he said.

He walked to her in the near darkness and, placing his hands on her waist, slid her up onto the zinc top of the bar. He knew—given her lack of panties, that it would be cold. He pushed her back a little, so she had to lean on her hands, and knelt down before her, gently spreading her knees. He raised her feet, in their tall black pumps, onto his shoulders and settled his mouth firmly onto her cunt.

She looked down at him and brought her hand around so that she could hook a finger under his chin and lift it. His eyes found as he drank in her scent and looked at her with complete and open love.

"You going to leave again?" she asked.

He smiled up at her, "Are you kidding?" and settled his mouth back into place.

© 2006 Cervo.  All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Cervo lives in an aged brownstone in a curiously eclectic part Brooklyn with his dogs, an otterhound and a puli as well as his cat, his friends and his tenants. He gardens whenever he has a spare moment in his backyard. Around him live the chic of New York in the hottest neighborhood in the City which is also inhabited by gangs, derelicts, real estate developers, whores, and sundry creatures surviving in a nearby pestilential canal. Inspiration to him is like flirting. It often starts as a disturbing brush with the sensual.

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